Copyright, 1902, by Walter H. Baker & Co.All Rights Reserved.PLEASE READ CAREFULLY.The acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Performance is strictly forbidden unless his express consent, or that of his representatives, has first been obtained, and attention is called to the penalties provided by law for any infringements of his rights, as follows:—“Sec.4966:—Any person publicly performing or representing any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year.”—U. S. Revised Statutes,Title 60, Chap. 3.TOMY MOTHERPERSONS CONCERNEDMr. Parbury.Mr. George Gunning.Colonel Armitage,Mrs. Parbury’s father.Mrs. Parbury.Miss Hyacinth Woodward.Evans,Parbury’s butler.Caroline,Mrs. Parbury’s maid.INTRODUCTORY NOTE.“The Tyranny of Tears,” a comedy of the emotions, is most ingeniously constructed on the simplest lines; it is a triumph of the commonplace. Played virtually by five characters, and with but one change of scene, it has that specious appearance of ease which is due to dexterity of craftsmanship. It is refreshing, free from theatrical expedients, and save perhaps for the somewhat accelerated wooing in Act Four, knots which we are accustomed to see snipped by the scissors of an erratic fate are here gently untangled by the fingers of probability. The germ of it, a matter of fortunate selection, is a human foible so universal that if a man is not conscious of it in his own proper person, he has not failed to smile over it among his neighbors: that combination of fondness and egoism out of which tyranny is legitimately born. This is the keynote; it announces itself speedily upon the raising of the curtain, and it is never for a moment after obscured by those modern subtilties calculated to provoke discussion among the elect. The hearer equipped with ordinary experience finds himself listening to it with an acquiescent stream of running comment. He knows this alphabet. It spells familiar words, and they come frequently. Here are commonplaces which he has failed perhaps toformulate; but now they flash upon the inward eye with a convincing vividness. This, he sees at once, is a picture of pink and white tyranny, the triumph of the weak. Domestic life has been caught and fixed at the culmination of a strain: one of those dramatic moments when the cord snaps because it has been for a long time fraying. One party to the contract has drawn up a code and imposed it upon his mate. The tyrant has some piquancy; she disarms suspicion because, although a despot, she is masquerading as something else. Another sort of bully we know: the buckram female, loud-voiced, militant, announcing herself, like the mosquito, by a vicious trumpeting. Invulnerability sits on her helm; her armor clanks a little while she strides. But this new tyrant wears another mien. Behold her! a soft-cheeked, gentle-handed ministrant, who would have husbands happy, provided they show the chivalrous courtesy of becoming so in woman’s way. She knows the rules of the game according as her sex interprets them, and it never enters her ingenuous mind that “in marriage there are two ideals to be realized.” Thus does she make her gentle progress, the victim beside her crowned with garlands, but yet a victim. She is the arch destroyer, the juggernaut in muslin.As soon, therefore, as she is recognized, there is a great pricking-up of ears all over the house. Few are they whose withers are unwrung. Every man among them, primed with his own warfare or that of some defeated chum, settles down to the play, and wives follow suit with a guilty sense that such things are, though “not, thank heaven! under roof of mine.”A sly humor runs through the piece like a warm-colored thread, a humor always faithful to those universal traits that make us kin. It asserts itself robustly from time totime, once, for a notable instance, in the fact that Parbury is moderately well content in his fool’s paradise until Gunning appears to beckon him out of it. Heretofore he has accepted his experience like a chronic indigestion or a lameness to which he was born; but now comes another man like unto himself, and welds the data of his martyrdom into a cannonball. This man generalizes, and Parbury at once perceives that husbands are not the victims of special visitation, but of an epidemic. The thing is universal. It can be classified; it can even be attacked. He stands shoulder to shoulder with his suffering brothers, and makes his stroke for liberty.This is everyday life and the dialogue expresses it; the lines are neither too bright nor good for any drawing-room. Here are no sky-rocketings to make the hearer gasp at the playwright’s cleverness, while at the same time they accentuate the difference between his own world and the world as it glitters from the stage. It is the talk to be expected out of the mouths of admirable yet matter-of-fact persons with whom we are quite at home. This is the man you meet at any corner, who is living his life as he conceives it, and is vaguely discomfited when the pattern comes out wrong. He and his fellow puppets are related in the most intimate and delightful way to our own cousins and aunts. It is a group of sharply differentiated types: Parbury, honey-combed with something that passes for amiability; his charming ruler; worldly-wise Gunning, fitted like a glove with amiable cynicisms; the Colonel, clad in rejuvenescence like the spring; and Miss Woodward, an original piquing to the intelligence of any actress ambitious to “create a part.”“The Tyranny of Tears” was first produced at the Criterion Theatre in London, April 6, 1899, with the followingCAST OF CHARACTERS:Mr. ParburyMr. Charles WyndhamMr. George GunningMr. Fred KerrColonel ArmitageMr. Alfred BishopMrs. ParburyMiss Mary MooreMiss Hyacinth WoodwardMiss Maude MillettThe comedy made an instant and striking success, and ran to enormous business until the end of the season. It was revived on January 29, 1902, when the press, previously unstinting in its praise, greeted it with a renewed enthusiasm. TheTimessays of it, at this second hearing: “No English dramatist of our time has turned out more humorous or more human work than this delightful comedy. Every feeling in it is, as the French say, ‘lived,’ and every word of it tells. There is not a false note, no over-strained sentiment, no over-emphasized phrase in it from one end to the other. Wit it has in abundance, but not in superabundance—wit, that is, that obviously belongs to the speaker and does not delusively suggest the author. Truth, too, it has, but always simple, straightforward, fundamental truth, truth that comes home to men’s business and bosoms, not the far-fetched truth which costs a headache to master it. . . . TheComic Spirit,as expounded by Mr. George Meredith, inhabits it. We laugh at its personages and forgive them with an intimate solace, for in forgiving them we laughingly forgive ourselves. . . . The whole tone of the play is quiet, it soothes, it provokes smiles, chuckles, gentle ripples of laughter. It is a rebuke, a kindly, playful rebuke to the wild and whirling zealots of theatrical violence. We are reminded of the praise which Matthew Arnold bestowed upon the style of Addison—‘perfect,’ he said, ‘in measure, balance and propriety.’”Equally warm tributes to the comedy as an unusual work of dramatic art were accorded on its presentation, September 11, 1899, at the Empire Theatre, New York, with the followingCAST OF CHARACTERS:Mr. ParburyMr. John DrewMr. George GunningMr. Arthur ByronColonel ArmitageMr. Harry HarwoodMrs. ParburyMiss Isabel IrvingMiss Hyacinth WoodwardMiss Ida ConquestOf this performance Mr. J. Ranken Towse, in the New YorkEvening Post,says: “Mr. Drew played Parbury with his accustomed neatness and dexterity. . . . The play, perhaps, may not be quite highly seasoned enough with dramatic incident for the great mass of the public, but its ingenuity, its simplicity, its truthfulness and its humor will commend it strongly to connoisseurs.”It was afterwards given in the principal cities of the United States with Mr. Drew as the victimized husband, and met everywhere with the same enthusiastic favor. This year, 1902, the play was done into German by Bertha Pozson, and it has been given with extraordinary success throughout the German Empire.Mr. Chambers’s earlier work lay more in the direction of strong dramas such as “Captain Swift,” “The Idler,” and “John a’ Dreams,” but the comedy of these plays, especially the last, was of a character to foreshadow to some extent the praiseworthy achievement represented by “The Tyranny of Tears.”ALICE BROWN.THE TYRANNY OF TEARSACT IScene.—Mr. Clement Parbury’sstudy at his house in the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath. The main entrance leading from the hall isC.A door,R.,leads to the dining-room. A glass door,R.C.,opens into a garden. The fireplace isC.The room is comfortably and not severely furnished. The furniture is made up of “odds and ends” selected with taste. The couch downL.is a deep and cosy one; the desk or writing-table aboutR.C.is a large and serviceable one. There is a smaller desk higher up, and near it on wall,R.,a telephone apparatus. The apartment altogether represents the workshop of a literary man of careless good taste. There is a touch, too, of femininity in its decorations, and a portrait ofMrs. Parburyis the only picture on the walls, which otherwise are mostly hidden by bookcases.