Mrs. Crowley.
Then how on earth do you occupy your leisure?
Dick.
For the last three months I've been laboriously piecing together the fragments of a broken heart.
Mrs. Crowley.
If you hadn't been so certain that I was going to accept you, I should never have refused. I couldn't resist the temptation of saying "No" just to see how you took it.
Dick.
I flatter myself that I took it very well.
Mrs. Crowley.
You didn't. You showed an entire lack of humour. You might have known that a nice woman doesn't marry a man the first time he asks her. It's making oneself too cheap. It was very silly of you to go off to Scotland as if you didn't care.... How was I to know that you meant to wait three months before asking me again?
Dick.
I haven't the least intention of asking you again.
Mrs. Crowley.
Then why in heaven's name did you invite me to tea?
Dick.
May I respectfully remind you, first, that you invited yourself ...
Mrs. Crowley.
[Interrupting.] You're so irrelevant.
Dick.
And, secondly, that an invitation to tea is not necessarily accompanied by a proposal of marriage.
Mrs. Crowley.
I'm afraid you're lamentably ignorant of the usages of good society.
Dick.
I assure you it's not done in the best circles.
Mrs. Crowley.
[With a little pout.] I shall be very cross with you in a minute.
Dick.
Why?
Mrs. Crowley.
Because you're not behaving at all prettily.
Dick.
D'you know what I'd do if I were you? Propose to me.
Mrs. Crowley.
Oh, I couldn't do anything so immodest.
Dick.
I have registered a vow that I will never offer my hand and heart to any woman again.
Mrs. Crowley.
On the head of your maternal grandmother?
Dick.
Oh no, far more serious than that. On the grave of my maiden aunt, who left me all my money.
Mrs. Crowley.
What will you say if I do?
Dick.
That depends entirely on how you do it. I may remind you, however, that first you go down on your bended knees.
Mrs. Crowley.
Oh, I waived that with you.
Dick.
And then you confess you're unworthy of me.
Mrs. Crowley.
Mr. Lomas, I am a widow. I am twenty-nine and extremely eligible. My maid is a treasure. My dressmaker is charming. I am clever enough to laugh at your jokes, and not so learned as to know where they come from.
Dick.
Really you're very long-winded. I said it all in four words.
Mrs. Crowley.
So could I if I might write it down.
Dick.
You must say it.
Mrs. Crowley.
But what I'm trying to make you understand is that I don't want to marry you a bit. You're just the sort of man who'll beat his wife regularly every Saturday night.... You will say yes if I ask you, won't you?
Dick.
I've never been able to refuse a woman anything.
Mrs. Crowley.
I have no doubt you will after six months of holy matrimony.
Dick.
I never saw any one make such a fuss about so insignificant a detail as a proposal of marriage.
Mrs. Crowley.
Dick. [She stretches out her hands, smiling, and he takes her in his arms.] You really are a detestable person.
Dick.
[With a smile, taking a ring from his pocket.] I bought an engagement ring yesterday on the off chance of its being useful.
Mrs. Crowley.
Then you meant to ask me all the time?
Dick.
Of course I did, you silly.
Mrs. Crowley.
Oh, I wish I had known that before. I'd have refused you again.
Dick.
You absurd creature.
[He kisses her.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Trying to release herself.] There's somebody coming.
Dick.
It's only Alec.
[Aleccomes in.
Alec.
Hulloa!
Dick.
Alec, we've made friends, Mrs. Crowley and I.
Alec.
It certainly looks very much like it.
Dick.
The fact is, I've asked her to marry me, and she....
Mrs. Crowley.
[Interrupting, with a smile.] After much pressure—
Dick.
Has consented.
Alec.
I'm so glad. I heartily congratulate you both. I was rather unhappy at leaving Dick, Mrs. Crowley. But now I leave him in your hands, I'm perfectly content. He's the dearest, kindest old chap I've ever known.
Dick.
Shut up, Alec! Don't play the heavy father, or we shall burst into tears.
Alec.
He'll be an admirable husband because he's an admirable friend.
Mrs. Crowley.
I know he will. And I'm only prevented from saying all I think of him and how much I love him, by the fear that he'll become perfectly unmanageable.
Dick.
Spare me these chaste blushes which mantle my youthful brow. Will you pour out the tea ... Nellie?
Mrs. Crowley.
Yes ... Dick.
[She sits down at the tea-table andDickmakeshimself comfortable in an arm-chair byher side.
Alec.
Well, I'm thankful to say that everything's packed and ready.
Mrs. Crowley.
I wish you'd stay for our wedding.
Dick.
