In the shade there walked a maidAs fair as any flower,Picking posies all of rosesFor to deck her bower.
In the shade there walked a maidAs fair as any flower,Picking posies all of rosesFor to deck her bower.
Ast.Don't make such a noise.
Fomá.I can't help it. I'm gay. I have a sympathetic soul. I rejoice with Praskóvya Petróvna. I think she is mad, but I rejoice with her.
Ast.So do I; but I don't disturb others on that account.
Fomá.Come, old grumbler, have a mouthful of vodka. [Melodramatically.] A glass of wine with Cæsar Borgia! [Singing.]
As she went adown the bentShe met a merry fellow,He was drest in all his bestIn red and blue and yellow.
As she went adown the bentShe met a merry fellow,He was drest in all his bestIn red and blue and yellow.
So he was a saint, was he, that son of hers? Well, well, of what advantage is that? Saints are not so easy to love as sinners. You and I are not saints, are we, Astéryi Ivanovitch?
Ast.I do not care to parade my halo in public.
Fomá.Oh, as for me, I keep mine in a box under the bed; it only frightens people. Do you think he would have remained a saint all this time if he had lived?
Ast.Who can say?
Fomá.Nonsense! He would have become like the rest of us. Then why make all this fuss about him? Why go on for twenty years sacrificing her own life to a fantastic image?
Ast.Why not, if it please her to do so?
Fomá.Say what you please, but all the same she is mad; yes, Praskóvya is mad.
Ast.We call every one mad who is faithful to their ideas. If people think only of food and money and clothing we call them sane, but if they have ideas beyond those things we call them mad. I envy Praskóvya. Praskóvya has preserved in her old age what I myself have lost. I, too, had ideas once, but I have been unfaithful to them; they have evaporated and vanished.
Fomá.What ideas were these?
Ast.Liberty! Political regeneration!
Fomá.Ah, yes; you were a sad revolutionary once, I have been told.
Ast.I worshiped Liberty, as Praskóvya worships her Sasha. But I have lived my ideals down in the dull routine of my foolish, aimless life as an office hack, a clerk in the District Council, making copies that no one will ever see of documents that no one ever wants to read.... Suddenly there comes the Revolution; there is fighting in the streets; men raise the red flag; blood flows. I might go forth and strike a blow for that Liberty which I loved twenty years ago. But no, I have become indifferent. I do not care who wins, the Government or the Revolutionaries; it is all the same to me.
Fomá.You are afraid. One gets timid as one gets older.
Ast.Afraid? No. What have I to be afraid of? Death is surely not so much worse than life? No, it is because my idea is dead and cannot be made to live again, while Praskóvya, whose routine as a lodging-house keeper is a hundred times duller than mine, is still faithful to her old idea. Let us not call her mad; let us rather worship her as something holy, for her fidelity to an idea in this wretched little town where ideas are as rare as white ravens.
Fomá.She has no friends to love?
Ast.She has never had any friends; she needed none.
Fomá.She has relatives, I suppose?
Ast.None.
Fomá.What mystery explains this solitude?
Ast.If there is a mystery it is easily guessed. It is an everyday story; the story of a peasant woman betrayed and deserted by a nobleman. She came with her child to this town; and instead of sinking, set herself bravely to work, to win a living for the two of them. She was young and strong then; her work prospered with her.
Fomá.And her son was worthy of her love?
Ast.He was a fine boy—handsome and intelligent. By dint of the fiercest economy she got him a nobleman's education; sent him to the Gymnase, and thence, when he was eighteen, to the University of Moscow. Praskóvya herself cannot read or write, but her boy ... the books on that shelf are the prizes which he won. She thought him a pattern of all the virtues.
Fomá.Aha! now we're coming to it! So he was a sinner after all?
Ast.We are none of us perfect. His friends were ill-chosen. The hard-earned money that Praskóvya thought was spent on University expenses went on many other things—on drink, on women, and on gambling. But he did one good thing—he hid it all safely from his mother. I helped him in that. Together we kept her idea safe through a difficult period. And before he was twenty it was all over—he was dead.
