Three Plays by Granville-Barker Part 72

ALICE. My dear, the world must be put tidy. That's the work which splendid criminals . . and others leave about for us poor commonplace people to do.

EDWARD. [_with a little laugh._] And I don't believe in Heaven either.

ALICE. [_close to him._] But there's to be our life. What's wrong with that?

EDWARD. My dear, when they put me in prison for swindling--[_he makes the word sound its worst._]

ALICE. I think they won't. But if they are so stupid . . I must be very careful.

EDWARD. Of what?

ALICE. To avoid false pride. I shall be foolishly proud of you.

EDWARD. It's good to be praised sometimes . . by you.

ALICE. My heart praises you. Good night.

EDWARD. Good night.

_She kisses his forehead. But he puts up his face like a child, so she bends down and for the first time their lips meet. Then she steps back from him, adding happily, with perhaps just a touch of shyness._

ALICE. Till to-morrow.

EDWARD. [_echoing in grat.i.tude the hope and promise in her voice._] Till to-morrow.

_She leaves him to sit there by the table for a few moments longer, looking into his future, streaked as it is to be with trouble and joy.

As whose is not? From above . . from above the mantelpiece, that is to say . . the face of the late_ MR. VOYSEY _seems to look down upon his son not unkindly, though with that curious buccaneering twist of the eyebrows which distinguished his countenance in life_.

Waste

1906-7

WASTE

At Shapters, GEORGE FARRANT'S house in Hertfordshire. Ten o'clock on a Sunday evening in summer.

_Facing you at her piano by the window, from which she is protected by a little screen, sits_ MRS. FARRANT; _a woman of the interesting age, clear-eyed and all her face serene, except for a little pucker of the brows which shows a puzzled mind upon some important matters. To become almost an ideal hostess has been her achievement; and in her own home, as now, this grace is written upon every movement. Her eyes pa.s.s over the head of a girl, sitting in a low chair by a little table, with the shaded lamplight falling on her face. This is_ LUCY DAVENPORT; _twenty-three, undefeated in anything as yet and so unsoftened. The book on her lap is closed, for she has been listening to the music. It is possibly some German philosopher, whom she reads with a critical appreciation of his shortcomings. On the sofa near her lounges_ MRS.

O'CONNELL; _a charming woman, if by charming you understand a woman who converts every quality she possesses into a means of attraction, and has no use for any others. On the sofa opposite sits_ MISS TREBELL. _In a few years, when her hair is quite grey, she will a.s.sume as by right the dignity of an old maid. Between these two in a low armchair is_ LADY DAVENPORT. _She has attained to many dignities. Mother and grandmother, she has brought into the world and nourished not merely life but character. A wonderful face she has, full of proud memories and fearless of the future. Behind her, on a sofa between the windows, is_ WALTER KENT. _He is just what the average English father would like his son to be. You can see the light shooting out through the windows and mixing with moonshine upon a smooth lawn. On your left is a door. There are many books in the room, hardly any pictures, a statuette perhaps. The owner evidently sets beauty of form before beauty of colour. It is a woman's room and it has a certain delicate austerity. By the time you have observed everything_, MRS. FARRANT _has played Chopin's prelude opus 28, number 20 from beginning to end_.

LADY DAVENPORT. Thank you, my dear Julia.

WALTER KENT. [_Protesting._] No more?

MRS. FARRANT. I won't play for a moment longer than I feel musical.

MISS TREBELL. Do you think it right, Julia, to finish with that after an hour's Bach?

MRS. FARRANT. I suddenly came over Chopinesque, f.a.n.n.y; . . what's your objection? [_as she sits by her._]

FRANCES TREBELL. What . . when Bach has raised me to the heights of unselfishness!

AMY O'CONNELL. [_Grimacing sweetly, her eyes only half lifted._] Does he? I'm glad that I don't understand him.

FRANCES TREBELL. [_Putting mere prettiness in its place._] One may prefer Chopin when one is young.

AMY O'CONNELL. And is that a reproach or a compliment?

WALTER KENT. [_Boldly._] I do.

FRANCES TREBELL. Or a man may . . unless he's a philosopher.

LADY DAVENPORT. [_To the rescue._] Miss Trebell, you're very hard on mere humanity.

FRANCES TREBELL. [_Completing the reproof._] That's my wretched training as a schoolmistress, Lady Davenport . . one grew to fear it above all things.

LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Throwing in the monosyllable with sharp youthful enquiry._] Why?

FRANCES TREBELL. There were no text books on the subject.

MRS. FARRANT. [_Smiling at her friend._] Yes, f.a.n.n.y . . I think you escaped to look after your brother only just in time.

FRANCES TREBELL. In another year I might have been head-mistress, which commits you to approve of the system for ever.

LADY DAVENPORT. [_Shaking her wise head._] I've watched the Education fever take England . . .

FRANCES TREBELL. If I hadn't stopped teaching things I didn't understand . . !

AMY O'CONNELL. [_Not without mischief._] And what was the effect on the pupils?

LUCY DAVENPORT. I can tell you that.

AMY O'CONNELL. Frances never taught you.

LUCY DAVENPORT. No, I wish she had. But I was at her sort of a school before I went to Newnham. I know.

FRANCES TREBELL. [_Very distastefully._] Up-to-date, it was described as.

LUCY DAVENPORT. Well, it was like a merry-go-round at top speed. You felt things wouldn't look a bit like that when you came to a standstill.

AMY O'CONNELL. And they don't?