THE THIRD ACT
[A luxuriously furnished drawing-room at Mrs. Murray's house in Charles Street, Mayfair. Everything in it is beautiful, but suggests in the owner good taste rather than originality.]
[Hilda is seated near a tea-table, elaborately gowned, and with her is Mabel. Mr. Robert Brackley is sitting down, a stout, round-faced man, clean-shaven and very bald; about forty; he is attired in the height of fashion, in a frock-coat, patent-leather boots and an eye-glass. He talks very quickly, in a careless frivolous fashion, and is always much amused at what he says.]
What is the time, Mr. Brackley?
I shan't tell you again.
How brutal of you!
There's something unhealthy in your passion for information. I've already told you five times.
It's very unflattering to us who've been doing our little best to amuse you.
I can't imagine what's happened to John. He promised to fetch me here.
He's sure to come if you'll only wait patiently.
But I hate waiting patiently.
You shouldn't have let him out of your sight.
He went to Putney after luncheon to see your friend Mr. Kent. Have you seen him lately?
John? I saw him at the Martins yesterday.
[Slyly.] I meant Mr. Kent.
[Indifferently.] Yes. He called the other day. [To change the conversation.] You're unusually silent, Mr. Brackley.
[Smiling.] I have nothing whatever to say.
That's usually when clever people talk most.
Are you doing anything now?
Oh yes, I'm writing a play in blank verse.
You brave man. What is it about?
Cleopatra.
Dear me! Shakespeare wrote a play about Cleopatra, didn't he?
I daresay. I haven't read it. Shakespeare bores me. He lived so long ago.
Of course there are people who read him.
Are there? What do they look like?
[Smiling.] They bear no distinctive mark of their eccentricity.
The English are so original.
I think I shall go and ring up the flat. I wonder if John has gone straight home.
Do. I'm growing very uneasy about him.
[Laughing.] You absurd creature.
You talk more nonsense than anyone I ever met.
That's my stock in trade. You don't imagine people would read my poems if they knew that I was sober, industrious, and economical. As a matter of fact I lead the virtuous life of a clergyman's daughter, but not a reviewer would notice me if he knew it.
And the little things that the indiscreet read of in the papers…
Are merely another proof of my passion for duty. The British public wants its poets to lead romantic lives.
Are you ever serious?
May I come to lunch with you on Thursday?
[A little surprised.] Certainly. But why on Thursday?
Because on that day I intend to ask you to marry me.
[With a smile.] I'm sorry, I've just remembered that I'm lunching out.
You break my heart.
On the contrary, I provide you with the materials for a sonnet.
Won't you marry me?
No.
Why not?
[Amused.] I'm not in the least in love with you.
People who propose to marry should ask themselves if they can look forward with equanimity to breakfasting opposite one another for an indefinite number of years.
You're very unromantic.
My dear lady, if you want romance I'll send you my complete works bound in vellum. I've ground out ten volumes of romance to Phyllis and Chloe and heaven knows who. The Lord save me from a romantic wife.
But I'm afraid I'm hopelessly romantic.
Well, six months of marriage with a poet will cure you.
I'd rather not be cured.
Won't you be in to luncheon on Thursday?
No.
Mr. Halliwell, Mr. Kent.
[To John.] Wretched creature! I've been trying to ring you up.
Have I kept you waiting? I went down to Chancery Lane with Basil.
How d'you do. You must scold me for keeping John so long.
I didn't really want him, you know.
[Pointing with his head to Brackley.] I say, who is that?
Robert Brackley. Don't you know him?
The poet?
Of course. They say he'd have been given the Laureateship if it hadn't been abolished at Tennyson's death.
[Tightening his lips.] He's rather a low blackguard, isn't he?
Heavens, what's the matter with him, poor man? He's Hilda's latest celebrity. He pretends to adore her.
Don't you remember the Grange case that he was mixed up in?
[In tones of surprise.] But, my dear Mr. Kent, that was two years ago.
Mr. Kent, I want to introduce you to Mr. Brackley.
[Going up.] How d'you do.
Wretched creature!
I say, Mabel, is Basil often here?
I don't know. I met him here last week.
Why the Dickens does he come? He's got no business to.
You brought him yourself to-day.
I didn't. He insisted on coming – when I said I had to fetch you.
Perhaps he came to see me.
Fiddledidee! I think you ought to speak to Hilda about it.