Do. You can go just as well by the next boat.
Alec.
I'm afraid that everything is settled now. I've given instructions at Zanzibar to collect bearers, and I must arrive as quickly as I can.
Dick.
I wish to goodness you'd give up these horrible explorations.
Alec.
But they're the very breath of my life. You don't know the exhilaration of the daily dangers—the joy of treading where only the wild beasts have trodden before. Oh, already I can hardly bear my impatience when I think of the boundless country and the enchanting freedom. Here one grows so small, so despicable, but in Africa everything is built to a nobler standard. There a man is really a man; there one knows what are will and strength and courage. Oh, you don't know what it is to stand on the edge of some great plain and breathe the pure keen air after the terrors of the forest. Then at last you know what freedom is.
Dick.
The boundless plain of Hyde Park is enough for me, and the aspect of Piccadilly on a fine day in June gives me quite as many emotions as I want.
Mrs. Crowley.
But what will you gain by it all, now that your work in East Africa is over, by all the dangers and the hardships?
Alec.
Nothing. I want to gain nothing. Perhaps I shall discover some new species of antelope or some unknown plant. Perhaps I shall find some new waterway. That is all the reward I want. I love the sense of power and mastery. What do you think I care for the tinsel rewards of kings and peoples?
Dick.
I always said you were melodramatic. I never heard anything so transpontine.
Mrs. Crowley.
And the end of it, what will be the end?
Alec.
The end is death in some fever-stricken swamp, obscurely, worn out by exposure and ague and starvation. And the bearers will seize my gun and my clothes and leave me to the jackals.
Mrs. Crowley.
Don't. It's too horrible.
Alec.
Why, what does it matter? I shall die standing up. I shall go the last journey as I have gone every other.
Mrs. Crowley.
Without fear?
Dick.
For all the world like the wicked baronet: Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine!
Mrs. Crowley.
Don't you want men to remember you?
Alec.
Perhaps they will. Perhaps in a hundred years or so, in some flourishing town where I discovered nothing but wilderness, they will commission a second-rate sculptor to make a fancy statue of me. And I shall stand in front of the Stock Exchange, a convenient perch for birds, to look eternally upon the various shabby deeds of human kind.
[During this speechMrs. Crowleymakes a signtoDick,who walks slowly away and goesout.
Mrs. Crowley.
And is that really everything? I can't help thinking that at the bottom of your heart is something that you've never told to a living soul.
[He gives her a long look, and then after amoment's thought breaks into a little smile.
Alec.
Why do you want to know so much?
Mrs. Crowley.
Tell me.
Alec.
I daresay I shall never see you again. Perhaps it doesn't much matter what I say to you. You'll think me very silly, but I'm afraid I'm rather—patriotic. It's only we who live away from England who really love it. I'm so proud of my country, and I wanted so much to do something for it. Often in Africa I've thought of this dear England, and longed not to die till I had done my work. Behind all the soldiers and the statesmen whose fame is imperishable, there is a long line of men who've built up the Empire piece by piece. Their names are forgotten, and only students know their history, but each one of them gave a province to his country. And I, too, have my place among them. For five years I toiled night and day, and at the end of it was able to hand over to the Commissioners a broad tract of land, rich and fertile. After my death England will forget my faults and my mistakes. I care nothing for the flouts and gibes with which she has repaid all my pain, for I have added another fair jewel to her crown. I don't want rewards. I only want the honour of serving this dear land of ours.
Mrs. Crowley.
Why is it, when you're so nice really, that you do all you can to make people think you utterly horrid?
Alec.
Don't laugh at me because you've found out that at heart I'm nothing more than a sentimental old woman.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Putting her hand on his arm.] What would you do if Lucy came here to-day?
[Alecstarts, looks at her sharply, then answerswith deliberation.
Alec.
I have always lived in polite society. I should never dream of outraging its conventions. If Miss Allerton happened to come, you may be sure I should be scrupulously polite.
Mrs. Crowley.
Is that all? Lucy has suffered very much.
Alec.
And do you suppose I've not suffered? Because I don't whine my misery to all and sundry, d'you think I don't care? I'm not the man to fall in and out of love with every pretty face I meet. All my life I've kept an ideal before my eyes. Oh, you don't know what it meant to me to fall in love. I felt that I had lived all my life in a prison, and at last Lucy came and took me by the hand and led me out. And for the first time I breathed the free air of heaven. Oh God! how I've suffered for it! Why should it have come to me? Oh, if you knew my agony and the torture!
[He hides his face, trying to master his emotion.Mrs. Crowleygoes to him and puts herhand on his shoulder.
