Becket And Other Plays Part 62

DOBSON.

Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you says it belongs to the parish, and theer be a thousand i' the parish, taakin' in the women and childer; and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it among 'em, why there wudn't be a dinner for nawbody, and I should ha' lost the pig.

DORA.

And what did he say to that?

DOBSON.

Nowt--what could he saay? But I taakes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haates the very sight on him.

DORA. (_Looking at_ DOBSON.) Master Dobson, you are a comely man to look at.

DOBSON.

I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow.

DORA.

Ay, but you turn right ugly when you're in an ill temper; and I promise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to this gentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with you again.

_Enter_ FARMING MAN _from barn_.

FARMING MAN.

Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long barn, and the master 'ud be straange an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he coom.

[_Exit_.

DORA.

I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I said?

DOBSON.

Yeas, yeas! I'll not meddle wi' 'im if he doant meddle wi' mea.

(_Exit_ DORA.) Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waay; but if she'd taake to ma i' that waay, or ony waay, I'd slaave out my life fur 'er. 'Coomly to look at,' says she--but she said it spiteful-like. To look at--yeas, 'coomly'; and she mayn't be so fur out theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. (_Looking off stage_.) Schoolmaster! Why if Steer han't haxed schoolmaster to dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus agean heving schoolmaster i' the parish! fur him as be handy wi' a book bean't but haafe a hand at a pitchfork.

_Enter_ WILSON.

Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' the pinfold agean as I wur a-coomin' 'ere.

WILSON.

Very likely, Mr. Dobson. She _will_ break fence.

I can't keep her in order.

DOBSON.

An' if tha can't keep thy one cow i' horder, how can tha keep all thy scholards i' horder? But let that goa by. What dost a knaw o' this Mr.

Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I coom'd upon 'im t'other daay lookin'

at the c.o.o.ntry, then a-scrattin upon a bit o' paaper, then a-lookin'

agean; and I taaked 'im fur soom sort of a land-surveyor--but a beant.

WILSON.

He's a Somersetshire man, and a very civil-spoken gentleman.

DOBSON.

Gentleman! What be he a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a raail? We laays out o' the waay fur gentlefoalk altogither--leastwaays they niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far as Littlechester. But 'e doant fish neither.

WILSON.

Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish.

DOBSON.

Noa, but I haates 'im.

WILSON.

Better step out of his road, then, for he's walking to us, and with a book in his hand.

DOBSON.

An' I haates boooks an' all, fur they puts foalk off the owd waays.

_Enter_ EDGAR, _reading--not seeing_ DOBSON _and_ WILSON.

EDGAR.

This author, with his charm of simple style And close dialectic, all but proving man An automatic series of sensations, Has often numb'd me into apathy Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road That breaks off short into the abysses--made me A Quietist taking all things easily.

DOBSON. (_Aside_.) There mun be summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doant understan' it.

WILSON. (_Aside_.) Nor I either, Mr. Dobson.

DOBSON. (_Scornfully_.) An' thou doant understan' it neither--and thou schoolmaster an' all.

EDGAR.

What can a man, then, live for but sensations, Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting To clasp their lovers by the golden gates.

For me, whose cheerless Houris after death Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones--the while-- If possible, here! to crop the flower and pa.s.s.

DOBSON.

Well, I never 'eard the likes o' that afoor.

WILSON. (_Aside_.) But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never comes to church, I thought better of him.

EDGAR.

'What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear?

'As flies to the G.o.ds; they kill us for their sport.'

DOBSON. (_Aside_.) Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaamed of hissen, but noan o' the parishes goa's by that naame 'ereabouts.

EDGAR.

The G.o.ds! but they, the shadows of ourselves, Have past for ever. It is Nature kills, And not for _her_ sport either. She knows nothing.

Man only knows, the worse for him! for why Cannot _he_ take his pastime like the flies?

And if my pleasure breed another's pain, Well--is not that the course of Nature too, From the dim dawn of Being--her main law Whereby she grows in beauty--that her flies Must ma.s.sacre each other? this poor Nature!

DOBSON.

Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' _my_ natur to knock 'im o' the 'ead now; but I weant.

EDGAR.

A Quietist taking all things easily--why-- Have I been dipping into this again To steel myself against the leaving her?

(_Closes book, seeing_ WILSON.) Good day!