My dear John, are you mad? She'd jump down my throat.
Why does she let him hang about her? She must know she's turning his silly head.
I daresay she wants to prove to him that he showed very bad taste a year ago. It is rather annoying when you're attached to a young man that he should go and marry somebody else.
Well, I don't think she's playing the game, and I shall tell her so.
She'll snub you awfully.
I don't care… Look here, you make a diversion so that I can get hold of her.
How?
[Dryly.] I don't know. Exercise your invention.
[Going towards the others.] Hilda, John is clamouring for some tea.
[Coming down.] Why on earth can't he help himself?
My native modesty prevents.
That's quite a new trait in you.
You've been lunching at Richmond?
Yes… Then I went on to Putney.
You've been making quite a day of it.
[Taking the cup.] I say, old gal – you're not going to make a fool of yourself, are you?
[Opening her eyes.] Oh, I hope not. Why?
I thought it might have slipped your memory that Basil was married about a year ago.
[Freezing.] What on earth d'you mean? [Calling] Mabel.
One moment… You can give me a little conversation, can't you?
I'm afraid you're going to bore me.
[Good-humouredly.] I assure you I'm not… Isn't Basil here rather often?
I wonder you haven't learnt to mind your own business, John.
Don't you think it's rather rough on that poor little woman in Putney?
[With a suspicion of contempt.] I went down to see her. I thought she was vulgar and pretentious. I'm afraid I can't arouse any interest in her.
[Gently.] She may be vulgar, but she told me her love was like music in her heart. Don't you think she must have suffered awfully to get hold of a thought like that?
[After a pause, changing suddenly both voice and manner.] And d'you think I've not suffered, John? I'm so unhappy.
Do you really care for him?
[In a low voice hoarse with passion.] No, I don't care for him. I worship the very ground he treads on.
[Very gravely.] Then you must do as you think best… You're playing the most dangerous game in the world. You're playing with human hearts… Good-bye.
[Taking his hand.] Good-bye, John. You're not angry with me because I was horrid… I'm glad you told me about his wife. Now I shall know what to do.
Mabel.
[Coming forward.] Yes, we really must be going. I've not seen my precious baby for two hours.
[Taking both her hands.] Good-bye, you happy child. You've got a precious baby, and you've got a husband you love. What can you want more?
[Flippantly.] I want a motor-car.
[Kissing her.] Good-bye, darling.
I like this room, Mrs. Murray. It never seems to say to you: now it's really time for you to go away, as some drawing-rooms do.
[Recovering her serenity.] I suppose it's the furniture. I'm thinking of changing it.
[With a smile.] Upon my word, that almost suggests that I've outstayed my welcome.
[Gaily.] I shouldn't have said that if I didn't know that nothing would induce you to go till you wanted to.
[Rising.] You know me like your glove. But it really is growing monstrous late.
You mustn't go till you've told me who the fair charmer was I saw you with at the play last night.
Ah, the green-eyed monster!
[Laughing.] Don't be so absurd, but I thought you'd like to know her yellow hair was dyed.
Of course it was dyed. That was just the charm of it. Any woman can have yellow hair naturally: there's no more credit in that than in having it blue or green.
I've always wanted to make mine purple.
Don't you think women ought to be artificial? It's just as much their duty to rouge their cheeks and powder their noses as it is for them to wear nice frocks.
But I know many women who wear horrid frocks.
Oh, those are the others. I treat them as non-existent.
What do you mean?
There are only two sorts of women in the world – the women who powder their noses and the others.
And who are they if you please?
I haven't examined the matter very carefully, but I understand they are clergymen's daughters by profession.
It's so nice of you to have come.
[Nodding at Basil.] Good-bye… May I come again soon?
[Looking at him quickly.] Were you serious just now, or were you laughing at me?
I've never been more serious in my life.
Then perhaps I shall be in to luncheon on Thursday after all.
A thousand thanks. Good-bye.
Is that a very interesting book?
[Putting it down.] I thought that man was never going away.
[Laughing.] I suspect he thought precisely the same of you.
[Ill-temperedly.] What an ass he is! How can you stand him?
I'm rather attached to him. I don't take everything he says very seriously. And young men ought to be foolish.
He didn't strike me as so juvenile as all that.
He's only forty, poor thing – and I've never known a coming young man who was less than that.
He's a young man with a very bald head.
[Amused.] I wonder why you dislike him!