[For a few moments before and when the curtain rises the noise of street singers is heard.Miss WoodwardandEvansare discovered.Miss Woodwardis dressed with severe simplicity in a costume of dark colour, with linen collar and cuffs; her dark hair is drawn back from her forehead. Her costume, being well cut, does not conceal the graceful outline of her figure. She is a handsome, innocent, yet determined-looking girl of twenty. She is at the window looking out.Evans.[Raising his voice above the outside singers.] They wouldn’t listen to me, Miss Woodward! [Suddenly the music stops. A pause.] Ah, they’ve listened to Mr. Parbury! [Miss Woodwardgoes to desk,R.,sits.] Mr. Parbury’s a very masterful man—outside his house—isn’t he, Miss? [Miss WoodwardfavoursEvanswith a cold stare, then resumes work at desk.] [Aside.] What an iceberg that young woman is! [Telephone bell rings.][ExitEvans,L.[Miss Woodwardgoes to telephone and takes line.Miss Woodward.[Speaking into telephone—very sweetly.] Yes, are you there?—yes—who are you? Speak a little louder, please. Oh!—Well? Yes—I don’t know—Mr. Parbury’s just coming in now—he’ll speak to you—keep the line.[She returns to the desk.EnterMr. Parburyfrom garden. His hair is untidy; he is flustered and cross. He is an agreeable-looking man of about forty.Parbury.Thank heaven, they’re gone! This house is a mistake! With the nerve force one expends inswearing at street singers one might do some good work. Make a note, please—look for house in secluded part of country. [Miss Woodwardmakes note.] And make a note—writeTimes reStreet Music; suggest Local Option.Miss Woodward.TheSaturday Sentinelis waiting to speak to you on the telephone.Parbury.Oh, worrying about the article, I suppose. [Goes to telephone.] Hullo! hullo! [Gives them a ring up.] Are you there? [Crossly.] Are you there? Well? [Pause; he listens.] Oh, of course, still harping on my article. I suppose that’s you, Jackson? Oh, well, if you’ll keep this confounded telephone quiet, and send a man to clear the neighbourhood of street singers, you’ll have a chance of receiving the copy in half-an-hour. What? All right, old man. Yes, yes. I’ll send it by special messenger. Yes. Goodbye! [Rings off, and hangs up tube.] That is another mistake—that telephone.Miss Woodward.I was afraid you would find it so.Parbury.You were right! You are always right! But my wife thought it would save me a lot of correspondence and a lot of going out. [Aside, with a sigh.] I always liked going out. [Aloud.] Make a note, please—get rid of the telephone. [Miss Woodwardmakes note.] [Goes to top of table,R.C.] Now we’ll get on, please. I’ve promised the article in half-an-hour.[Looks at his watch.] They go to press this afternoon.Miss Woodward.[Sits at desk, note-book before her.] Shall I read the last sentence?Parbury.Please.Miss Woodward.[Reading.] “The pity of it is that Mr. Theodore Bellevue seems to enjoy a positively huge contentment of his own achievement——”Parbury.[Thinking.] The pity of it—yes—yes, of his own achievement. Yes. [Walks the stage.] Achievement [Under his breath.] Damn the street singers! Damn the telephone! [Aloud.] What is it? Oh—ah! Contentment of his own achievement—er—er— [Dictates.] “One gathers from the complacency of his manner—[Pause]—that his iconoclasm is its own reward—” Er—“What follows in the approval of the unthinking—the applause of the uncultured—” [Pause.] What’s that?Miss Woodward.The applause of the uncultured.Parbury.“Makes up—makes up—” Er— [Pulls his hair.] Er——EnterMrs. Parbury,L.She is a pretty, fragile, little woman of about twenty-eight, and is charmingly dressed.Mrs. Parbury.I’m not interrupting, am I, darling?Parbury.[Concealing his irritation.] No, darling, but——Mrs. Parbury.I’ll be ever so quiet. [Comes to couch, sitsL.]Parbury.Yes, I know, dear—but, I fear—I fear you’ll be rather bored. I’m dictating an article thatmustbe finished this afternoon——Mrs. Parbury.Oh, I shall like it! Go on as if I were not in the room. But oh, how tumbled your hair is. [Rises, goes to him.] I must put it straight. Then you’ll be able to think better. There! Now I can see his clever forehead again! [Goes to couch and sits.][Parburywalks upC.and back, trying to collect his thoughts; then he looks atMrs. Parburywith the wish in his face that she were not there; finally he goes over toMiss Woodwardand speaks in a lowered voice.Parbury.[At top of table,R.] What was that last?Miss Woodward.[Reading in a lowered voice.] “What follows in the approval of the unthinking, the applause of the uncultured makes up.”Parbury.Yes, yes. Makes up! [Fidgeting.] Makes up— [Vaguely.] What does it make up? I’m damned if I know what it does make up now? I’ve forgotten.Miss Woodward.[Looking up at him with discreet sympathy after a glance atMrs. Parbury.] Shall I go back a little?Parbury.Please do. Cut the other; it doesn’t make up anything.Miss Woodward.[Reading.] “One gathers from the complacency of his manner that his iconoclasm is its own reward.”Parbury.Thanks. Where’s his article?[Miss Woodwardrises, gives him an open magazine, and resumes her seat.[After glancing at the magazine, and still in a low voice.] “His smug self-sufficiency——” [Pause.]Mrs. Parbury.Darling! I can’t hear you.[Pause.Parbury’sandMiss Woodward’seyes meet.Parbury.Can’t you, dear? I suppose I must unconsciously have lowered my voice.Mrs. Parbury.I’m sure you did.Parbury.I’ve an idea. [Comes behind her and touches her shoulders caressingly.] Suppose I finish the article quickly and give it to you to read before sending it away?Mrs. Parbury.Yes, do.[Parburylooks at her, expecting her to move, but she doesn’t.Parbury.Well, dear!Mrs. Parbury.[Wonderingly.] Well?Parbury.You—you’re not going?Mrs. Parbury.Going!Parbury.Yes, dear. I thought——Mrs. Parbury.[With great reproach, and looking as if about to cry.] Clement! [She rises, and with trembling hands begins to gather up her fancy work.]Parbury.[Relenting.] Don’t go, dear, unless you wish to.Mrs. Parbury.[More tremblingly and tearfully.] I certainly don’t wish to remain where I am unwelcome.Parbury.[Reproachfully.] Mabel!Mrs. Parbury.I thought I had a right to be where my husband was—that the privileges of a wife were at least equal to those of a secretary.Parbury.[In a low voice.] Hush, dear! [Turns toMiss Woodward,who has been a secret but attentive observer of the scene.] Miss Woodward, would you kindly run what we have done into type? We’ll finish presently.[Miss Woodwardrises, takes her notes, and crosses to door,L.At the screen she pauses a moment, shrugs her shoulders, and exitsR.I.E.[Parburypasses his arm roundMrs. Parbury.Mrs. Parbury.[Freeing herself.] Oh, no; you wished me to go, and I’m going.Parbury.It doesn’t matter now. [Grimly.] The articlehasn’t a million to one chance of being finished this afternoon.Mrs. Parbury.Why did you send Miss Woodward away?Parbury.Frankly?[Puts magazine on table,R.Mrs. Parbury.Of course.Parbury.Because I hate scenes before other people.Mrs. Parbury.Scenes! What do you mean?Parbury.[C.] What! Isn’t there to be a scene? How splendid!Mrs. Parbury.[L.C.] I don’t understand the humour you are in.Parbury.I’m in a capital humour, dear. You’ve saved me for the moment from a savage attack on the work of a man whom I respect and admire.Mrs. Parbury.You mean simply that I’ve interrupted your work. You will not have reason to complain again.[Is going.Parbury.Wait, dear.Mrs. Parbury.No, no. There are things one can’t get over. Perhaps you can explain why it is that Miss Woodward’s presence doesn’t disturb you, while mine does?Parbury.Easily. Miss Woodward is a mouse.Mrs. Parbury.I hate mice!Parbury.I mean she is a table—a chair—a desk—a dictionary—a something useful that is always in the right place at the right moment, and yet of whose presence one is pleasantly unconscious. She is a triumph of the negative.Mrs. Parbury.And I?[Her face is not turned to him.Parbury.Positive, my love—quite positive; you bristle with emotions. When you are in the room, one knows it. [Mrs. Parburytakes out her handkerchief and begins to cry. Pause.Parbury,who has gone to desk, looks round inquiringly, then comes down gently and sees what she is doing.] [Aside.] Exactly!Mrs. Parbury.[Wiping her eyes.] Of course I quite understand now that you don’t love me.Parbury.[Comes to her, concealing his impatience.] But I do! I do!Mrs. Parbury.Oh no, you don’t! When we were first married you didn’t object to my being in the room when you were working.Parbury.I admit I didn’tsayso then; I was younger, and had more patience and stronger nerves.Mrs. Parbury.[Turning to him with a gleam of anger.] Then you admit you have always objected to my presence in your study?Parbury.