Fomá.Yes, he was murdered by some foreigner, I know.
Ast.By Adámek, a Pole.
Fomá.And what was the motive of the crime?
Ast.It was for money. By inquiries which I made after the trial I ascertained that this Adámek was a bad character and an adventurer, who used to entice students to his rooms to drink and gamble with him. Sasha had become an intimate friend of his; and it was even said that they were partners in cheating the rest. Anyhow, there is no doubt that at one time or another they had won considerable sums at cards, and disputed as to the ownership of them. The last thing that was heard of them, they bought a sledge with two horses and set out saying they were going to Tula. On the road Adámek murdered the unfortunate boy. The facts were all clear and indisputable. There was no need to search into the motives. The murderer fell straight into the hands of the police. The District Inspector, coming silently along the road in his sledge, suddenly saw before him the boy lying dead by the roadside, and the murderer standing over him with the knife in his hand. He arrested him at once; there was no possibility of denying it.
Fomá.And it was quite clear that his victim was Sasha?
Ast.Quite clear. Adámek gave intimate details about him, such as only a friend of his could have known, which put his identity beyond a doubt. When the trial was over the body was sent in a coffin to Praskóvya Petróvna, who buried it here in the Tróitski Cemetery.
Fomá.And the Pole?
Ast.He was sent to penal servitude for life to the silver mines of Siberia.
Fomá.So Praskóvya is even madder than I thought. Her religion is founded on a myth. Her life is an absurd deception.
Ast.No; she has created something out of nothing; that is all.
Fomá.In your place I should have told her the truth.
Ast.No.
Fomá.Anything is better than a lie.
Ast.There is no lie in it. Praskóvya's idea and Sasha's life are two independent things. A statement of fact may be true or false; but an idea need only be clear and definite. That is all that matters. [There is a tapping at the door; the latch is lifted, and the Stranger peeps in.] Come in, come in!
[Enter the Stranger, ragged and degraded. He looks about the room, dazed by the light, and fixes his attention on Astéryi.]
Who are you? What do you want?
Stranger.I came to speak to you.
Ast.To speak to me?
Fomá.Take off your cap. Do you not see the eikons?
Ast.What do you want with me?
Stranger.Only a word, Astéryi Ivanovitch.
Ast.How have you learnt my name?
Fomá.Do you know the man?
Ast.No.
Stranger.You do not know me?
Ast.No.
Stranger.Have you forgotten me, Astéryi Ivanovitch?
Ast.[almost speechless]. Sasha!
Fomá.What is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost.
Ast.A ghost? There are no such things as ghosts. Would that it were a ghost. It is Sasha.
Fomá.Sasha?
Ast.It is Praskóvya's son alive.
Fomá.Praskóvya's son?
Sasha.You remember me now, Astéryi Ivanovitch.
Ast.How have you risen from the dead? How have you come back from the grave—you who were dead and buried these twenty years and more?
Sasha.I have not risen from the dead. I have not come back from the grave; but I have come a long, long journey.
Ast.From where?
Sasha.From Siberia.
Fomá.From Siberia?
Sasha.From Siberia.
Ast.What were you doing in Siberia?
Sasha.Do you not understand, Astéryi Ivanovitch? I am a criminal.
Ast.Ah!
Sasha.A convict, a felon. I have escaped and come home.
Ast.Of what crime have you been guilty?
Sasha.Do not ask me so many questions, but give me something to eat.
Ast.But tell me this....
Sasha.There is food here. I smelt it as I came in. [He eats the meat with his fingers ravenously, like a wild beast.]
Fomá.It is your mother's supper.
Sasha.I do not care whose supper it is. I am ravenous. I have had nothing to eat all day.
Fomá.Can this wild beast be Praskóvya's son?
Sasha.We are all wild beasts if we are kept from food. Ha! and vodka, too! [helping himself].
Ast.Are you a convict, a felon, Sasha? You who were dead? Then we have been deceived for many years.
Sasha.Have you?
Ast.Some other man was murdered twenty years ago. The murderer said that it was you.
Sasha.Ah, he said that it was me, did he?
Ast.Why did Adámek say that it was you?
