The Pigeon: A Fantasy in Three Acts. Galsworthy John
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The Pigeon: A Fantasy in Three Acts
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
CHRISTOPHER WELLWYN, an artist
ANN, his daughter
GUINEVERE MEGAN, a flower-seller
RORY MEGAN, her husband
FERRAND, an alien
TIMSON, once a cabman
EDWARD BERTLEY, a Canon
ALFRED CALWAY, a Professor
SIR THOMAS HOXTON, a Justice of the Peace
Also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons
ACT I. Christmas Eve.
ACT II. New Year's Day.
ACT III. The First
ACT I
It is the night of Christmas Eve, the SCENE is a Studio, flush with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow. There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed, above a floor of bare dark boards. A fire is cheerfully burning. On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas. There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm. chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window. A door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the centre of the wall between. On a low table a Russian samovar is hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses, lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. Through a huge uncurtained window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars. The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door, and ANN WELLWYN enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a ribbon and covered by a scarf. Leaving the door open, she turns up the electric light and goes to the fire. She throws of her scarf and long red cloak. She is dressed in a high evening frock of some soft white material. Her movements are quick and substantial. Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped forehead. Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands. In the doorway appear the figures of two men. The first is rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft eyes, and a crumply face. Under his squash hat his hair is rather plentiful and rather grey. He wears an old brown ulster and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette. He is ANN'S father, WELLWYN, the artist. His companion is a well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy. He is the Vicar of the parish – CANON BERTLEY.
BERTLEY. My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of difficulty. When you have two men like Professor Calway and Sir Thomas Hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've seen to-night, I confess, I —
WELLWYN. Come in, Vicar, and have some grog.
BERTLEY. Not to-night, thanks! Christmas tomorrow! Great temptation, though, this room! Goodnight, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann!
ANN. [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] Good-night, Canon Bertley.
[He goes out, and WELLWYN, shutting the door after him, approaches the fire.]
ANN. [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and making tea.] Daddy!
WELLWYN. My dear?
ANN. You say you liked Professor Calway's lecture. Is it going to do you any good, that's the question?
WELLWYN. I – I hope so, Ann.
ANN. I took you on purpose. Your charity's getting simply awful. Those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money.
WELLWYN. Um! Um! I quite understand your feeling.
ANN. They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse – didn't know what you'd said to them. Why don't you make it a rule never to give your card to anyone except really decent people, and – picture dealers, of course.
WELLWYN. My dear, I have – often.
ANN. Then why don't you keep it? It's a frightful habit. You are naughty, Daddy. One of these days you'll get yourself into most fearful complications.
WELLWYN. My dear, when they – when they look at you?
ANN. You know the house wants all sorts of things. Why do you speak to them at all?
WELLWYN. I don't – they speak to me.
[He takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an arm-chair.]
ANN. They see you coming. Anybody can see you coming, Daddy. That's why you ought to be so careful. I shall make you wear a hard hat. Those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient.
WELLWYN. [Gazing at his hat.] Calway wears one.
ANN. As if anyone would beg of Professor Calway.
WELLWYN. Well-perhaps not. You know, Ann, I admire that fellow. Wonderful power of-of-theory! How a man can be so absolutely tidy in his mind! It's most exciting.
ANN. Has any one begged of you to-day?
WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] No – no.
ANN. [After a long, severe look.] Will you have rum in your tea?
WELLWYN. [Crestfallen.] Yes, my dear – a good deal.
ANN. [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] Well, who was it?
WELLWYN. He didn't beg of me. [Losing himself in recollection.] Interesting old creature, Ann – real type. Old cabman.
ANN. Where?
WELLWYN. Just on the Embankment.
ANN. Of course! Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always rotters.
WELLWYN. Yes, my dear; but this wasn't.
ANN. Did you give him your card?
WELLWYN. I – I – don't
ANN. Did you, Daddy?
WELLWYN. I'm rather afraid I may have!
ANN. May have! It's simply immoral.
WELLWYN. Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann. Besides, I didn't give him any money – hadn't got any.
ANN. Look here, Daddy! Did you ever ask anybody for anything? You know you never did, you'd starve first. So would anybody decent. Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters?
WELLWYN. But, my dear, we're not all the same. They wouldn't do it if it wasn't natural to them. One likes to be friendly. What's the use of being alive if one isn't?
ANN. Daddy, you're hopeless.
WELLWYN. But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so jolly complicated. According to Calway, we're to give the State all we can spare, to make the undeserving deserving. He's a Professor; he ought to know. But old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the undeserving. Well, that's just the opposite. And he's a J.P. Tremendous experience. And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of both. Well, what the devil – ? My trouble is, whichever I'm with, he always converts me. [Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of them.
ANN. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so – don't you know that you're the despair of all social reformers? [She envelops him.] There's a tear in the left knee of your trousers. You're not to wear them again.
WELLWYN. Am I likely to?
ANN. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair. D'you know what I live in terror of?
[WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]
ANN. That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the street. Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his trousers – they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one enormous hole?
WELLWYN. No!
ANN. Spiritually.
WELLWYN.