The ship; a play in three acts

Front matter

Class.

BooL

^a

Scene III. Same as Scene I

Five months elapse between Acts I and II; three months between Acts II and III; five days between Scene I and Scene II, Act III ; and a few hours between Scene II and Scene III, Act III.

The period is the immediate future.

CHARACTERS

Old Mrs. Thurlow.

John Thurlow, her son, a shipbuilder.

Janet, his wife.

Jack, his son.

Hester, his daughter.

Captain Cornelius.

George Norwood.

Maid.

Act One The First Act

The time is a Saturday afternoon in autumn, and the scene is laid in John Thurlow's country-house, chosen by him because it is easily accessible from his shipyard at Bigg port. The room is handsomely furnished, without being conspicuously artistic, for the Thurlows are people of taste, conventional, perhaps, but not without the signs of well-marked individuality. Prominently displayed in the room are models of ships, one of a sixteenth-century mun-of-war in full sail, the other of a quadruple-screw, coal-fed Atlantic liner of the type of the ''Titanic." The pictures are mainly of industrial subjects, and Mr. Thurlow is proud, and justly proud, of his excellent collection of etchings by Mr. Muirhead Bone, some of which represent scenes in the Biggport shipyard. If we could see into the dining-room, we should discover large frescoes in the modern manner, showing the building of a ship from the laying of its keel to the time when it is ready to take its trial trip.

The long windows leading to the garden are open,

because the day is unexpectedly mild, and Old

Mrs. Thurlow, who is seated by the fire, likes

the windows to be open whenever possible. She is an old woman, aged eighty-three, but she has no intention of yielding to her years. She can still read without glasses and her hearing is acute. People exclaim at her resistance to the infirmities of age, and Mr. Cobain, the Vicar, seldom omits to say that she is a wonderfully well-preserved old lady, a compliment zvhich she hardly appreciates in those words because, so she says, it makes her feel like jam.

Her daughter-in-law, Janet Thurlow, or Young Mrs. Thurlow, a^ she is sometimes called to distinguish her from her mother-in-law, is seated by the tea-table on the other side of the fire, but not in such a position as to obscure Old Mrs. Thurlow's view of the garden. A Maid is placing a tea-tray on the table, and Janet Thurlow is supervising the operation. Young Mrs. Thurlow is a soft, pliable luoman, with one belief most firmly held, that happiness is only to be obtained in this world, and probably in the next, by those who never ''make a fuss" about anything. She hates ''bother,'' and successfully aruoids it by rarely offering opposition to any one, and then only to a lesser person in order to placate a greater one. Her family treat her as a dear and lovable, but totally unimportant, person; and since this treatment absolves her from a great deal of "fuss" and "bother," she is content. Her age is considerably less than that of her husband — "Just tzventy years betzveen us, my dear!" she always says, as if the roundness of the figure atoned for its size — for he, now sixty-two, married late in life.

Hester Thurlow, her daughter, whose age is nineteen, is seen walking about the garden. The Maid has placed the tray on the table, and Janet is now pouring out the tea.

Janet. Thank you, Maggie ! {She turns and calls to her daughter. ) Tea, Hester !

Hester. All right, mother! {But she remains where she is.)

Old Mrs. Thurlow. When do you expect John, Janet ?

Janet {as she hands a cup of tea to The Maid). That's Mrs. Thurlow's! (The Maid carries it to Old Mrs. Thurlow.) My dear, I never expect John at any time. He's like the wind which bloweth where it listeth. {Again to Hester.) Hester, your tea is getting cold, dear! {To Old Mrs. Thurlow.) There's nothing I dislike so much as tepid tea. (The Maid goes out.)

Hester {entering). All the flowers are nearly dead.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. The autumn's almost over, my dear!

Hester {taking a cup from the tray). I hate to see them withering.

Janet. You should do what I do — pretend you don't see them.

Hester {sitting beside her grandmother). But I can't help seeing them.

Janet. Oh, yes, you can. Don't look!

Hester. Do you know what train Jack's coming by, mother? I'd Hke to go and meet him.