Sasha.Can you not guess? Adámek murdered no one.
Ast.He murdered no one? But he was condemned.
Sasha.He was never condemned.
Ast.Never condemned? Then what became of him?
Sasha.He died.... Do you not understand? It was I who killed Adámek.
Ast.You!
Sasha.We had quarreled. We were alone in a solitary place. I killed him and stood looking down at him with the knife in my hand dripping scarlet in the snow, frightened at the sudden silence and what I had done. And while I thought I was alone, I turned and saw the police-officer with his revolver leveled at my head. Then amid the confusion and black horror that seized on me, a bright thought shot across my mind. Adámek had no relatives, no friends; he was an outcast. Stained with his flowing blood, I exchanged names with him; that's the old heroic custom of blood-brotherhood, you know. I named myself Adámek; I named my victim Sasha. Ingenious, wasn't it? I had romantic ideas in those days. Adámek has been cursed for a murderer, and my memory has been honored. Alexander Petróvitch has been a hero; my mother has wept for me. I have seen her in the graveyard lamenting on my tomb; I have read my name on the cross. I hardly know whether to laugh or to cry. Evidently she loves me still.
Ast.And you?
Sasha.Do I love her? No. There is no question of that. She is part of a life that was ended too long ago. I have only myself to think of now. What should I gain by loving her? Understand, I am an outlaw, an escaped convict; a word can send me back to the mines. I must hide myself, the patrols are everywhere.... Even here I am not safe. [Locks the street door.]
Ast.Why have you returned? Why have you spoilt what you began so well? Having resolved twenty years ago to vanish like a dead man....
Sasha.Ah! if they had killed me then I would have died willingly. But after twenty years remorse goes, pity goes, everything goes; entombed in the mines, but still alive.... I was worn out. I could bear it no longer. Others were escaping, I escaped with them.
Ast.This will break her heart. She has made an angel of you. The lamp is always burning....
Sasha[going to the eikon corner with a glass of vodka in his hand]. Aha! Alexander Nevski, my patron saint. I drink to you, my friend: but I cannot congratulate you on your work. As a guardian angel you have been something of a failure. And what is this? [taking a photograph]. Myself! Who would have known this for my portrait? Look at the angel child, with the soft cheeks and the pretty curly hair. How innocent and good I looked! [bringing it down]. And even then I was deceiving my mother. She never understood that a young man must live, he must live. We are animals first; we have instincts that need something warmer, something livelier, than the tame dull round of home. [He throws down the photograph; Fomá replaces it.] And even now I have no intention of dying. Yet how am I to live? I cannot work; the mines have sucked out all my strength. Has my mother any money?
Ast.[to Fomá]. What can we do with him?
Sasha.Has my mother any money?
Ast.Money? Of course not. Would she let lodgings if she had? Listen. I am a poor man myself, but I will give you ten roubles and your railway fare to go to St. Petersburg.
Sasha.St. Petersburg? And what shall I do there when I have spent the ten roubles?
Ast.[shrugging his shoulders]. How do I know? Live there, die there, only stay away from here.
Fomá.What right have you to send him away? Why do you suppose that she will not be glad to see him? Let her see her saint bedraggled, and love him still—that is what true love means. You have regaled her with lies all these years; but now it is no longer possible. [A knocking at the door.] She is at the door.
Ast.[to Sasha]. Come with me. [To Fomá.] He must go out by the other way.
Fomá[stopping them]. No, I forbid it. It is the hand of God that has led him here. Go and unlock the door. [Astéryi shrugs his shoulders, and goes to unlock the door.] [To Sasha, hiding him.] Stand here a moment till I have prepared your mother.
[Enter Praskóvya and Varvára, carrying a box.]
Pras.Why is the door locked? Were you afraid without old Praskóvya to protect you? Here is the money. Now let me count it. Have you two been quarreling? There are fifty roubles in this bag, all in little pieces of silver; it took me two years.
Fomá.How you must have denied yourself, Praskóvya, and all to build a hut in a churchyard!
Pras.On what better thing could money be spent?
