The Pigeon: A Fantasy in Three Acts. Galsworthy John
[Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you really are, I suppose – a sickly sentimentalist!
WELLWYN. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn't sentiment. It's simply that they seem to me so – so – jolly. If I'm to give up feeling sort of – nice in here [he touches his chest] about people – it doesn't matter who they are – then I don't know what I'm to do. I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.
ANN. I think you ought to.
WELLWYN. I suppose they see I like them – then they tell me things. After that, of course you can't help doing what you can.
ANN. Well, if you will love them up!
WELLWYN. My dear, I don't want to. It isn't them especially – why, I feel it even with old Calway sometimes. It's only Providence that he doesn't want anything of me – except to make me like himself – confound him!
ANN. [Moving towards the door into the house – impressively.] What you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you.
WELLWYN. Well, thank God!
ANN. It's so old-fashioned too! I'm going to bed – I just leave you to your conscience.
WELLWYN. Oh!
ANN. [Opening the door-severely.] Good-night – [with a certain weakening] you old – Daddy!
[She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.] [WELLWYN stands perfectly still. He first gazes up at the skylight, then down at the floor. Slowly he begins to shake his head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.]
WELLWYN. Bad lot… Low type – no backbone, no stability!
[There comes a fluttering knock on the outer door. As the sound slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though he knew, but would not admit its significance. Then he sits down, covering his ears. The knocking does not cease. WELLWYN drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle towards the door. The knocking becomes louder.]
WELLWYN. Ah dear! Tt! Tt! Tt!
[After a look in the direction of ANN's disappearance, he opens the street door a very little way. By the light of the lamp there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a shawl to which the snow is clinging. She has on her arm a basket covered with a bit of sacking.]
WELLWYN. I can't, you know; it's impossible.
[The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.]
WELLWYN. [Wincing.] Let's see – I don't know you – do I?
[The girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent of reproach: "Mrs. Megan – you give me this – " She holds out a dirty visiting card.]
WELLWYN. [Recoiling from the card.] Oh! Did I? Ah! When?
MRS. MEGAN. You 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring. You give me 'arf a crown.
[A smile tries to visit her face.]
WELLWYN. [Looking stealthily round.] Ah! Well, come in – just for a minute – it's very cold – and tell us what it is.
[She comes in stolidly, a Sphinx-like figure, with her pretty tragic little face.]
WELLWYN. I don't remember you. [Looking closer.] Yes, I do. Only – you weren't the same-were you?
MRS. MEGAN. [Dully.] I seen trouble since.
WELLWYN. Trouble! Have some tea?
[He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum into it.]
WELLWYN. [Handing her the tea.] Keeps the cold out! Drink it off!
[MRS. MEGAN drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost immediately seems to get a size larger. WELLWYN watches her with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his face.]
WELLWYN. Cure for all evils, um?
MRS. MEGAN. It warms you. [She smiles.]
WELLWYN. [Smiling back, and catching himself out.] Well! You know, I oughtn't.
MRS. MEGAN. [Conscious of the disruption of his personality, and withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] I wouldn't 'a come, but you told me if I wanted an 'and —
WELLWYN. [Gradually losing himself in his own nature.] Let me see – corner of Flight Street, wasn't it?
MRS. MEGAN. [With faint eagerness.] Yes, sir, an' I told you about me vi'lets – it was a luvly spring-day.
WELLWYN. Beautiful! Beautiful! Birds singing, and the trees, &c.! We had quite a talk. You had a baby with you.
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. I got married since then.
WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! Yes! [Cheerfully.] And how's the baby?
MRS. MEGAN. [Turning to stone.] I lost her.
WELLWYN. Oh! poor – Um!
MRS. MEGAN. [Impassive.] You said something abaht makin' a picture of me. [With faint eagerness.] So I thought I might come, in case you'd forgotten.
WELLWYN. [Looking at, her intently.] Things going badly?
MRS. MEGAN. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] I keep 'em covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. Thruppence – that's all I've took.
WELLWYN. Ho! Tt! Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too!
MRS. MEGAN. They're dead.
WELLWYN. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good husband?
MRS. MEGAN. He plays cards.
WELLWYN. Oh, Lord! And what are you doing out – with a cold like that? [He taps his chest.]
MRS. MEGAN. We was sold up this morning – he's gone off with 'is mates. Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'.
WELLWYN. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] But who buys flowers at this time of night?
[MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and faintly smiles.]
WELLWYN. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us! Here! Come to the fire!
[She follows him to the fire. He shuts the street door.]
WELLWYN. Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit down here, and take them off. That's right.
[She sits on the stool. And after a slow look up at him, which has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years, begins taking off her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN goes to the door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of stealthy casualness. He returns whistling, but not out loud. The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her bare toes to the flames. She shuffles them back under her skirt.]
WELLWYN. How old are you, my child?
MRS. MEGAN. Nineteen, come Candlemas.
WELLWYN. And what's your name?
MRS. MEGAN. Guinevere.
WELLWYN. What? Welsh?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes – from Battersea.
WELLWYN. And your husband?
MRS. MEGAN. No. Irish, 'e is. Notting Dale, 'e comes from.
WELLWYN. Roman Catholic?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. My 'usband's an atheist as well.
WELLWYN. I see. [Abstractedly.] How jolly! And how old is he – this young man of yours?
MRS. MEGAN. 'E'll be twenty soon.
WELLWYN. Babes in the wood! Does he treat you badly?
MRS. MEGAN. No.
WELLWYN. Nor drink?
MRS. MEGAN. No. He's not a bad one. Only he gets playin' cards then 'e'll fly the kite.
WELLWYN. I see. And when he's not flying it, what does he do?
MRS.