Mrs. Crowley.
Mr. Mackenzie.
Alec.
[Springing up.] Go away. Don't look at me. How can you stand there and watch my weakness? Oh God, give me strength.... My love was the last human weakness I had. It was right that I should drink that bitter cup. And I've drunk its very dregs. I should have known that I wasn't meant for happiness and a life of ease. I have other work to do in the world. And now that I have overcome this last temptation, I am ready to do it.
Mrs. Crowley.
But haven't you any pity for yourself, haven't you any thought for Lucy?
Alec.
Must I tell you, too, that everything I did was for Lucy's sake? And still I love her with all my heart and soul....
Dickcomes in.
Dick.
Here is Lucy!
[Charlescomes in and announcesLucy.
Charles.
Miss Allerton!
[She enters, andDick,anxious that the meetingshall not be more awkward than need be,goes up to her very cordially.
Dick.
Ah, my dear Lucy. So glad you were able to come.
Lucy.
[Giving her hand toDick,but looking atAlec.] How d'you do?
Alec.
How d'you do? [He forces himself to talk.] How is Lady Kelsey?
Lucy.
She's much better, thanks. We've been to Spa, you know, for her health.
Alec.
Somebody told me you'd gone abroad. Was it you, Dick? Dick is an admirable person, a sort of gazetteer for polite society.
Dick.
Won't you have some tea, Lucy?
Lucy.
No, thanks!
Mrs. Crowley.
[Trying on her side also to make conversation.] We shall miss you dreadfully when you're gone, Mr. Mackenzie.
Dick.
[Cheerfully.] Not a bit of it.
Alec.
[Smiling.] London is an excellent place for showing one of how little importance one is in the world. One makes a certain figure, and perhaps is tempted to think oneself of some consequence. Then one goes away, and on returning is surprised to discover that nobody has even noticed one's absence.
Dick.
You're over-modest, Alec. If you weren't, you might be a great man. Now, I make a point of telling my friends that I'm indispensable, and they take me at my word.
Alec.
You are a leaven of flippancy in the heavy dough of British righteousness.
Dick.
The wise man only takes the unimportant quite seriously.
Alec.
[With a smile.] For it is obvious that it needs more brains to do nothing than to be a cabinet minister.
Dick.
You pay me a great compliment, Alec. You repeat to my very face one of my favourite observations.
Lucy.
[Almost in a whisper.] Haven't I heard you say that only the impossible is worth doing?
Alec.
Good heavens, I must have been reading the headings of a copy-book.
Mrs. Crowley.
[ToDick.] Are you going to Southampton to see Mr. Mackenzie off?
Dick.
I shall hide my face on his shoulder and weep salt tears. It'll be most affecting, because in moments of emotion I always burst into epigram.
Alec.
I loathe all solemn leave-takings. I prefer to part from people with a nod and a smile, whether I'm going for ever or for a day to Brighton.
Mrs. Crowley.
You're very hard.
Alec.
Dick has been teaching me to take life flippantly. And I have learnt that things are only serious if you take them seriously, and that is desperately stupid. [ToLucy.] Don't you agree with me?
Lucy.
No.
[Her tone, almost tragic, makes him pausefor an instant; but he is determinedthat the conversation shall be purely conventional.
Alec.
It's so difficult to be serious without being absurd. That is the chief power of women, that life and death are merely occasions for a change of costume: marriage a creation in white, and the worship of God an opportunity for a Paris bonnet.
[Mrs. Crowleymakes up her mind to force acrisis, and she gets up.
Mrs. Crowley.
It's growing late, Dick. Won't you take me round the house?
Alec.
I'm afraid my luggage has made everything very disorderly.
Mrs. Crowley.
It doesn't matter. Come, Dick!
Dick.
[ToLucy.] You don't mind if we leave you?
Lucy.
Oh, no.
[Mrs. CrowleyandDickgo out. There is amoment's silence.
Alec.
Do you know that our friend Dick has offered his hand and heart to Mrs. Crowley this afternoon?
Lucy.
I hope they'll be very happy. They're very much in love with one another.
Alec.
[Bitterly.] And is that a reason for marrying? Surely love is the worst possible foundation for marriage. Love creates illusions, and marriages destroy them. True lovers should never marry.
Lucy.
Will you open the window? It seems stifling here.
Alec.
Certainly. [From the window.] You can't think what a joy it is to look upon London for the last time. I'm so thankful to get away.
[Lucygives a little sob andAlecturns to thewindow. He wants to wound her and yetcannot bear to see her suffer.
Alec.
