Windows. Galsworthy John
But why do we keep them? For instance, why don't we make Mary and Mother work for us like Kafir women? We could lick them into it. Why did we give women the vote? Why free slaves; why anything decent for the little and weak?
MR MARCH. Well, you might say it was convenient for people living in communities.
JOHNNY. I don't think it's convenient at all. I should like to make Mary sweat. Why not jungle law, if there's nothing in chivalry.
MR MARCH. Chivalry is altruism, Johnny. Of course it's quite a question whether altruism isn't enlightened self-interest!
JOHNNY. Oh! Damn!
The lank and shirt-sleeved figure of MR BLY, with a pail of water and cloths, has entered, and stands near the window, Left.
BLY. Beg pardon, Mr March; d'you mind me cleanin' the winders here?
MR MARCH. Not a bit.
JOHNNY. Bankrupt of ideals. That's it!
MR BLY stares at him, and puts his pail down by the window. MARY has entered with her father's writing materials which she puts on a stool beside him.
MARY. Here you are, Dad! I've filled up the ink pot. Do be careful! Come on, Johnny!
She looks curiously at MR BLY, who has begun operations at the bottom of the left-hand window, and goes, followed by JOHNNY.
MR MARCH. [Relighting his pipe and preparing his materials] What do you think of things, Mr Bly?
BLY. Not much, sir.
MR MARCH. Ah! [He looks up at MR BLY, struck by his large philosophical eyes and moth-eaten moustache] Nor I.
BLY. I rather thought that, sir, from your writin's.
MR MARCH. Oh! Do you read?
BLY. I was at sea, once – formed the 'abit.
MR MARCH. Read any of my novels?
BLY. Not to say all through – I've read some of your articles in the Sunday papers, though. Make you think!
MR MARCH. I'm at sea now – don't see dry land anywhere, Mr Bly.
BLY. [With a smile] That's right.
MR MARCH. D'you find that the general impression?
BLY. No. People don't think. You 'ave to 'ave some cause for thought.
MR MARCH. Cause enough in the papers.
BLY. It's nearer 'ome with me. I've often thought I'd like a talk with you, sir. But I'm keepin' you. [He prepares to swab the pane.]
MR MARCH. Not at all. I enjoy it. Anything to put off work.
BLY. [Looking at MR MARCH, then giving a wipe at the window] What's drink to one is drought to another. I've seen two men take a drink out of the same can – one die of it and the other get off with a pain in his stomach.
MR MARCH. You've seen a lot, I expect.
BLY. Ah! I've been on the beach in my day. [He sponges at the window] It's given me a way o' lookin' at things that I don't find in other people. Look at the 'Ome Office. They got no philosophy.
MR MARCH. [Pricking his ears] What? Have you had dealings with them?
BLY. Over the reprieve that was got up for my daughter. But I'm keepin' you.
He swabs at the window, but always at the same pane, so that he does not advance at all.
MR MARCH. Reprieve?
BLY. Ah! She was famous at eighteen. The Sunday Mercury was full of her, when she was in prison.
MR MARCH. [Delicately] Dear me! I'd no idea.
BLY. She's out now; been out a fortnight. I always say that fame's ephemereal. But she'll never settle to that weavin'. Her head got turned a bit.
MR MARCH. I'm afraid I'm in the dark, Mr Bly.
BLY. [Pausing – dipping his sponge in the pail and then standing with it in his hand] Why! Don't you remember the Bly case? They sentenced 'er to be 'anged by the neck until she was dead, for smotherin' her baby. She was only eighteen at the time of speakin'.
MR MARCH. Oh! yes! An inhuman business!
BLY. All! The jury recommended 'er to mercy. So they reduced it to Life.
MR MARCH. Life! Sweet Heaven!
BLY. That's what I said; so they give her two years. I don't hold with the Sunday Mercury, but it put that over. It's a misfortune to a girl to be good-lookin'.
MR MARCH. [Rumpling his hair] No, no! Dash it all! Beauty's the only thing left worth living for.
BLY. Well, I like to see green grass and a blue sky; but it's a mistake in a 'uman bein'. Look at any young chap that's good-lookin' – 'e's doomed to the screen, or hair-dressin'. Same with the girls. My girl went into an 'airdresser's at seventeen and in six months she was in trouble. When I saw 'er with a rope round her neck, as you might say, I said to meself: "Bly," I said, "you're responsible for this. If she 'adn't been good-lookin' – it'd never 'eve 'appened."
During this speech MARY has come in with a tray, to clear the breakfast, and stands unnoticed at the dining-table, arrested by the curious words of MR BLY.
MR MARCH. Your wife might not have thought that you were wholly the cause, Mr Bly.
BLY. Ah! My wife. She's passed on. But Faith – that's my girl's name – she never was like 'er mother; there's no 'eredity in 'er on that side.
MR MARCH. What sort of girl is she?
BLY. One for colour – likes a bit o' music – likes a dance, and a flower.
MARY. [Interrupting softly] Dad, I was going to clear, but I'll come back later.
MR MARCH. Come here and listen to this! Here's a story to get your blood up! How old was the baby, Mr Bly?
BLY. Two days – 'ardly worth mentionin'. They say she 'ad the 'ighstrikes after – an' when she comes to she says: "I've saved my baby's life." An' that's true enough when you come to think what that sort o' baby goes through as a rule; dragged up by somebody else's hand, or took away by the Law. What can a workin' girl do with a baby born under the rose, as they call it? Wonderful the difference money makes when it comes to bein' outside the Law.
MR MARCH. Right you are, Mr Bly. God's on the side of the big battalions.
BLY. Ah! Religion! [His eyes roll philosophically] Did you ever read 'Aigel?
MR MARCH. Hegel, or Haekel?
BLY. Yes; with an aitch. There's a balance abart 'im that I like. There's no doubt the Christian religion went too far. Turn the other cheek! What oh! An' this Anti-Christ, Neesha, what came in with the war – he went too far in the other direction. Neither of 'em practical men. You've got to strike a balance, and foller it.
MR MARCH. Balance! Not much balance about us. We just run about and jump Jim Crow.
BLY. [With a perfunctory wipe] That's right; we 'aven't got a faith these days. But what's the use of tellin' the Englishman to act like an angel. He ain't either an angel or a blond beast. He's between the two, an 'ermumphradite. Take my daughter – If I was a blond beast, I'd turn 'er out to starve; if I was an angel, I'd starve meself to learn her the piano. I don't do either. Why? Becos my instincts tells me not.
MR MARCH. Yes, but my doubt is whether our instincts at this moment of the world's history are leading us up or down.
BLY. What is up and what is down? Can you answer me that? Is it up or down to get so soft that you can't take care of yourself?
MR MARCH. Down.
BLY. Well, is it up or down to get so 'ard that you can't take care of others?
MR MARCH. Down.
BLY. Well, there you are!
MARCH. Then our instincts are taking us down?
BLY. Nao. They're strikin' a balance, unbeknownst, all the time.
MR MARCH. You're a philosopher, Mr Bly.
BLY.