Janet. No. He didn't say. ( To Old Mrs. Thur- Low.) He's like the wind, too.

Hester. Perhaps he'll come with father and George in the car.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Is George coming to-day?

Janet. Yes. John and he are bringing home a model of the "Magnificent" to put along with those two over there. {She indicates the other models by a turn of her head.)

Old Mrs. Thurlow. George reminds me very much of your father, Hester, when he was a boy. Always thinking of ships ! He ran away from school once to see a boat launched from the Yard, and your grandfather was going to thrash him for it, but I said he'd much better apprentice him to shipbuilding. I had great difficulty in making him consent — he wanted your father to be a minister like himself! . . .

Hester. I can't imagine father as a minister.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. No, dear, nor could I. The Yard was a very small one then. We little thought John would own it one day.

Hester {full of pride). And now it's the biggest shipyard in the world.

Old Mrs. Thurlow {equally proud). Yes, that's what your father has made of it.

Hester. Isn't it funny that Jack doesn't seem very keen on shipbuilding. George likes the Yard much better than Jack does.

Janet. Nonsense, Hester! How can anyone help liking a thing which makes so much money?

Old Mrs. Thurlow (holding her cup out). May I have some more tea?

Janet. Hester, your grandmother's cup, please!

Hester (passhig the cup on to her mother). I wish father weren't so desperately anxious to have Jack in the Yard.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Jack's his only son, my dear.

Hester. But that isn't Jack's fault, granny.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. No, but it's an explanation of your father's wish. A man Hkes to think of his work being carried on by his son.

Hester. You didn't think so when father wanted to be a shipbuilder instead of a minister.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. No, my dear, that isn't quite true. But I've always thought that people ought to be allowed to find their own way as far as possible, and I don't like to see a young man compelled to give up his ambition for his father's.

Janet (passing Old Mrs. Thurlow's tea to her, via Hester). Anybody can like anything. It's all a question of making up your mind and not being fussy. For years and years I couldn't eat tomatoes. Then I said to myself, "This is ridiculous, this . . . this prejudice against tomatoes!" and I forced myself to eat them, although I was sick twice, and now I'm really quite fond of them.

[The door opens, and Jack Thurlow enters. He is a good-looking, honest, humourless, rather priggish lad of twenty-one. He is dressed with that cultivated carelessness which is characteristic of the young man in revolt against convention. His clothes are of rough tweed, hut the tailoring is good, and, although he would he very indignant if he were told so, he takes as much trouhle with his artistic tie as a fashionable fop takes with his.] Janet and Hester (simultaneously). Jack!! Jack. I thought I'd surprise you. Hester (meeting him half-way and embracing him). Why didn't you tell us what train you were coming by, and then I'd have met you?

Jack. I didn't know myself until the last minute. I intended to go and find father and have a chat with him — he isn't home yet, is he?

Hester. No, not yet.

Jack. And then I changed my mind and came down by myself. (He goes to Janet and kisses her.) Any tea, mother?

Janet. I'll get some more. Hester, darling, ring the bell, will you?

[Hester does so, while Jack greets his grandmother.] Jack. How are you, granny? (Kisses her.) Old Mrs. Thurlow. All the better for seeing you, my dear. Sit here beside me and tell me what you did in France.

[He sits heside her.

Hester (seating herself near them). Yes, do, Jack. Your letters hardly told us anything.

[The Maid enters.

Janet. Some fresh tea for Mr. Jack, Maggie.

Maid {taking the tea-pot). Yes, ma'am. (Exit.)

Jack. I don't know that I did so very much, granny, but I thought a good deal. I — I reviewed my whole life.

Janet. My dear boy, how could you? You were only there three weeks.

Jack. Yes, but I thought very hard. I felt discontented, mother, and I asked myself a great many questions.

Old Mrs. Thurlov^. Did you get any answers, my dear?

Jack. Well, yes, granny, I think so. The final answer depends upon father to a great extent. When is he coming home?

Janet. My dear, nobody ever knows when your father is coming home, least of all me.

Hester. Did mother tell you that the Queen is going to launch the "Magnificent" ?