[Smoothly.] I admit I have always felt that a writing man’s writing hours are sacred hours.Mrs. Parbury.They shouldn’t be sacred from his wife.Parbury.[Gently.] They should be sacredtohis wife, dear. [Slight pause.] If you were a writing woman you would understand what I mean.Mrs. Parbury.I’m sure I’m very sorry I’m not a genius, but you understood that when you married me, didn’t you?Parbury.Yes, darling, I quite understood that! [He appears to say this quite unconsciously.Mrs. Parburyturns to him deeply offended, then suddenly goes up to leave the room. He quickly meets her,C.] [Taking her hands.] I only knew you were the best little woman in the world!Mrs. Parbury.[Struggling to free her hands.] Don’t, please. I’m going!Parbury.Where?Mrs. Parbury.To send Miss Woodward to you, since you prefer her society to mine.Parbury.But I tell you I’m scarcely conscious of the girl’s existence; anyway, it was you who brought her here. You may remember I proposed having a male secretary.Mrs. Parbury.Yes; to make a companion of at my expense. You were always a man’s man! If I had had more experience I would have known that by the host of men friends you had when we married.Parbury.[Cheerily.] I haven’t them now, dear.Mrs. Parbury.You mean—that I— [Struggling to release her hands.] You are most brutal. Let me go!Parbury.Not while you are angry, dear.[Gently forces her into a chair,R.C.[There is another slight pause. She is certainly angry, but she doesn’t attempt to leave the chair. He looks down at her, and lays a hand lightly on her hair.Mrs. Parbury.[Brushing his hand away.] Please don’t do that. I am not a child! [Parburytakes a chair and sits next to her. Pause.] Perhaps you will tell me why you have used your superior strength to keep me here against my will?Parbury.[Taking her hand.] Do you know that I’m very much in love with you?Mrs. Parbury.You in love with me! You don’t know what love is! All you feel at this moment is the sort of insolent pity the strong have for the weak.Parbury.You weak, darling! Oh, come! You know better than that! You can’t be unconscious of your power!Mrs. Parbury.I really don’t understand you.Parbury.I only meant to remind you that after all you do always get your own way. I’m really very glad, for I’m sure your way must always be the best way. Oh, the power and determination of this little hand! [Holding her hand.] Do let me, with the deepest submission, kiss “The Mailed Fist.”[He kisses her hand.Mrs. Parbury.As it pleases you to be rude to me I shall try to bear it patiently.Parbury.I don’t mean to be rude. It’s my unfortunate way of putting things. I kissed your hand because of the real tender love my heart holds for you, and for the same reason I put back this dear, rebellious little lock of hair which has escaped from over your ear. And what a perfect ear! It’s as delicate and fragile as a shell, and it’s just the daintiest pink possible.Mrs. Parbury.[Mollified.] I know my ears are all right, though I think you are making fun of me.Parbury.I think I’m making love to you.Mrs. Parbury.[Suddenly taking one of his hands in hers.] Oh, if you only loved me in the way I love you!Parbury.I love you in a most excellent way.Mrs. Parbury.But it’s different—you don’t understand. I love to breathe the air you breathe, to hear your voice even when it’s dictating a dry article, to listen to your footsteps, to watch the changing expressions on your face. I live by the warmth your life gives me; you don’t grudge me that, do you?Parbury.Why, of course not, darling!Mrs. Parbury.I love this room because it is yours, the surroundings are yours, the atmosphere is yours. When you are out——Parbury.[Gently patting her hand.] Which is not often, dear.Mrs. Parbury.When you are out I always stay here, because here I get most of you; even the thin odour of cigarette smoke is dear to me. Smoke now.Parbury.Shall I?Mrs. Parbury.[Gives him a cigarette from his case on table, and lights it.] That’s delightful! [Sniffs the smoke.] But only because it’s you! I used to detest tobacco.Parbury.[Smiling.] You dear![Puts his arm around her.Mrs. Parbury.You understand a little now, don’t you?[Putting her head on his shoulder.Parbury.Perfectly!Mrs. Parbury.[Rising.] And you are not angry any more?Parbury.Was I angry?[Rises.Mrs. Parbury.Horribly!Parbury.I’m sorry.Mrs. Parbury.Not vexed about the article?Parbury.Bother the article. I knew it hadn’t a million to one chance!Mrs. Parbury.And it doesn’t matter?Parbury.Not in the least!Mrs. Parbury.Then we may have tea in here?Parbury.Rather! Let’s go the pace.Mrs. Parbury.[Goes to him, standing before him, her hands by her sides.] Kiss me! [He kisses her. She throws her arms round him and whispers to him. He whispers a word in reply. They both laugh slightly, and he playfully pinches her cheek.] Brute! [She smooths her hair and goes to door,L.;turns at door and blows him a kiss, to which he responds.][ExitMrs. Parbury,L.Parbury.[Standing for moment,C.,a whimsical look on his face.] Dear little woman! What a pity she cries so much! [Puts chair up,R.;goes to desk and turns over pages of magazine, still continuing his thought.] What a pity! What a pity!EnterMiss Woodwardcarrying loose type-written MS.Parburyglances up from his magazine as she places the leaves on the desk.Oh, thanks!Miss Woodward.Do you wish to finish the article now?Parbury.Impossible! Tea will be taken here in a few minutes.Miss Woodward.[With a touch of indignant surprise.] Here? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon!Parbury.Not at all! I said here! [Throws down magazine, goes up to fireplace,C.Miss Woodwardpermits a slight groan to escape her.] Eh?Miss Woodward.Nothing, I didn’t speak![Sits and bends over desk.[Parburylooks at her suddenly and keenly as though he had never noticed her before. Slight pause. She arranges papers at desk. He is leaning against the mantelpiece.Parbury.Do you know, Miss Woodward, I believe you are more disappointed about that article than I am.Miss Woodward.I was certainly very interested.Parbury.Why?Miss Woodward.It was so strong! I admire strength.Parbury.[Smiling.] You are not then quite the machineone gets into the habit of imagining one’s secretary to be?Miss Woodward.[Meeting his eye calmly and fearlessly for a moment.] I should like to be what you wish me to be.Parbury.[A little disconcerted.] Humph! [Stands with his hands in his pockets looking at her, while she is busy at the desk.][The door,L.,suddenly opens.Parburystarts almost violently.Mrs. Parburyputs her head into the room.Mrs. Parbury.Darling, I’ve got rid of a would-be intruder for you. I thought you’d like to know.Parbury.Thank you, dear; who was it?Mrs. Parbury.A horrid person named Gunning. There’s the creature’s card. [Throws card into room on to chair by doorL.] I knew you’d be pleased, darling! Tea in five minutes.[ExitMrs. Parbury,closing door.Parbury.Gunning! Not George surely? [Quickly gets the card.] It is! My dear old friend; I wouldn’t miss seeing him for worlds! [Rushes to window, opens it, and bends out.] Why, there he is, going across thelawn! [Shouts.] George! George!! Hi! Gunning!!![Runs off,R.Gunning.[Outside, very distant.] Hullo, Clement!Parbury.[Outside.] Wait a moment, old chap![Miss Woodwardgoes up and looks through window, comes down, and with her handkerchief carefully dusts a photograph ofParburywhich stands on book-case upL.C.,then looks at the portrait ofMrs. Parbury,which isC.on wall over mantel, shrugs her shoulders slightly, returns to desk.EnterParburyandGunning,R.,through window.Parbury.[C.,speaking as they enter.] Quite a mistake! I assure you, my dear fellow, my wife gave orders that I was not to be disturbed, thinking I was engaged upon an important piece of work.Gunning.[Looking atMiss Woodward.] Won’t you present me to Mrs.——Parbury.[Hastily.] To Miss Woodward, my secretary—certainly! Mr. Gunning, Miss Woodward. [They bow.Miss Woodwardmoves to go.] Don’t go, Miss Woodward. [Crosses to top of table,R.C.Gunningputs his hat and gloves on chair,L.] You might very kindly get rid of some of this correspondence for me. [Takes a bundle of letters from desk.] “Dear Sir,—I would esteem it a great favour if you would send me your photograph, together with your autograph.” [Throws letter aside, and reads another.] “My dear Sir,—I have read with the deepest interest and the highest pleasure your deservedly successful novel, ‘The Overthrow of Harvey Masterton,’ and feel convinced that if you knew the story of my life——” [Repeats business.] No one can deal with these people like Miss Woodward.Gunning.[Taking off his gloves.] What is your method, Miss Woodward?Miss Woodward.It is Mr. Parbury’s—perfect civility, consistent with finality.[Sits at desk and writes letters.Gunning.Excellent! [Sits and addressesParbury.] I suppose being a popular author entails a lot of correspondence?Parbury.Awful!Gunning.[L.C.] For my part, my correspondence is practically nil.Parbury.I have noticed it with pain.Gunning.Oh, I’d have written to you, but what was the good of it? I’m not literary, and I’m not married.Parbury.And so you’ve kept away for five years.Gunning.About that.