[With a jealous glance, icily.] I thought he wasn't admitted into decent houses.
[Opening her eyes.] He comes here, Mr. Kent.
[Unable to restrain his ill-temper.] Don't you know that he's been mixed up in every scandal for the last twenty years?
[Good-humouredly, seeing that Basil is merely jealous.] There must be people in the world to provide gossip for their neighbours.
It's no business of mine. I have no right to talk to you like this.
I wonder why you do it?
[Almost savagely.] Because I love you.
[With a smile, ironically.] Won't you have some more tea, Mr. Kent?
[Going up to her, speaking with a sort of vehement gravity.] You don't know what I've suffered. You don't know what a hell my life is… I tried so hard to prevent myself from coming here. When I married I swore I'd break with all my old friends… When I married I found I loved you.
I can't listen to you if you talk like that.
D'you want me to go?
Did you hear me tell Mr. Brackley to come on Thursday?
Yes.
He's asked me to be his wife. And on Thursday I shall give him an answer.
Hilda!
[Earnestly.] It's you who've driven me into it.
Hilda, what are you going to say to him?
I don't know – perhaps, yes?
Oh, Hilda, Hilda, you don't care for him?
[Shrugging her shoulders.] He amuses me. I dare say we should get on very well together.
[Passionately.] Oh, you can't. You don't know what you're doing. I thought – I thought you loved me.
It's because I love you that I shall marry Mr. Brackley.
Oh, it's absurd. I won't let you. You're making us both utterly wretched. I won't let you sacrifice our happiness. Oh, Hilda, I love you. I can't live without you. At first I tried to resist seeing you. I used to pass your door and look up at your windows; and the door seemed as if it were waiting for me. And at the end of the street I used to look back. Oh, how I used to want to come in and see you once more! I thought if I saw you just once, I should get over it. And at last I couldn't help myself. I'm so weak. Do you despise me?
[Almost in a whisper.] I don't know.
And you were so kind I couldn't help coming again. I thought I did no harm.
I saw you were unhappy.
I should think I was unhappy. For months I've dreaded going home. When I saw my house as I walked along I almost turned sick. You don't know how fervently I've wished that I'd got killed in the war. I can't go on.
But you must. It's your duty.
Oh, I think I've had enough of duty and honour. I've used up all my principles in the last year.
Don't say that, Basil.
After all, it's my own fault. I brought it on myself, and I must take the consequences… But I haven't the strength, I don't love her.
Then don't let her ever find it out. Be kind to her, and gentle and forbearing.
I can't be kind and gentle and forbearing day after day, for weeks, and months, and years.
I thought you were a brave man. They wouldn't have given you that medal if you'd been a coward.
Oh, my dearest, it's not hard to risk your life in the midst of battle. I can do that – but this needs more strength than I've got. I tell you I can't endure it.
[Tenderly.] But it'll get better. You'll get used to one another, and you'll understand one another better.
We're too different. It's impossible for it to get better. We can't even go on as we have been. I've felt that the end was coming.
But try – try for my sake.
You don't know what it is. Everything she says, everything she does, jars upon me so frightfully. I try to restrain myself. I clench my teeth to prevent myself from breaking out at her. Sometimes I can't help it, and I say things that I'd give anything to have left unsaid. She's dragging me down. I'm getting as common and vulgar as she is.
How can you say that of your wife?
Don't you think I must have gone through a good deal before I could acknowledge to myself what she was? I'm chained to her for all my life. And when I look into the future – I see her a vulgar, slatternly shrew like her mother, and myself abject, degraded, and despicable. The woman never tires in her conflict with the man, and in the end he always succumbs. A man, when he marries a woman like that, thinks he's going to lift her up to his own station. The fool! It's she who drags him down to hers.
[Much disturbed, rising from her seat.] I wanted you to be so happy.
[Going towards her.] Hilda!
No – don't… Please!
If it weren't for you I couldn't have lived. It was only by seeing you that I gathered courage to go on with it. And each time I came here I loved you more passionately.
Oh, why did you come?
I couldn't help it. I knew it was poison, but I loved the poison. I would give my whole soul for one look of your eyes.
If you care for me at all, do your duty like a brave man – and let me respect you.
Say that you love me, Hilda.
[Distracted.] You're making our friendship impossible. Don't you see that you're preventing me from ever having you here again?
I can't help it.
I ought never to have seen you again. I thought there was no harm in your coming, and I – I couldn't bear to lose you altogether.