Fomá.You are so much in love with your tomb-house, I believe that you would be sorry if it turned out that your son was not dead, but alive.
Pras.Why do you say such things? You know that I should be glad. Ah! if I could but see him once again as he was then, and hold him in my arms!
Fomá.But he would not be the same now.
Pras.If he were different, he would not be my son.
Fomá.What if all these years he had been an outcast, living in degradation?
Pras.Who has been eating here? Who has been drinking here? Something has happened! Tell me what it is.
Ast.Your son is not dead.
Pras.Not dead? Why do you say it so sadly? No, it is not true. I do not believe it. How can I be joyful at the news if you tell it so sadly? If he is alive, where is he? Let me see him.
Ast.He is here.
[Sasha comes forward.]
Pras.No, no! Tell me that that is not him ... my son whom I have loved all these years, my son that lies in the churchyard. [To Sasha.] Don't be cruel to me. Say that you are not my son; you cannot be my son.
Sasha.You know that I am your son.
Pras.My son is dead; he was murdered. I buried his body in the Tróitski Cemetery.
Sasha.But you see that I was not murdered. Touch me; feel me. I am alive. I and Adámek fought; it was not Adámek that slew me, it was....
Pras.No, no! I want to hear no more. You have come to torment me. Only say what you want of me, anything, and I will do it, if you will leave me in peace.
Sasha.I want food and clothing; I want shelter; I must have money.
Pras.You will go if I give you money? Yes? Say that you will go, far, far away, and never come back to tell lies.... But I have no money to give; I am a poor woman.
Sasha.Come, what's all this?
Pras.No, no! I need it; I can't spare it. What I have I have starved myself to get. Two roubles, five roubles, even ten roubles I will give you, if you will go far, far away....
Fomá.Before he can travel we must bribe some peasant to lend him his passport.
Pras.Has he no passport then?
Fomá.No.
[A knock. Enter Spiridón.]
Spir.Peace be on this house. May the saints watch over all of you! Astéryi Ivanovitch will have told you of my proposal.
Pras.Yes, I have heard of it, Spiridón.
Fomá.Good-by, Spiridón; there is no work for you here. That is all over.
Pras.Why do you say that that is all over?
Fomá.There will be no tomb-house to build.
Pras.No tomb-house? How dare you say so? He is laughing at us, Spiridón. The tomb-house that we have planned together, with the table in the middle, and the two chairs.... Do not listen to him, Spiridón. At last I have money enough; let us count it together.
Sasha.Give me my share, mother!
Pras.I have no money for you.
Sasha[advancing]. I must have money.
Pras.You shall not touch it.
Sasha.I will not go unless you give me money.
Pras.It is not mine. I have promised it all to Spiridón. Help me, Astéryi Ivanovitch; he will drive me mad! Oh, what must I do? What must I do? Is there no way, Varvára? [Tap of drums without.] [To Sasha.] Go! go! go quickly, or worse will befall you.
Sasha.I will not go and starve while you have all this money.
Pras.Ah! Since you will have it so.... It is you, not I! [Running out at the door and calling.] Patrol! Patrol!
Fomá.Stop her.
Var.Oh, Hóspodi!
Pras.Help! Help! Come here!
Fomá.What have you done? What have you done?
[Enter Corporal and Soldiers.]
Pras.This man is a thief and a murderer. He is a convict escaped from Siberia. He has no passport.
Corp.Is that true? Where is your passport?
Sasha.I have none.
Corp.We are looking for such men as you. Come!
Sasha.This woman is my mother.
Corp.That's her affair. You have no passport; that is enough for me. You'll soon be back on the road to the North with the rest of them.
Sasha.Woman! woman! Have pity on your son.
Corp.Come along, lad, and leave the old woman in peace.
[Exit Sasha in custody.]
Pras.The Lord help me!
[Praskóvya stumbles towards the eikons and sinksblindlybefore them.]
Fomá[looking after Sasha]. Poor devil!
Astéryi.What's a man compared to an idea?
[Praskóvya rolls over, dead.]
[Curtain.]
Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick and Jackson.All rights reserved.
