Plays : Third Series. Galsworthy John
met him. Comes of picking up people you know nothing of. I distrust him—and his looks—and his infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not—good form.
CLARE. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h!
GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in him?
CLARE. A mind.
GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind—as you call it—it's not necessary to talk about Art and Literature.
CLARE. We don't.
GEORGE. Then what do you talk about—your minds? [CLARE looks at him] Will you answer a straight question? Is he falling in love with you?
CLARE. You had better ask him.
GEORGE. I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe in the guide, philosopher and friend business.
CLARE. Thank you.
A silence. CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.
CLARE. Let me go! You'd be much happier with any other woman.
GEORGE. Clare!
CLARE. I believe—I'm sure I could earn my living. Quite serious.
GEORGE. Are you mad?
CLARE. It has been done.
GEORGE. It will never be done by you—understand that!
CLARE. It really is time we parted. I'd go clean out of your life. I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your money.
GEORGE. Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us both.
CLARE. But if we are already! Look at us. We go on, and on. We're a spectacle!
GEORGE. That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as you behave yourself.
CLARE. That is—behave as you think right.
GEORGE. Clare, you're pretty riling.
CLARE. I don't want to be horrid. But I am in earnest this time.
GEORGE. So am I.
[CLARE turns to the curtained door.]
GEORGE. Look here! I'm sorry. God knows I don't want to be a brute. I know you're not happy.
CLARE. And you—are you happy?
GEORGE. I don't say I am. But why can't we be?
CLARE. I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.
GEORGE. We can try.
CLARE. I HAVE—haven't you?
GEORGE. We used–
CLARE. I wonder!
GEORGE. You know we did.
CLARE. Too long ago—if ever.
GEORGE [Coming closer] I—still–
CLARE. [Making a barrier of her hand] You know that's only cupboard love.
GEORGE. We've got to face the facts.
CLARE. I thought I was.
GEORGE. The facts are that we're married—for better or worse, and certain things are expected of us. It's suicide for you, and folly for me, in my position, to ignore that. You have all you can reasonably want; and I don't—don't wish for any change. If you could bring anything against me—if I drank, or knocked about town, or expected too much of you. I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I can see.
CLARE. Well, I think we've talked enough.
[She again moves towards the curtained door.]
GEORGE. Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried? That's simple purgatory. You ought to know.
CLARE. Yes. I haven't yet, have I?
GEORGE. Don't go like that! Do you suppose we're the only couple who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with each other and make the best of it.
CLARE. Not by thousands.
GEORGE. Well, why do you imagine they do it?
CLARE. I don't know.
GEORGE. From a common sense of decency.
CLARE. Very!
GEORGE. By Jove! You can be the most maddening thing in all the world! [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you might try to make some amends, I should think.
CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of something she could not avoid. He puts his hand on her arm.
CLARE. No, no—no!
GEORGE. [Dropping his hand] Can't you make it up?
CLARE. I don't feel very Christian.
She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her. GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the room. He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it with a bang, and again contemplates the door. Moving forward, he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its edge, and muttering. Then he crosses to the door into the hall and switches off the light. He opens the door to go out, then stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh. Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is standing, unhooking a necklet.
He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud.
ACT II
The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer door opens on to a corridor and stairway. Doors on either side lead to other rooms. On the walls are unframed reproductions of fine pictures, secured with tintacks. An old wine-coloured armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink, pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only eleven. On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper, cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. There are many books on shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a soft hat, and a black knobby stick. MALISE sits in his armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers, unshaved and uncollared, writing. He pauses, smiles, lights a cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up a sheet of quarto MS.
MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those excellent frock-coated gentlemen—not a sign, not a grimace. Only the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant Tyranny."
While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age, in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the corridor. She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron and a Bissell broom. Her movements are slow and imperturbable, as if she had much time before her. Her face is broad and dark, with Chinese eyebrows.
MALISE. Wait, Mrs. Miller!
MRS. MILER. I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.
She comes and stands before him. MALISE writes.
MRS. MILER. There's a man 'angin' about below.
MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she stops. But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.
MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.
MALISE. Well?
MRS. MILER. Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im lookin' at a photograft. That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at pictures—it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. So I giv' a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket, and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three. I goes down an' I says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "Ah!" 'e says with an air of innercence, "I wants