A woman alone : in three acts

Front matter

\ WOMAN ALONE

PRESENTED HY

OTHER PLAYS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Preface

"A Woman Alone" appeared in the Nineteenth Century and After last spring: considerations of space made some omissions necessary. Three special performances were given at the Little Theatre late in July ; but as the end of the Season was near the rehearsals were few and somewhat hurried. Miss Lillemor Halvorsen, the distinguished Norwegian actress, created the part of Blanche Bowden, and so beautifully that she almost persuaded me to like my own work : that was a new sensation.

Any interest the play has was meant to lie in the attitude of its chief characters towards current ideas. In Blanche Bowden I wanted to draw a woman full of intellectual energy and ideals who, since she was not strong enough to carry them on to achievement alone, longed to see them take shape in the life that was dearest to her. She finds herself handicapped by natural feminine instincts and comes to realise that the affections have still an unsuspected, sometimes an overwhelming, power of their own.

In this, the only acting version of the play, there are a good many slight but important alterations and

vii viii PREFACE

additions. I mention them lest some tired reviewer should write anything about it from his memories of the original version ; just as two or three dramatic critics, who had evidently read it in the Nineteenth Century, seem to have written about the theatre performance. But life is short and time for anything at all more and more difficult to find : this makes me very grateful for all that some most kind and thoughtful writers did for me.

L. C.

7 Chilworth Street, London, W.

Act I

Time : Four years ago. Afternoon.

Scene : A small drawing-room or ante-room at the Bowdens' house in Green Street, Park Lane. Well-furnished. Fireplace R., door l. Facing stage drawn curtains suggest a larger room beyond. Sitting over the fire is Henry Langton, thin, delicate, and about forty. Pause. Jack and Millicent Percival come through the curtains. They are young and happy looking.

Millicent. Why, it's Mr. Henry Langton.

Langton. How do you do, Mrs. Percival ?

[Re has a dry cynical voice.

Millicent. I was so sorry to hear you had been ill.

Jack. Better, old chap ?

Langton. Not much. [Warms one hand.] I am waiting on the chance of seeing Richard. ... So glad there's a fire — some people won't have one if the month happens to be called July.

Millicent. [Sympathetic] I know

Langton. I'm always chilly — in England; fires should be compulsory all the year round after five in the afternoon.

1 a

Millicent. Are you going in to see Mrs. Bowden ?

Langton. No, thank you. She has enough visitors without me. I don't feel up to her level to-day. She is my relation since she married Richard — so there's no reason why T should be civil.

Jack. Afraid of her ?

Langton. No — but ... I can't talk to clever women — they have so many loose ends about them, you never know which they'll take up next.

Millicent. I think she's wonderful.

Langton. I like them commonplace.

Millicent. Oh — but — she isn't strong-minded or anything of that sort, and she is very sympathetic. [To her husband.] I told her to-day that we'd only been married two months. She asked if she might come and see us — I think she knows how happy we are.

Jack. [To Langton.] Do you hear her ? I try to treat her well.

Langton. [Cynically.'] Ah ! Early days — but I dare say you'll get on better than Richard and his wife.

Millicent. Oh, but they adore each other. I know she adores him, that is . . . Why should you think they won't be happy ?

Langton. I didu't say that. But when a man of seven-and-thirty and a woman of eight-and-twenty marry, I expect they've managed to rake in a good many opinions of their own beforehand and stick to them — at any price occasionally.

Jack, He hates the crowd she has gathered round her.

Millicent. She can't help it, people run after her so.

Langton. [ With a shrug!] Every one seems to know her — and they've only been married a year. . . . Her name is in printed lists, too, pretty often ; that sort of thing grows on a woman like a taste for drugs.

[Mrs. Vynor, young and pretty, enters through the curtains.

Mrs. Vynor. Oh ! Mrs. Percival, you are still here ! [To Langton.] How do you do ?

Jack. [Aside to Langton.] It's Mrs. Vynor.