[Sits on arm of sofa,L.C.Parbury.Five years and three months—for I’ve been married all that time, and you neither came to the wedding nor called on me afterwards.Gunning.I was discreet.Parbury.Discreet! Damned unfriendly, I call it, considering the years we had been pals.Gunning.Well, the rest of our old set stuck to you, anyway. What has become of them? Take Wybrow, for instance—an awful good chap!Parbury.Wybrow, Wybrow—whathasbecome of Wybrow?Gunning.Never comes here, eh?Parbury.Well, he did a few times some years ago, but——Gunning.I understand—a little too Bohemian.Parbury.[Quickly.] Not for me, George, I assure you.Gunning.No, no, of course not, my dear chap. Exit Bohemian Wybrow. Then there was Carson—one of the best?Parbury.[Warmly.] Wasn’t he a good fellow?Gunning.Capital! Where is he?Parbury.Married, you know.Gunning.So I heard. You meet constantly, of course?Parbury.No, we met them at Brighton one winter some years ago, but I don’t think our wives quite—you understand, don’t you?Gunning.Yes, yes, I understand. You dropped the Carsons. But Burleigh——Parbury.Burleigh—ah![Laughs.Gunning.There was a great spirit if you like; he was your best man.Parbury.Yes; he gave me this watch.Gunning.Which you still wear. Touching constancy! When did you see him last?Parbury.Wait a moment. What is all this interrogation for?Gunning.Idle curiosity if you like—study of life if you like. Come, out with it, when did you last have dear old Tom Burleigh to dinner?Parbury.[Almost defiantly.] The day we returned from our honeymoon.[Slightly awkward pause.Gunning.[Musingly.] About five years and six weeks ago.Parbury.Of course, I see a lot of him at the Clubs. That is to say, I used to when I was still a Club man.Gunning.Which now you are not?Parbury.Which now I am not! What does a man want with a Club when he has a home of his own?Gunning.Excellent sentiment; but neither the sentiment nor the words are your own, Clement. [Their eyes meet and they burst into laughter.] I know, I know; “and what does a man want with men friends when he has a wife of his own,” and “the husband’s old friends are the wife’s worst enemies,” and “what I say about Clubs is, down with them!”[Laughs, sits on sofa,L.C.Parbury.[Suddenly serious.] What the devil are you laughing at, George? You don’t presume——Gunning.I—why, of course not, my dear chap. Only now you see how wise I was not to intrude after your marriage, not to wait for my congé as the other poor boys did! I knew something.Parbury.You always did, you brute! I believe you were born knowing something. [Leans on back of sofa.] But seriously [lowers his voice], George, I assure you she’s the best little woman in the world!Gunning.Why, of course; it would be impious to suggest otherwise.[ExitMiss Woodward.[His eyes follow her off.] A perfect wife, and a charming secretary! You’re a lucky fellow, Clement!Parbury.Is Miss Woodward charming? On my word, I hadn’t noticed it, but I’m in love with my wife, you see.Gunning.Of course you would be the last to discover that your secretary was personally pleasing.Parbury.You’re a sinister scoundrel, George, and coarse to a fault. Now, tell me what you’ve been doing all these years—shedding your illusions apparently.Gunning.I’ve had none to lose since I grew up. I got rid of mine about the time of measles and whooping-cough.Parbury.It’s a pity.Gunning.Not at all. One can’t attain the proper philosophical attitude towards life while one nourishes illusions; one can never gain perspective.Parbury.Great man! How beautifully you talk! I suppose you have quite a nice thing in perspectives about with you now.Gunning.Pretty well.Parbury.So much for the journey of the soul. What of the body? Where have you been?Gunning.Round the world twice since I saw you.Parbury.What did you see on the other side?Gunning.Just what one sees on this side; there is always a man—and a woman.Parbury.I know you were adventuring in Upper India last year, for the papers were full of a rather fine thing you did—saved a lot of miserable lives—an ordinary, manly, commonplace, heroic, English sort of thing.Gunning.Oh, don’t mention that; one was carried away by impulse.Parbury.And so we keep our impulses even when we lose our illusions; I’m glad of that anyway. [Then he comes behindGunning’schair, takes him by the shoulder, and shakes him.] Old fool! I can’t help liking you as much as ever!Gunning.[Looking up with genuine pleasure.] Really?Parbury.Honestly!Gunning.[Rises, puts his hands onParbury’sshoulders.] Well, I’m glad, because I’ve often been weak enough to regret not seeing you. As for your literary successes, I suppose I ought to congratulate you; but I always knew you’d be a great man, because you never bored me.Parbury.[Drily.] Thanks so much. Now tell me how you found me.Gunning.By means of the illustrated press—interview with Mr. Clement Parbury—copyright. The author of the “Overthrow of Harvey something” at his pretty retreat at Hampstead—copyright. Snapshot of Mr. Parbury at work—copyright. View of the study from the garden—view of the garden from the study—copyright.Parbury.Shut up! You make me blush.Gunning.Forgive me—it’s only envy. It’s the envious people who call this a vulgar age, I suppose.EnterServant,L.,places occasional table for tea in front of sofa,L.C.,and exitsL.Parbury.Now you are to see my wife. How do you imagine her? Large, I suppose, with huge hands and feet and a beetling brow?Gunning.I’m content to wait.Re-enterServant,L.,with tea service.Parbury.When you have had tea, you will go away to dress. You will return here to dinner at eight.Gunning.I think not.Parbury.One moment. You will probably meet only my wife’s father, Colonel Armitage, and your dinner will be a fairly plain one, but I promise that your palate will not be outraged.Gunning.I really think not, old man. I remember the fate of old Burleigh. And I never even gave you a watch.Parbury.George, you hurt me. [Slight pause.] Then you refuse?Gunning.I make conditions.Parbury.What are they?Gunning.That you come yachting with me from to-morrow till the end of the week. I’ve hired a charming little twenty-tonner, one after your own heart—that is, if your heart or my memory hasn’t entirely changed.Parbury.[Enthusiastic.] Splendid! There’s nothing I should like so much; and I’ve no special work on hand just now.Gunning.Then it’s agreed?Parbury.Certainly!Gunning.Good; we’ll drink of the Cuvée 36, brush up our swearing vocabulary, and I’ll teach you to gain perspective!Parbury.[His face suddenly falling.] Oh, the deuce!Gunning.What’s the matter? What are you afraid of?Parbury.Of nothing in the world!Gunning.[Slapping him on the back.] Hero!EnterMrs. Parbury,L.,wearing a bright smile, which fades when she seesGunning.Parbury.Mabel, I want to present you to my dear old friend, George Gunning. My wife, George.[Gunningcrosses toMrs. Parbury.Shakes hands.Mrs. Parbury.How do you do? I’m very pleased.[She gives him simultaneously a cold smile and a stiff handshake.Gunning.I’m very delighted to meet Clement’s wife.Mrs. Parbury.You’ll let me give you some tea?[Goes to tea-table; sits on sofa.Gunning.Thank you. [Aside toParbury.] She’s charming![Parburydigs him in the ribs.Gunninggoes to tea-table.Parburysits at desk.Mrs. Parbury.[HandingGunningtea-cup.] I’ve given you no sugar.Gunning.I’ll take one piece.[Does so.EnterMiss Woodward,R.I.E.,with MS., which she hands toParbury.Parbury.Thank you.[He reads and signs letters.Mrs. Parbury.Clement, come for your tea.Parbury.In one moment, dear.Mrs. Parbury.Miss Woodward, you will take tea?Miss Woodward.Thank you, yes.Gunning.[ToMrs. Parbury.] Allow me.[TakesMiss Woodward’scup to her, and offers her bread and butter, &c.Miss Woodward.Thank you.Parbury.You’ve often heard me speak of Gunning, Mabel; we were at Cambridge together.Mrs. Parbury.Oh yes, I remember! [ToGunning.] You were very great friends?Gunning.Inseparables!Parbury.I should say so!Mrs. Parbury.[Uneasily.] Indeed!Parbury.[Comes over and takes his tea.] You see, Gunning had been my fag at Harrow, and my ill-treatment ofhim inspired a dog-like devotion. [ToMiss Woodward.] Let me take your cup. [Adds in a lower voice.] I’ve an idea![Miss Woodwardgoes to desk;Parburyfollows her to desk.]Gunning.Let me.[AssistsMrs. Parburywith the tea service.
Copyright, 1902, by Walter H. Baker & Co.
All Rights Reserved.
PLEASE READ CAREFULLY.
The acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Performance is strictly forbidden unless his express consent, or that of his representatives, has first been obtained, and attention is called to the penalties provided by law for any infringements of his rights, as follows:—
“Sec.4966:—Any person publicly performing or representing any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year.”—U. S. Revised Statutes,Title 60, Chap. 3.
TO
MY MOTHER
PERSONS CONCERNEDMr. Parbury.Mr. George Gunning.Colonel Armitage,Mrs. Parbury’s father.Mrs. Parbury.Miss Hyacinth Woodward.Evans,Parbury’s butler.Caroline,Mrs. Parbury’s maid.