Janet. Of course I told him, Hester. As if I'd forget a thing like that. (The Maid returns with the tea-pot.) Ah, here's the tea! Thank you, Maggie!

[The Maid puts the pot on the table and goes out.]

Hester. I'm so glad the Queen is coming on Monday. George says father is sure to get a title.

Janet. I wonder if he ought to take it. People are so suspicious of titles, even if they are taken innocently.

Jack. I don't suppose father wants one. Titles are all right for people who haven't got anything else to justify their existence.

Janet. Oh, darling, don't be so cynical. If your father were to receive a peerage, you'd be the Honourable John Thurlow. (Passing his cup to him.) Here's your tea! And you, Hester, you'd be the Honourable Hester Thurlow. (Reflectively, as if she were tasting the title.) It sounds rather nice. The Honourable Hester Thurlow ! . . . Well, if the King offers a peerage to your father, my dears, I shall advise him to accept it for your sakes. Parents should always put their children's wishes before their own. Did I give you any sugar, Jack ?

Jack. Yes, thank you, mother.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. What sort of questions did you ask yourself in France, Jack ?

Jack. All sorts, granny. Questions about myself and father and the Yard and . . . God !

Janet. God ! I don't quite see the connection, darling.

Jack. Don't you, mother ? I do. You do, granny ?

Old Mrs. Thurlow. I can understand you seeing it. Jack.

Jack. I just reviewed my whole position, mother. What am I doing in this world ? What am I here for ? What's the good of me? What's God got to do with rne? Things like that!

Janet. I never ask myself such questions. I should feel as if I were taking a liberty.

Jack. But, mother, a man has to ask himself such questions if he's going to understand life at all.

Janet. It isn't necessary to understand life. All you've got to do is to live it.

Jack. What I want to get at is this. Here's God and here am I! . . . (He indicates points on the floor.)

The Ship II

Janet. Darling ! On the hearth-rug, too !

Jack. I'm not trying to be funny, mother. Am I, granny ?

Old Mrs. Thurlow. No, dear. But go on. I'm impatient to hear what judgment you passed on God.

Jack (rebuffed). Oh, now you're making fun of me, too.

Old Mrs. Thurlow (patting him affectionately). No, I'm not, Jack. But young men nowadays pull very long faces, and really, dear, it isn't necessary.

Jack. But we've got to find out about things, granny.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. I know, but you needn't make your enquiries as if you suspected the worst.

Jack. It's awful when you look at the world and see what a mess it's in.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. I remember hearing Thomas Carlyle say something like that. He was very ill, poor man.

Jack. Everything seems all wrong.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. And are you going to put everything right, my dear?

Jack. I want to do what I can.

Janet. You'll be very busy, darling.

Jack (rising and standing with his back to the fire). I've thought it all out, and it seems to me, granny, that I've got to begin with myself.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. That's a great improvement on most reformers. Jack, who generally want to begin on other people.

Jack. Well, I'm going to begin with myself. The rest ought to be easy. ( The boy's sincerity transcends his priggishness as the speech proceeds.) When I was in France, granny, I went up to part of the devastated area — along the valley of the Somme, from Albert up to Bapaume and Peronne — and I thought how horrible it was that all those decent chaps went out to the War, full of chivalry and idealism, and then came back, disillusioned and embittered. I used to wonder why the men who went to the War were so cynical about women and politics and England — about everything. And now I think I know. They feel as if they'd been crucified and buried, but hadn't risen again. It must have been ghastly to go through the things they suffered, and then come home to all the old things made worse. Well, I suppose they're done for, poor devils. They've lost hope and faith, and they just don't care any more about anything. But I've got all my hope, granny, and I want to see if people like me can't put things right — more right than they are now. I know this sounds frightfully priggish, but I can't help that. I feel that each one of us has got to begin here. (He touches his breast as he speaks.)

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Have you found out yet what is right?

Jack. I think so. We're all too artificial. We've got to lead a more natural life ! . . .

Old Mrs. Thurlow. The first people to say that, my dear, were Adam and Eve, and the result was that they were put out of the Garden of Eden.