Mary's Weddingwas first produced at the Coronet Theatre, in May, 1912, with the following cast:
MaryMiss Irene RookeTomMr. Herbert LomasAnnMiss Mary GouldenMrs. AireyMiss Muriel PrattBill AireyMr. Charles BibbyTwo Maids.Villagers and Others.
Scene:The Davis's Cottage.
Note: There is no attempt made in the play to reproduce exactly the Westmoreland dialect, which would be unintelligible to ears coming new to it, but only to catch the rough music of it and the slow inflection of northern voices.
Reprinted from "Four Plays," by permission of Mr. Gilbert Cannan.
A Play
By Gilbert Cannan
[The scene is the living-room in the Davis's cottage in the hill country. An old room low in the ceiling. Ann Davis is at the table in the center of the room untying a parcel. The door opens to admit Tom Davis, a sturdy quarryman dressed in his best and wearing a large nosegay.]
Ann.Well, 'ast seed un?
Tom.Ay, a seed un. 'Im and 'is ugly face—
Ann[untying her parcel].'Tis 'er dress come just in time an' no more from the maker-up—
Tom.Ef she wouldna do it....
Ann.But 'tis such long years she's been a-waitin'.... 'Tis long years since she bought t' dress.
Tom.An' 'tis long years she'll be a livin' wi' what she's been waitin' for; 'tis long years she'll live to think ower it and watch the thing she's taken for her man, an' long years that she'll find 'un feedin' on 'er, an' a dreary round she'll 'ave of et....
Ann.Three times she 'ave come to a month of weddin' an' three times 'e 'ave broke loose and gone down to the Mortal Man an' the woman that keeps 'arf our men in drink.... 'Tis she is the wicked one, giving 'em score an' score again 'till they owe more than they can ever pay with a year's money.
Tom.'Tis a fearful thing to drink....
Ann.So I telled 'er in the beginnin' of it all, knowin' what like of man 'e was. An' so I telled 'er last night only.
Tom.She be set on it?
Ann.An', an' 'ere's t' pretty dress for 'er to be wedded in....
Tom.What did she say?
Ann.Twice she 'ave broke wi' 'im, and twice she 'ave said that ef 'e never touched the drink fur six months she would go to be churched wi' 'im. She never 'ave looked at another man.
Tom.Ay, she be one o' they quiet ones that goes about their work an' never 'as no romantical notions but love only the more for et. There've been men come for 'er that are twice the man that Bill is, but she never looks up from 'er work at 'em.
Ann.I think she must 'a' growed up lovin' Bill. 'Tis a set thing surely.
Tom.An' when that woman 'ad 'im again an' 'ad 'im roaring drunk fur a week, she never said owt but turned to 'er work agin an' set aside the things she was makin' agin the weddin'....
Ann.What did 'e say to 'er?
Tom.Nowt. 'E be 'most as chary o' words as she. 'E've got the 'ouse an' everything snug, and while 'e works 'e makes good money.
Ann.'Twill not end, surely.
Tom.There was 'is father and two brothers all broken men by it.
[She hears Mary on the stairs, and they are silent.]
Ann.'Ere's yer pretty dress, Mary.
Mary.Ay.... Thankye, Tom.
Tom.'Twill be lovely for ye, my dear, an' grand. 'Tis a fine day fur yer weddin', my dear....
Mary.I'll be sorry to go, Tom.
Tom.An' sorry we'll be to lose ye....
Mary.I'll put the dress on.
[She throws the frock over her arm and goes out with it.]
Ann.Another girl would 'a' wedded him years ago in the first foolishness of it. But Mary, for all she says so little, 'as long, long thoughts that never comes to the likes o' you and me.... Another girl, when the day 'ad come at last, would 'a' been wild wi' the joy an' the fear o' it.... But Mary, she's sat on the fells under the stars, an' windin' among the sheep. D' ye mind the nights she's been out like an old shepherd wi' t' sheep? D' ye mind the nights when she was but a lile 'un an' we found 'er out in the dawn sleepin' snug again the side o' a fat ewe?