Mr. Parbury.
Mr. George Gunning.
Colonel Armitage,Mrs. Parbury’s father.
Mrs. Parbury.
Miss Hyacinth Woodward.
Evans,Parbury’s butler.
Caroline,Mrs. Parbury’s maid.
“The Tyranny of Tears,” a comedy of the emotions, is most ingeniously constructed on the simplest lines; it is a triumph of the commonplace. Played virtually by five characters, and with but one change of scene, it has that specious appearance of ease which is due to dexterity of craftsmanship. It is refreshing, free from theatrical expedients, and save perhaps for the somewhat accelerated wooing in Act Four, knots which we are accustomed to see snipped by the scissors of an erratic fate are here gently untangled by the fingers of probability. The germ of it, a matter of fortunate selection, is a human foible so universal that if a man is not conscious of it in his own proper person, he has not failed to smile over it among his neighbors: that combination of fondness and egoism out of which tyranny is legitimately born. This is the keynote; it announces itself speedily upon the raising of the curtain, and it is never for a moment after obscured by those modern subtilties calculated to provoke discussion among the elect. The hearer equipped with ordinary experience finds himself listening to it with an acquiescent stream of running comment. He knows this alphabet. It spells familiar words, and they come frequently. Here are commonplaces which he has failed perhaps toformulate; but now they flash upon the inward eye with a convincing vividness. This, he sees at once, is a picture of pink and white tyranny, the triumph of the weak. Domestic life has been caught and fixed at the culmination of a strain: one of those dramatic moments when the cord snaps because it has been for a long time fraying. One party to the contract has drawn up a code and imposed it upon his mate. The tyrant has some piquancy; she disarms suspicion because, although a despot, she is masquerading as something else. Another sort of bully we know: the buckram female, loud-voiced, militant, announcing herself, like the mosquito, by a vicious trumpeting. Invulnerability sits on her helm; her armor clanks a little while she strides. But this new tyrant wears another mien. Behold her! a soft-cheeked, gentle-handed ministrant, who would have husbands happy, provided they show the chivalrous courtesy of becoming so in woman’s way. She knows the rules of the game according as her sex interprets them, and it never enters her ingenuous mind that “in marriage there are two ideals to be realized.” Thus does she make her gentle progress, the victim beside her crowned with garlands, but yet a victim. She is the arch destroyer, the juggernaut in muslin.
As soon, therefore, as she is recognized, there is a great pricking-up of ears all over the house. Few are they whose withers are unwrung. Every man among them, primed with his own warfare or that of some defeated chum, settles down to the play, and wives follow suit with a guilty sense that such things are, though “not, thank heaven! under roof of mine.”
A sly humor runs through the piece like a warm-colored thread, a humor always faithful to those universal traits that make us kin. It asserts itself robustly from time totime, once, for a notable instance, in the fact that Parbury is moderately well content in his fool’s paradise until Gunning appears to beckon him out of it. Heretofore he has accepted his experience like a chronic indigestion or a lameness to which he was born; but now comes another man like unto himself, and welds the data of his martyrdom into a cannonball. This man generalizes, and Parbury at once perceives that husbands are not the victims of special visitation, but of an epidemic. The thing is universal. It can be classified; it can even be attacked. He stands shoulder to shoulder with his suffering brothers, and makes his stroke for liberty.
This is everyday life and the dialogue expresses it; the lines are neither too bright nor good for any drawing-room. Here are no sky-rocketings to make the hearer gasp at the playwright’s cleverness, while at the same time they accentuate the difference between his own world and the world as it glitters from the stage. It is the talk to be expected out of the mouths of admirable yet matter-of-fact persons with whom we are quite at home. This is the man you meet at any corner, who is living his life as he conceives it, and is vaguely discomfited when the pattern comes out wrong. He and his fellow puppets are related in the most intimate and delightful way to our own cousins and aunts. It is a group of sharply differentiated types: Parbury, honey-combed with something that passes for amiability; his charming ruler; worldly-wise Gunning, fitted like a glove with amiable cynicisms; the Colonel, clad in rejuvenescence like the spring; and Miss Woodward, an original piquing to the intelligence of any actress ambitious to “create a part.”
“The Tyranny of Tears” was first produced at the Criterion Theatre in London, April 6, 1899, with the following
CAST OF CHARACTERS:Mr. ParburyMr. Charles WyndhamMr. George GunningMr. Fred KerrColonel ArmitageMr. Alfred BishopMrs. ParburyMiss Mary MooreMiss Hyacinth WoodwardMiss Maude Millett
The comedy made an instant and striking success, and ran to enormous business until the end of the season. It was revived on January 29, 1902, when the press, previously unstinting in its praise, greeted it with a renewed enthusiasm. TheTimessays of it, at this second hearing: “No English dramatist of our time has turned out more humorous or more human work than this delightful comedy. Every feeling in it is, as the French say, ‘lived,’ and every word of it tells. There is not a false note, no over-strained sentiment, no over-emphasized phrase in it from one end to the other. Wit it has in abundance, but not in superabundance—wit, that is, that obviously belongs to the speaker and does not delusively suggest the author. Truth, too, it has, but always simple, straightforward, fundamental truth, truth that comes home to men’s business and bosoms, not the far-fetched truth which costs a headache to master it. . . . TheComic Spirit,as expounded by Mr. George Meredith, inhabits it. We laugh at its personages and forgive them with an intimate solace, for in forgiving them we laughingly forgive ourselves. . . . The whole tone of the play is quiet, it soothes, it provokes smiles, chuckles, gentle ripples of laughter. It is a rebuke, a kindly, playful rebuke to the wild and whirling zealots of theatrical violence. We are reminded of the praise which Matthew Arnold bestowed upon the style of Addison—‘perfect,’ he said, ‘in measure, balance and propriety.’”
Equally warm tributes to the comedy as an unusual work of dramatic art were accorded on its presentation, September 11, 1899, at the Empire Theatre, New York, with the following
CAST OF CHARACTERS:Mr. ParburyMr. John DrewMr. George GunningMr. Arthur ByronColonel ArmitageMr. Harry HarwoodMrs. ParburyMiss Isabel IrvingMiss Hyacinth WoodwardMiss Ida Conquest
Of this performance Mr. J. Ranken Towse, in the New YorkEvening Post,says: “Mr. Drew played Parbury with his accustomed neatness and dexterity. . . . The play, perhaps, may not be quite highly seasoned enough with dramatic incident for the great mass of the public, but its ingenuity, its simplicity, its truthfulness and its humor will commend it strongly to connoisseurs.”
It was afterwards given in the principal cities of the United States with Mr. Drew as the victimized husband, and met everywhere with the same enthusiastic favor. This year, 1902, the play was done into German by Bertha Pozson, and it has been given with extraordinary success throughout the German Empire.
Mr. Chambers’s earlier work lay more in the direction of strong dramas such as “Captain Swift,” “The Idler,” and “John a’ Dreams,” but the comedy of these plays, especially the last, was of a character to foreshadow to some extent the praiseworthy achievement represented by “The Tyranny of Tears.”
ALICE BROWN.
Scene.—Mr. Clement Parbury’sstudy at his house in the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath. The main entrance leading from the hall isC.A door,R.,leads to the dining-room. A glass door,R.C.,opens into a garden. The fireplace isC.The room is comfortably and not severely furnished. The furniture is made up of “odds and ends” selected with taste. The couch downL.is a deep and cosy one; the desk or writing-table aboutR.C.is a large and serviceable one. There is a smaller desk higher up, and near it on wall,R.,a telephone apparatus. The apartment altogether represents the workshop of a literary man of careless good taste. There is a touch, too, of femininity in its decorations, and a portrait ofMrs. Parburyis the only picture on the walls, which otherwise are mostly hidden by bookcases.
[For a few moments before and when the curtain rises the noise of street singers is heard.Miss WoodwardandEvansare discovered.Miss Woodwardis dressed with severe simplicity in a costume of dark colour, with linen collar and cuffs; her dark hair is drawn back from her forehead. Her costume, being well cut, does not conceal the graceful outline of her figure. She is a handsome, innocent, yet determined-looking girl of twenty. She is at the window looking out.
Evans.
[Raising his voice above the outside singers.] They wouldn’t listen to me, Miss Woodward! [Suddenly the music stops. A pause.] Ah, they’ve listened to Mr. Parbury! [Miss Woodwardgoes to desk,R.,sits.] Mr. Parbury’s a very masterful man—outside his house—isn’t he, Miss? [Miss WoodwardfavoursEvanswith a cold stare, then resumes work at desk.] [Aside.] What an iceberg that young woman is! [Telephone bell rings.]
[ExitEvans,L.