Janet. If I'd been Eve I should simply have refused to go. I always thought she was a little too acquiescent.

Jack. I used to watch the peasants working in the fields in France, and while I was watching them I suddenly realised what I've often suspected, that the cause of all our troubles is machinery !

Janet. Machinery !

Hester. What on earth do you mean ?

Jack. Machines defile people. A man in a factory isn't a man. He isn't even a machine — he's the servant of a machine. Think of all the factories in Biggport pouring their muck into the river, and then think of what the river must have been like before the factories were built! Well, everything in the world now is like that. When I was in the devastated area, I realised that a machine-driven world could never be anything else but hideous, that it must become more and more hideous. All those beautiful fields, so carefully cultivated by the peasants, were smashed and ripped and brutally defiled by machinery, and the only people who were doing anything to restore them to life again were the peasants working with their hands.

Janet. My dear, you're talking like Tolstoy.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. I don't think machines matter much, Jack. It's people who matter. Guns don't usually go off by themselves, and anyhow a peasant's spade is a machine.

Jack. I know that we must have machinery in our lives, but I protest against this servitude to machines. Nobody gets any fun out of his work now. We're all machine-minders or loafers.

Hester. But, Jack, you're working with your hands now — in the Yard.

Jack. Fm going to leave the Yard.

Hester and Old Mrs. Thurlow (simultaneously). Leave the Yard ! !

Jack. Yes.

Janet. But you can't leave it. Your father won't let you. And the Queen coming on Monday, too !

Jack. Father's big ships are just as wrong as the Biggport factories. I object to these floating hotels, as he calls them, because they make the sea like a dirty, neurotic, modern city.

Janet. That's just sentimentality. Jack. A modern city isn't half so dirty as the mediaeval cities were. I know. I've read all about it in Mr. Wells's "History of the World." We don't have plagues ! . . .

Jack. Or poems. The mediaeval people may not have had good drains, mother, but they had great poets.

Janet. Well, I may be a Philistine, but I'd rather be sanitary than be inspired. "Romeo and Juliet" would be very little consolation to me if I were suffering from smallpox. I often think it would have done Shakespeare good if he'd been less exalted and more hygenic, living that stuffy life in Stratford. And if there'd been more machinery in his day, there wouldn't be any doubt about who wrote his plays. We'd know.

Jack. Perhaps there wouldn't be any plays.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Oh, yes, there would, my dear. One's difficulty with a genius is, not how to encourage hirn, but how to keep him in order. I think your mother's right.

Hester. What are you going to do when you leave the Yard, Jack?

Jack. I talked the subject over with a man I met in France. His name's Cornelius, and he's an exofficer, rather at a loose end. He'll come into partnership with me in a farm, and I want father to give me the money ! . . .

Janet. You're going to be a farmer !

Jack. Yes, mother. I want to grow things.

Janet. You know you're simply flying in the face of Providence — to say nothing of your father !

Jack. That's another point. I've realised for some time past that father has a much stronger will than I have, and in the Yard I'm simply a sounding-board for his opinions. I seem to have no will of my own there — just his will. You understand me, don't you, granny?

Old Mrs. Thurlow. I think so, dear. But I wonder whether it isn't better to express the will of greater people than ourselves than to insist on expressing our own.

Jack. No, no, granny, no! Let's each express our own will.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. There'd be frightful confusion if we did. Jack.

Jack. Well, confusion is better than slavery. I have a right to my own life and thoughts, but I can't have them under father. He's too much for me.

Janet. Nonsense, Jack. I've been married to your father for twenty-two years, and I've proved that it's quite easy to get on with him. Just do what he tells you, and he's perfectly reasonable.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. My dear, you're very young and I'm very old, and sometimes I think that the very old understand the very young better than anyone else, i6 The Ship

because you're so near the beginning and we're so near the end. I want you to believe that I'm tr)4ing to understand your point of view when I say it's better to go on than to go back ! . . .

Jack. Not always, granny!