Mrs. Vynor. [Hesitating.] I forgot to ask Mrs. Bowden who was likely to be put up for the Royal Academy next week.

Langton. [Drily.] She would know, of course ?

Mrs. Vynor. Oh yes, she knows everything. . . . It doesn't matter. I won't go back.

Millicent. How is your little girl ? I wanted to ask you just now.

Mrs. Vynor. Better ; but she had a temperature this morning. Mrs. Bowden called twice in one day last week to ask after her, and sent such wonderful flowers.

Millicent. I am certain she is a dear.

Mrs. Vynor. She is — but I must go. I wish I'd asked her about the election — Geoffrey will be vexed at my forgetting. He couldn't come himself — he was so disappointed.

Millicent. [Turning to her husband.] Did you hear that ? Mr. Vynor was disappointed at not coming himself.

Mrs. Vynor. Of course he was, and [with a sigh] he is dreadfully down on most women. Good-bye. So glad we met to-day. [Exit Mrs. Vynor.

Millicent. [To Langton.] Don't you want to see her?

Langton. No.

Jack. She's fascinating — even that woman has succumbed.

Langton. [Reluctantly.'] I acknowledge it. ... I believe she's bothering Eichard to go into politics.

Millicent. Why shouldn't he ?

Langton. Why should he ? He'd hate it. What he likes is to bury himself in the country or some place where he is not likely to meet anyone who has ever seen him before.

Millicent. Do you know his mother ? But of course you do. She told me [Stops,

Langton. You needn't be afraid. ... It was probably something disagreeable ?

Millicent. She said that before he was married he often went away for months at a time and gave no one his address.

Langton. [Nods.] It was one of his provoking habits. . . . He took himself off for a year just after he had taken his degree — matters weren't to his liking at home, or something displeased him. His theory is if you don't like a thing go away from it — if you don't like a man, cut him.

Jack. There's a good deal to be said for it.

Langton. Once he was away for two or three years and not a soul knew whether he was alive or dead, for he never writes a letter — and it doesn't occur to him to telegraph.

Jack. It was during one of those absences that he first met his wife.

Langton. [Looking up.] In Vienna. . . . But you were with him, Percival ?

Jack. Yes. It was through me, in fact, that they did meet. I took him to old Count Zipernowsky's.

Langton. I know. But I never heard much about it. I was away. Who precisely was Ziper — Ziper — something ?

Jack. Her uncle — he used to make speeches, very fine nonsense they sounded — a splendid old chap with white hair. He lived in a palace that was crumbling to bits. She looked after him and held a court once a week. I expect that's how she got at all this business. Heaps of men were at her feet, but I was amazed when Richard went down. . . . [To his wife.] Look here, we must be off. We ought to have gone half an hour ago. [To Langton.] We're going to a restaurant dinner and the play. She loves a spree.

Langton. I believe people do that sort of thing when they are newly married.

Millicent. [Gaily.] It's all so exciting.

Jack. You see, she lived in the country till she

was married — and picked buttercups and daisies

Millicent. I didn't .

Jack. [Teasing.] Well, played lawn tennis and went to tea at the vicarage.

[The Percivals are about to go when enter Richard Bowden door l. He is tall and handsome, about thirty-eight, ivith an ofcstinate indolent manner; gives an impression of being reserved.

Jack. Here is Richard.

Richard. Why — are you going, Jack ? Jack. Must, I'm afraid, awfully sorry. But glad

to have caught sight of you for a minute Come,

Millie.

Millicent. How do you do, Mr. Bowden, and good-bye. [Shakes hands.] We are going out on a little spree — we shall be late.

Richard. I hope it will be a good one.

[Exeunt Jack and Millicent.

Richard. Are you better ?

[It is evident that the two men like each other. Langton. A little — it doesn't matter. . . . I'm going away — directly almost. Think I shall live abroad for the future.

Richard. [Anxiously.] You can manage it ? Langton. I must — this beastly climate does for me. I have been hoping you would come in — waited ou the chance. I didn't venture to intrude there.