Even if I never see you again, I must tell you now that I love you. I made you suffer, I was blind. But I love you with all my heart, Hilda. All day I think of you, and I dream of you in the night. I long to take you in my arms and kiss you, to kiss your lips, and your beautiful hair, and your hands. My whole soul is yours, Hilda.
Oh, no, go away. For God's sake, go now. I can't bear it.
Hilda, I can't live without you.
Have mercy on me. Don't you see how weak I am? Oh, God help me!
You don't love me?
[Vehemently.] You know I love you. But because of my great love I beseech you to do your duty.
My duty is to be happy. Let us go where we can love one another – away from England, to a land where love isn't sinful and ugly.
Oh, Basil, let us try to walk straight. Think of your wife, who loves you also – as much as I do. You're all the world to her. You can't treat her so shamefully.
Don't cry, Hilda. I can't bear it.
[In broken tones.] Don't you understand that we could never respect ourselves again if we did that poor creature such a fearful wrong? She would be always between us with her tears and her sorrows. I tell you I couldn't bear it. Have mercy on me – if you love me at all.
[Wavering.] Hilda, it's too hard. I can't leave you.
You must. I know it's better to do our duty. For my sake, dearest, go back to your wife, and don't let her ever know that you love me. It's because we're stronger than she that we must sacrifice ourselves.
I don't know any longer what's right and what's wrong. It all seems confused. It's very hard.
[Hoarsely.] It's just as hard for me, Basil.
[Broken-hearted.] Good-bye, then. I dare say you're right. And perhaps I should only make you very unhappy.
Good-bye, my dearest.
Basil. Don't go.
[With a cry of joy.] Ah! Hilda.
Oh, I can't bear it. I won't lose you. Basil, say you love me.
[In a madness of joy.] Yes. I love you with all my heart.
I could have borne it if you'd been happy.
Now nothing can separate us, Hilda. You belong to me for ever.
God help me! What have I done?
If we lose our souls, what does it matter? We gain the whole world.
Oh, Basil, I want your love. I want your love so badly.
Will you come with me, Hilda? I can take you to a land where the whole earth speaks only of love – and where only love and youth and beauty matter.
Let us go where we can be together always. We have so short a time; let us snatch all the happiness we can.
[Kissing her again.] My darling.
Oh, Basil, Basil… [She starts away.] Take care!
Mrs. Kent.
Jenny!
I've caught you.
[Trying to be urbane—to Hilda] I think you know my wife.
[In a loud angry voice.] Oh, yes, I know her. You needn't introduce me. I've come for my husband.
Jenny, what are you saying?
Oh, I don't want any of your Society shams. I've come here to speak out.
[To Hilda.] Would you mind leaving us alone?
[Also to Hilda, passionately.] No, I want to speak to you. You're trying to get my husband from me. He's my husband.
Be quiet, Jenny. Are you mad? Mrs. Murray, for God's sake leave us. She'll insult you.
You think of her, you don't think of me. You don't care how much I suffer.
[Taking her arm.] Come away, Jenny.
[Shaking him off.] I won't. You're afraid to let me see her.
[Pale and trembling, conscience-stricken.] Let her speak.
[Going up to Hilda threateningly.] You're stealing my husband from me. Oh, you… [She is at a loss for words violent enough.
I don't want to make you unhappy, Mrs. Kent.
You can't get round me with polite words. I'm sick of all that. I want to speak straight.
[To Hilda.] Please go. You can do no good.
[Still more vehemently.] You're stealing my husband from me. You're a wicked woman.
[Almost in a whisper.] If you like I'll promise you never to see your husband again.
[With angry scorn.] Much good your promises will do me. I wouldn't believe a word you said. I know what Society ladies are. We know all about them in the City.
[To Hilda.] You must leave us alone.
[Savagely.] She's frightened of me. She daren't stand up to me.
[As Hilda goes.] I'm so sorry.
You're sorry for her.
[Turning on her.] Yes, I am. What d'you mean by coming here and behaving like this?
I've caught you at last… You liar! You dirty liar! You told me you were going to Chancery Lane.
I have been to Chancery Lane.
Oh, I know you have – for five minutes. It was only an excuse. You might just as well have come here straight.
[Angrily.] How dare you follow me?
I've got a right to follow you.
[Unable to contain himself.] What d'you want here?