Old Mrs. Thurlow. No, but nearly always. People like your father haven't finished their work — they're only midway through it. But you think, because you see the confusion of a half -completed job, that it's a bungled job. You said something just now about the bitterness which fills the young men who came back from the War, but you don't seem to realise that an ideal which cannot survive a blow. . . .

Jack. A terrible blow, granny.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Yes, dear, a very terrible blow, but surely the only ideal worth having is the one which survives all blows ? To me, the most wonderful thing in the world is not the young man beginning life with ideals — we all do that — but the old man dying with them undiminished. So few do that. Your father's an idealist — oh, yes, he is — with a passion for ships. He has suffered many blows to his faith in ships, but he's kept his faith. Whenever he was knocked down', he got up again. My son will never give in to anything, and if I were a boy I should be proud to serve such a man.

Jack. But I don't believe in his faith, granny. I don't believe in it ! . . .

[The door opens, and The Maid enters.

Maid. The master and Mr. Norwood have just come, ma'am. They've got a big case with them.

[Before Janet can make any reply to this announcement, John Thurlow enters. The Maid retires. John Thurlow is a tall, bearded man, a-ged sixty-two, deliberate in his ways, but very definite and authoritative in speech. He is affectionate in a manner that is almost condescending, and, in spite of his appearance of coolness, is full of possessive fury which ranges from great passion to mere sentimentality. His love for his mother is very marked: he even uses a different and gentler tone in speaking to her than he uses in speaking to the others.] John. Hester! . . . Hilloa, Jack, you back again? Jack (from whom some of the confidence has now evaporated). Yes, father.

John. Well, go and help George, will you? We've brought home the model of the "Magnificent," and it's too heavy for him alone.

Jack (going towards the door). Very good, father. John (as Jack passes him). Had a good holiday? Jack. Yes, thank you. (Exit.) John (as he kisses his wife). He looks well, doesn't he?

Janet. Yes. Have you had any tea, John? John (kissing Hester, who has gone to him). I don't want any, thanks. (To Hester.) Well, young woman, what do you want ?

Hester. Nothing, daddy.

i8 The Ship

John. God bless my soul, child, are you ill ?

Hester (Tmth a pout). Oh, daddy!

John (putting her aside and going to his mother). Do you hear that, mother ? Hester has got everything she wants. Lucky girl !

Hester. Daddy, you aren't a bit funny when you try to be.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Oh, my dear, my dear, you mustn't be disrespectful to your parents' wit. Humour thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

John (sitting beside his mother). And what have you been doing to-day?

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Thinking about you, my dear.

John. Well, you couldn't have employed your time better. Could she, Hester?

Hester. Father, you are a conceited old man ! . . .

John. Ummmm, not so very old, my dear, not so very old! Why, your granny's only eighty-three. That's all, mother. (Old Mrs. Thurlow pats him affectionately.) And everybody knows eighty-three's nothing. Never had an ache in your life, had you ?

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Only those you caused me, John.

John. That's a nice thing to say! . . . (The door is opened by The Maid to admit Jack and George.) Ah, here comes the "Magnificent" !

[He goes half-way towards the door to meet Jack and George Norwood, who enter in that order, carrying a model of the ''Magnificent'^ between them. It is in a glass case, and is about four feet long.

The "Magnificent" is unlike any ship now sailing the sea. It has not got any funnels or masts, for example, but has ventilation shafts where funnels would ordinarily be, and trellis-work poles used chiefly for wireless telegraphy where masts might be expected. The principal differences between her and, say, the "Olympic'' are not outwardly observable. To eyes accustomed to coal-fed liners, she looks unfinished, ugly even.] John (indicating the table in the centre of the room). Put her down there. Gently, gently! . . . (as Jack seems to stumble).

Jack. She's heavy. (George and he put the model on the table.) Isn't she, George?

[George Norwood, aged twenty-four, is a

firm-willed young man, older in mind

than he is in years, with plenty of

imagination in shipbuilding, but very

little in anything else. He regards

John Thurlow with feelings akin to

idolatry.]