Tom.'Tis not like a weddin' day for 'er.... If she'd 'ad a new dress, now—
Ann.I said to 'er would she like a new dress; but she would have only the old 'un cut an' shaped to be in the fashion.... Et 'as been a strange coortin', an' 'twill be a strange life for 'em both, I'm thinkin', for there seems no gladness in 'er, nor never was, for she never was foolish an' she never was young; but she was always like there was a great weight on 'er, so as she must be about the world alone, but always she 'ave turned to the little things an' the weak, an' always she 'ad some poor sick beast for tendin' or another woman's babe to 'old to 'er breast, an' I think sometimes that 'tis only because Bill is a poor sick beast wi' a poor sick soul that she be so set on 'im.
Tom.'E be a sodden beast wi' never a soul to be saved or damned—
Ann.'Cept for the drink, 'e've been a good son to 'is old mother when the others 'ud 'a' left 'er to rot i' the ditch, an' 'e was the on'y one as 'ud raise a finger again his father when the owd man, God rest him, was on to 'er like a madman. Drunk or sober 'e always was on 'is mother's side.
Tom.'Twas a fearful 'ouse that.
Ann.'Twas wonderful that for all they did to 'er, that wild old man wi' 'is wild young sons, she outlived 'em all, but never a one could she save from the curse that was on them, an', sober, they was the likeliest men 'n Troutbeck....
Tom.'Tis when the rain comes and t' clouds come low an' black on the fells and the cold damp eats into a man's bones that the fearful thoughts come to 'im that must be drowned or 'im go mad—an' only the foreigners like me or them as 'as foreign blood new in 'em can 'old out again it; 'tis the curse o' livin' too long between two lines o' 'ills.
Ann.An' what that owd woman could never do, d'ye think our Mary'll do it? 'Im a Troutbeck man an' she a Troutbeck girl?
Tom.She've 'eld to 'er bargain an' brought 'im to it.
Ann.There's things that a maid can do that a wife cannot an' that's truth, an' shame it is to the men. [Comes a knock at the door.] 'Tisn't time for t' weddin' folk.
[Tom goes to the window.]
Tom.Gorm. 'Tis Mrs. Airey.
Ann.T' owd woman. She that 'as not been further than 'er garden-gate these ten years?
[She goes to the door, opens it to admit Mrs. Airey, an old gaunt woman just beginning to be bent with age.]
Mrs. A.Good day to you, Tom Davis.
Tom.Good day to you, Mrs. Airey.
Mrs. A.Good day to you, Ann Davis.
Ann.Good day to you, Mrs. Airey. Will ye sit down?
[She dusts a chair and Mrs. Airey sits by the fireside. She sits silent for a long while. Tom and Ann look uneasily at her and at each other.]
Mrs. A.So 'tis all ready for Bill's wedding.
Tom.Ay. 'Tis a fine day, an' the folks bid, and the sharry-bang got for to drive to Coniston, all the party of us. Will ye be coming, Mrs. Airey?
Mrs. A.I'll not. [Mrs. Airey sits silent again for long.] Is Mary in the 'ouse?
Ann.She be upstairs puttin' on 'er weddin' dress.
Mrs. A.'Tis the sad day of 'er life.... They're a rotten lot an' who should know et better than me? Bill's the best of 'em, but Bill's rotten.... Six months is not enough, nor six years nor sixty, not while 'er stays in Troutbeck rememberin' all that 'as been an' all the trouble that was in the 'ouse along o' it, and so I've come for to say it.
Ann.She growed up lovin' Bill, and 'tis a set thing. She've waited long years. 'Tis done now, an' what they make for theirselves they make, an' 'tis not for us to go speirin' for the trouble they may make for theirselves, but only to pray that it may pass them by....
Mrs. A.But 'tis certain.... Six months is not enough, nor six years, nor sixty—
Ann.And are ye come for to tell Mary this...?
Mrs. A.This and much more....
Tom.And what 'ave ye said to Bill?