To-morrow at this time I shall be well started. Oh, I long for that infinite surface of the clean and comfortable sea.
Lucy.
Are you very glad to go?
Alec.
[Turning to her.] I feel quite boyish at the very thought.
Lucy.
And is there no one you regret to leave?
Alec.
You see, Dick is going to marry. When a man does that, his bachelor friends are wise to depart gracefully before he shows them that he needs their company no longer. I have no relations and few friends. I can't flatter myself that any one will be much distressed at my departure.
Lucy.
[In a low voice.] You must have no heart at all.
Alec.
[Icily.] If I had, I certainly should not bring it to Portman Square. That sentimental organ would be surely out of place in such a neighbourhood.
Lucy.
[Gets up and goes to him.] Oh, why do you treat me as if we were strangers? How can you be so cruel?
Alec.
[Gravely.] Don't you think that flippancy is the best refuge from an uncomfortable position. We should really be much wiser merely to discuss the weather.
Lucy.
[Insisting.] Are you angry because I came?
Alec.
That would be ungracious on my part. Perhaps it wasn't quite necessary that we should meet again.
Lucy.
You've been acting all the time I've been here. D'you think I didn't see it was unreal when you talked with such cynical indifference. I know you well enough to tell when you're hiding your real self behind a mask.
Alec.
If I'm doing that, the inference is obvious that I wish my real self to be hidden.
Lucy.
I would rather you cursed me than treat me with such cold politeness.
Alec.
I'm afraid you're rather difficult to please.
[Lucygoes up to him passionately, but he drawsback so that she may not touch him.
Lucy.
Oh, you're of iron. Alec, Alec, I couldn't let you go without seeing you once more. Even you would be satisfied if you knew what bitter anguish I've suffered. Even you would pity me. I don't want you to think too badly of me.
Alec.
Does it much matter what I think? We shall be so many thousand miles apart.
Lucy.
I suppose that you utterly despise me.
Alec.
No. I loved you far too much ever to do that. Believe me, I only wish you well. Now that the bitterness is past, I see that you did the only possible thing. I hope that you'll be very happy.
Lucy.
Oh, Alec, don't be utterly pitiless. Don't leave me without a single word of kindness.
Alec.
Nothing is changed, Lucy. You sent me away on account of your brother's death.
[There is a long silence, and when she speaksit is hesitatingly, as if the words werepainful to utter.
Lucy.
I hated you then, and yet I couldn't crush the love that was in my heart. I used to try and drive you away from my thoughts, but every word you had ever said came back to me. Don't you remember? You told me that everything you did was for my sake. Those words hammered at my heart as though it were an anvil. I struggled not to believe them. I said to myself that you had sacrificed George coldly, callously, prudently, but in my heart I knew it wasn't true. [He looks at her, hardly able to believe what she is going to say, but does not speak.] Your whole life stood on one side and only this hateful story on the other. You couldn't have grown into a different man in one single instant. I came here to-day to tell you that I don't understand the reason of what you did. I don't want to understand. I believe in you now with all my strength. I know that whatever you did was right and just—because you did it.
[He gives a long, deep sigh.
Alec.
Thank God! Oh, I'm so grateful to you for that.
Lucy.
Haven't you anything more to say to me than that?
Alec.
You see, it comes too late. Nothing much matters now, for to-morrow I go away.
Lucy.
But you'll come back.
Alec.
I'm going to a part of Africa from which Europeans seldom return.
Lucy.
[With a sudden outburst of passion.] Oh, that's too horrible. Don't go, dearest! I can't bear it!
Alec.
I must now. Everything is settled, and there can be no drawing back.
Lucy.
Don't you care for me any more?
Alec.
Care for you? I love you with all my heart and soul.
Lucy.
[Eagerly.] Then take me with you.
Alec.
You!
Lucy.
You don't know what I can do. With you to help me I can be brave. Let me come, Alec?
Alec.
No, it's impossible. You don't know what you ask.
Lucy.
Then let me wait for you? Let me wait till you come back?
Alec.
And if I never come back?
Lucy.
I will wait for you still.
Alec.
Then have no fear. I will come back. My journey was only dangerous because I wanted to die. I want to live now, and I shall live.
Lucy.
Oh, Alec, Alec, I'm so glad you love me.
THE END
A MAN OF HONOUR
HEINEMANN'S MODERN PLAYS16mo. Each price is 6d paper, or 2s 6d clothBy the same AuthorA MAN OF HONOURJACK STRAWTHE PLAYS OF SIR ARTHUR W. PINEROComplete Edition Twenty-three VolumesPLAYS OF HUBERT HENRY DAVIESTwo VolumesPLAYS OF C. HADDON CHAMBERSTwo VolumesTHE PLAYS OF W. E. HENLEY AND R. L. STEVENSONFour VolumesAlso in One Volume, crown 8vo, buckram, Price 6sTHE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSENCopyright Edition entirely revised byWilliam ArcherComplete in Eleven Volumes, crown 8vo, Price 4s each.