George. Oh, I don't think so. (The idolatrous

young man would gladly strain himself lifting the

model of any boat built by John Thurlow.) She

doesn't feel heavy to me. I could have carried her in

myself, only the Chief wouldn't let me. He said I

might hurt myself, Mrs. Thurlow (this is to Janet),

but really he was afraid I might drop her ! He wasn't

thinking of me. Were you, Chief ?

John (to his mother). That's how these brats in the Yard talk to me, mother. They think I've got swelled head because I've built the swiftest ship in the world, and so they try to take me down a peg or two. Some of them think they can build ships better than I can! . . .

George. Oh, no, we don't, sir. If we can build them as well as you do, we'll feel content.

John. Will you? If you don't build 'em better than I do, you won't be worth a damn. Will they, mother ?

Old Mrs. Thurlow. No, dear.

John. What will be the good of me dying to make room for you fellows if you don't improve on me? (He turns to his mother.) Come and have a look at her, mother. (He gives his arm to Old Mrs. Thurlow and leads her to the model.) Isn't she a beauty?

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Yes, she's a bonny boat.

Janet. But she hasn't got any funnels.

John. No, my dear, she hasn't. We've abolished funnels. They belong to the Dark Ages when people burned coal. We burn oil.

Hester (pointing to the ventilation shafts). But aren't those funnels, daddy?

George (eager to explain to her). No, Hester, those are the ventilators. These poles are principally for wireless telegraphy, but they will serve any useful purpose that a mast serves.

Janet. I think she looks ugly — as if she hadn't any clothes on.

John. Ugly! She's beautiful. Isn't she, mother?

(He does not wait for a reply.) You're like everybody else, Janet. You say a thing's ugly until you get used to it, and then you think anything that's different from it is hideous. If you'd seen the first real steamship you'd have thought her ugly because she wasn't like that old sailing-ship there! (He indicates the manof-war.)

Janet. Well, she may be very wonderful, but I think she looks ugly.

John. Looks! What are looks compared with action? There isn't a ship in the world that can go through the water as the "Magnificent" will. Look at her shape! Not an inch of wasted space in her. I reckon I know something about aesthetics, and I say that boat's beautiful. Do you see her keel? In coal-fed boats that space was wasted — full of bilge- water — and all this space above it was occupied by bunkers full of coal, difficult to stow and shift, and filthily dirty. And what else had you? Boilers, and furnaces, taking up a tremendous amount of room. Waste space, all of it I Well, I've changed all that. I put oil where the bilge-water used to go, poured into the ship cleanly through a hose-pipe, and I put passengers where the coal-bunkers used to be. This ship will be able to replenish her fuel from oil-ships at sea. Think of that ! She'll carry three thousand passengers and land them in New York four days after she leaves Southampton.

Hester. She isn't as big as I thought she'd be, daddy.

John. No, she's not big. I don't believe in big ships. Big ships mean big harbours and trouble in turning.

Old Mrs. Thurlow. Won't the going be rough, John?

John. No, mother. She'll do twenty-eight knots an hour without a quiver. George, I believe she'll do over thirty, without much shaking — not any more than you'd get on a Cunarder or a White Star.

George. I think you're right, sir!

John (to Old Mrs. Thurlov^). Of course, George really thinks that oil- fed ships are obsolete already. Don't you, George? He's all for electricity! . . .

George. That'll come, sir. Oil's too dear and too difficult to get.

John. Well, that'll have to be your job in the world, George, yours and Jack's. My business is with oildriven ships. Isn't it disgusting to think that some of the best oil-wells in the world are in the hands of a lot of damned Arabs? I can't imagine why the Lord wanted to put 'em in the Garden of Eden. If He'd only had the sense to put 'em in the neighbourhood of Southampton! . . .

Janet. John, John, dear! That is not the way to speak of the inscrutable designs of Providence. Before Hester, too!

John. The next thing I'm going to do, mother, is to abolish pilots. In a year or two, this boat will be steered by wireless telegraphy. Some fellow sitting in an office in New York will guide her along a perfectly straight course into her berth. Lord, isn't it wonderful what progress we've made with boats? A hundred years ago, there weren't any steamships, and now we've got the "Magnificent."