I want you. D'you think I didn't guess what was going on? I saw you come in with Halliwell. Then I saw him go out with his wife. Then another man went out, and I knew you were alone with her.
[Sharply.] How did you know?
I gave the butler a sovereign, and he told me.
[Looking for a word to express his contempt.] Oh, you … you cad! It's only what I should have expected you to do.
And then I waited for you, and you didn't come. And at last I couldn't wait any longer.
Well, you've finished it now.
[Jenny catches sight of a photograph of Basil, standing on a table.
[Pointing to it.] What's she got your photograph here for?
I gave it to Mrs. Murray before I was married.
She's got no right to keep it there.
Jenny, what are you doing?
[Hissing the words.] Oh, I hate her. I hate her.
[Striving to contain himself.] You drive me perfectly mad. You'll make me say things that I shall regret all my life. For Heaven's sake, go.
I shan't go till you come with me.
[Beside himself.] I choose to remain.
What d'you mean?
Look here, until to-day I swear to you before God that I've never done anything or said anything that you couldn't have known. Do you believe me?
I don't believe that you're not in love with that woman.
I don't ask you to.
What!
I said, until to-day I've been absolutely faithful to you. Heaven knows, I've tried to do my duty. I've done all I could to make you happy. And I've struggled with all my might to love you.
Say it out if you've got anything to say, I'm not afraid to hear.
I don't wish to deceive you. It's best that you should know what has happened.
[Scornfully.] Now for another thumping lie.
This afternoon I told Hilda I loved her… And she loves me too.
[With a cry of rage.] Oh!
You've brought it on yourself. You made me too unhappy.
And now it's the end. The life we led was impossible. I tried to do something that was beyond my power. I'm going away. I can't and I won't live with you any longer.
[Frightened at herself and at what he says.] Basil, you don't mean that?
I've struggled against it for months. And now I'm beaten.
You've got me to count with. I won't let you go.
[Bitterly.] What more d'you want? Isn't it enough that you've ruined my whole life?
[Hoarsely.] You don't love me?
I never loved you.
Why did you marry me?
Because you made me.
[In a whisper.] You never loved me – even at the beginning?
Never.
Basil!
It's too late now to keep it in. I must tell you and have done with it. You've been having it out for months – now it's my turn.
[Going up to him and trying to put her arm round his neck.] But I love you, Basil. I'll make you love me.
[Shrinking from her.] Don't touch me!
[With a movement of despair.] I really think you loathe me.
For Heaven's sake, Jenny, let us finish with it. I'm very sorry. I don't wish to be unkind to you. But you must have seen that – that I didn't care for you. What's the good of going on humbugging, and pretending, and making ourselves utterly wretched?
Yes, I've seen it. But I wouldn't believe it. When I've put my hand on your shoulder, I've seen that you could hardly help shuddering. And sometimes when I've kissed you, I've seen you put out all your strength to prevent yourself from pushing me away.
Jenny, I can't help it if I don't love you. I can't help it if I – if I love some one else.
[Dazed and cowed.] What are you going to do?
I'm going away.
Where?
God knows.
Come in.
Mrs. Murray told me to give you this note, Sir.
[Taking it.] Thank you.
[Reading.] "You may tell your wife that I've made up my mind to marry Mr. Brackley. I will never see you again."
What does she mean?
[Bitterly.] Isn't it clear? Some one has asked her to marry him, and she means to accept.
But you said she loved you.
Oh, Basil, if it's true, give me another chance. She doesn't love you as I love you. I've been selfish and quarrelsome and exacting, but I've always loved you. Oh, don't leave me, Basil. Let me try once more if I can't make you care for me.
[Looking down, hoarsely.] I'm very sorry. It's too late.
[Despairingly.] Oh, God, what shall I do? And even though she's going to marry somebody else, you care for her better than any one else in the world?
[In a whisper.] Yes.
And even if she does marry that other man she'll love you still. There's no room for me between you. I can go away like a discharged servant… Oh, God! oh, God! what have I done to deserve it?
[Touched by her utter misery.] I'm very sorry to make you so unhappy.
Oh, don't pity me. D'you think I want your pity now?
You had better come away, Jenny.
No. You've told me you don't want me any more. I shall go my own way.
[Looks at her for a moment, hesitating; then shrugs his shoulders.] Then good-bye.
[With a sigh.] He's so glad to go… [She gives a little sob.] They've got no room for me.