Mrs. A.Nowt. There never was a son would give 'eed to 'is mother.... 'Tisn't for 'im I'm thinkin', but for t' children that she's bear 'im. I 'oped, and went on 'opin' till there was no 'ope left in me, and I lived to curse the day that each one of my sons was born. John and Peter are dead an' left no child behind, and it were better for Bill also to leave no child behind. There's a day and 'alf a day o' peace and content for a woman with such a man, and there's long, long years of thinkin' on the peace and content that's gone. There's long, long years of watching the child that you've borne and suckled turn rotten, an' I say that t' birth-pangs are nowt to t' pangs that ye 'ave from the childer of such a man as Bill or Bill's father.... She's a strong girl an' a good girl; but there's this that is stronger than 'er.
[Mary comes again, very pretty in her blue dress. She is at once sensible of the strangeness in Tom and Ann. She stands looking from one to the other. Mrs. Airey sits gazing into the fire.]
Mary.Why, mother ... 'tis kind of you to come on this morning.
Mrs. A.Ay, 'tis kind of me. [Ann steals away upstairs and Tom, taking the lead from her, goes out into the road.] Come 'ere, my pretty.
[Mary goes and stands by her.]
Mary.The sun is shining and the bees all out and busy to gather in the honey.
Mrs. A.'Tis the bees as is t' wise people to work away in t' dark when t' sun is hidden, and to work away in t' sun when 'tis bright and light. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise people that takes their men an' kills 'em for the 'arm that they may do, and it's us that's the foolish ones to make soft the way of our men an' let them strut before us and lie; and 'tis us that's the foolish ones ever to give a thought to their needs that give never a one to ours.
Mary.'Tis us that's t' glorious ones to 'elp them that is so weak, and 'tis us that's the brave and the kind ones to let them 'ave the 'ole world to play with when they will give never a thought to us that gives it t' 'em.
Mrs. A.My pretty, my pretty, there's never a one of us can 'elp a man that thinks 'isself a man an' strong, poor fool, an' there's never a one of us can 'elp a man that's got a curse on 'im and is rotten through to t' bone, an' not one day can you be a 'elp to such a man as this....
Mary.There's not one day that I will not try, and not one day that I will not fight to win 'im back....
Mrs. A.The life of a woman is a sorrowful thing....
Mary.For all its sorrow, 'tis a greater thing than t' life of a man ... an' so I'll live it....
Mrs. A.Now you're strong and you're young.—'Ope's with ye still and life all before ye—and so I thought when my day came, and so I did. There was a day and 'alf a day of peace and content, and there was long, long years of thinking on the peace and content that are gone.... Four men all gone the same road, and me left looking down the way that they are gone and seeing it all black as the pit.... I be a poor old woman now with never a creature to come near me in kindness, an' I was such a poor old woman before ever the 'alf of life was gone, an' so you'll be if you take my son for your man. He's the best of my sons, but I curse the day that ever he was born....
Mary.There was never a man the like of Bill. If ye see 'un striding the 'ill, ye know 'tis a man by 'is strong, long stride; and if ye see 'un leapin' an' screein' down th' 'ill, ye know 'tis a man; and if we see 'un in t' quarry, ye know 'tis a strong man....
Mrs. A.An' if ye see 'un lyin' drunk i' the ditch, not roarin' drunk, but rotten drunk, wi' 'is face fouled an' 'is clothes mucked, ye know 'tis the lowest creature of the world.
[Mary stands staring straight in front of her.]
Mary.Is it for this that ye come to me to-day?
Mrs. A.Ay, for this: that ye may send 'un back to 'is rottenness, for back to it 'e'll surely go when 'tis too late, an' you a poor old woman like me, with never a creature to come near ye in kindness, before ever the bloom 'as gone from your bonny cheeks, an' maybe childer that'll grow up bonny an' then be blighted for all the tenderness ye give to them; an' those days will be the worst of all—far worse than the day when ye turn for good an' all into yourself from t' man that will give ye nowt.... 'Tis truly the bees as is the wise people....