[Kods towards oth@r room, Richard. Are there many fools left ? Langton. I think not. [Richard makes a sound of satisfaction.] The cackling has been growing fainter for some time.

Richard. That's it — cackle — cackle.

Langton. Lord Faringhurst went out as I came in — judging from his mysterious air he had been telling your wife a few Cabinet secrets. Or perhaps she wants him to find you another job. Didn't he give you that mission to Petersburg ?

Richard. Yes.

Langton. You've done nothing since — let your great talents run to seed.

Richard. For God's sake let my great talents go to the devil if they like.

Langton. What has become of the political ideas you were hatching two years ago ?

Richard. [With a quick smile.] I was pretty eager about them, wasn't I? [Crosses the room.] . . . I hate all this nonsense — we have dined out five times this week. One night we went to the Geographical, to-night we go to the Foreign Office. There have been people to luncheon twice — to discuss some philanthropic scheme she has joined. . . . One afternoon there was a tom-fool committee here — some precious society for keeping people at home in the evenings

Langton. I should have thought you would approve of that ?

Richard. Not if they make it an excuse to invade my home, , . , Besides, I dislike women who mix themselves up with public matters. , , , These drawing-room cackles are the thin end of the wedge.

Langton. [Cynically.] They mean to drive it in. But I don't think Blanche will do it — offensively. [Richard gives a snort.] . . . You ought to be proud of her ; she's a fashion. And ambitious, I believe — for you.

Richard. Ambitious people annoy me. They degenerate into pushers if they are women.

Langton. [Quickly.] Blanche will never be a pusher.

Richard. [With a hard note in his voice.] No, I'll take care she isn't.

Langton. You ought to have married a pretty little simpleton like Percival's wife. She would have suited you much better.

Richard. She would have bored me to death

[A man comes out of the inner room.

Langton. Here's the great editor.

Richard. [Coldly.] How do you do, Hesketh ?

Hesketh. How do you do and good-bye. I've had a delightful talk with your wife ; she has been telling me that I must get some fresh blood into the paper ; a few young slashers who can write good English, and are ready to solve the Universe whenever you please. She's quite right. We want waking up.

Richard. What people call waking up is making this country unfit to ive in.

Hesketh. Oh. . . Well, see you at the F.O. to-night — I don't know what your wife is saying to Sir

Horace Taylor ; but he seems mighty pleased. I hear he has been given some Foreign Order, by the way, and has leave to wear it. [Exit Hesketh.

Richard. [To Langton.] Should like to see him get an order for Siberia from the Russian Ambassador — who, I suppose, hasn't power to give it.

Langton. I fear not. . . . Didn't Blanche see a good many people before she was married ?

Richard. Too many — the result of living with that old wind-bag, Zipernowsky. I believe she wrote his speeches.

Langton. You ought to be glad she didn't make them.

[Sir Horace Taylor comes through the curtains, followed by Algy Carstairs.

Sir Horace. Ah, Bowden, how do you do? Mustn't stop to talk to you. Carstairs and I have both stayed far too long, but your wife is so eloquent — told me all the benefits the Italians gained from the Austrian occupation. Never understood it before.

Algy Carstairs. [Who is affected and intense.'] Sir Horace is entirely subjugated by the beautiful lady with the soulful eyes.

Richard. [Coldly.'] Indeed — what does soulful mean?

Algy Carstairs. The soul is the little seed from heaven that is sown in every human being — and the rest depends on ourselves, whether it expands and grows and soars, or withers and falls lower and lower into the earth ; and the eyes are the soul's indicators, its messengers.

Richard. [Shortly.'] Oh.

Sir Horace. [Amused.] This man speaks as a poet. You should have heard him in there.

Algy Carstairs. Mrs. Bowden is so stimulating. She makes one feel as if one had genius, and that its achievements might be delayed but were certain. She is a lamp that shows the way.

Richard. Glad to hear it. A lamp is a most convenient thing to have in the house.

Algy Carstairs. [To Sir Horace.] He will understand later — even for him she will light the difficult paths. [To Richard.] She has given me permission to dedicate my next volume of poems to her — I am going to the publisher now.

Richard. Do, I wouldn't detain you for the world. Good-bye. [To Sir Horace.] We shall meet to-night, I suppose ?

Sir Horace. Of course. Come, Carstairs, if I'm to drop you. * Algy Carstairs. I come.

[Exeunt Sir Horace and Algy Carstaiks.

Richard. [As he looks after them.] I wish some one

would dedicate your funeral sermon to her. . . . [To

Langton.] Are there any more in there ?

Langton. I don't think so — yes, Widhuret,

Richard, He is the gaping idiot who wants to act

and can't — so he talks about some asinine scheme he calls a theatre of intellect— with other people's money, and himself as manager, of course. Langton. Here he is !

[Enter Widhurst, young, evidently in a hurry.

Widhurst. [To Richard.] Ah, how do you do ? I have heen having a most interesting talk with Mrs. Bowden. She has promised me an introduction to Thornthwaite— she knows everybody. I told her I should prefer just to walk on—it leaves one time for thought and observation.

Richard. Suit you, no doubt— you had some scheme ?

Widhurst. I have— a great one. But the moment is not ripe for it j meanwhile I must humour the philistine. Good-bye. 1

Richard. Good-bye. [Exit Widhurst.

Langton. What sort of a chap was this Ziper-

nowsky ?

Richard. . Oh, the usual indefinite fanatic. . . . Blanche made half his success and his own picturesque appearance did the rest. Most of the fanatical people are not fit to look at, He was, and [half tenderly) she is, I don't mean that she's a fanatic— but she has ideals, and that sort of thing— which is nearly as bad, Women are so restless nowadays. I wish I could get her away, Luckily the season is nearly over,

Langton, The season is an accursed time ; when all the idiots ineligible for asylums are let loose in London. Naturally a nice woman, who doesn't know, takes them seriously. . . . This is her first year in England.

Richard. But she knows the world. She's a woman, not a girl. ... I should like to get away again — alone. It suits me to be alone, always did. Or, I wish I were going with you.

Langton. The manner in which I rough it wouldn't suit you. I'm a poor man and you are a rich one.

Richard. You needn't rough it.

Langton. [Drily.] I prefer it. . . . The only thing I shall miss is your society. I like it, in spite of your unfortunate temper. I always regretted not going to Innsbruck that time you asked me.

Richard. [Who has not been listening.'] Suppose I take you as far as Italy ? When do you start ?

Langton. Next week, I don't want you, Richard.

[Gets up.

Richard. [Chafing.] I was not made for this sort of thing ; I feel caged, caught in a net ... I wonder why men marry ?

Langton. Perhaps she wonders why women marry. [Enter Bertram from the inner curtains.

Bertram. Ah, Mr. Bowden, I'm just going. One moment ! [Goes back.] Mrs. Bowden

Richard. Who is that idiot ?

Langton. He is [a shrug] I don't know. Yes,

I do. Rather a nice chap, called Bertram — just taken his degree. Well, good-bye. [About to go, turns back.] By the way, who was the comfortable German woman I met here the other day — Countess Augusta ; is she a daughter of Count Ziper ?

Richard. No, his daughter-in-law. She has been over here on a visit — going back to Vienna to-morrow. She's too fat.

Langton. I like them fat. They are comfortable to look at in cold weather. Good-bye. [Exit.

Bertram. I am the very last. Good-bye.

[Exit hurriedly.

[Richard Bowden alone, stands by fireplace

watching the curtains. They open and

Blanche is seen facing stage. She is

tall, beautiful, somewhat imperious. In

moments of excitement she speaks with a

slight foreign accent.

Blanche. Rich-ard [sounds like a caress], you are

there ! Why did you not come in ? . . . You are

not cross any more ?

Richard. I'm tired of the people who crowd this house for the sake of hearing themselves speak. The whole thing is a nuisance and must come to an end.

Blanche. [.4 little amused.] "Why, you are more cross — even than before ? I am so tired of foolish little quarrels.

Richard. You bring them on yourself . My mother told me that she found you, with a crowd round you, discussing matters that were better left alone — or she supposed so, for when she entered the talk suddenly flagged.

She. It did flag, bub it was not for that reason. . . . What else did she say ?

He. [Evidently chafed at his mother's sarcasm.] She asked if you were trying to get me into the Cabinet.

She. And you said ?

He. That if ever I did get into it the door would not be opened by a woman.

She. You wouldn't like that ?

He. [With a snap.] No, I should not. . . . You are never happy unless you imagine you are in the whirl of things and have a crowd of people round you.

She. It is quite true, my Richard. I like to think that I am in the whirl, not sitting still, doing nothing, thinking about nothing, being nothing. . . . And I like the people who come here and tell me of all that is going on.

He. I do not.

She. But why don't you, Richard ? They are not useless ; they belong to the crew of the ship.

He. Ship?

She. Isn't the world a big ship ? There are the passengers and the crew who make it go — it is the crew that come here. There are those who do politics, those who fight — the men who make history, or pictures, or music — they all make something that helps the world to go on. You will not live always not making something yourself ? [Goes nearer to him.]

He. [Coldly.] What I make, as you call it, is my own affair.

She. But you are my affair ; I want to gain for you those things for which you yourself will not stretch out a hand. I should like to see you a king ! Sometimes I say to myself you shall be one — the real kings of the earth are the uncrowned ones.

He. [Determined not to be propitiated.] This is nonsense. . . . Next Saturday people shall be told that you are not at home.

She. [Sitting down opposite him.] We will give up the people if you wish, cher ami — is there anything else that vexes you ?

He. And I will not be annoyed by constantly coming across your name in print.

She. [Teasingly.] But it does look nice, doesn't it ?

He. Just now I had a telegram asking me to help with a festival of which you are a patroness

She. Oh yes — And you answered ?

He. I answered No,

She. [With a little laugh.] Oh — oh — but, my darling, that was wicked — very wicked. . . . [A long pause.] Rich-ard ?

He. Yes?

She. [Leaning forward eagerly.] What are we going to do with our lives?

He. Do with them ?

She. How are we going to pay for them ?

He. Pay for them ?

She. Pay the world that lets us live in it, breathe in it, covers us with its beautiful sky, and gives us strength and health and a thousand things besides

He. Including various ills and worries.

She. They are penalties. We have to pay for all the good things we have, and for the bad ones we do — to pay a great deal for the bad ones, that is certain.

He. This is some of Uncle Zipernowsky's precious teaching — how are we to pay for the good things ?

She. "We who are rich and strong can pay with the lives we live and the work we do — work that others who have to fight for daily bread cannot afford to do.

He. Socialism.

She. [Firmly.] No, Richard, not that. I don't want to give away our money and goods ; but we have time and opportunity ; it is as wicked to throw them away as — as to throw away food that would feed hungry people. [He looks at her in wonder.] . . . Besides, we cannot live shut up in this little house, seeing no one, doing nothing that is any good.

He. We can be quiet — and together. A year after marriage people usually live sensible unruffled lives.

She. It is why they are often so dull. They settle down ^to the little circle and the family life ; they shut all the windows looking outwards and live sensible unruffled lives. ... It is not enough, not enough, dear Richard.

He. My mother and sisters had none of the excitements you have gathered round you — and they have been content.

She. [Nods.] And they are very dull. They have only little trivial matters to think about. They stay in a still house and have nothing to do, and they do not understand the people who want to live, who must live as long as they stay in the world. . . . We must go on — and on — if we want to keep hold of life.

He. Where did you get all these notions ? You hadn't them when we first met.

She. [Eagerly.] Yes, yes, always. My uncle was getting old ; he used to say I must carry on his work. But — you came and made me love you. [Goes up to him.] It was like the tide of the sea, and swept me into your arms. I am glad. . . . But if you had not come, some day I should have done things — I, your Blanche, would have done them.

He. My dear, I can't bear ambitious women. [Puts his arms round her and she nestles joyfully, but anxiously, in them.] There, [tenderly] isn't she happiest when her man's arms are round her ?

She. [JVods.] Oh, I love being here . . . and I am not ambitious for myself any more — it is for you — for you [with a long sigh] ... I could not bear to think that I had married a man who did nothing !

He. [Brushing back her hair.] Is it nothing to love you?

She. [Simply and appealing.] It is my life. But you do not love me dreadfully — dreadfully much ?

He. I love you as much as most men love their wives — perhaps more.

She [Drearily.] Perhaps more. . . .

He [Kissing her forehead and then letting her go.]

Give up all these silly notions ; we will live quietly in the country

She. No, no [shakes her head] ; it is not as if you had land to cultivate — or duties there. [£ii5s.] We will go by and by, when we are old. Or if God sends us children, or if you have work to do, that is better done apart. But now you must not deprive your country of that which has been born with you, for its use.

He [Standing by her.] You talk such nonsense [half impatiently, half tenderly]. You mean to say that we have no right to be happy and enjoy life together on the money that I have inherited ?

She. But anyone can inherit. It is no merit at all. And we can't go on like this . . . you would grow stupid, dearest — yes, you would. . . . [Touches his hand.] And women must have children to mother or work to do, or their lives are useless. Oh, Richard, won't you see it ? If you went into Parliament, for instance? You have a clear head, you are clever, you have time to give to public affairs — it is the best men who should direct them. Yes, darling, it is — [caressing his hands as he stands by her], and I will make all the little conditions of your life so easy that you will do your best, your very best work.

He. [Evidently thinking and not listening,] We will go abroad for a bit, then we shall get away from — all this nonsense.

She. [Rathsr catching at the prospect.] Yes, let us go abroad » But not for too long — for pleasure that does not come after work or difficulty is soon wearisome.

He. Work — work again ! What next?

She. What next ? Why this ! [with a queer little smile] Some day I think people will be taken up for idleness.

He. [Trying to hide the fact that he is growing angry.] I hate the everlasting movement of the time, and the restless platform women

She. [Quickly.] I am not one of those — I do not want to be — though I want to be allowed intelligent interests, in my home. That is what women have been struggling for in this country — to be allowed intelligent interests, and occupations, without jeers and patronage, and because this has not been recognised, they have gone to extremes.

[He moves impatiently.

She. You don't understand. Women are different now from when our mothers were young. They know more, they have thought more, learnt more — and they want to have their part — but not the bigger part ; and it is only the people who are old-fashioned, or narrow, who are afraid of giving women a little share of life. . . . They cannot bear the useless life any longer, unless they are stupid. If I helped you

He. You want me to worry myself with the wear and tear of public life against my own inclinations ?

She. I want you to make a career — to justify our existence.

He, Justify our existence ! What rubbish I Understand once for all — I will not have my house made intolerable, nor my life laid out for me.

She. I do not want to lay it out; but you are growing angry

He. Yes, I am growing angry; it is for me to choose the life I lead, not you. Women have become a public nuisance with their demands and intellect and energy. [A pause. In a hard voice.] We married because we thought we should be happy together — if we find we were mistaken we will try being happier apart.

She. [Dismayed.] You would do that !

He. Most certainly. If you cannot leave me alone to live as I choose, and unless you make this house the sort of place in which I care to stay, I shall leave it. I hate quarrels, and when people annoy me I usually go away from them.

She. [Shivers.] I cannot bear that you should speak to me in that tone. . . . You expect me to live here, depending on your humours and content with so little — you give me no companionship — we seldom discuss anything apart from our common interests in the house — or the people we have met at foolish parties. I want more — you do not give me enough.