————
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN21 Bedford St., W.C.
A TRAGEDYIn Four Acts
By W. S. MAUGHAM
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANNMCMXII
Copyright: London William Heinemann 1912
TOGERALD KELLY
...For Clisthenes, son of Aristonymus, son of Myron, son of Andreas, had a daughter whose name was Agarista: her he resolved to give in marriage to the man whom he should find the most accomplished of all the Greeks. When therefore the Olympian games were being celebrated, Clisthenes, being victorious in them in the chariot race, made a proclamation; "that whoever of the Greeks deemed himself worthy to become the son-in-law of Clisthenes, should come to Sicyon on the sixtieth day, or even before; since Clisthenes had determined on the marriage in a year, reckoning from the sixtieth day." Thereupon such of the Greeks as were puffed up with themselves and their country, came as suitors; and Clisthenes, having made a race-course and palæstra for them, kept it for this very purpose. From Italy, accordingly, came Smindyrides, son of Hippocrates, a Sybarite, who more than any other man reached the highest pitch of luxury, (and Sybaris was at that time in a most flourishing condition;) and Damasus of Siris, son of Amyris called the Wise: these came from Italy. From the Ionian gulf, Amphimnestus, son of Epistrophus, an Epidamnian; he came from the Ionian gulf. An Ætolian came, Males, brother of that Titormus who surpassed the Greeks in strength, and fled from the society of men to the extremity of the Ætolian territory. And from Peloponnesus, Leocedes, son of Pheidon, tyrant of the Argives, a decendant of that Pheidon, who introduced measures among the Peloponnesians, and was the most insolent of all the Greeks, who having removed the Elean umpires, himself regulated the games at Olympia; his son accordingly came. And Amiantus, son of Lycurgus, an Arcadian from Trapezus; and an Azenian from the city of Pæos, Laphanes, son of Euphorion, who, as the story is told in Arcadia, received the Dioscuri in his house, and after that entertained all men; and an Elean, Onomastus, son of Agæus: these accordingly came from the Peloponnesus itself. From Athens there came Megacles, son of Alcmæon, the same who had visited Crœsus, and another, Hippoclides, son of Tisander, who surpassed the Athenians in wealth and beauty. From Eretria, which was flourishing at that time, came Lysanias; he was the only one from Eubœa. And from Thessaly there came, of the Scopades, Diactorides a Cranonian; and from the Molossi, Alcon. So many were the suitors. When they had arrived on the appointed day, Clisthenes made inquiries of their country, and the family of each; then detaining them for a year, he made trial of their manly qualities, their dispositions, learning, and morals; holding familiar intercourse with each separately, and with all together, and leading out to the gymnasia such of them as were younger; but most of all he made trial of them at the banquet; for as long as he detained them, he did this throughout, and at the same time entertained them magnificently. And somehow of all the suitors those that had come from Athens pleased him most, and of these Hippoclides, son of Tisander, was preferred both on account of his manly qualities, and because he was distantly related to the Cypselidæ in Corinth. When the day appointed for the consummation of the marriage arrived, and for the declaration of Clisthenes himself, whom he would choose of them all, Clisthenes, having sacrificed a hundred oxen, entertained both the suitors themselves and all the Sicyonians; and when they had concluded the feast, the suitors had a contest about music, and any subject proposed for conversation. As the drinking went on, Hippoclides, who much attracted the attention of the rest, ordered the flute-player to play a dance; and when the flute-player obeyed, he began to dance: and he danced, probably so as to please himself; but Clisthenes, seeing it, beheld the whole matter with suspicion. Afterwards, Hippoclides, having rested awhile, ordered some one to bring in a table; and when the table came in, he first danced Laconian figures on it, and then Attic ones; and in the third place, having leant his head on the table he gesticulated with his legs. But Clisthenes, when he danced the first and second time, revolted from the thought of having Hippoclides for his son-in-law, on account of his dancing and want of decorum, yet restrained himself, not wishing to burst out against him; but when he saw him gesticulating with his legs, he was no longer able to restrain himself, and said: "Son of Tisander, you have danced away your marriage." But Hippoclides answered: "Hippoclides cares not." Hence this answer became a proverb. (HerodotusVI. 126,Cary's Translation.)