[Miss Woodwardgoes to telephone and takes line.
Miss Woodward.
[Speaking into telephone—very sweetly.] Yes, are you there?—yes—who are you? Speak a little louder, please. Oh!—Well? Yes—I don’t know—Mr. Parbury’s just coming in now—he’ll speak to you—keep the line.
[She returns to the desk.
EnterMr. Parburyfrom garden. His hair is untidy; he is flustered and cross. He is an agreeable-looking man of about forty.
Parbury.
Thank heaven, they’re gone! This house is a mistake! With the nerve force one expends inswearing at street singers one might do some good work. Make a note, please—look for house in secluded part of country. [Miss Woodwardmakes note.] And make a note—writeTimes reStreet Music; suggest Local Option.
Miss Woodward.
TheSaturday Sentinelis waiting to speak to you on the telephone.
Parbury.
Oh, worrying about the article, I suppose. [Goes to telephone.] Hullo! hullo! [Gives them a ring up.] Are you there? [Crossly.] Are you there? Well? [Pause; he listens.] Oh, of course, still harping on my article. I suppose that’s you, Jackson? Oh, well, if you’ll keep this confounded telephone quiet, and send a man to clear the neighbourhood of street singers, you’ll have a chance of receiving the copy in half-an-hour. What? All right, old man. Yes, yes. I’ll send it by special messenger. Yes. Goodbye! [Rings off, and hangs up tube.] That is another mistake—that telephone.
Miss Woodward.
I was afraid you would find it so.
Parbury.
You were right! You are always right! But my wife thought it would save me a lot of correspondence and a lot of going out. [Aside, with a sigh.] I always liked going out. [Aloud.] Make a note, please—get rid of the telephone. [Miss Woodwardmakes note.] [Goes to top of table,R.C.] Now we’ll get on, please. I’ve promised the article in half-an-hour.[Looks at his watch.] They go to press this afternoon.
Miss Woodward.
[Sits at desk, note-book before her.] Shall I read the last sentence?
Parbury.
Please.
Miss Woodward.
[Reading.] “The pity of it is that Mr. Theodore Bellevue seems to enjoy a positively huge contentment of his own achievement——”
Parbury.
[Thinking.] The pity of it—yes—yes, of his own achievement. Yes. [Walks the stage.] Achievement [Under his breath.] Damn the street singers! Damn the telephone! [Aloud.] What is it? Oh—ah! Contentment of his own achievement—er—er— [Dictates.] “One gathers from the complacency of his manner—[Pause]—that his iconoclasm is its own reward—” Er—“What follows in the approval of the unthinking—the applause of the uncultured—” [Pause.] What’s that?
Miss Woodward.
The applause of the uncultured.
Parbury.
“Makes up—makes up—” Er— [Pulls his hair.] Er——
EnterMrs. Parbury,L.She is a pretty, fragile, little woman of about twenty-eight, and is charmingly dressed.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’m not interrupting, am I, darling?
Parbury.
[Concealing his irritation.] No, darling, but——
Mrs. Parbury.
I’ll be ever so quiet. [Comes to couch, sitsL.]
Parbury.
Yes, I know, dear—but, I fear—I fear you’ll be rather bored. I’m dictating an article thatmustbe finished this afternoon——
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, I shall like it! Go on as if I were not in the room. But oh, how tumbled your hair is. [Rises, goes to him.] I must put it straight. Then you’ll be able to think better. There! Now I can see his clever forehead again! [Goes to couch and sits.]
[Parburywalks upC.and back, trying to collect his thoughts; then he looks atMrs. Parburywith the wish in his face that she were not there; finally he goes over toMiss Woodwardand speaks in a lowered voice.
Parbury.
[At top of table,R.] What was that last?
Miss Woodward.
[Reading in a lowered voice.] “What follows in the approval of the unthinking, the applause of the uncultured makes up.”
Parbury.
Yes, yes. Makes up! [Fidgeting.] Makes up— [Vaguely.] What does it make up? I’m damned if I know what it does make up now? I’ve forgotten.
Miss Woodward.
[Looking up at him with discreet sympathy after a glance atMrs. Parbury.] Shall I go back a little?
Parbury.
Please do. Cut the other; it doesn’t make up anything.
Miss Woodward.
[Reading.] “One gathers from the complacency of his manner that his iconoclasm is its own reward.”
Parbury.
Thanks. Where’s his article?
[Miss Woodwardrises, gives him an open magazine, and resumes her seat.
[After glancing at the magazine, and still in a low voice.] “His smug self-sufficiency——” [Pause.]
Mrs. Parbury.
Darling! I can’t hear you.
[Pause.Parbury’sandMiss Woodward’seyes meet.
Parbury.
Can’t you, dear? I suppose I must unconsciously have lowered my voice.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’m sure you did.
Parbury.
I’ve an idea. [Comes behind her and touches her shoulders caressingly.] Suppose I finish the article quickly and give it to you to read before sending it away?
Mrs. Parbury.
Yes, do.
[Parburylooks at her, expecting her to move, but she doesn’t.
Parbury.
Well, dear!
Mrs. Parbury.
[Wonderingly.] Well?
Parbury.
You—you’re not going?
Mrs. Parbury.
Going!
Parbury.
Yes, dear. I thought——
Mrs. Parbury.
[With great reproach, and looking as if about to cry.] Clement! [She rises, and with trembling hands begins to gather up her fancy work.]
Parbury.
[Relenting.] Don’t go, dear, unless you wish to.
Mrs. Parbury.
[More tremblingly and tearfully.] I certainly don’t wish to remain where I am unwelcome.
Parbury.
[Reproachfully.] Mabel!
Mrs. Parbury.
I thought I had a right to be where my husband was—that the privileges of a wife were at least equal to those of a secretary.
Parbury.
[In a low voice.] Hush, dear! [Turns toMiss Woodward,who has been a secret but attentive observer of the scene.] Miss Woodward, would you kindly run what we have done into type? We’ll finish presently.
[Miss Woodwardrises, takes her notes, and crosses to door,L.At the screen she pauses a moment, shrugs her shoulders, and exitsR.I.E.
[Parburypasses his arm roundMrs. Parbury.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Freeing herself.] Oh, no; you wished me to go, and I’m going.
Parbury.
It doesn’t matter now. [Grimly.] The articlehasn’t a million to one chance of being finished this afternoon.
Mrs. Parbury.
Why did you send Miss Woodward away?
Parbury.
Frankly?
[Puts magazine on table,R.
Mrs. Parbury.
Of course.
Parbury.
Because I hate scenes before other people.
Mrs. Parbury.
Scenes! What do you mean?
Parbury.
[C.] What! Isn’t there to be a scene? How splendid!
Mrs. Parbury.
[L.C.] I don’t understand the humour you are in.
Parbury.
I’m in a capital humour, dear. You’ve saved me for the moment from a savage attack on the work of a man whom I respect and admire.
Mrs. Parbury.
You mean simply that I’ve interrupted your work. You will not have reason to complain again.
[Is going.
Parbury.
Wait, dear.
Mrs. Parbury.
No, no. There are things one can’t get over. Perhaps you can explain why it is that Miss Woodward’s presence doesn’t disturb you, while mine does?
Parbury.
Easily. Miss Woodward is a mouse.
Mrs. Parbury.
I hate mice!
Parbury.
I mean she is a table—a chair—a desk—a dictionary—a something useful that is always in the right place at the right moment, and yet of whose presence one is pleasantly unconscious. She is a triumph of the negative.
Mrs. Parbury.
And I?
[Her face is not turned to him.
Parbury.
Positive, my love—quite positive; you bristle with emotions. When you are in the room, one knows it. [Mrs. Parburytakes out her handkerchief and begins to cry. Pause.Parbury,who has gone to desk, looks round inquiringly, then comes down gently and sees what she is doing.] [Aside.] Exactly!
Mrs. Parbury.
[Wiping her eyes.] Of course I quite understand now that you don’t love me.
Parbury.
[Comes to her, concealing his impatience.] But I do! I do!
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh no, you don’t! When we were first married you didn’t object to my being in the room when you were working.
Parbury.
I admit I didn’tsayso then; I was younger, and had more patience and stronger nerves.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Turning to him with a gleam of anger.] Then you admit you have always objected to my presence in your study?
Parbury.
[Smoothly.] I admit I have always felt that a writing man’s writing hours are sacred hours.
Mrs. Parbury.
They shouldn’t be sacred from his wife.
Parbury.
[Gently.] They should be sacredtohis wife, dear. [Slight pause.] If you were a writing woman you would understand what I mean.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’m sure I’m very sorry I’m not a genius, but you understood that when you married me, didn’t you?
Parbury.
Yes, darling, I quite understood that! [He appears to say this quite unconsciously.Mrs. Parburyturns to him deeply offended, then suddenly goes up to leave the room. He quickly meets her,C.] [Taking her hands.] I only knew you were the best little woman in the world!
Mrs. Parbury.
[Struggling to free her hands.] Don’t, please. I’m going!
Parbury.
Where?
Mrs. Parbury.
To send Miss Woodward to you, since you prefer her society to mine.
Parbury.
But I tell you I’m scarcely conscious of the girl’s existence; anyway, it was you who brought her here. You may remember I proposed having a male secretary.
Mrs. Parbury.
Yes; to make a companion of at my expense. You were always a man’s man! If I had had more experience I would have known that by the host of men friends you had when we married.
Parbury.
[Cheerily.] I haven’t them now, dear.
Mrs. Parbury.
You mean—that I— [Struggling to release her hands.] You are most brutal. Let me go!
Parbury.
Not while you are angry, dear.
[Gently forces her into a chair,R.C.
[There is another slight pause. She is certainly angry, but she doesn’t attempt to leave the chair. He looks down at her, and lays a hand lightly on her hair.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Brushing his hand away.] Please don’t do that. I am not a child! [Parburytakes a chair and sits next to her. Pause.] Perhaps you will tell me why you have used your superior strength to keep me here against my will?
Parbury.
[Taking her hand.] Do you know that I’m very much in love with you?
Mrs. Parbury.
You in love with me! You don’t know what love is! All you feel at this moment is the sort of insolent pity the strong have for the weak.
Parbury.
You weak, darling! Oh, come! You know better than that! You can’t be unconscious of your power!
Mrs. Parbury.
I really don’t understand you.
Parbury.
I only meant to remind you that after all you do always get your own way. I’m really very glad, for I’m sure your way must always be the best way. Oh, the power and determination of this little hand! [Holding her hand.] Do let me, with the deepest submission, kiss “The Mailed Fist.”
[He kisses her hand.
Mrs. Parbury.
As it pleases you to be rude to me I shall try to bear it patiently.
Parbury.
I don’t mean to be rude. It’s my unfortunate way of putting things. I kissed your hand because of the real tender love my heart holds for you, and for the same reason I put back this dear, rebellious little lock of hair which has escaped from over your ear. And what a perfect ear! It’s as delicate and fragile as a shell, and it’s just the daintiest pink possible.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Mollified.] I know my ears are all right, though I think you are making fun of me.
Parbury.
I think I’m making love to you.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Suddenly taking one of his hands in hers.] Oh, if you only loved me in the way I love you!
Parbury.
I love you in a most excellent way.
Mrs. Parbury.
But it’s different—you don’t understand. I love to breathe the air you breathe, to hear your voice even when it’s dictating a dry article, to listen to your footsteps, to watch the changing expressions on your face. I live by the warmth your life gives me; you don’t grudge me that, do you?
Parbury.
Why, of course not, darling!
Mrs. Parbury.
I love this room because it is yours, the surroundings are yours, the atmosphere is yours. When you are out——
Parbury.
[Gently patting her hand.] Which is not often, dear.
Mrs. Parbury.
When you are out I always stay here, because here I get most of you; even the thin odour of cigarette smoke is dear to me. Smoke now.
Parbury.
Shall I?
Mrs. Parbury.
[Gives him a cigarette from his case on table, and lights it.] That’s delightful! [Sniffs the smoke.] But only because it’s you! I used to detest tobacco.
Parbury.
[Smiling.] You dear!
[Puts his arm around her.
Mrs. Parbury.
You understand a little now, don’t you?
[Putting her head on his shoulder.
Parbury.
Perfectly!
Mrs. Parbury.
[Rising.] And you are not angry any more?
Parbury.
Was I angry?
[Rises.
Mrs. Parbury.
Horribly!
Parbury.
I’m sorry.
Mrs. Parbury.
Not vexed about the article?
Parbury.
Bother the article. I knew it hadn’t a million to one chance!
Mrs. Parbury.
And it doesn’t matter?
Parbury.
Not in the least!
Mrs. Parbury.
Then we may have tea in here?
Parbury.
Rather! Let’s go the pace.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Goes to him, standing before him, her hands by her sides.] Kiss me! [He kisses her. She throws her arms round him and whispers to him. He whispers a word in reply. They both laugh slightly, and he playfully pinches her cheek.] Brute! [She smooths her hair and goes to door,L.;turns at door and blows him a kiss, to which he responds.]
[ExitMrs. Parbury,L.
Parbury.
[Standing for moment,C.,a whimsical look on his face.] Dear little woman! What a pity she cries so much! [Puts chair up,R.;goes to desk and turns over pages of magazine, still continuing his thought.] What a pity! What a pity!
EnterMiss Woodwardcarrying loose type-written MS.Parburyglances up from his magazine as she places the leaves on the desk.
Oh, thanks!
Miss Woodward.
Do you wish to finish the article now?
Parbury.
Impossible! Tea will be taken here in a few minutes.
Miss Woodward.
[With a touch of indignant surprise.] Here? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon!
Parbury.
Not at all! I said here! [Throws down magazine, goes up to fireplace,C.Miss Woodwardpermits a slight groan to escape her.] Eh?
Miss Woodward.
Nothing, I didn’t speak!
[Sits and bends over desk.
[Parburylooks at her suddenly and keenly as though he had never noticed her before. Slight pause. She arranges papers at desk. He is leaning against the mantelpiece.
Parbury.
Do you know, Miss Woodward, I believe you are more disappointed about that article than I am.
Miss Woodward.
I was certainly very interested.
Parbury.
Why?
Miss Woodward.
It was so strong! I admire strength.
Parbury.
[Smiling.] You are not then quite the machineone gets into the habit of imagining one’s secretary to be?
Miss Woodward.
[Meeting his eye calmly and fearlessly for a moment.] I should like to be what you wish me to be.
Parbury.
[A little disconcerted.] Humph! [Stands with his hands in his pockets looking at her, while she is busy at the desk.]
[The door,L.,suddenly opens.Parburystarts almost violently.Mrs. Parburyputs her head into the room.
Mrs. Parbury.
Darling, I’ve got rid of a would-be intruder for you. I thought you’d like to know.
Parbury.
Thank you, dear; who was it?
Mrs. Parbury.
A horrid person named Gunning. There’s the creature’s card. [Throws card into room on to chair by doorL.] I knew you’d be pleased, darling! Tea in five minutes.
[ExitMrs. Parbury,closing door.
Parbury.
Gunning! Not George surely? [Quickly gets the card.] It is! My dear old friend; I wouldn’t miss seeing him for worlds! [Rushes to window, opens it, and bends out.] Why, there he is, going across thelawn! [Shouts.] George! George!! Hi! Gunning!!!
[Runs off,R.
Gunning.
[Outside, very distant.] Hullo, Clement!
Parbury.
[Outside.] Wait a moment, old chap!
[Miss Woodwardgoes up and looks through window, comes down, and with her handkerchief carefully dusts a photograph ofParburywhich stands on book-case upL.C.,then looks at the portrait ofMrs. Parbury,which isC.on wall over mantel, shrugs her shoulders slightly, returns to desk.
EnterParburyandGunning,R.,through window.
Parbury.
[C.,speaking as they enter.] Quite a mistake! I assure you, my dear fellow, my wife gave orders that I was not to be disturbed, thinking I was engaged upon an important piece of work.
Gunning.
[Looking atMiss Woodward.] Won’t you present me to Mrs.——
Parbury.
[Hastily.] To Miss Woodward, my secretary—certainly! Mr. Gunning, Miss Woodward. [They bow.Miss Woodwardmoves to go.] Don’t go, Miss Woodward. [Crosses to top of table,R.C.Gunningputs his hat and gloves on chair,L.] You might very kindly get rid of some of this correspondence for me. [Takes a bundle of letters from desk.] “Dear Sir,—I would esteem it a great favour if you would send me your photograph, together with your autograph.” [Throws letter aside, and reads another.] “My dear Sir,—I have read with the deepest interest and the highest pleasure your deservedly successful novel, ‘The Overthrow of Harvey Masterton,’ and feel convinced that if you knew the story of my life——” [Repeats business.] No one can deal with these people like Miss Woodward.
Gunning.
[Taking off his gloves.] What is your method, Miss Woodward?
Miss Woodward.
It is Mr. Parbury’s—perfect civility, consistent with finality.
[Sits at desk and writes letters.
Gunning.
Excellent! [Sits and addressesParbury.] I suppose being a popular author entails a lot of correspondence?
Parbury.
Awful!
Gunning.
[L.C.] For my part, my correspondence is practically nil.
Parbury.
I have noticed it with pain.
Gunning.
Oh, I’d have written to you, but what was the good of it? I’m not literary, and I’m not married.
Parbury.
And so you’ve kept away for five years.
Gunning.
About that.
[Sits on arm of sofa,L.C.
Parbury.
Five years and three months—for I’ve been married all that time, and you neither came to the wedding nor called on me afterwards.
Gunning.
I was discreet.
Parbury.
Discreet! Damned unfriendly, I call it, considering the years we had been pals.
Gunning.
Well, the rest of our old set stuck to you, anyway. What has become of them? Take Wybrow, for instance—an awful good chap!
Parbury.
Wybrow, Wybrow—whathasbecome of Wybrow?
Gunning.
Never comes here, eh?
Parbury.
Well, he did a few times some years ago, but——
Gunning.
I understand—a little too Bohemian.
Parbury.
[Quickly.] Not for me, George, I assure you.
Gunning.
No, no, of course not, my dear chap. Exit Bohemian Wybrow. Then there was Carson—one of the best?
Parbury.
[Warmly.] Wasn’t he a good fellow?
Gunning.
Capital! Where is he?
Parbury.
Married, you know.
Gunning.
So I heard. You meet constantly, of course?
Parbury.
No, we met them at Brighton one winter some years ago, but I don’t think our wives quite—you understand, don’t you?
Gunning.
Yes, yes, I understand. You dropped the Carsons. But Burleigh——
Parbury.
Burleigh—ah!
[Laughs.
Gunning.
There was a great spirit if you like; he was your best man.
Parbury.
Yes; he gave me this watch.
Gunning.
Which you still wear. Touching constancy! When did you see him last?
Parbury.
Wait a moment. What is all this interrogation for?
Gunning.
Idle curiosity if you like—study of life if you like. Come, out with it, when did you last have dear old Tom Burleigh to dinner?
Parbury.
[Almost defiantly.] The day we returned from our honeymoon.
[Slightly awkward pause.
Gunning.
[Musingly.] About five years and six weeks ago.
Parbury.
Of course, I see a lot of him at the Clubs. That is to say, I used to when I was still a Club man.
Gunning.
Which now you are not?
Parbury.
Which now I am not! What does a man want with a Club when he has a home of his own?
Gunning.
Excellent sentiment; but neither the sentiment nor the words are your own, Clement. [Their eyes meet and they burst into laughter.] I know, I know; “and what does a man want with men friends when he has a wife of his own,” and “the husband’s old friends are the wife’s worst enemies,” and “what I say about Clubs is, down with them!”
[Laughs, sits on sofa,L.C.
Parbury.
[Suddenly serious.] What the devil are you laughing at, George? You don’t presume——
Gunning.
I—why, of course not, my dear chap. Only now you see how wise I was not to intrude after your marriage, not to wait for my congé as the other poor boys did! I knew something.
Parbury.
You always did, you brute! I believe you were born knowing something. [Leans on back of sofa.] But seriously [lowers his voice], George, I assure you she’s the best little woman in the world!
Gunning.
Why, of course; it would be impious to suggest otherwise.
[ExitMiss Woodward.
[His eyes follow her off.] A perfect wife, and a charming secretary! You’re a lucky fellow, Clement!
Parbury.
Is Miss Woodward charming? On my word, I hadn’t noticed it, but I’m in love with my wife, you see.
Gunning.
Of course you would be the last to discover that your secretary was personally pleasing.
Parbury.
You’re a sinister scoundrel, George, and coarse to a fault. Now, tell me what you’ve been doing all these years—shedding your illusions apparently.
Gunning.
I’ve had none to lose since I grew up. I got rid of mine about the time of measles and whooping-cough.
Parbury.
It’s a pity.
Gunning.
Not at all. One can’t attain the proper philosophical attitude towards life while one nourishes illusions; one can never gain perspective.
Parbury.
Great man! How beautifully you talk! I suppose you have quite a nice thing in perspectives about with you now.
Gunning.
Pretty well.
Parbury.
So much for the journey of the soul. What of the body? Where have you been?
Gunning.
Round the world twice since I saw you.
Parbury.
What did you see on the other side?
Gunning.
Just what one sees on this side; there is always a man—and a woman.
Parbury.
I know you were adventuring in Upper India last year, for the papers were full of a rather fine thing you did—saved a lot of miserable lives—an ordinary, manly, commonplace, heroic, English sort of thing.
Gunning.
Oh, don’t mention that; one was carried away by impulse.
Parbury.
And so we keep our impulses even when we lose our illusions; I’m glad of that anyway. [Then he comes behindGunning’schair, takes him by the shoulder, and shakes him.] Old fool! I can’t help liking you as much as ever!
Gunning.
[Looking up with genuine pleasure.] Really?
Parbury.
Honestly!
Gunning.
[Rises, puts his hands onParbury’sshoulders.] Well, I’m glad, because I’ve often been weak enough to regret not seeing you. As for your literary successes, I suppose I ought to congratulate you; but I always knew you’d be a great man, because you never bored me.
Parbury.
[Drily.] Thanks so much. Now tell me how you found me.
Gunning.
By means of the illustrated press—interview with Mr. Clement Parbury—copyright. The author of the “Overthrow of Harvey something” at his pretty retreat at Hampstead—copyright. Snapshot of Mr. Parbury at work—copyright. View of the study from the garden—view of the garden from the study—copyright.
Parbury.
Shut up! You make me blush.
Gunning.
Forgive me—it’s only envy. It’s the envious people who call this a vulgar age, I suppose.
EnterServant,L.,places occasional table for tea in front of sofa,L.C.,and exitsL.
Parbury.
Now you are to see my wife. How do you imagine her? Large, I suppose, with huge hands and feet and a beetling brow?
Gunning.
I’m content to wait.
Re-enterServant,L.,with tea service.
Parbury.
When you have had tea, you will go away to dress. You will return here to dinner at eight.
Gunning.
I think not.
Parbury.
One moment. You will probably meet only my wife’s father, Colonel Armitage, and your dinner will be a fairly plain one, but I promise that your palate will not be outraged.
Gunning.
I really think not, old man. I remember the fate of old Burleigh. And I never even gave you a watch.
Parbury.
George, you hurt me. [Slight pause.] Then you refuse?
Gunning.
I make conditions.
Parbury.
What are they?
Gunning.
That you come yachting with me from to-morrow till the end of the week. I’ve hired a charming little twenty-tonner, one after your own heart—that is, if your heart or my memory hasn’t entirely changed.
Parbury.
[Enthusiastic.] Splendid! There’s nothing I should like so much; and I’ve no special work on hand just now.
Gunning.
Then it’s agreed?
Parbury.
Certainly!
Gunning.
Good; we’ll drink of the Cuvée 36, brush up our swearing vocabulary, and I’ll teach you to gain perspective!
Parbury.
[His face suddenly falling.] Oh, the deuce!
Gunning.
What’s the matter? What are you afraid of?
Parbury.
Of nothing in the world!
Gunning.
[Slapping him on the back.] Hero!
EnterMrs. Parbury,L.,wearing a bright smile, which fades when she seesGunning.
Parbury.
Mabel, I want to present you to my dear old friend, George Gunning. My wife, George.
[Gunningcrosses toMrs. Parbury.Shakes hands.
Mrs. Parbury.
How do you do? I’m very pleased.
[She gives him simultaneously a cold smile and a stiff handshake.
Gunning.
I’m very delighted to meet Clement’s wife.
Mrs. Parbury.
You’ll let me give you some tea?
[Goes to tea-table; sits on sofa.
Gunning.
Thank you. [Aside toParbury.] She’s charming!
[Parburydigs him in the ribs.Gunninggoes to tea-table.Parburysits at desk.
Mrs. Parbury.
[HandingGunningtea-cup.] I’ve given you no sugar.
Gunning.
I’ll take one piece.
[Does so.
EnterMiss Woodward,R.I.E.,with MS., which she hands toParbury.
Parbury.
Thank you.
[He reads and signs letters.
Mrs. Parbury.
Clement, come for your tea.
Parbury.
In one moment, dear.
Mrs. Parbury.
Miss Woodward, you will take tea?
Miss Woodward.
Thank you, yes.
Gunning.
[ToMrs. Parbury.] Allow me.
[TakesMiss Woodward’scup to her, and offers her bread and butter, &c.
Miss Woodward.
Thank you.
Parbury.
You’ve often heard me speak of Gunning, Mabel; we were at Cambridge together.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh yes, I remember! [ToGunning.] You were very great friends?
Gunning.
Inseparables!
Parbury.
I should say so!
Mrs. Parbury.
[Uneasily.] Indeed!
Parbury.
[Comes over and takes his tea.] You see, Gunning had been my fag at Harrow, and my ill-treatment ofhim inspired a dog-like devotion. [ToMiss Woodward.] Let me take your cup. [Adds in a lower voice.] I’ve an idea!
[Miss Woodwardgoes to desk;Parburyfollows her to desk.]
Gunning.
Let me.
[AssistsMrs. Parburywith the tea service.