INTRODUCTION
D H. Lawrence is one of the most significant of the new generation of writers just beginning to appear in England. One of their chief marks is that they seem to step forward full-grown, without a history to account for their maturity. Another characteristic is that they frequently spring from social layers which in the past had to remain largely voiceless. And finally, they have all in their blood what their elders had to acquire painfully: that is, an evolutionary conception of life.
Three years ago the author of "The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd" was wholly unknown, having not yet published a single work. To-day he has to his credit three novels—"The White Peacock," "The Trespasser" and "Sons and Lovers"—a collection of verse entitled "Love Poems," and the play contained in this volume. All of these works, but in particular the play and the latest novel, prove their author a man gifted with a strikingly original vision, a keen sense of beauty, an equally keen sense of verbal values, and a sincerity, which makes him see and tell the truth where even the most audacious used to falter in the past. Flaubert himself was hardly less free from the old curse of sentimentalizing compromise—and yet this young writer knows how to tell the utmost truth with a daintiness that puts offence out of the question.
He was born twenty-seven years ago in a coal-miner's cottage at the little colliery town of Eastwood, on the border line between Nottingham and Derbyshire. The home was poor, yet not without certain aspirations and refinements. It was the mother who held it together, who saved it from a still more abject poverty, and who filled it with a spirit that made it possible for the boy—her youngest son—to keep alive the gifts still slumbering undiscovered within him. In "Sons and Lovers" we get the picture of just such a home and such a mother, and it seems safe to conclude that the novel in question is in many ways autobiographical.
At the age of twelve the boy won a County Council Scholarship—and came near having to give it up because he found that the fifteen pounds a year conferred by it would barely pay the fees at the Nottingham High School and the railway fares to that city. But his mother's determination and self-sacrifice carried him safely past the seemingly impossible. At sixteen he left school to earn his living as a clerk. Illness saved him from that uncongenial fate. Instead he became a teacher, having charge of a class of colliers' boys in one of those rough, old-fashioned British schools where all the classes used to fight against one another within a single large room. Before the classes convened in the morning, at eight o'clock, he himself received instruction from the head-master; at night he continued his studies in the little kitchen at home, where all the rest of the family were wont to fore gather. At nineteen he found himself, to his own and everybody else's astonishment, the first on the list of the King's Scholarship examination, and from that on he was, to use his own words, "considered clever." But the lack oftwenty pounds needed in a lump sum to pay the entrance fee at the training college for teachers made it impossible for him to make use of the gained advantage.
Two years later, however, he succeeded in matriculating at the Nottingham Day Training College. But by that time the creative impulse had already begun to stir within him, aided by an early love affair, and so he wrote poems and worked at his first novel when he should have been studying. At twenty-three he left the college and went to London to teach school, to study French and German, and to write. At twenty-five he had his first novel—"The White Peacock"—accepted and printed. But the death of his mother only a month before that event made his victory seem useless and joyless. After the publication of his second novel, in 1912, he became able to give up teaching in order to devote himself entirely to his art. Out of that leisure—and perhaps also out of the sorrow caused by the loss of her who until then had been the mainspring of his life—came "Sons and Lovers" and "The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd."
What has struck me most deeply in these two works—apart from their splendid craftsmanship—is their psychological penetration, so closely paralleling the most recent conclusions of the world's leading thinkers. In the hands of this writer, barely emerged out of obscurity, sex becomes almost a new thing. Not only the relationship between man and woman, but also that of mother and child is laid bare in a new light which startles—or even shocks—but which nevertheless compels acceptance. One might think that Mr. Lawrence had carefully studied and employed the very latest theories of such men as Freud, for instance, andyet it is a pretty safe bet that most of his studies have been carried on in his own soul, within his own memories. Thus it is proved once more that what the student gropingly reasons out for abstract formulation is flashed upon the poetic dreamer in terms of living reality.
Another thing that has impressed me is the aspect in which Mr. Lawrence presents the home life of those hitherto submerged classes which are now at last reaching out for a full share in the general social and cultural inheritance. He writes of that life, not only with a knowledge obtained at first hand, but with a sympathy that scorns any apologetic phrase-mongering. Having read him, one feels inclined to conclude, in spite of all conflicting testimony, that the slum is not a location, but a state of mind, and that everywhere, on all levels, the individual soul may create around itself an atmosphere expressive of its ideals. A book like "Sons and Lovers" ought to go far to prove that most of the qualities held peculiar to the best portion of the "ruling classes" are nothing but the typical marks of normal humanity.
Edwin Björkman.
THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD
Mrs. HolroydHolroydBlackmoreJack HolroydMinnie HolroydGrandmotherRigleyClaraLauraManagerTwo Miners
The kitchen of a miner's small cottage. On the left is the fireplace, with a deep, full red fire. At the back is a white-curtained window, and beside it the outer door of the room. On the right, two white wooden stairs intrude into the kitchen below the closed stair foot door. On the left, another door.
The room is furnished with a chintz-backed sofa under the window, a glass-knobbed painted dresser on the right, and in the centre, toward the fire, a table with a red and blue check tablecloth. On one side of the hearth is a wooden rocking-chair, on the other an armchair of round staves. An unlighted copper-shaded lamp hangs from the raftered ceiling. It is dark twilight, with the room full of warm fireglow. A woman enters from the outer door. As she leaves the door open behind her, the colliery rail can be seen not far from the threshold, and, away back, the headstocks of a pit.
The woman is tall and voluptuously built. She carries a basket heaped full of washing, which she has just taken from the clotheslines outside. Setting down the basket heavily, she feels among the clothes.She lifts out a white heap of sheets and other linen, setting it on the table; then she takes a woollen shirt in her hand.
MRS. HOLROYD(aloud, to herself)
You know they're not dry even now, though it's been as fine as it has. (She spreads the shirt on the back of her rocking-chair, which she turns to the fire)
VOICE(calling from outside)
Well, have you got them dry?
[Mrs. Holroyd starts up, turns and flings her hand in the direction of the open door, where appears a man in blue overalls, swarfed and greased. He carries a dinner-basket.
MRS. HOLROYD
You—you—I don't know what to call you! The idea of shouting at me like that—like the Evil One out of the darkness!
BLACKMORE
I ought to have remembered your tender nerves. Shall I come in?
MRS. HOLROYD
No—not for your impudence. But you're late, aren't you?
BLACKMORE
It's only just gone six. We electricians, you know, we're the gentlemen on a mine: ours is gentlemen's work. But I'll bet Charles Holroyd was home before four.
MRS. HOLROYD(bitterly)
Ay, and gone again before five.
BLACKMORE
But mine's a lad's job, and I do nothing!—Where's he gone?
MRS. HOLROYD(contemptuously)
Dunno! He'd got a game on somewhere—toffed himself up to the nines, and skedaddled off as brisk as a turkey-cock. (She smirks in front of the mirror hanging on the chimney-piece, in imitation of a man brushing his hair and moustache and admiring himself)
BLACKMORE
Though turkey-cocks aren't brisk as a rule. Children playing?
MRS. HOLROYD(recovering herself, coldly)
Yes. And they ought to be in. (She continues placing the flannel garments before the fire, on the fender and on chair-backs, till the stove is hedged in with a steaming fence; then she takes a sheet in a bundle from the table, and going up to Blackmore, who stands watching her, says) Here, take hold, and help me fold it.
BLACKMORE
I shall swarf it up.
MRS. HOLROYD(snatching back the sheet)
Oh, you're as tiresome as everybody else.
BLACKMORE(putting down his basket and moving to door on right)
Well, I can soon wash my hands.
MRS. HOLROYD(ceasing to flap and fold pillowcases)
That roller-towel's ever so dirty. I'll get you another. (She goes to a drawer in the dresser, and then back toward the scullery, where is a sound of water)
BLACKMORE
Why, bless my life, I'm a lot dirtier than the towel. I don't want another.
MRS. HOLROYD(going into the scullery)
Here you are.
BLACKMORE(softly, now she is near him)
Why did you trouble now? Pride, you know, pride, nothing else.
MRS. HOLROYD(also playful)
It's nothing but decency.
BLACKMORE(softly)
Pride, pride, pride!
[A child of eight suddenly appears in the doorway.
JACK
Oo, how dark!
MRS. HOLROYD(hurrying agitated into the kitchen)
Why, where have you been—what have you been doing now?
JACK(surprised)
Why—I've only been out to play.
MRS. HOLROYD(still sharply)
And where's Minnie?
[A little girl of six appears by the door.
MINNIE
I'm here, mam, and what do you think—?
MRS. HOLROYD(softening, as she recovers equanimity)
Well, and what should I think?
JACK
Oh, yes, mam—you know my father—?
MRS. HOLROYD(ironically)
I should hope so.
MINNIE
We saw him dancing, mam, with a paper bonnet.
MRS. HOLROYD
What—?
JACK
There's some women at "New Inn," what's come from Nottingham—
MINNIE
An' he's dancin' with the pink one.
JACK
Shut up our Minnie. An' they've got paper bonnets on—
MINNIE
All colors, mam!
JACK(getting angry)
Shut up our Minnie! An' my dad's dancing with her.
MINNIE
With the pink-bonnet one, mam.
JACK
Up in the club-room over the bar.
MINNIE
An' she's a lot littler than him, mam.
JACK(piteously)
Shut up our Minnie—An' you can see 'em go past the window, 'cause there isn't no curtains up, an' my father's got the pink bonnet one—
MINNIE
An' there's a piano, mam—
JACK
An' lots of folks outside watchin', lookin' at my dad! He can dance, can't he, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD(she has been lighting the lamp, and holds the lamp-glass)
And who else is there?
MINNIE
Some more men—an'allthe women with paper bonnets on.
JACK
There's about ten, I should think, an' they say they came in a brake from Nottingham.
[Mrs. Holroyd, trying to replace the lamp-glass over the flame, lets it drop on the floor with a smash.
JACK
There, now—now we 'll have to have a candle.
BLACKMORE(appearing in the scullery doorway with the towel) What's that—the lamp-glass?
JACK
I never knowed Mr. Blackmore was here.
BLACKMORE(to Mrs. Holroyd)
Have you got another?
MRS. HOLROYD
No. (There is silence for a moment) We can manage with a candle for to-night.
BLACKMORE(stepping forward and blowing out the smoky flame) I'll see if I can't get you one from the pit. I shan't be a minute.
MRS. HOLROYD
Don't—don't bother—I don't want you to.
[He, however, unscrews the burner and goes.
MINNIE
Did Mr. Blackmore come for tea, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
No; he's had no tea.
JACK
I bet he's hungry. Can I have some bread?
MRS. HOLROYD(she stands a lighted candle on the table) Yes, and you can get your boots off to go to bed.
JACK
It's not seven o'clock yet.
MRS. HOLROYD
It doesn't matter.
MINNIE
What do they wear paper bonnets for, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
Because they're brazen hussies.
JACK
I saw them having a glass of beer.
MRS. HOLROYD
A nice crew!
JACK
They say they are old pals of Mrs. Meakins. You could hear her screaming o' laughin', an' my dad says: "He-ah, missis—here—a dog's-nose for the Dachess—hopin' it'll smell samthing"—What's a dog's-nose?
MRS. HOLROYD(giving him a piece of bread and butter)
Don't ask me, child. How should I know?
MINNIE
Would she eat it, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
Eat what?
MINNIE
Her in the pink bonnet—eat the dog's nose?
MRS. HOLROYD
No, of course not. How should I know what a dog's-nose is?
JACK
I bet he'll never go to work to-morrow, mother—will he?
MRS. HOLROYD
Goodness knows. I'm sick of it—disgracing me. There'll be the whole place cacklingthisnow. They've no sooner finished about him getting taken up for fighting than they begin on this. But I'll put a stop to it some road or other. It's not going on, if I know it: it isn't.
[She stops, hearing footsteps, and Blackmore enters.
BLACKMORE
Here we are then—got one all right.
MINNIE
Did they give it you, Mr. Blackmore?
BLACKMORE
No, I took it.
[He screws on the burner and proceeds to light the lamp. He is a tall, slender, mobile man of twenty-seven, brown-haired, dressed in blue overalls. Jack Holroyd is a big, dark, ruddy, lusty lad. Minnie is also big, but fair.
MINNIE
What do you wear blue trousers for, Mr. Blackmore?
BLACKMORE
They're to keep my other trousers from getting greasy.
MINNIE
Why don't you wear pit-breeches, like dad's?
JACK
'Cause he's a 'lectrician. Could you make me a little injun what would make electric light?
BLACKMORE
I will, some day.
JACK
When?
MINNIE
Why don't you come an' live here?
BLACKMORE(looking swiftly at Mrs. Holroyd)
Nay, you've got your own dad to live here.
MINNIE(plaintively)
Well, you could come as well. Dad shouts when we've gone to bed, an' thumps the table. He wouldn't if you was here.
JACK
He dursn't—
MRS. HOLROYD
Be quiet now, be quiet. Here, Mr. Blackmore. (She again gives him the sheet to fold)
BLACKMORE
Your handsarecold.
MRS. HOLROYD
Are they?—I didn't know.
[Blackmore puts his hand on hers.
MRS. HOLROYD(confusedly, looking aside)
You must want your tea.
BLACKMORE
I'm in no hurry.
MRS. HOLROYD
Selvidge to selvidge. You'll be quite a domestic man, if you go on.
BLACKMORE
Ay.
[They fold the two sheets.
BLACKMORE
They are white, your sheets!
MRS. HOLROYD
But look at the smuts on them—look! This vile hole! I'd never have come to live here, in all the thick of the pit-grime, and lonely, if it hadn't been for him, so that he shouldn't call in a public-house on his road home from work. And now he slinks past on the other side of the railway, and goes down to the New Inn instead of coming in for his dinner. I might as well have stopped in Bestwood.
BLACKMORE
Though I rather like this little place, standing by itself.
MRS. HOLROYD
Jack, can you go and take the stockings in for me? They're on the line just below the pigsty. The prop's near the apple-tree—mind it. Minnie, you take the peg-basket.
MINNIE
Will there be any rats, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
Rats—no. They'll be frightened when they hear you, if there are.
[The children go out.
BLACKMORE
Poor little beggars!
MRS. HOLROYD
Do you know, this place is fairly alive with rats. They run up that dirty vine in front of the house—I'm always at him to cut it down—and you can hear them at night overhead like a regiment of soldiers tramping. Really, you know, Ihatethem.
BLACKMORE
Well—a rat is a nasty thing!
MRS. HOLROYD
But I s'll get used to them. I'd give anything to be out of this place.
BLACKMORE
Itisrotten, when you're tied to a life you don't like. But I should miss it if you weren't here. When I'm coming down the line to the pit in the morning—it's nearly dark at seven now—I watch the firelight in here—Sometimes I put my hand on the wall outside where the chimney runs up to feel it warm—There isn't much in Bestwood, is there?
MRS. HOLROYD
There's less than nothing if you can't be like the rest of them—as common as they're 'made.
BLACKMORE
It's a fact—particularly for a woman—But this place is cosy—God love me, I'm sick of lodgings.
MRS. HOLROYD
You'll have to get married—I'm sure there are plenty of nice girls about.
BLACKMORE
Are there? I never see 'em. (He laughs)
MRS. HOLROYD
Oh, come, you can't say that.
BLACKMORE
I've not seen a single girl—an unmarried girl—that I should want for more than a fortnight—not one.
MRS. HOLROYD
Perhaps you're very particular.
[She puts her two palms on the table and leans back. He draws near to her, dropping his head.
BLACKMORE
Look here!
[He has put his hand on the table near hers.
MRS. HOLROYD
Yes, I know you've got nice hands—but you needn't be vain of them.
BLACKMORE
No—it's not that—But don't they seem—(he glances swiftly at her; she turns her head aside; he laughs nervously)—they sort of go well with one another. (He laughs again)
MRS. HOLROYD
Theydo, rather—
[They stand still, near one another, with bent heads, for a moment. Suddenly she starts up and draws her hand away.
BLACKMORE
Why—what is it?
[She does not answer. The children come in—Jack with an armful of stockings, Minnie with the basket of pegs.
JACK
I believe it's freezing, mother.
MINNIE
Mr. Blackmore, could you shoot a rat an' hit it?
BLACKMORE(laughing)
Shoot the lot of 'em, like a wink.
MRS. HOLROYD
But you've had no tea. What an awful shame to keep you here!
BLACKMORE
Nay, I don't care. It never bothers me.
MRS. HOLROYD
Then you're different from most men.
BLACKMORE
All men aren't alike, you know.
MRS. HOLROYD
But do go and get some tea.
MINNIE(plaintively)
Can't you stop, Mr. Blackmore?
BLACKMORE
Why, Minnie?
MINNIE
So's we're not frightened. Yes, do. Will you?
BLACKMORE
Frightened of what?
MINNIE
'Cause there's noises, an' rats,—an' perhaps dad'll come home and shout.
BLACKMORE
But he'd shout more if I was here.
JACK
He doesn't when my uncle John's here. So you stop, an' perhaps he won't.
BLACKMORE
Don't you like him to shout when you're in bed?
[They do not answer, but look seriously at him.
CURTAIN
The same scene, two hours later. The clothes are folded in little piles on the table and the sofa. Mrs. Holroyd is folding a thick flannel undervest or singlet which her husband wears in the pit and which has just dried on the fender.
MRS. HOLROYD(to herself)
Now thank goodness they're all dried. It's only nine o'clock, so he won't be in for another two hours, the nuisance. (She sits on the sofa, letting her arms hang down in dejection. After a minute or two she jumps up, to begin rudely dropping the piles of washed clothes in the basket) I don't care, I'm not going to let him have it allhisway—no! (She weeps a little, fiercely, drying her eyes on the edge of her white apron) Why shouldIput up with it all?—Hecan do what he likes. But I don't care, no, I don't—
[She flings down the full clothes-basket, sits suddenly in the rocking-chair, and weeps. There is the sound of coarse, bursting laughter, in vain subdued, and a man's deep guffaws. Footsteps draw near. Suddenly the door opens, and a little, plump, pretty woman of thirty, in a close-fitting dress and a giddy, frilled bonnet of pink paper, stands perkily in the doorway. Mrs. Holroyd springs up: her small, sensitive nose is inflamed with weeping, her eyes are wet and flashing. She fronts the other woman.
CLARA(with a pert smile and a jerk of the head)
Good evenin'!
MRS. HOLROYD
What do you want?
CLARA(she has a Yorkshire accent)
Oh, we've not come beggin'—this is a visit.
[She stuffs her handkerchief in front of her mouth in a little snorting burst of laughter. There is the sound of another woman behind going off into uncontrollable laughter, while a man guffaws.
MRS. HOLROYD(after a moment of impotence—tragically)
What—!
CLARA(faltering slightly, affecting a polite tone)
We thought we'd just call—
[She stuffs her handkerchief in front of her explosive laughter—the other woman shrieks again, beginning high, and running down the scale.
MRS. HOLROYD
What do you mean?—What do you want here?
CLARA(she bites her lip)
We don't want anything, thanks. We've just called. (She begins to laugh again—so does the other) Well, I don't think much of the manners in this part of the country. (She takes a few hesitating steps into the kitchen)
MRS. HOLROYD(trying to shut the door upon her)
No, you are not coming in.
CLARA(preventing her closing the door)
Dear me, what a to-do! (She struggles with the door. The other woman comes up to help; a man is seen in the background)
LAURA
My word, aren't we good enough to come in?
[Mrs. Holroyd, finding herself confronted by whatseems to her excitement a crowd, releases the door and draws back a little—almost in tears of anger.
MRS. HOLROYD
You have no business here. What do you want?
CLARA(putting her bonnet straight and entering in brisk defiance) I tell you we've only come to see you. (She looks round the kitchen, then makes a gesture toward the armchair) Can I sit here? (She plumps herself down) Rest for the weary.
[A woman and a man have followed her into the room. Laura is highly colored, stout, some forty years old, wears a blue paper bonnet, and looks like the landlady of a public-house. Both she and Clara wear much jewellery. Laura is well dressed in a blue cloth dress. Holroyd is a big blond man. His cap is pushed back, and he looks rather tipsy and lawless. He has a heavy blond moustache. His jacket and trousers are black, his vest gray, and he wears a turn down collar with dark bow.
LAURA(sitting down in a chair on right, her hand on her bosom, panting) I've laughed till I feel fair bad.
CLARA
'Aven't you got a drop of nothink to offer us, mester? Come, you are slow. I should 'ave thought a gentleman like you would have been out with the glasses afore we could have got breaths to ask you.
HOLROYD(clumsily)
I dunna believe there's owt in th' 'ouse but a bottle of stout.
CLARA(putting her hand on her stomach)
It feels as if th' kettle's going to boil over.
[She stuffs her handkerchief in front of her mouth, throws back her head, and snorts with laughter, havingnow regained her confidence. Laura laughs in the last state of exhaustion, her hand on her breast.
HOLROYD
Shall ta ha'e it then?
CLARA
What do you say, Laura—are you having a drop?
LAURA(submissively, and naturally tongue-tied)
Well—I don't mind—I will ifyoudo.
CLARA(recklessly)
I think we'll 'ave a drop, Charlie, an' risk it. It'll 'appen hold the rest down.
[There is a moment of silence, while Holroyd goes into the scullery. Clara surveys the room and the dramatic pose of Mrs. Holroyd curiously.
HOLROYD(suddenly)
Heh! What, come 'ere—!
[There is a smash of pots, and a rat careers out of the scullery. Laura, the first to see it, utters a scream, but is fastened to her chair, unable to move.
CLARA(jumps up to the table, crying)
It's a rat—Oh, save us! (She scrambles up, banging her head on the lamp, which swings violently)
MRS. HOLROYD(who, with a little shriek, jerks her legs up on to the sofa, where she was stiffly reclining, now cries in despairing falsetto, stretching forth her arms) The lamp—mind, the lamp!
[Clara steadies the lamp, and holds her hand to her head.
HOLROYD(coming from the scullery, a bottle of stout in his hand) Where is he?
CLARA
I believe he's gone under the sofa. My, an' he'sa thumper, if you like, as big as a rabbit.
[Holroyd advances cautiously toward the sofa.
LAURA(springing suddenly into life)
Hi, hi, let me go—let me go—Don't touch him—Where is he? (She flees and scrambles onto Clara's armchair, catching hold of the latter's skirts)
CLARA
Hang off—do you want to have a body down—Mind, I tell you.
MRS. HOLROYD(bunched up on the sofa, with crossed hands holding her arms, fascinated, watches her husband as he approaches to stoop and attack the rat; she suddenly screams) Don't, he'll fly at you!
HOLROYD
He'll not get a chance.
MRS. HOLROYD
He will, he will—and they're poisonous! (She ends on a very high note. Leaning forward on the sofa as far as she dares, she stretches out her arms to keep back her husband, who is about to kneel and search under the sofa for the rat)
HOLROYD
Come off, I canna see him.
MRS. HOLROYD
I won't let you; he'll fly at you.
HOLROYD
I'll settle him—
MRS. HOLROYD
Open the door and let him go.
HOLROYD
I shonna. I'll settle him. Shut thy claver. He'll non come anigh thee.
[He kneels down and begins to creep to the sofa. With a great bound, Mrs. Holroyd flies to the door and flings it open. Then she rushes back to the couch.
CLARA
There he goes!
HOLROYD(simultaneously)
Hi!—Ussza! (He flings the bottle of stout out of the door)
LAURA(piteously)
Shut the door, do.
[Holroyd rises, dusting his trousers' knees, and closes the door. Laura heavily descends and drops in the chair.
CLARA
Here, come an' help us down, Charlie. Look at her; she's going off. (Though Laura is still purple red, she sinks back in the chair. Holroyd goes to the table. Clara places her hands on his shoulders and jumps lightly down. Then she pushes Holroyd with her elbow) Look sharp, get a glass of water.
[She unfastens Laura's collar and pulls off the paper bonnet. Mrs. Holroyd sits up, straightens her clothing, and tries to look cold and contemptuous. Holroyd brings a cup of water. Clara sprinkles her friend's face. Laura sighs and sighs again very deeply, then draws herself up painfully.
CLARA(tenderly)
Do you feel any better—shall you have a drink of water? (Laura mournfully shakes her head; Clara turns sharply to Holroyd) She'll 'ave a drop o' something. (Holroyd goes out. Clara meanwhilefans her friend with a handkerchief. Holroyd brings stout. She pours out the stout, smells the glass, smells the bottle—then finally the cork) Eh, mester, it's all of a work—it's had a foisty cork.
[At that instant the stair foot door opens slowly, revealing the children—the girl peering over the boy's shoulder—both in white nightgowns. Everybody starts. Laura gives a little cry, presses her hand on her bosom, and sinks back, gasping.
CLARA(appealing and anxious, to Mrs. Holroyd)
You don't 'appen to 'ave a drop of brandy for her, do you, missis?
[Mrs. Holroyd rises coldly without replying, and goes to the stair foot door where the children stand.
MRS. HOLROYD(sternly, to the children)
Go to bed!
JACK
What's a matter, mother?
MRS. HOLROYD
Never you mind, go to bed!
CLARA(appealingly)
Be quick, missis.
[Mrs. Holroyd, glancing round, sees Laura going purple, and runs past the children upstairs. The boy and girl sit on the lowest stair. Their father goes out of the house, shamefaced. Mrs. Holroyd runs downstairs with a little brandy in a large bottle.
CLARA
Thanks, awfully. (To Laura) Come on, try an' drink a drop, there's a dear.
[They administer brandy to Laura. The children sit watching, open-eyed. The girl stands up to look.
MINNIE(whispering)
I believe it's blue bonnet.
JACK(whispering)
It isn't—she's in a fit.
MINNIE(whispering)
Well, look under th' table—(Jack peers under)—there's 'er bonnet. (Jack creeps forward) Come back, our Jack.
JACK(returns with the bonnet)
It's all made of paper.
MINNIE
Let's have a look—it's stuck together, not sewed.
[She tries it on. Holroyd enters—he looks at the child.
MRS. HOLROYD(sharply, glancing round)
Take that off!
[Minnie hurriedly takes the bonnet from her head. Her father snatches it from her and puts it on the fire.
CLARA
There, you're coming round now, love.
[Mrs. Holroyd turns away. She sees Holroyd's eyes on the brandy-bottle, and immediately removes it, corking it up.
MRS. HOLROYD(to Clara)
You will not need this any more?
CLARA
No, thanks. I'm very much obliged.
MRS. HOLROYD(does not unbend, but speaks coldly to the children) Come, this is no place for you—come back to bed.
MINNIE
No, mam, I don't want to.
MRS. HOLROYD(contralto)
Come along!
MINNIE
I'm frightened, mam.
MRS. HOLROYD
Frightened, what of?
MINNIE
Oo, therewasa row.
MRS. HOLROYD(taking Minnie in her arms)
Did they frighten you, my pet? (She kisses her)
JACK(in a high whisper)
Mother, it's pink bonnet and blue bonnet, what was dancing.
MINNIE(whimpering)
I don't want to go to bed, mam, I'm frightened.
CLARA(who has pulled off her pink bonnet and revealed a jug-handle coiffure) We're going now, duckie—you're not frightened of us, are you?
[Mrs. Holroyd takes the girl away before she can answer. Jack lingers behind.
HOLROYD
Now then, get off after your mother.
JACK(taking no notice of his father)
I say, what's a dog's-nose?
[Clara ups with her handkerchief and Laura responds with a faint giggle.
HOLROYD
Go thy ways upstairs.
CLARA
It's only a small whiskey with a spoonful of beer in it, my duck.
JACK
Oh!
CLARA
Come here, my duck, come on.
[Jack, curious, advances.
CLARA
You'll tell your mother we didn't mean no harm, won't you?
JACK(touching her earrings)
What are they made of?
CLARA
They're only earrings. Don't you like them?
JACK
Um! (He stands surveying her curiously. Then he touches a bracelet made of many little mosaic brooches) This is pretty, isn't it?
CLARA(pleased)
Do you like it?
[She takes it off. Suddenly Mrs. Holroyd is heard calling, "Jack, Jack!" Clara starts.
HOLROYD
Now then, get off!
CLARA(as Jack is reluctantly going)
Kiss me good-night, duckie, an' give this to your sister, shall you?
[She hands Jack the mosaic bracelet. He takes it doubtfully. She kisses him. Holroyd watches in silence.
LAURA(suddenly, pathetically)
Aren't you going to give me a kiss, an' all?
[Jack yields her his cheek, then goes.
CLARA(to Holroyd)
Aren't they nice children?
HOLROYD
Ay.
CLARA(briskly)
Oh, dear, you're very short, all of a sudden. Don't answer if it hurts you.
LAURA
My, isn't he different?
HOLROYD(laughing forcedly)
I'm no different.
CLARA
Yes, you are. You shouldn't 'ave brought us if you was going to turn funny over it.
HOLROYD
I'm not funny.
CLARA
No, you're not. (She begins to laugh. Laura joins in in spite of herself) You're about as solemn as a roast potato. (She flings up her hands, claps them down on her knees, and sways up and down as she laughs, Laura joining in, hand on breast) Are you ready to be mashed? (She goes off again—then suddenly wipes the laughter off her mouth and is solemn) But look 'ere, this'll never do. Now I'm going to be quiet. (She prims herself)
HOLROYD
Tha'd 'appen better.
CLARA
Oh, indeed! You think I've got to pull a mug to look decent? You'd have to pull a big un, at that rate.
[She bubbles off, uncontrollably—shaking herself in exasperation meanwhile. Laura joins in. Holroyd leans over close to her.
HOLROYD
Tha's got plenty o' fizz in thee, seemly.
CLARA(putting her hand on his face and pushing it aside, but leaving her hand over his cheek and mouth like a caress) Don't, you've been drinking. (She begins to laugh)
HOLROYD
Should we be goin' then?
CLARA
Where do you want to take us?
HOLROYD
Oh—you please yourself o' that! Come on wi' me.
CLARA(sitting up prim)
Oh, indeed!
HOLROYD(catching hold of her)
Come on, let's be movin'—(he glances apprehensively at the stairs)
CLARA
What's your hurry?
HOLROYD (persuasively)
Yi, come on wi' thee.
CLARA
I don't think. (She goes off, uncontrollably)
HOLROYD(sitting on the table, just above her)
What's use o' sittin' 'ere?
CLARA
I'm very comfy: I thank thee.
HOLROYD
Tha 'rt a baffling little 'ussy.
CLARA(running her hand along his thigh)
Aren't you havin' nothing, my dear? (Offers him her glass)
HOLROYD(getting down from the table and putting his hand forcibly on her shoulder) No. Come on, let's shift.
CLARA(struggling)
Hands off!
[She fetches him a sharp slap across the face. Mrs. Holroyd is heard coming downstairs. Clara, released, sits down, smoothing herself. Holroyd looks evil. He goes out to the door.
CLARA(to Mrs. Holroyd, penitently)
I don't know what you think of us, I'm sure.
MRS. HOLROYD
I think nothing at all.
CLARA(bubbling)
So you fix your thoughts elsewhere, do you? (Suddenly changing to seriousness) No, but Ihavebeen awful to-night.
MRS. HOLROYD(contralto, emphatic)
I don't want to know anything about you. I shall be glad when you'll go.
CLARA
Turning-out time, Laura.
LAURA(turtling)
I'm sorry, I'm sure.
CLARA
Never mind. But as true as I'm here, missis, I should never ha' come if I'd thought. But I had a drop—it all started with your husband sayin' he wasn't a married man.
LAURA(laughing and wiping her eyes)
I've never knowed her to go off like it—it's after the time she's had.
CLARA
You know, my husband was a brute to me—an' I was in bed three month after he died. He was abrute, he was. This is the first time I've been out; it's a'most the first laugh I've had for a year.
LAURA
It's true, what she says. We thought she'd go out of 'er mind. She never spoke a word for a fortnight.
CLARA
Though he's only been dead for two months, he was a brute to me. I was as nice a young girl as you could wish when I married him and went to the Fleece Inn—I was.
LAURA
Killed hisself drinking. An' she's that excitable, she is. We s'll 'ave an awful time with 'er to-morrow, I know.
MRS. HOLROYD(coldly)
I don't know why I should hear all this.
CLARA
I know I must 'ave seemed awful. An' them children—aren't they nice little things, Laura?
LAURA
They are that.
HOLROYD(entering from the door)
Hanna you about done theer?
CLARA
My word, if this is the way you treat a lady when she comes to see you. (She rises)
HOLROYD
I'll see you down th' line.
CLARA
You're not coming a stride with us.
LAURA
We've got no hat, neither of us.
CLARA
We've got our own hair on our heads, at any rate. (Drawing herself up suddenly in front of Mrs. Holroyd) An' I've been educated at a boarding school as good as anybody. I can behave myself either in the drawing-room or in the kitchen as is fitting and proper. But if you'd buried a husband like mine, you wouldn't feel you'd much left to be proud of—an' you might go off occasionally.
MRS. HOLROYD
I don't want to hear you.
CLARA(bobbing a curtsy)
Sorry I spoke.
[She goes out stiffly, followed by Laura.
HOLROYD(going forward)
You mun mind th' points down th' line.
CLARA'S VOICE
I thank thee, Charlie—mind thy own points.
[He hesitates at the door—returns and sits down. There is silence in the room. Holroyd sits with his chin in his hand. Mrs. Holroyd listens. The footsteps and voices of the two women die out. Then she closes the door. Holroyd begins to unlace his boots.
HOLROYD(ashamed yet defiant, withal anxious to apologize) Wheer's my slippers?
[Mrs. Holroyd sits on the sofa with face averted and does not answer.
HOLROYD
Dost hear? (He pulls off his boots, noisily, and begins to hunt under the sofa) I canna find the things. (No answer) Humph!—then I'll do be 'out 'em. (He stumps about in his stocking feet; going into the scullery, he brings out the loaf of bread; hereturns into the scullery) Wheer's th' cheese? (No answer—suddenly) God blast it! (He hobbles into the kitchen) I've trod on that brokken basin, an' cut my foot open. (Mrs. Holroyd refuses to take any notice. He sits down and looks at his sole—pulls off his stocking and looks again) It's lamed me for life. (Mrs. Holroyd glances at the wound) Are 'na ter goin' ter get me öwt for it?
MRS. HOLROYD
Psh!
HOLROYD
Oh, a' right then. (He hops to the dresser, opens a drawer, and pulls out a white rag; he is about to tear it)
MRS. HOLROYD(snatching it from him)
Don't tear that!
HOLROYD(shouting)
Then what the deuce am I to do? (Mrs. Holroyd sits stonily) Oh, a' right then! (He hops back to his chair, sits down, and begins to pull on his stocking) A' right then—a' right then. (In a fever of rage he begins pulling on his boots) I'll go where Icanfind a bit o' rag.
MRS. HOLROYD
Yes, that's what you want! All you want is an excuse to be off again—"a bit of rag"!
HOLROYD(shouting)
An' what man'd want to stop in wi' a woman sittin' as fow as a jackass, an' canna get a word from 'er edgeways.
MRS. HOLROYD
Don't expect me to speak to you after to-night'sshow. How dare you bring them to my house, how dare you?
HOLROYD
They've non hurt your house, have they?
MRS. HOLROYD
I wonder you dare to cross the doorstep.
HOLROYD
I s'll do what the deuce I like. They're as good as you are.
MRS. HOLROYD(stands speechless, staring at him; then low) Don't you come near me again—
HOLROYD(suddenly shouting, to get his courage up)