Mary.It's a weary waitin' that I've had, and better the day and 'alf a day of peace and content with all the long years of thinking on it than all the long, long years of my life to go on waitin' and waitin' for what has passed me by, for if he be the rottenest, meanest man in t' world that ever was made, there is no other that I can see or ever will. It is no wild foolishness that I am doing: I never was like that; but it's a thing that's growed wi' me an' is a part o' me—an' though every day o' my life were set before me now so I could see to the very end, an' every day sadder and blacker than the last, I'd not turn back. I gave 'im the bargain, years back now, and three times e' 'as failed me; but 'e sets store by me enough to do this for me a fourth time—'Twas kind of ye to come....
Mrs. A.You're strong an' you're young, but there's this that's stronger than yourself—
Mary.Maybe, but 'twill not be for want o' fightin' wi' 't.
Mrs. A.'Twill steal on ye when you're weakest, an' come on ye in your greatest need....
Mary.It 'as come to this day an' there is no goin' back. D' ye think I've not seed t' soft, gentle things that are given to other women, an' not envied them? D' ye think I've not seed 'em walkin' shut-eyed into all sorts o' foolishness an' never askin' for the trewth o' it, an' not envied 'em for doin' that? D' ye think I've not seed the girls I growed wi' matin' lightly an' lightly weddin', an' not envied 'em for that, they wi' a 'ouse an' babes an' me drudgin' away in t' farm, me wi' my man to 'and an' only this agin 'im? D' ye think I've not been tore in two wi' wantin' to close my eyes an' walk like others into it an' never think what is to come? There's many an' many a night that I've sat there under t' stars wi' t' three counties afore me an' t' sea, an' t' sheep croppin', an' my own thoughts for all the comp'ny that I 'ad, an' fightin' this way an' that for to take 'up an' let 'un be so rotten, as ever 'e might be; an' there's many an' many a night when the thoughts come so fast that they hurt me an' I lay pressed close to t' ground wi' me 'ands clawin' at it an' me teeth bitin' into t' ground for to get closer an' 'ide from myself; an' many a night when I sat there seein' the man as t' brave lad 'e was when I seed 'un first leapin' down the 'ill, an' knowin' that nothin' in the world, nothin' that I could do to 'un or that 'e could do 'isself, would ever take that fro' me.... In all my time o' my weary waitin' there 'as never been a soul that I told so much to, an' God knows there never 'as been an' never will be a time when I can tell as much to 'im....
Mrs. A.My pretty, my pretty, 'tis a waste an' a wicked, wicked waste....
Mary.'Tis a day an' alf a day agin never a moment....
Mrs. A.'Tis that, and so 'tis wi' all o' us ... an' so 'twill be.... God bless ye, my dear....
[Ann comes down. Mary is looking out of the window.]
Ann.Ye forgot the ribbon for yer 'air, that I fetched 'specially fro' t' town.
Mary.Why, yes. Will ye tie it, Ann?
[Ann ties the ribbon in her hair.]
Mrs. A.Pretty, my dear, oh! pretty—
Mary.I'm to walk to t' church o' Tom's arm...?
Ann.An' I to Tom's left; wi' the bridesmaids be'ind, an' the rest a followin'....
[Tom returns, followed by two girls bringing armfuls of flowers. With these they deck the room, and keep the choicest blooms for Mary. Ann and the three girls are busied with making Mary reach her most beautiful. Mrs. Airey goes. At intervals one villager and another comes to give greeting or to bring some small offering of food or some small article of clothing. Mary thanks them all with rare natural grace. They call her fine, and ejaculate remarks of admiration: "The purty bride...." "She's beautiful...." "'Tis a lucky lad, Bill Airey...." The church bell begins to ring.... All is prepared and all are ready.... Mary is given her gloves, which she draws on—when the door is thrown open and Bill Airey lunges against the lintel of the door and stands leering. He is just sober enough to know what he is at. He is near tears, poor wretch. He is not horribly drunk. He stands surveying the group and they him.]
Bill.I come—I come—I—c-come for to—to—to—show—to show myself....
[He turns in utter misery and goes. Mary plucks the flowers from her bosom and lets them fall to the ground; draws her gloves off her hands and lets them fall. The bell continues to ring.]
[Curtain.]
Copyright, 1920, by Bosworth Crocker.All rights reserved.
The Baby Carriagewas originally produced by the Provincetown Players, New York, February 14, 1919, with the following cast: