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 PROPERTY OF 
 
 DEPARTMENT OF DRAMATIC ART 
 
 Do not remove from 214 Dec. Arts
 
 f
 
 ROCOCO: VOTE BY BALLOT: 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE
 
 BY GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 
 ANATOL 
 
 THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE 
 
 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 
 
 WASTE 
 
 SOULS ON FIFTH 
 
 THREE SHORT PLAYS: rococo: vote 
 
 BY BALLOT : FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 In Collaboration with Laurence Housman 
 
 PRUNELLA
 
 THREE SHORT PLAYS 
 ROCOCO: VOTE BY BALLOT: 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 BY GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 N ON-RF.F BRT 
 
 oaWVAD • Q3S 
 
 PROPERTY CF 
 DEPARTMENT CE DRAMATIC ART 
 
 '•- 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1917
 
 Copyright, 1917, 
 By Granville Barker. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Published, November, 191 7 
 
 ROCOCO, VOTE BY BALLOT, and FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE are fully 
 
 protected by copyright and must not be performed either by 
 amateurs or professionals without written permission. For such 
 permission, and for the " acting version " with full stage direc- 
 tions, apply to The Paget Dramatic Agency, 25 West 4$tk 
 Street, New York City* 
 
 -."..». :,p V
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 Rococo I 
 
 Vote by Ballot 31 
 
 Farewell to the Theatre 61 
 
 661027 
 
 ■ 1
 
 Rococo 
 
 A FARCE 
 1912 
 
 PROPERTY OF 
 
 DEPARTMENT CF DRAMATIC ART
 
 PROPERTY OF 
 
 DEPARTMENT GF DRAMATIC MIT 
 
 ROCOCO 
 
 Do you know how ugly the drawing-room of an English vicar- 
 age can be? Yes, I am aware of all that there should be 
 about it; the old-world grace and charm of Jane- 
 Austenism. One should sit upon Chippendale and 
 glimpse the grey Norman church-tower through the 
 casement. But what of the pious foundations of a 
 more industrial age, churches built in mid-nineteenth 
 century and rather scamped in the building, dedicated 
 to the Glory of God and the soul's health of some sweating 
 and sweated urban district? The Bishop would have 
 a vicarage added grumbled the church-donor. Well, 
 then, consider his comfort a little, but to the glory of 
 the Vicar nothing need be done. And nothing was. 
 The architect {this an added labour of but little love to 
 him) would give an ecclesiastical touch to the front porch, 
 a pointed top to the front door, add some stained glass 
 to the staircase window. But a mean house, a stuffy 
 house, and the Vicar must indeed have fresh air in 
 his soul if mean and stuffy doctrine was not to be gener- 
 ated there. 
 
 The drawing-room would be the best room, and not a bad room 
 in its way, if it weren't that its proportions were vile, 
 as though it felt it wanted to be larger than it was, 
 and if the window and the fireplace and the door didn't 
 seem to be quarrelling as to which should be the most 
 conspicuous. The fireplace wins. 
 
 This particular one in this particular drawing-room is of yellow 
 wood, stained and grained. It reaches not quite to the 
 ceiling. It has a West Front air, if looking-glass may 
 
 3
 
 ROCOCO 
 
 stand for windows; it is fretted, moreover, here and there, 
 with little trefoil holes. It bears a full assault of the 
 Vicar's wife's ideas of how to make the place "look 
 nice." There is the clock, of course, which won't keep 
 time; there are the vases which won't hold water; framed 
 photographs, as many as can be crowded on the shelves; 
 in every other crevice knickknacks. Then, if you 
 stand, as the Vicar often stands, at this point of van- 
 tage you are conscious of the wall-paper of amber and 
 blue with a frieze above it measuring off yard by yard 
 a sort of desert scene, a mountain, a lake, three palm 
 trees, two camels; and again; and again; until by the 
 corner a camel and a palm tree are cut out. On the 
 walls there are pictures, of course. Two of them convey 
 to you in a vague and water-coloury sort of way that an 
 English countryside is pretty. There is "Christ among 
 the Doctors," with a presentation brass plate on its 
 frame; there is "Simply to Thy Cross I Cling." And 
 there is an illuminated testimonial to the Vicar, a mark 
 of affection and esteem from the flock he ministered to as 
 senior curate. 
 
 The furniture is either very heavy, stuffed, sprung, and tapestry- 
 covered, or very light. There are quite a number of 
 small tables (occasional-tables they are called), which 
 should have four legs but have only three. There are 
 several chairs, too, on which it would be unwise to sit 
 down. 
 
 In the centre of the room, beneath the hanging, pink-shaded, 
 electric chandelier, is a mahogany monument, a large 
 round table of the "pedestal" variety, and on it tower 
 to a climax the vicarage symbols of gentility and 
 culture. In the centre of this table, beneath a glass 
 shade, an elaborate reproduction of some sixteenth- 
 century Pieta (a little High Church, it is thought; but 
 Art, for some reason, runs that way). It stands on a 
 Chinese silk mat, sent home by some exiled uncle. It
 
 ROCOCO 
 
 is symmetrically surrounded by gift books, a photograph 
 .album, a tray of painted Indian figures (very jolly! 
 another gift from the exiled uncle), and a whale's tooth. 
 The whole affair is draped with a red embroidered 
 cloth. 
 The window of the room, with so many sorts of curtains and 
 blinds to it that one would think the Vicar hatched 
 conspiracies here by night, admits but a blurring light, 
 which the carpet (Brussels) reflects, toned to an ugly 
 yellow. 
 
 You really would not expect such a thing to be happening in 
 such a place, but this carpet is at the moment the base 
 of an apparently mortal struggle. The Vicar is under- 
 most, his baldish head, when he tries to raise it, falls 
 back and bumps. Kneeling on him, throttling his 
 collar, is a hefty young man conscientiously out of temper, 
 with scarlet face glowing against carrotty hair. His 
 name is Reginald and he is (one regrets to add) the 
 Vicar's nephew, though it be only by marriage. The 
 Vicar's wife, fragile and fifty, is making pathetic 
 attempts to pull him off. 
 
 "Have you had enough? " asks Reginald and grips the Vicar hard. 
 
 "Oh, Reginald . . . be good," is all the Vicar's wife's appeal. 
 
 Not two yards off a minor battle rages. Mrs. Reginald, coming 
 tip to reinforce, was intercepted by Miss Underwood, 
 the Vicar's sister, on the same errand. The elder 
 lady now has the younger pinned by the elbows and 
 she emphasises this very handsome control of the situa- 
 tion by teeth-rattling shakes. 
 
 "Cat . . . cat . . . cat!" gasps Mrs. Reginald, who is plump 
 and flaxen and easily disarranged. 
 
 Miss Unde>~wood only shakes her again. "I'll leach you 
 manners, miss." 
 
 "Oh, Reginald . . . do drop him," moans poor Mrs. Under- 
 wood. For this is really very bad for the Vicar.
 
 ROCOCO 
 
 "Stick a pin into him, Mary," advises her sister-in-law. 
 Whereat Mrs. Reginald yelps in her iron grasp, 
 
 "Don't you dare . . . it's poisonous," and then, "Oh . . . 
 if you weren't an old woman I'd have boxed your 
 ears." 
 
 Three violent shakes. "Would you? Would you? Would you? " 
 
 "I haven't got a pin, Carinthia," says Mrs. Underwood. 
 She has conscientiously searched. 
 
 "Pull his hair, then," commands Carinthia. 
 
 At intervals, like a signal gun, Reginald repeats his query: 
 "Have you had enough?" And the Vicar, though it is 
 evident that he has, still, with some unsurrendering 
 school-days' echo answering in his mind, will only gasp, 
 "Most undignified . . . clergyman of the Chunk of 
 England . . . your host, sir ... ashamed of you . . . 
 let me up at once." 
 
 Mrs. Underwood has failed at the hair; she flaps her hands in 
 despair. "It's too short, Carinthia," she moans. 
 
 Mrs. Reginald begins to sob pitifully. It is very painful to 
 be tightly held by the elbows from behind. So Miss 
 Underwood, with the neatest of twists and pushes, 
 lodges her in a chair, and thus released herself, folds 
 her arms and surveys the situation. "Box my ears, 
 would you?" is her postscript. 
 MRS. Reginald. Well . . . you boxed father's. 
 miss underwood. Where is your wretched father-in-law? 
 Her hawklike eye surveys the room for this unknown 
 in vain. 
 Reginald. \The proper interval having apparently elapsed."] 
 
 Have you had enough? 
 
 Dignified he cannot look, thus outstretched. The Vicar, 
 therefore, assumes a mixed expression of saintliness and 
 obstinacy, his next best resource. His poor wife moans 
 again. . . . 
 mrs. underwood. Oh, pi e a se , Reginald . . . the floor's 
 
 so hard for him!
 
 ROCOCO 
 
 Reginald. [A little anxious to have done with it himself^] 
 Have you had enough? 
 
 the Vicar. [Quite supine.] Do you consider this conduct 
 becoming a gentleman? 
 
 mrs. underwood. And . . . Simon! . . . if the servants 
 have heard . . . they must have heard. What will they 
 think? 
 
 No, even this heart-breaking appeal falls flat. 
 Reginald. Say you've had enough and I'll let you up. 
 the vicar. [Reduced to casuistry.'] It's not at all the 
 sort of thing I ought to say. 
 
 mrs. underwood. [So helpless.] Oh ... I think you 
 might say it, Simon, just for once. 
 
 miss underwood. '[Grim with the pride of her own victory.] 
 Say nothing of the sort, Simon! 
 
 The Vicar has a burst of exasperation; for, after all, he 
 is on the floor and being knelt on. 
 the vicar. Confound it all, then, Carinthia, why don't 
 you do something? 
 
 Carinthia casts a tactical eye over Reginald. The 
 Vicar adds in parenthesis ... a human touch! . . . 
 the vicar. Don't kneel there, you young fool, you'll 
 break my watch! 
 
 miss underwood. Wait till I get my breath. 
 
 But this prospect raises in Mrs. Underwood a perfect 
 
 dithyramb of despair. 
 
 mrs. underwood. Oh, please, Carinthia . . . No . . . 
 
 don't start again . Such a scandal! I wonder everything's 
 
 not broken. [So coaxingly to Reginald.] Shall I say it 
 
 for him? 
 
 mrs. Reginald. [Fat little bantam, as she smooths her 
 feathers in the armchair.] You make him say it, Reggie. 
 But now the servants are on poor Mrs. Under- 
 wood's brain. Almost down to her knees she goes. 
 mrs. underwood. They'll be coming up to see what the 
 noise is. Oh . . . Simon!
 
 8 ROCOCO 
 
 It does strike the Vicar that this would occasion con- 
 siderable scandal in the parish. There are so few good 
 excuses for being found lying on the carpet, your 
 nephew kneeling threateningly on the top of you. So 
 he makes up his mind to it and enunciates with musical 
 charm; it might be a benediction. . . . 
 the vicar. I have had enough. 
 Reginald. [In some relief.^} That's all right. 
 
 He rises from the prostrate church militant; he even 
 
 helps it rise. This pleasant family party then look at 
 
 each other, and, truth to tell, they are all a little ashamed. 
 
 MRS. underwood. [Walking round the re-erected pillar 
 
 of righteousness .] Oh, how dusty you are! 
 
 miss underwood. Yes! [The normal self uprising. - } 
 Room's not been swept this morning. 
 
 The Vicar, dusted, feels that a reign of moral law can 
 now be resumed. He draws himself up to fully five 
 foot six. 
 the vicar. Now, sir, you will please apologise. 
 Reginald. [Looking very muscularJ} I shall not. 
 
 The Vicar drops the subject. Mrs. Reginald mutters 
 and crows from the armchair. 
 mrs. Reginald. Ha . . . who began it? Black and blue 
 I am! Miss Underwood can apologise . . . your precious 
 sister can apologise. 
 
 miss underwood. [Crushing if inconsequent.^ You're 
 running to fat, Gladys. Where's my embroidery? 
 
 MRS. underwood. I put it safe, Carinthia. [She dis- 
 closes it and then begins to pat and smooth the dishevelled 
 room7\ Among relations too! One expects to quarrel 
 sometimes ... it can't be helped. But not fighting! Oh, 
 I never did ... I feel so ashamed! 
 
 miss underwood. [Britannia-like !l Nonsense, Mary. 
 mrs. Reginald. Nobody touched you, Aunt Mary. 
 the vicar. [After his eyes have wandered vaguely round.li 
 Where's your father, Reginald?
 
 ROCOCO 9 
 
 Reginald. \_Quite uninterested. He is straightening his 
 own tie and collar.] I don't know. 
 
 In the little silence that follows there comes a voice from 
 under the mahogany monument. It is a voice at once 
 dignified and pained, and the property of Reginald's 
 father, whose name is Mortimer Uglow. And it says . . . 
 
 the voice. I am here. 
 
 mrs. underwood. [Who may be forgiven nerves.] Oh, 
 how uncanny! 
 
 Reginald. [Still at his tie.] Well, you can come out, 
 father, it's quite safe. 
 
 the voice. ^Most unexpectedly .] I shall not. [And then 
 more unexpectedly still.'] You can all leave the room. 
 
 the vicar. \_Who is generally resentful^] Leave the 
 room! whose room is it, mine or yours? Come out, Mor- 
 timer, and don't be a fool. 
 
 But there is only silence. Why will not Mr. Uglow 
 come out? Must he be ratted for? Then Mrs. Under- 
 wood sees why. She points to an object on the floor. 
 
 mrs. underwood. Simon! 
 
 the vicar. What is it? 
 
 A gam, and this time as if to indicate some mystery, 
 Mrs. Underwood points. The Vicar picks up the 
 object, some disjection of the fight he thinks, and waves 
 it mildly. 
 
 the vicar. Well, where does it go? I wonder every- 
 thing in the room's not been upset! 
 
 mrs. underwood. No, Simon, it's not a mat, it's his . . . 
 She concludes with an undeniable gesture, even a smile. 
 The Vicar, sniffing a little, hands over the trophy. 
 
 Reginald. [As he views it.] Oh, of course. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. Reggie, am I tidy at the back? 
 
 He tidies her at the back — a meticulous matter of hooks 
 and eyes and oh, his fingers are so big. Mrs. Under- 
 wood has taken a little hand-painted mirror from the 
 mantelpiece, and this and the thing in question she
 
 10 ROCOCO 
 
 places just without the screen of the jailing tablecloth 
 
 much as a devotee might place an offering at a shrine. 
 
 But in Miss Underwood dwells no respect jor persons. 
 
 miss underwood. Now, sir, for Heaven's sake put on 
 
 your wig and come out. 
 
 There emerges a hand that trembles with wrath; it re- 
 trieves the offerings; there follow bumpings into the 
 tablecloth as of a head and elbows. 
 the vicar. I must go and brush myself. 
 mrs. underwood. Simon, d'you think you could tell 
 the maids that something fell over . . . they are such 
 tattlers. It wouldn't be untrue. £lt wouldn'tQ 
 
 the vicar. I should scorn to do so, Mary. If they ask 
 me, I must make the best explanation I can. 
 
 The Vicar swims out. Mr. Mortimer Uglow, his 
 wig assumed and hardly awry at all, emerges from be- 
 neath the table. He is a vindictive-looking little man. 
 mrs. underwood. You're not hurt, Mortimer, are you? 
 Mr. Uglow's only wound is in the dignity. That he 
 cures by taking the situation oratorically in hand. 
 MR. uglow. If we are to continue this family discussion 
 and if Miss Underwood, whom it does not in the least con- 
 cern, has not the decency to leave the room and if you, Mary, 
 cannot request your sister-in-law to leave it, I must at least 
 demand that she does not speak to m e again. 
 
 Whoever else might be impressed, Miss Underwood 
 is not. She does not even glance up from her em- 
 broidery. 
 miss underwood. A good thing for you I hadn't my 
 thimble on when I did it. 
 
 mrs. underwood. Carinthia, I don't think you should 
 have boxed Mortimer's ears . . . you know him so slightly. 
 miss underwood. He called me a Futile Female. I 
 considered it a suitable reply. 
 
 The echo of that epigram brings compensation to Mr. 
 Uglow. He puffs his chest.
 
 ROCOCO 11 
 
 mr. uglow. Your wife rallied to me, Reginald. I am 
 much obliged to her . . . which is more than can be said 
 of you. 
 
 Reginald. Well, you can't hit a woman. 
 
 mr. uglow. [Bitingly7\ And she knows it. 
 
 MISS UNDERWOOD. Pf! 
 
 The sound conveys that she would tackle a regiment of 
 men with her umbrella: and she would. 
 Reginald. [Apoplectic, but he has worked down to the 
 waist7\ There's a hook gone. 
 
 MRS. Reginald. I thought so! Lace torn? 
 Reginald. It doesn't show much. But I tackled Uncle 
 Simon the minute he touched Gladys . . . that got my 
 blood up all right. Don't you worry. We won. 
 
 This callously sporting summary is too much for Mrs. 
 Underwood: she dissolves. 
 MRS. underwood. Oh, that such a thing should ever have 
 happened in our house! . . . in my drawing-room! ! . . . real 
 blows! ! ! . . . 
 
 MRS. Reginald. Don't cry, Aunt Mary ... it wasn't 
 your fault. 
 
 The Vicar returns, his hair and his countenance 
 smoother. He adds his patting consolations to his 
 poor wife's comfort. 
 MRS. underwood. And I was kicked on the shin. 
 MRS. Reginald. Say you're sorry, Reggie. 
 the vicar. My dear Mary . . . don't cry. 
 mrs. underwood. [Clasping her beloved's arm^\ Simon 
 did it . . . Reggie was throttling him black ... he 
 couldn't help it. 
 
 the vicar. I suggest that we show a more or less Chris- 
 tian spirit in letting bygones be bygones and endeavour to 
 resume the discussion at the point where it ceased to be an 
 amicable one. £His wife, her clasp on his coat, through her 
 drying tears has found more trouble.^ Yes, there is a slight 
 rent . . . never mind.
 
 12 ROCOCO 
 
 The family party now settles itself into what may have 
 been more or less the situations from which they were 
 roused to physical combat. Mr. Uglow secures a 
 central place. 
 MR. uglow. My sister-in-law Jane had no right to be- 
 queath the Vase ... it was not hers to bequeath. 
 
 That is the gage of battle. A legacy! What English 
 
 family has not at some time shattered its mutual regard 
 
 upon this iron rock. One notices now that all these 
 
 good folk are in deepest mourning, on which the dust of 
 
 combat stands up the more distinctly, as indeed it 
 
 should. 
 
 mrs. underwood. Oh, Mortimer, think if you'd been 
 
 able to come to the funeral and this had all happened then 
 
 ... it might have done! 
 
 miss underwood. But it didn't, Mary . . . control 
 yourself. 
 
 mr. uglow. My brother George wrote to me on his 
 death-bed . . . ^_And then fiercely to the Vicar, as if this 
 concerned his calling.] . . . on his death-bed, sir. I have 
 the letter here. . . . 
 
 the vicar. Yes, we've heard it. 
 Reginald. And you sent them a copy. 
 
 Mr. U glow's hand always seems to tremble; this time 
 it is with excitement as he ,has pulled the letter from his 
 pocket-book. 
 mr. uglow. Quiet, Reginald! Hear it again and pay 
 attention. \They settle to a strained boredom!] "The 
 Rococo Vase presented to me by the Emperor of Ger- 
 many" . . . Now there he's wrong. \_The sound of his own 
 reading has uplifted him: he condescends to them!} They're 
 German Emperors, not Emperors of Germany. But George 
 was an inaccurate fellow. Reggie has the same trick . . . 
 it's in the family. I haven't it. 
 
 He is returning to the letter. But the Vicar interposes, 
 lamblike, ominous though.
 
 ROCOCO 13 
 
 the vicar. I have not suggested on Mary's behalf . . . 
 I wish you would remember, Mortimer, that the position 
 I take up in this matter I take up purely on my wife's be- 
 half. What have I to gain? 
 
 Reginald. [Clodhopping.} Well, you're her husband, 
 aren't you? She'll leave things to you. And she's older 
 than you are. 
 
 the vicar. Reginald, you are most indelicate. [And 
 then, really thinking it is true . . . } I have forborne to 
 demand an apology from you. . . . 
 
 Reginald. Because you wouldn't get it. 
 
 MRS. underwood. [Genuinely and generously accommodat- 
 ing^} Oh, I don't want the vase ... I don't want any- 
 thing! 
 
 the vicar. [Me is gradually mounting the pulpit.} 
 Don't think of the vase, Mary. Think of the principle 
 involved. 
 
 mrs. underwood. And you may die first, Simon. 
 You're not strong, though you look it ... all the colds 
 you get . . . and nothing's ever the matter with me. 
 
 mr. uglow. [Ignored . . . ignored!} Mary, how much 
 longer am I to wait to read this letter? 
 
 the vicar. [Ominously, ironically lamblike now.} Quite 
 so. Your brother is waiting patiently . . . and politely. 
 Come, come; a Christian and a businesslike spirit! 
 
 Mr. Uglow's very breath has been taken to resume the 
 reading of the letter when on him . . . worse, on that 
 tender lop-knot of his . . . he finds Miss Uruierwood's 
 hawklike eye. Its look passes through him, piercing 
 Infinity as she says . . . 
 
 miss underwood. Why not a skull-cap ... a sanitary 
 skull-cap? 
 
 mr. uglow. [With a minatory though fearful gasp.} 
 What's that? 
 
 the vicar. Nothing, Mortimer. 
 
 Reginald. Some people look for trouble!
 
 14 ROCOCO 
 
 miss underwood. [Addressing the Infinite still.'} And 
 those that it fits can wear it. 
 
 the vicar. [A little fearful himself. He is terrified of 
 his sister, that's the truth. And well he may be.} Let's have 
 the letter, Mortimer. 
 
 miss underwood. Or at least a little gum ... a little 
 glue ... a little stickphast for decency's sake. 
 
 She swings it to a beautiful rhythm. No, on the whole, 
 Mr. Uglow will not join issue. 
 
 MR. uglow. I trust that my dignity requires no vindica- 
 tion. Never mind ... I say nothing. [And with a for- 
 giving air he returns at last to the letter.} "The Rococo Vase 
 presented to me by the Emperor of Germany" ... or 
 German Emperor. 
 
 the vicar. Agreed. Don't cry, Mary. Well, here's a 
 clean one. [Benevolently he hands her a handkerchief.} 
 
 mr. uglow. "On the occasion of my accompanying the 
 mission." 
 
 miss underwood. Mission! 
 The word has touched a spot. 
 
 the vicar. Not a real mission, Carinthia. 
 
 mr. uglow. A perfectly real mission. A mission from 
 the Chamber of Commerce at . . . Don't go on as if the 
 world were made up of low church parsons and . . . and . . . 
 their sisters! 
 
 As a convinced secularist behold him a perfect fighting 
 cock. 
 
 Reginald. [Bored, but oh, so bored!} Do get ahead, 
 father. 
 
 mr. uglow. [With a flourish.} "Mission et cetera." 
 Here we are. " My dear wife must have the enjoyment " . . . 
 [Again he condescends to them.} Why he called her his dear 
 wife I don't know. They hated each other like poison. 
 But that was George all over . . . soft . . . never would 
 face the truth. It's a family trait. You show signs of it, 
 Mary.
 
 ROCOCO 15 
 
 the vicar. ICS0// and low.] He was on his death-bed. 
 
 Reginald. Get on . . . father. 
 
 mr. uglow. "My wife" . . . She wasn't his dear wife. 
 What's the good of pretending it? . . . "must have the en- 
 joyment of it while she lives. At her death I desire it to 
 be an heirloom for the family." \An& he makes the last sen- 
 tence tell, every word.] There you are! 
 
 the vicar. ^Lamblike, ominous, ironic, persistent.] You 
 sit looking at Mary. His sister and yours. Is she a member 
 of the family or not? 
 
 mr. uglow. ^Cocksure.] Boys before girls . . . men 
 before women. Don't argue that . . . it's the law. Titles 
 and heirlooms ... all the same thing. 
 
 mrs. underwood. %}V ' orm-w 'omanlike, turning ever so 
 little.] Mortimer, it isn't as if we weren't giving you all 
 the family things . . . the miniature and the bust of John 
 Bright and grandmother's china and the big Shake- 
 speare . . . 
 
 mr. uglow. Giving them, Mary, giving them? 
 
 the vicar. Surrendering them willingly, Mortimer. 
 They have ornamented our house for years. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. It isn't as if you hadn't done pretty well 
 out of Aunt Jane while she was alive! 
 
 the vicar. Oh, delicacy, Gladys! And some regard for 
 the truth! 
 
 mrs. Reginald. l_No nonsense about her.] No, if we're 
 talking business let's talk business. Her fifty pounds a year 
 more than paid you for keeping her, didn't it? Did it or 
 didn't it? 
 
 Reginald. [Gloomily.] She never eat anything that I 
 could see. 
 
 the vicar. She had a delicate appetite. It needed 
 teasing ... I mean coaxing. Oh, dear, this is most un- 
 pleasant! 
 
 Reginald. Fifty pound a year is nearly a pound a week, 
 you know.
 
 16 ROCOCO 
 
 the vicar. What about her clothes . . . what about 
 her little holidays . . . what about the doctor . . . what 
 about her temper to the last? [He summons the classics 
 to clear this sordid air7\ Oh: De mortuis nil nisi bonum! 
 
 mrs. underwood. She was a great trouble with her 
 meals, Reginald. 
 
 mr. uglow. [Letting rip-2 She was a horrible woman. 
 I disliked her more than any woman I've ever met. She 
 brought George to bankruptcy. When he was trying to 
 arrange with his creditors and she came into the room, her 
 face would sour them ... I tell you, sour them. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. [She sums it upr\ Well, Uncle Simon's 
 a clergyman and can put up with unpleasant people. It 
 suited them well enough to have her. You had the room, 
 Aunt Mary, you can't deny that. And anyway she's dead 
 now . . . poor Aunt Jane! [She throws this conventional 
 verbal bone to Cerbenis7\ And what with the things she has 
 left you . . . ! What's to be done with her clothes? 
 
 Gladys and Mrs. Underwood suddenly face each other 
 like two ladylike ghouls. 
 
 mrs. underwood. Well, you remember the mauve - 
 silk . . . 
 
 the vicar. Mary, pray allow me. [Somehow his delicacy 
 is shocked.^ The Poor. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. [In violent protest.^ Not the mauve 
 silk! Nor her black lace shawl! 
 
 miss underwood. [Shooting it out.J They will make soup. 
 It makes Mr. Uglow jump, physically and mentally too. 
 
 mr. uglow. What! 
 
 miss underwood. The proceeds of their sale will make 
 much needed soup . . . and blankets. [Again her gaze 
 transfixes that wig and she addresses Eternity. - } No brain 
 under it! . . . No wonder it's loose! No brain. 
 Mr. Uglow just manages to ignore it. 
 
 Reginald. Where is the beastly vase? I don't know 
 that I want to inherit it.
 
 ROCOCO 17 
 
 mr. uglow. Yes, may I ask for the second or third time 
 to-day? . . . 
 miss underwood. The third. 
 
 mr. uglow. \JELe screws a baleful glance at her.] May 
 I ask for the second or third time . . . 
 Reginald. It is the third time, father. 
 mr. uglow. [His own son, toof\ Reginald, you have 
 no tact. May I ask why the vase is not to be seen? 
 miss underwood. [Sharply.] It's put away. 
 mrs. Reginald. [As sharp as she. Never any nonsense 
 about Gladys.] Why? 
 
 mr. uglow. Gladys . . . ignore that, please, Mary? 
 mrs. underwood. Yes, Mortimer. 
 mr. uglow. It has been chipped. 
 the vicar. It has not been chipped. 
 mr. uglow. I f it has been chipped . . . 
 the vicar. I say it has not been chipped. 
 mr. uglow. If it had been chipped, sir ... I should 
 have held you responsible! Produce it. 
 
 He is indeed very much of a man. A little more and 
 he'll slap his chest. But the Vicar, lamblike, etc. . . . 
 we can now add dangerous. . . . 
 the vicar. Oh, no, we must not be ordered to produce it. 
 mr. uglow. [Trumpet-toned.] Produce it, Simon. 
 the vicar. Neither must we be shouted at. 
 miss underwood. ... or bawled at. Bald at! Ha, ha! 
 And she taps her grey-haired parting with a thimbled 
 finger to emphasize the pun, Mr. Uglow rises, too in- 
 tent on his next impressive stroke even to notice it, 
 or seem to. 
 mr. uglow. Simon, if you do not instantly produce the 
 vase I shall refuse to treat this any longer in a friendly way. 
 I shall place the matter in the hands of my solicitors. 
 
 This, in any family — is it not the final threat? Mrs. 
 Underwood is genuinely shocked. 
 mrs. underwood. Oh, Simon!
 
 18 ROCOCO 
 
 the vicar. As a matter of principle, Mary. . . . 
 
 Reginald. [Impartially^} What rot! 
 
 mrs. underwood. It was put away, I think, so that the 
 sight of it might not rouse discussion . . . wasn't it Simon? 
 
 Reginald. Well, we've had the discussion. Now get 
 it out. 
 
 the vicar. [Lamblike . . . etc.; add obstinate now.} 
 It is my principle not to submit to dictation. If I were asked 
 politely to produce it. . . . 
 
 Reginald. Ask him politely, father. 
 
 mr. uglow. [Why shouldn't he have principles, too?} I 
 don't think I can. To ask politely might be an admission 
 of some right of his to detain the property. This matter 
 will go further. I shall commit myself in nothing without 
 legal advice. 
 
 MRS. Reginald. You get it out, Aunt Mary. 
 
 mrs. underwood. [Almost thankful to be helpless in the 
 matter.} I can't. I don't know where it is. 
 
 MR. uglow. [All the instinct for Law in him blazing.} You 
 don't . . . ! This is important. He has no right to keep 
 it from you, Mary. I venture to think. . . . 
 
 the vicar. Husband and wife are one, Mortimer. 
 
 MR. uglow. Not in Law. Don't you cram your religion 
 down my throat. Not in Law any longer. We've im- 
 proved all that. The married woman's property act! I 
 venture to think. . . . 
 
 Miss Underwood has disappeared. Her comment is 
 to slam the door. 
 
 mrs. underwood. I think perhaps Carinthia has gone 
 for it, Mortimer. 
 
 MR. uglow. [The case given him, he asks for costs, as it 
 were.} Then I object. ... I object most strongly to this 
 woman knowing the whereabouts of a vase which you, 
 Mary. . . . 
 
 the vicar. [A little of the mere layman peeping now.} 
 Mortimer, do not refer to my sister as "this woman."
 
 ROCOCO 19 
 
 mr. uglow. Then treat my sister with the respect that 
 is due to her, Simon. 
 
 They are face to face. 
 the vicar. I hope I do, Mortimer. 
 mr. uglow. And will you request Miss Underwood not 
 to return to this room with or without the vase? 
 the vicar. Why should I? 
 
 MR. uglow. What has she to do with a family matter 
 of mine? I make no comment, Mary, upon the way you 
 allow yourself to be ousted from authority in your own 
 house. It is not my place to comment upon it and I make 
 none. I make no reference to the insults . . . the un- 
 womanly insults that have been hurled at me by this Futile 
 Female . . . 
 
 Reginald. £4 remembered schoolmaster joke. He feels 
 not unlike one as he watches his two elders squared to each other .] 
 Apt alliteration's artful aid . . . what? 
 MR. uglow. Don't interrupt. 
 
 MRS. Reginald. You're getting excited again, father. 
 MR. uglow. I am not. 
 MRS. Reginald. Father! 
 
 There is one sure way to touch Mr. Ugloiv. She takes 
 it. She points to his wig. 
 MR. uglow^. What? Well . . . where 's a glass . . . 
 where's a glass? 
 
 He goes to the mantelpiece m irror. His sister follows him. 
 MRS. underwood. We talked it over this morning, Mor- 
 timer, and we agreed that I am of a yielding disposition and 
 I said I should feel much safer if I did not even know where 
 it was while you were in the house. 
 
 MR. uglow. [}Yith every appropriate bitterness^ And I 
 your loving brother! * 
 
 the vicar. \_Not to be outdone by Reginald in quotations.] 
 A little more than kin and less than kind. 
 
 mr. uglow. [flw wig is straight.'] How dare you, 
 Simon? A little more than ten minutes ago and I was
 
 20 ROCOCO 
 
 struck . . . here in your house. How dare you quote 
 poetry at me? 
 
 The Vicar feels he must pronounce on this. 
 the vicar. I regret that Carinthia has a masterful 
 nature. She is apt to take the law into her own hands. 
 And I fear there is something about you, Mortimer, that 
 invites violence. I can usually tell when she is going to be 
 unruly; there's a peculiar twitching of her hands. If you 
 had not been aggravating us all with your so-called argu- 
 ments, I should have noticed it in time and . . . taken 
 steps. 
 
 MRS. underwood. We're really very sorry, Mortimer. 
 We can always . . . take steps. But . . . dear me! . . . 
 I was never so surprised in my life. You all seemed to go 
 mad at once. I makes me hot now to think of it. 
 
 The truth about Carinthia is that she is sometimes 
 thought to be a little off her head. It 's a form of genius. 
 the vicar. I shall have a headache to-morrow . . . my 
 sermon day. 
 
 Mr. V 'glow now begins to glow with a sense of coming 
 
 victory. And he's not bad-natured, give him what he 
 
 wants. 
 
 mr. uglow. Oh, no, you won't. More frightened than 
 
 hurt ! These things will happen . . . the normal gross-feeding 
 
 man sees red, you know, sees red. Reggie as a small boy . . . 
 
 quite uncontrollable! 
 
 Reginald. Well, I like that ! You howled out for help. 
 the vicar. [Lamblike and only lamblike^} I am willing 
 to obliterate the memory. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. I'm sure I'm black and blue . . . and 
 more torn than I can see. 
 
 mr. uglow. But what can you do when a woman forgets 
 herself? I simply stepped aside ... I happen to value my 
 dignity. 
 
 The door opens. Miss Underwood with the vase. She 
 deposits it on the mahogany table. It is two feet in
 
 ROCOCO 21 
 
 height. It is lavishly blotched with gold and white and 
 red. It has curves and crinkles. Its handles are bossy. 
 My God, it is a Vase! 
 MISS underwood. There it is. 
 
 mr. uglow. [With a victor's dignity.'} Thank you, Miss 
 Underwood. [_He puts up gold-rimmed glasses.} Ah . . . 
 pure Rococo! 
 Reginald. The Vi-Cocoa vase! 
 mr. uglow. That's not funny, Reginald. 
 Reginald. Well ... I think it is. 
 
 The trophy before him, Mr. Uglow mellows. 
 mr. uglow. Mary, you've often heard George tell us. 
 The Emperor welcoming 'em . . . fine old fellow . . . 
 speech in German . . . none of them understood it. Then 
 at the end . . . Gentlemen, I raise my glass. Hock . . . 
 hock . . . hock! 
 
 Reginald. \Who knows a German accent when he hears it.} 
 A little more spit in it. 
 
 mr. uglow. Reginald, you're very vulgar. 
 Reginald. Is that Potsdam? 
 
 The monstrosity has coloured views on it, one back, one 
 front. 
 MR. uglow. Yes . . . home of Friedrich der Grosse! 
 A great nation. We can learn a lot from 'em! 
 
 This was before the war. What he says of them now 
 is unprintable. 
 Reginald. Yes. I suppose it's a jolly handsome piece 
 of goods. Cost a lot. 
 
 MR. uglow. Royal factory . . . built to imitate Sevres! 
 Apparently he would contemplate it for hours. But 
 the Vicar . . . Lamblike, etc. ; add insinuating now. 
 the vicar. Well, Mortimer, here is the vase. Now 
 where are we? 
 
 MRS. Reginald. [Really protesting for the first time!} 
 Oh . . . are we going to begin all over again! Why don't 
 you sell it and share up?
 
 22 ROCOCO 
 
 mrs. underwood. Gladys, I don't think that would be 
 quite nice. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. I can't see why not. 
 
 mr. uglow. Sell an heirloom ... it can't be done. 
 
 Reginald. Oh, yes, it can. You and I together . . . cut 
 off the entail . . . that's what it's called. It'd fetch twenty 
 pounds at Christie's. 
 
 mr. uglow. [The sight of it has exalted him beyond reason.] 
 More . . . more! First class rococo. I shouldn't dream 
 of it. 
 
 Miss Underwood has resumed her embroidery. She 
 pulls a determined needle as she says . . . 
 
 miss underwood. I think Mary would have a share in 
 the proceeds, wouldn't she? 
 
 mr. uglow. I think not. 
 
 the vicar. Why not, Mortimer? 
 
 mr. uglow. [With fine detachment .] Well, it's a point 
 of law. I'm not quite sure . . . but let's consider it in 
 Equity. [Not that he knows what on earth he means!] If I 
 died . . . and Reginald died childless and Mary survived 
 us . . . and it came to her? Then there would be our 
 cousins the Bamfords as next inheritors. Could she by 
 arrangement with them sell and . . . ? 
 
 mrs. underwood. I shouldn't like to sell it. It would 
 seem like a slight on George , . . because he went bankrupt 
 perhaps. And Jane always had it in her bedroom. 
 
 miss underwood. [Thimbling the determined needle 
 through.'] Most unsuitable for a bedroom. 
 
 mrs. underwood. [Anxious to pleased] Didn't you 
 suggest, Simon, that I might undertake not to leave it out 
 of the family? 
 
 the vicar. [Covering a weak spot.] In private conversa- 
 tion with you, Mary . . . 
 
 mr. uglow. [Most high and mighty, oh most!] I don't 
 accept the suggestion. I don't accept it at all. 
 
 the vicar. [And now taking the legal line in his turn.]
 
 ROCOCO 23 
 
 Let me point out to you, Mortimer, that there is nothing 
 to prevent Mary's selling the vase for her own exclusive 
 benefit. 
 mr. uglow. {His guard down.~\ Simon! 
 the vicar. {Satisfied to have touched him.\\ Once again, 
 I merely insist upon a point of principle. 
 
 MR. uglow. {But now flourishing his verbal sword. - } And 
 I insist ... let everybody understand it ... I insist that 
 all thought of selling an heirloom is given up! Reginald . . . 
 Gladys, you are letting me be exceedingly upset. 
 
 Reginald. Well . . . shall I walk off with it? They 
 couldn't stop me. 
 
 He lifts it up; and this simplest of solutions strikes them 
 all stupcnt; except Miss Underwood, who glances under 
 her bushy eyebrows. 
 miss underwood. You'll drop it if you're not careful. 
 mrs. underwood. Oh, Reggie, you couldn't carry that 
 to the station . . . everyone would stare at you. 
 
 the vicar. I hope you would not be guilty of such an 
 unprincipled act. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. I won't have it at home, Reg, so I tell 
 you. One of the servants'd be sure to ... ! {She sighs 
 desperately, .] Why not sell the thing? 
 mr. uglow. Gladys, be silent. 
 
 Reginald. {As he puts the vase down, a little nearer the 
 edge of the tabled] It is a weight. 
 
 So they have argued high and argued low and also argued 
 round about it; they have argued in a f till circle. And 
 now there is a deadly calm. Mr. Uglow breaks it; 
 his voice trembles a little as does his hand with its signet 
 ring rattling on the table. 
 mr. uglow. Then we are just where we started half an 
 hour ago . . . are we, Simon? 
 
 the vicar. {Lamblike in excelsis.'} Precisely, Mortimer. 
 
 mr. uglow. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. {He gazes 
 
 at them with cool ferocity. 2 Now let us all keep our tempers.
 
 24 ROCOCO 
 
 the vicar. I hope I shall have no occasion to lose mine. 
 
 MR. uglow. Nor I mine. 
 
 He seems not to move a muscle, but in some mysterious 
 way his wig shifts: a sure sign. 
 
 MRS. underwood. Oh, Mortimer, you're going to get 
 excited. 
 
 MR. uglow. I think not, Mary. I trust not. 
 
 Reginald. {Proffering real temptation.'] Father . . . 
 come away and write a letter about it. 
 
 MR. uglow. {As his wrath swells.] If I write a letter . . . 
 if my solicitors have to write a letter . . . there are 
 people here who will regret this day. 
 
 MRS. underwood. {Trembling at the coming storm.] 
 Simon, I'd much sooner he took it . . . I'd much rather 
 he took everything Jane left me. 
 
 mr. uglow. Jane did not leave it to you, Mary. 
 
 mrs. underwood. Oh, Mortimer, she did try to leave it 
 to me. 
 
 MR. uglow. {Running up the scale of indignation^] She 
 may have tried . . . but she did not succeed . . . because 
 she could not . . . because she had no right to do so. {And 
 reaching the summit.] I am not in the least excited. 
 
 Suddenly Miss Underwood takes a shrewd hand in 
 the game. 
 
 miss underwood. Have you been to your lawyer? 
 
 MR. uglow. {Swivelling round.] What's that? 
 
 miss uglow. Have you asked your lawyer? 
 He has not. 
 
 MR. uglow. Gladys, I will not answer her. I refuse to 
 answer the . . . the . . . the female. {But he has funked 
 the 'futile.'] 
 
 MRS. Reginald. {Soothing him.] All right, father. 
 
 miss underwood. He hasn't because he knows what his 
 lawyer would say. Rot's what his lawyer would say! 
 
 mr. uglow. {Calling on the gods to protect this woman 
 from him.2 Heaven knows I wish to discuss this calmly!
 
 ROCOCO 25 
 
 Reginald. Aunt Mary, might I smoke? 
 miss underwood. Not in the drawing-room. 
 mrs. underwood. No . . . not in the drawing-room, 
 please, Reginald. 
 
 mr. uglow. You're not to go away, Reginald. 
 Reginald. Oh, well . . . hurry up. 
 
 Mr. Uglow looks at the Vicar. The Vicar is actually 
 
 smiling. Can this mean defeat for the house of Uglow ? 
 
 Never. 
 
 MR. uglow. Do I understand that on your wife's behalf 
 
 you entirely refuse to own the validity of my brother George's 
 
 letter . . . where is it? ... I read you the passage written 
 
 on his death-bed. 
 
 the vicar. ^Measured and confident. Victory gleams 
 for him now.J Why did he not mention the vase in his 
 will? 
 
 mr. uglow. There were a great many things he did not 
 mention in his will. 
 the vicar. Was his widow aware of the letter? 
 mr. uglow. You know she was. 
 
 the vicar. Why did she not carry out what you think 
 to have been her husband's intention? 
 
 mr. uglow. Because she was a beast of a woman. 
 
 Mr. Uglow is getting the worst of it, his temper is 
 slipping. 
 mrs. underwood. Mortimer, what language about the 
 newly dead! 
 the vicar. An heirloom in the family? 
 mr. uglow. Quite so. 
 
 the vicar. On what grounds do you maintain that 
 George's intentions are not carried out when it is left to 
 my wife? 
 
 And indeed, 'Mr. Uglow is against the ropes,' so to 
 speak. 
 miss underwood. The man hasn't a wig to stand on. . . . 
 I mean a leg.
 
 26 ROCOCO 
 
 MR. uglow. f^Pale with fury, hoarse with it, even pathetic 
 in it.] Don't you speak to me ... I request you not to 
 speak to me. 
 
 Reginald and Gladys quite seriously think this is 
 bad for him. 
 
 Reginald. Look here, father, Aunt Mary will undertake 
 not to let it go out of the family. Leave it at that. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. We don't want the thing, father . . . 
 the drawing-room's full already. 
 
 mr. uglow. IfThe pathos in him growing; he might flood 
 the best Brussels with tears at any moment^] It's not the vase. 
 It's no longer the vase. It's the principle. 
 
 mrs. underwood. Oh, don't, Mortimer . . . don't be 
 like Simon. That's why I mustn't give in. It'll make 
 it much more difficult if you start thinking of it like 
 that. 
 
 miss underwood. ^Pulling and pushing that embroidery 
 needle more grimly than ever. J It's a principle in our family 
 not to be bullied. 
 
 mrs. Reginald. \In almost a vulgar tone, really."] If 
 she'd go and mind her own family's business! 
 
 The Vicar knows that he has his Uglows on the run. 
 Suavely he presses the advantage. 
 
 the vicar. I am sorry to repeat myself, Mortimer, but 
 the vase was left to Jane , absolutely. It has been 
 specifically left to Mary. She is under no obligation to 
 keep it in the family. 
 
 mr. uglow. ^Control breaking^ You'll get it, will you 
 . . . you and your precious female sister? 
 
 the vicar. ^Quieter and quieter; that superior quietude^] 
 Oh, this is so unpleasant. 
 
 mr. uglow. ^Control broken!] Never! Never! ! . . . 
 not if I beggar myself in law-suits. 
 
 miss underwood. X^A sudden and vicious jab.] Who 
 wants the hideous thing? 
 
 mr. uglow. ^Broken, all of him. In sheer hysterics.
 
 ROCOCO 27 
 
 Tears starting from his eyes.} Hideous! You hear her? 
 They'd sell it for what it would fetch. My brother George's 
 rococo vase! An objet d'art et vertu ... an heirloom . . . 
 a family record of public service! Have you no feelings, 
 Mary? 
 
 MRS. underwood. [Dissolved.} Oh, I'm very unhappy. 
 
 Again are Mr. Ugl&w and the Vicar breast to breast. 
 
 the vicar. Don't make your sister cry, sir. 
 
 MR. uglow. Make your sister hold her tongue, sir. She 
 
 has no right in this discussion at all. Am I to be provoked 
 
 and badgered by a Futile Female? 
 
 The Vicar and Mr. Uglow are intent on each other, the 
 others are intent on them. No one notices that Miss 
 Underwood' s embroidery is very decidedly laid down 
 and that her fingers begin to twitch. 
 the vicar. How dare you suppose, Mortimer, that Mary 
 and I would not respect the wishes of the dead? 
 MR. uglow. It's nothing to do with you, either. 
 
 Miss Undenvood has risen from her chair. This 
 Gladys does notice. 
 MRS. Reginald. I say . . . Uncle Simon. 
 the vicar. What is it? 
 
 Reginald. Look here, Uncle Simon, let Aunt Mary 
 write a letter undertaking. . . . There's no need for all 
 this row. . . . 
 
 MRS. underwood. I will! I'll undertake anything! 
 the vicar. [The Church on its militant dignity now.} 
 Keep calm, Mary. I am being much provoked, too. Keep 
 calm. 
 
 MR. uglow. [Stamping it out.'} He won't let her . . . 
 he and his sister ... he won't give way in anything. Why 
 should I be reasonable? 
 
 Reginald. If she will undertake it, will you . . . ? 
 MRS. Reginald. Oh, Aunt Mary, stop her! 
 
 In the precisest manner possible, judging her distance 
 with care, aiming well and true, Miss Underwood has
 
 28 ROCOCO 
 
 for the second lime to-day, soundly boxed Mr. U glow's 
 ear. He yells. 
 mr. uglow. I say . . . I'm hurt. 
 Reginald. Look here now . . . not again! 
 the vicar. [He gets flustered. No wonder.'] Carinthia! 
 I should have taken steps! It is almost excusable. 
 MR. uglow. I'm seriously hurt. 
 
 MRS. Reginald. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
 miss underwood. Did you feel the thimble? 
 MRS. underwood. Oh, Carinthia, this is dreadful! 
 MR. uglow. I wish to preserve my dignity. 
 
 He backs out of her reach that he may the belter do so. 
 miss underwood. Your wig's crooked. 
 MRS. Reginald. [Rousing: though her well-pinched arms 
 have lively recollections of half an hour ago.] Don't you insult 
 my father. 
 
 miss underwood. Shall I put it straight? It'll be off 
 again. 
 
 She advances, her eyes gleaming. To do . . . Heaven 
 knows what! 
 mr. uglow. [Still backing!] Go away. 
 Reginald. [Who really doesn't fancy tackling the lady 
 either.] Why don't you keep her in hand? 
 
 mr. uglow. [Backed as far as he can, and in terror.] 
 Simon, you're a cad and your sister's a mad cad. Take 
 her away. 
 
 But this the Vicar will not endure. He has been called a cad, 
 and that no English gentleman will stand, and a clergy- 
 man is a gentleman, sir. In ringing tones and with his 
 finest gesture you hear him. "Get out of my house!" 
 Mr. Uglow doubtless could reply more fittingly were it 
 not that Miss Underwood still approaches. He is 
 feebly forcible merely. "Don't you order me about," 
 he quavers. What is he but a fascinated rabbit before 
 the terrible woman? The gentlemanly Vicar advances — 
 "Get out before I put you out," he vociferates — English-
 
 ROCOCO 29 
 
 man to the backbone. But that is Reginald's waited- 
 for excuse. "Oh, no, you don't," he says and bears 
 down on the Vicar. Mrs. Undei-wood yelps in soft 
 but agonized apprehension: "Oh, Simon, be careful." 
 Mr. Uglow has his hands up, not indeed in token of 
 surrender, — though surrender to the virago poised at him 
 he would, — but to shield his precious wig. 
 
 "Mind my head, do," he yells; he will have it that it is his head. 
 "Come away from my father," calls out Mrs. Reginald, 
 stoutly clasping Miss Underwood from behind round 
 that iron-corseted waist. Miss Underwood swivels 
 round. "Don't you touch me, Miss," she snaps. But 
 Gladys has weight and the two are toppling groundward 
 while Reginald, one hand on the Vicar, one grabbing at 
 Miss Underwood to protect his wife ("Stop it, do!" he 
 shouts), is outbalanced. And the Vicar making still 
 determinedly for Mr. Uglow, and Mr. Uglow, his wig 
 securer, preparing to defy the Vicar, the melee is joined 
 once more. Only Mrs. Underwood is so far safe. 
 
 The fighters breathe hard and sway. They sway against the 
 great mahogany table. The Rococo Vase totters; it 
 falls; it is smashed to pieces. By a supreme effort 
 the immediate authors of its destruction — linked to- 
 gether — contrive not to sit down among them. Mrs. 
 Underwood is heard to breathe, "Oh . . . . Thank 
 goodness."
 
 Vote by Ballot 
 
 A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 
 
 1914 
 
 PROPERTY OF 
 PASTKIENT OF • DRARATIC ART
 
 property of 
 
 depart:.::.:! of dramatic art 
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 // is one of those days of spring in England when the English 
 spring is behaving itself. The sun shines white through 
 the open French window into Mrs. Tor pothouse's 
 drawing-room and adds another pattern to the carpet, 
 while little motes that must otherwise inhabit the room 
 unseen seem happy in its beams. It is a pretty room, 
 empty at the moment, for ten minutes ago Mrs. Torpen- 
 kouse, with a garden hat on, her hands looking enormous 
 in rough gloves, a basket slung to her arm, went out 
 through that open window. It is Mrs. Torpcnhouse's 
 own particular room and she lives her life in it. But it 
 is called the drawing-room; just as Mr. Torpcnhouse's 
 particular room is called the study. Then there is the 
 dining-room, of course, and there is Mrs. Torpcnhouse's 
 bedroom. It is Mr. Torpcnhouse's bedroom, too, but 
 it is called hers. Then there is his dressing-room. 
 There is a spare room where you can put anybody, and 
 another spare room where you can hardly put anybody. 
 And there are places for the three servants {Oh, but they 
 will not keep the windows open!) and there is a garden 
 room, and a few odd holes and corners. With that you 
 have an upper middle class English house (be careful 
 about the "upper") standing in the suburbs of a country 
 town, run on (say) £500 a year. And Mr. Torpcn- 
 house's salary, "all in," is £800, so there is a comfort- 
 able margin. Besides, there are the accumulated savings 
 of thirty years, never touched, the interest on them ac- 
 cumulating loo. 
 
 It is not quite a typical house, for the Torpcnhouscs arc not 
 exactly typical people and the house reflects them: in 
 
 33
 
 34 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 particular it reflects her. In the drawing-room, for in- 
 stance, you will find furniture which could only have 
 been chosen by someone who liked good furniture be- 
 cause it was good. There are no wonderful " pieces," 
 they are not all of a period; but it seems that each chair 
 and table must have been asked to join the others, first for 
 its own sake and then because they would all get on well 
 together. The curtains are such pretty curtains and they 
 look neither too new nor too old. The patterns on them 
 and on the wall paper and the carpet are modest patterns. 
 There are not too many ornaments about either, — some 
 few things bought because she liked them, some kept 
 for old association's sake. Vivid colour the room does 
 lack. Possibly to Mrs. Torpenhouse life itself is an 
 affair of delicate halftones, of grey and blue and mauve, 
 and white that is not loo white. Well, everything 
 is spotlessly, chastely clean and well polished where 
 polish should be. 
 
 On this spring morning . . . and it is nearly noon . . . while 
 she, with garden hat and gloves and basket is outdoors, 
 the square-faced, saucer-eyed Parlour-maid, stiff in 
 print frock, shows into this drawing-room Lord Silver- 
 well. He is sixty and his country riding clothes are 
 smart. They are his armour, for beneath a quite harm- 
 less pomposity one may discern a slightly apologetic soul. 
 A man, one would say,- who has been thrust willy-nilly 
 into importance. Nor when we learn that he is a 
 wealthy manufacturer, a self-made man, a petty prince 
 of commerce, need we revise this judgment. Mostly such 
 folk are left wondering, after the first few years, how on 
 earth they did get rich. In their hearts they are some- 
 times a little ashamed of it. 
 
 But the Parlour-maid whose bugle eye does not discern the 
 innermost of things, is impressed by the visitor, even a 
 little confused. 
 the maid. Yes. Mrs. Torpenhouse is at home, sir . . .
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 35 
 
 \Rer little mouth left gaping, then closes on the bigger morsel/} 
 my lord. 
 
 lord silverwell. Then I'll wait for Mr. Torpenhouse. 
 And tell Mrs. Torpenhouse that . . . Ubut he swallows it 
 altogether] is here. 
 
 the maid. Yes, my lord. 
 
 The maid is going as Mrs. Torpenhouse arrives through 
 the window. The Maid then does go. 
 MRS. torpenhouse. I saw you ride up. Someone took 
 your horse? I was down in the meadow looking for mush- 
 rooms. 
 
 She removes the enormous glove to give him a pretty, 
 hardly wrinkled hand. Though she is not a tiny woman, 
 she is fragile, and there is about her both expectation and 
 surprise, as if she felt that all the queer things the 
 world did do were simply nothing to the queerer things 
 it might. 
 lord silverwell. That's a new maid. 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Yes. 
 
 lord silverwell. She knew there was a title now, but 
 she didn't know what title . . . and I was too shy to tell 
 her. 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Lewis is at the Town Hall. 
 lord silverwell. So's Noel. I said I'd wait for them 
 both here ... if I may. 
 
 They sit down. She shows him a little, though a very 
 little gentle deference. 
 MRS. torpenhouse. Lord Silverwell sounds much nicer 
 . . . but Lewis says the town was disappointed. 
 
 lord silverwell. [Enthroned in the bigger chair, his 
 voice lakes on, I regret to say, a rather pompous tone.'} I 
 thought that well over . . . and as soon as I could speak of 
 my impending . . . elevation I took advice. Cuttleton? 
 D'you think that ought to have been the title? I owe 
 the place much ... it sounds as democratic as a peerage 
 can.
 
 36 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. But it's how much the town owes 
 you, Lewis says, they were thinking of. I suppose they'd 
 have liked to stand sort of godfather to you in return. 
 
 lord silver well. [It's odd: he can be pompous and shy 
 at the same time7\ Wychway of Cuttleton, I should have 
 liked. But to ennoble your own name . . . one has to have 
 done something. My own estate . . . Noel was born there, 
 even though I bought it . . . that's modest and yet dig- 
 nified ... I hope. \IIe looks at her even a little appealingly.] 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Lewis likes it. And have you been 
 to the House of Lords yet? 
 
 lord silver well. Not for worlds! I ... I ... it'll 
 have to be done, though. 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. But they don't wear anything special 
 there, do they? Coronets and things? 
 
 lord silverwell. Only on certain occasions. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Have you got yours yet? 
 
 lord silverwell. I've ordered one. It's usual. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. What's it made of? 
 
 lord silverwell. Silver gilt. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. [Her eyes twinkling.] Now mind it's 
 kept clean. 
 
 lord silverwell. [She has him at his ease.] Once a 
 week with the forks and spoons. 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. I'm serious. 
 
 lord silverwell. When did Torpenhouse go to the 
 Town Hall? 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. Lewis has been going and coming 
 all day. [She seems, naively, as she says it, to be liking the 
 sound of her husband's name. It is one gentle way of loving 
 him.'] He's very anxious. 
 
 lord silverwell. We're all anxious. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. He ate no lunch. 
 
 lord silverwell. Noel ate no lunch. I ate a fair 
 lunch. But I'm very anxious . . . and whichever way it 
 goes now . . . most annoyed.
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 37 
 
 Mrs. Torpenhonse shakes her head. She almost seems 
 to imply that this isn't genuine annoyance, but what 
 she says is: — 
 mrs. torpenhouse. I can't take any real interest in 
 politics, so I just don't pretend. 
 
 lord silverwell. [_A certain well-known sort of vehe- 
 mence growing on him.'} At the very best the majority will 
 have been cut down . . . cut to nothing . . . cut to ribbons. 
 In the simplest way she tries to recall him . . . to 
 himself. 
 mrs. torpenhouse. But why should you be nervous of 
 the House of Lords when you've been a real member of 
 Parliament all these years? 
 
 lord silverwell. [}Vho conscientiously will not be re- 
 called.} My position over this election is a very awkward 
 one. Did you read the papers this morning? 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Lewis reads both the papers at 
 breakfast. 
 
 He begins to perambulate the room, stiffly, in his riding 
 breeches, for greater emphasis. 
 lord silverwell. Of course they're sick about it . . . 
 in spite of that one ballot box and our peculiar hopes on a 
 recount. It's been a safe seat ever since 1886, the second 
 time I held it for them. I promised them it was a safe seat 
 when they offered me the barony. And now if my own 
 son's to lose it ... ! What could be more awkward? 
 " They" seems to be not the public generally, nor even the 
 electors of Culllelon, but some higher, more mysterious 
 power. 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Yes . . . I'm afraid I don't under- 
 stand. 
 
 Short of someone who understands belter than you do, 
 the most consoling thing is to meet someone who doesn't 
 understand at all. Lord Silverwell is quieted, and, 
 pausing in his walk, contemplates her garden basket 
 With a sad but not unfriendly eye.
 
 38 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. One ought to pick them first thing 
 in the morning . . . but I can't get up so early as I could once. 
 lord silverwell. ^Moodily: perhaps he thinks of mush- 
 room picking as a boyJJ We grow them in a cellar. 
 Mrs. Torpenhouse'' 's face lights up. 
 mrs. torpenhouse. There's Lewis putting his stick in 
 the umbrella stand. 
 
 But it is Noel Wychway who comes in. The Honour- 
 able Noel Wychway, in full etiquette he is, but only 
 for the past three weeks, and he will always drop that 
 silly snobbish-sounding prefix when he can. noel is 
 thirty or a little more. He is an example of what the 
 good things of life, lavishly given, from good food to good 
 education, can do for any man. They can do much 
 and he shows it. They cannot do more, and he, before 
 all people, knows it. He greets Mrs. Torpenhouse 
 punctiliously, and then, amusedly grim, faces his father, 
 who at sight of him goes grimly glum. 
 noel. How d'y do, Mrs. Torpenhouse? 
 
 LORD SILVERWELL. Well, Noel? 
 
 noel. One! 
 
 lord silverwell. Against you? 
 
 noel. Yes. 
 
 lord silverwell. [With some solemnity 7\ I'm damned! 
 Mrs. Torpenhouse will excuse me. 
 
 noel. It's not your fault, father . . . and I'm damned. 
 Mr. Torpenhouse comes in. Lord Silverwell pounces on 
 him. 
 
 lord silverwell. Lewis, can we petition? One can 
 always prove bribery, if one wants to. 
 
 noel. No ... let it be. 
 
 lord silverwell. [Protestant: pathetic.^ But it leaves 
 me in such an impossibly awkward position. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Will you have some tea? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Yes, Mary. 
 
 lord silverwell. Thank you.
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 39 
 
 noel. {As he sits and stretches: a man who knows the worst."] 
 By one vote, mind you! Two hundred and twenty-five in 
 that extra box . . . We were fifteen to the good last night, 
 not fourteen. ... I wish the fool had never found it. One 
 vote! ! 
 
 lord silverwell. {With a sudden snap.] I wish I 
 knew whose vote. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. And have you really not got in for 
 good and all? 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. {Who has hovered near the door.] I'll 
 tell . . . what is her name? 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Kate. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. . . . to bring tea. I must wash . . . 
 that committee room table . . . 
 
 He disappears. A man past sixty; not handsome, not 
 even distinguished. But there is something in his face, 
 a touch of enthusiasm, which would mark him out from 
 common men. There is a touch of music in his voice, 
 a falling cadence which lets you know that sometimes 
 his thoughts are on far -of things. One understands 
 how a woman woidd marry him. At this moment the 
 woman who did marry him says — 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Lewis is very upset. 
 lord silverwell. {With sudden violence^] Braxted let 
 us down. Have you seen his letter? 
 noel. No . . . confound his letter. 
 lord silverwell. Lewis has it. {Then he gets up again, 
 to resume his perambulating vehemence] That shows you 
 the personal attention one ought to pay to a small constitu- 
 ency. I did thirty years ago. I spent a solid three years 
 tackling every man in the place. Then I got careless. . . . 
 But that shouldn't have made you careless. No, it's not your 
 fault ... I daresay Lewis remembers ... he should have 
 put you in the way of it. 
 
 noel. Dash it . . . I've had three weeks . . . not much 
 more.
 
 40 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 lord silverwell. One vote ! I suspect Braxted. If 
 Braxted had voted straight . . . and you'd been elected 
 by the Mayor . . . that would have been bad enough . . . 
 a casting vote! 
 
 noel. Well . . . Braxted came down for the re-count 
 . . . and he told me . . . not that he need have told me . . . 
 that out of personal regard for you ... no kindness to 
 me at all . . . he deliberately spoiled his voting paper . . . 
 so there. 
 
 lord silverwell. ^With one sweeping gesture rejecting 
 Braxted.} I don't believe him. He went against you. 
 You read his letter? 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. [In her soft voice.'} Lewis thinks 
 Mr. Braxted is far too violent to mean anything he says. 
 
 Then comes a paternal-filial scrap. Quite good-natured; 
 the usual happy family thing. 
 
 lord silverwell. I never liked your Address. 
 
 noel. You didn't expect me to copy your Address. 
 
 lord silverwell. My Address got me in last January. 
 
 noel. You got in last January because you'd always 
 got in. 
 
 lord silverwell. I'm not blaming you. 
 The maid arrives with tea. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Here's tea ... we shall all feel 
 better then. 
 
 lord silverwell. [Forgivingly.} Your meetings were 
 excellent . . . Lewis assures me. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. And you never went to one of them? 
 
 lord silverwell. A Peer of the Realm . . . you see . . . 
 [He has to take breath after it.} may take no part in an elec- 
 tion. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Not even to help his own son! 
 That isn't natural, is it? 
 
 She begins to administer tea; a priestess of consolation. 
 Torpenhouse comes back. But he is still troubled and 
 the trouble seems deep in him. He takes a chair apart.
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 41 
 
 lord silverwell Lord Mount-Torby may have been 
 too radical for them. 
 
 noel. Nobody else was radical enough. 
 
 lord silverwell. He speaks well. Got that letter of 
 Braxted's, Lewis? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I tore it up ... I didn't know you 
 wanted it. 
 
 lord silverwell. There may have been a dozen other 
 men who did as he said he'd do. . . . 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Spoilt his paper on purpose ... he 
 told us. . . . 
 
 noel. [Excusably irritable in defeat under his careless 
 mask.'} When he knew we'd lost! 
 
 lord silverwell. If he says so, I daresay he did. With 
 all his faults he's a feeling fellow. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. [Thankful to hear a soft word/] 
 Oh, yes. 
 
 lord silverwell. If a dozen voted Tory because you 
 weren't Radical enough for 'em . . . silly fools! . . . and 
 hadn't the honesty to tell you so as Braxted told you, 
 still a hundred men calling themselves Tories must have 
 gone for you because you're . . . because you were. . . . 
 
 noel. Your son! 
 
 lord silverwell. [With a vicious snap: he is rapidly 
 evolving some real feelings about this affair.'] Well . . . not 
 a smooth-headed carpet-bagger of a Conservative penny-a- 
 lining barrister, whatever else you are! I'm sorry to seem 
 upset, dear Mrs. Torpenhouse. . . . 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Give Lord Silverwell his tea, Lewis. 
 
 lord silverwell. . . . But my position with the Party 
 Whips is ... I do assure you ... a most impossibly 
 awkward one. [And now we can place the mysterious 
 "They".] 
 
 noel. It's no use, father . . . yes, sugar, please . . . 
 we thought we knew the town and every man's politics in it. 
 Well ... we didn't. I shan't stand again.
 
 42 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. [As she ministers tea to poor Noel.^ 
 Don't say that. 
 
 lord silverwell. [With a sudden serious rectitude.~} 
 Lewis, I hope all the men at the works voted straight. I 
 don't mean those whose opinions we know. There are 
 Tories and Socialists . . . and I've never attempted to 
 penalize a man for his political opinions. But all those that 
 aren't anything in particular. If I didn't think they'd 
 voted like one man for you, Noel, I ... I should be very 
 deeply hurt. 
 
 noel. You'd have won the seat yourself, Torpenhouse. 
 Torpenhouse gives him a quite scared look. 
 
 MR. TORPENHOUSE. No. 
 
 noel. Well, you've been a first-rate chairman of Com- 
 mittee, and I'm sorry I've let you all down. 
 
 lord silverwell. [As he stirs his tea.J If Noel won't 
 stand again I really think you'd better, Lewis. 
 
 noel. [In settled relief. 2 I won't. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. [With that same almost scared look^J 
 I couldn't. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Oh, Lewis! 
 
 lord silverwell. Yes . . . why not? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I couldn't . . . afford it. 
 
 lord silverwell. Now I know what you can afford and 
 what you can't. 
 
 noel. [Encouragingly. .] You stand. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. There are reasons why I couldn't. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Lewis, I think it'd be nice for you to 
 stand ... if only one felt sure you wouldn't be elected. 
 The charming inconsequence of this lets Torpenhouse 
 relax to saying genially . . . 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. My dear Mary, don't talk nonsense. 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. [She smiles gravely at him7\ That 
 may sound silly . . . but it isn't. 
 
 lord silverwell. [With some decision^] Lewis, our 
 factory has made Cuttleton what it is, and my estate is the
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 43 
 
 biggest in the County ... no credit to me, of course, but 
 that's so. If I can't any longer sit for the place and Noel 
 really means now to go and work up the South American 
 branch . . . 
 
 noel. For a couple of years. 
 
 lord silverwell. \Truly a patron and a peer.] . . . who 
 else should have the seat but you? You're my man of 
 business . . . you're more than that by a long way. 
 Confound it all, if it had been your money instead of mine 
 in the beginning you'd be Lord Something or other now, and 
 I should be . . . ! ! And I strongly suspect Cuttleton 
 knows it too. 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. %As she glows with gentle pride.'] 
 Lewis, when you're asked like that I'm sure you ought to, 
 just to show people that it's true . . . some of it ... of 
 course, only some. But if it comes to being elected and 
 spending all your time in that draughty stuffy House of 
 Commons we came to see you in, Sir Alfred . . . there, how 
 one does slip back! . . . well, his health wouldn't stand 
 that. And then of course I should have to interfere. 
 
 Torpenhouse bows his head and his voice seems to come 
 from rather far away. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I'm too old. I wish I weren't. 
 
 lord silverwell. We must get the seat back. 
 
 noel. Don't be depressed about my losing it, Torpen- 
 house. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I wish I could begin my life over 
 again. I'm very unhappy . . . I . . . I . . . 
 
 With no more warning he bursts into tears and sits 
 there crying like a child. The rest of them are really 
 alarmed. 
 
 lord silverwell. My dear Lewis! 
 
 noel. My dear Torpenhouse ... for heaven's sake! 
 It hasn't been your fault. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Oh, Lewis, I knew the strain'd be 
 too much for you. He's had nothing to eat to-day.
 
 44 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. It's not the strain. I'm all right. 
 Let me alone. 
 
 He extricates himself from their petting; moves to a 
 
 chair further apart still; turns away, his shoulders 
 
 heaving. Lord Silverwell is puzzled and tactful. 
 
 lord silverwell. Elections . . . very wearing things. 
 
 We'll talk of something else. Give me some more tea, my 
 
 dear lady. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. He's not strong. 
 
 Suddenly Torpenhouse turns back. There are un- 
 ashamed tears on his cheeks; one quite ridiculously 
 smears his nose. But his face is vivid and his eyes and 
 his voice are very steady indeed. 
 mr. torpenhouse. Wychway! 
 noel. Yes. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. No, no . . . your father . . . Lord 
 Silverwell ... I want to call you by your old name. . . . 
 lord silverwell. ^Encouragingly, as a nurse to a childJ} 
 So you shall. 
 
 mk. torpenhouse. I have been a pillar of Liberalism in 
 this town for thirty years . . . haven't I? 
 lord silverwell. All honour to you. 
 MR. torpenhouse. Be sure your sin will find you out. 
 His voice rings aloud. But then his knees seem to give 
 way and he sits of a heap gaping at them. Lord Silver- 
 well gapes in return. Noel is puzzled. Mrs. Torpen- 
 house soothes him . . . what she says is no matter . . . 
 in her soft way. 
 MRS. torpenhouse. My dear, you're very excited. 
 NOEL. \Trying ironic humour as a tonic.^ Well, it has 
 at last . . . but only by one vote. 
 
 Emotion seizes torpenhouse again, but this time 
 rebellious, incoherent. 
 MR. torpenhouse. To-day? Ah! . . . but until to- 
 day . . . the day of triumph! Oh, it's very difficult! 
 This is my hour! !
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 45 
 
 lord silverwell. My dear old chap, you're not well. 
 MRS. torpenhouse. Oh, Lewis ... do sit down. 
 mr. torpenhouse. Mary, I shall confess all . . . with 
 pride ... oh, with such pride. Noel . . . you have some 
 right to complain. 
 
 noel. Not at all . . . take it easy . . . better by your- 
 self. See you to-morrow. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. No; I mayn't have the courage. 
 Noel . . . you're a good fellow. ... In a sense it never 
 mattered with your father . . . and even now he won't 
 understand. Boys together! 
 
 He is standing, waving his arms at them. He looks 
 very queer indeed. 
 lord silverwell. Of course we were! 
 MRS. torpenhouse. [fioing to him, her tears starling nowP\ 
 Oh, . . . Lewis! 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Don't hold me! Don't cry, Mary. 
 It was my vote. 
 
 There is a silence: and the two other men look at what 
 he has said {in a sense) as they might at some queer 
 object that had marvellously dropped through the ceil- 
 ing. 
 noel. What d'you mean? 
 
 lord silverwell. My dear Lewis . . . what do you 
 mean? 
 
 Torpenhouse is attacking them now. He shakes his 
 fist. 
 mr. torpenhouse. I needn't have done it. Couldn't 
 I have spoiled my paper? The Mayor would have voted 
 you in. No, no! 
 
 lord silverwell. Do you mean you voted the wrong 
 way by mistake yesterday? 
 
 noel. \JIis eyebrows askew."} I don't think that's what 
 you mean, is it? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. \_Erccl, heroic^ As a Tory I have 
 never fully approved of the secrecy of the ballot. . . .
 
 46 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 lord silverwell. [With a wild effort to capture the situa- 
 tional Lewis, if you're ill let your wife send for the doctor. 
 If you're not, let's understand what it is you're trying to 
 say . . . and stop talking nonsense. 
 
 But Torpcnhouse only looks at him now in the kindest 
 way and shakes his head. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Wychway, we have been good friends. 
 I have served you faithfully ... I don't regret that. Noel, 
 I am quite calm now and I think it my duty, as chairman of 
 your committee, to inform you that yesterday I deliberately 
 voted against you. 
 
 lord silverwell. You're not serious. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. My vote was serious. 
 
 noel. [Grimly.} It was. 
 
 lord silverwell. [To the listening earth; and the po- 
 litical heavens as well.'} But why? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. For conscience' sake. 
 
 lord silverwell. {With a certain direct dignity; after 
 all, he is the man's chief.} Lewis, explain yourself. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. It isn't easy. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Lewis, don't you think you'd better 
 go and lie down? 
 
 lord silverwell. [_Tartly.2 No, I don't think he had. 
 Torpenhouse now faces his friend and the situation 
 very squarely. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Lord Silverwell . . . 
 
 lord silverwell. Don't call me that. I mean, don't 
 say it in that tone. Hang it, man, you queered the elec- 
 tion! 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. You probably have never known 
 what a moral difficulty was. 
 
 lord silverwell. Haven't I? Why haven't I, pray? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Well, you've been so successful. And 
 look at the money you've made. . . . 
 
 lord silverwell. I have made it honestly. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. You see? I said so.
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 47 
 
 noel. [Cutting in coolly; sharply a little, though."] But 
 what have I done to land you in such a queer dilemma? 
 
 MR: torpenhouse. [With perfect simplicity.] Personally 
 I am so sorry, Noel. . . . 
 
 noel. No, believe me, Torpenhouse, personally I'm not 
 very much annoyed . . . though I could easily pretend to 
 be. And politically I'm quite excited. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Thank you. 
 
 noel. You disapproved of my special little brand of 
 opinion? Well, so did my father. He thought my Address 
 horrid. It was lucky he'd lost his vote. 
 
 lord silverwell. Don't joke about this, Noel. 
 
 noel. But I think we'd better. [For an air of extreme 
 discomfort is gradually settling on them all.] Come on, some- 
 body must explain. You felt for the party's sake, that you 
 couldn't withdraw from the chairmanship ... so you paid 
 me out privately. I quite understand. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. [Almost to himself it seems.] Oh . . . 
 but I'm punished. 
 
 lord silverwell. Punished! Noel's punished. Let me 
 tell you, Torpenhouse, that you have behaved dishonourably. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. [With proper decorum, if they are 
 to disgrace themselves.] Lewis . . . shall I go? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. [Firmly.] I have. But you don't 
 know how ... or begin to. 
 
 lord silverwell. Then we'll hear the worst, please. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. [Glowing at him now.] I am a Poli- 
 tician. 
 
 noel. So we find. No ... I beg your pardon. [Noel's 
 nerves are really a little strained and irony is his only vent 
 for them.] 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. A serious politician. For thirty years. 
 I have voted straight. That at least is a comfort. 
 
 lord silverwell. Do you mean to say that all these 
 years you have been voting against me? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Yes, of course.
 
 48 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 lord silverwell. And been Chairman of my Com- 
 mittee! 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Well, as chairman of your committee 
 . . . and your man of business ... I always got you in. 
 What are you grumbling at? 
 
 lord silverwell. This is unbelievable! 
 
 noel. No. Get it all clear, Torpenhouse . . . and you'll 
 feel better. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Yesterday it was sheer force of habit, 
 Noel, nothing else. I felt so sure you were safe ... by a 
 hundred or two at least. I never stopped to think. And 
 now, at last, when I'd given up all hope of this damned 
 constituency ever doing the right thing ... to beat you . . . 
 to have my better nature triumph in spite of itself! And by 
 my own single vote! ! Mary, God has been very merciful 
 to me. 
 
 Caught in this sudden whirlpool of feeling and thought, 
 he almost breaks down again. 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. Oh, hush, Lewis, don't say things 
 like that. 
 
 lord silverwell. Torpenhouse, this is very serious. 
 I've always known there was a kink in you. You've had 
 strange tastes ... in books and things like that. But I 
 never thought it was a moral kink. 
 
 noel. My dear father, this needs understanding. Don't 
 lumber us up with injured feelings. 
 
 lord silverwell. Noel, please stop treating me as if 
 I were a fool. If ever you have to look back on thirty years 
 of a friend's deception . . . I'm sorry, it's a harsh word, 
 but I cannot take this lightly. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. \_Gently7\ My friend, I've never 
 taken it lightly, if that's any satisfaction to you. You see, 
 you haven't a conscience. . . . 
 
 lord silverwell. \Exploding?\ I will not be talked to 
 like this. No moral difficulties . . . lumbered up with 
 feelings ... no conscience!
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 49 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Yes, but I hadn't finished. A tor- 
 menting conscience, like mine. 
 
 lord silverwell. Can you wonder! 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. I have wondered all my life why Spirits 
 should possess us. 
 
 lord silverwell. \\His eyes inclined to bolt; but he tries 
 the heavily ironic, a leaf from Noel's book.'] Dare I say, 
 Keep to the point? Dare I hint that perhaps you don't 
 know either what you're talking about? With Noel looking 
 at me? No! 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Why could I give my body and mind 
 to working up the boot trade for you . . . and never my 
 soul at all? 
 
 lord silverwell. I never asked for it. I've never 
 given my soul to the boot trade. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. You have. 
 
 lord silverwell. I have not. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Why, whatever else has made it? 
 My disinterested business ability! Is that the price of suc- 
 cess the god of this world asks? 
 
 lord silverwell. We will not argue that. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Dear Lewis, what did you want to 
 give your soul to? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Dear Mary, I've never discovered. 
 That's why I'm a failure at sixty-three. {Then to his old 
 friend.] I made you a Liberal. . . . 
 
 lord silverwell. You did not make me a Liberal. [_It 
 is a relief to him to scrap.] 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I did. It was wrong of me, but I 
 did it deliberately. For it seemed the only thing you could 
 be. 
 
 lord silverwell. I was always a Liberal. You helped 
 put me into Parliament. I've said so . . . and thanked 
 you, more than once. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. You were a voter. . . . 
 
 lord silverwell. Well, I voted Liberal so . . .
 
 50 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. You voted any way. \_And then 
 with sudden extraordinary fire?] Don't interrupt me when for 
 once in my life I'm saying something serious about myself. 
 
 lord silverwell. \Jn cheerful amazement?] Oh, go on! 
 I'm the culprit here, I suppose. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I was a Tory. That meant something 
 to me. It was a faith ... a creed! 
 
 lord silverwell. Then you could have stuck to it. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I was very fond of you. 
 
 lord silverwell. I should have appreciated your inde- 
 pendence of spirit. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Would you? I wonder. You're 
 such a healthy man, Wychway, and everything agrees with 
 you . . . and you do like people to agree with you too. 
 For Heaven has made you yourself as nearly all of a piece 
 as possible. It takes perfect machinery to do that . . . 
 with our boots, doesn't it? But I'm a cobbled bit of goods. 
 I've always known it. And that has made me an unhappy 
 man all my life. 
 
 Mrs. Torpenhouse sits there, forgotten. At this her 
 lip quivers. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Oh, Lewis! 
 
 ■Torpenhouse has not forgotten her. He turns and 
 says with real chivalry, though whimsy follows close. . . . 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. I reverence my life with you, my 
 dear . . . and thanks to the- beauty that's in you ... it 
 has grown into being a good habit instead of a bad one. But 
 it's a habit, Mary, now. 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. \_Simply7\ Do you remember saying 
 to me years ago when you'd had bronchitis . . . and be- 
 fore the nurse too . . . that there were things about you 
 I must never want to understand? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. ^Quaintly.] Yes . . . before the 
 nurse! 
 
 mes. torpenhouse. And I went away and I cried and 
 cried.
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 51 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. [Apostrophising himself?] Brute! 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. And then I thought: Well, it's only 
 like having a husband and a visitor in one. And I haven't 
 minded a bit; though I've never dared say so till now . . . 
 when we're all old people . . . except Noel. 
 
 noel. {[Loving her; who could help it!] Noel won't tell. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. [Stoutly.] I don't feel old. And 
 sometimes I feel wicked. I'm tempted to go kissing pretty 
 girls. And if it wasn't they'd dislike it . . . for I'm not 
 much to look at ... I'm not sure I hadn't better kiss one 
 and have done with it. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. [Ever so mischievously.] You may 
 try, if you'll tell me whether she lets you. 
 
 Torpenhouse, quite master of himself now, jovial 
 actually. . . . 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Well . . . and what are you thinking 
 of, old Wychway? 
 
 lord silverwell. [In the spirit of it.] You are! A 
 Tory at heart ... a true Tory, by Jove! 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Why, we're all wrapped in hypoc- 
 risies, fold on fold! So shall I set up now as a libertine 
 country squire? I resign my place with you, of course, 
 Wychway. 
 
 lord silverwell. [Attacked thus in quite a new place.] 
 What? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Don't you want me to? 
 
 lord silverwell. Must you ? I suppose you must. 
 Dear me, this is very vexing. 
 
 noel. No, no! 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Thirty years' heartless deception! 
 
 lord silverwell. Well, I must be allowed to feel it. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. That isn't the reason. I want to 
 resign. 
 
 lord silverwell. You w an t to! No, really I think that 
 is too bad. Just when I've taken the peerage and Noel's 
 going away. Look here: what you have done is unforgivable.
 
 52 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 But after all politics are only politics, and now, by Jove, 
 instead of asking me to forgive you, you make matters worse 
 by resigning. We can't do without you, and you know it. 
 Put your foot down, Mrs. Torpenhouse. Whatever else 
 has happened . . . why cap it by trying to break up the 
 whole system of things like this? [He finishes breathless, but 
 justified^] 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. [With judgment/] Lewis must stop 
 working sometime. 
 
 lord silverwell. I think at least it was for me to 
 object to your remaining. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. [With meaning ... 3 But I know 
 you won't . . . you see. 
 
 lord silverwell. [ . . . which is utterly missed.'] No, 
 I am prepared to face a great deal for your sake. I am 
 stupid enough to be very fond of you, Lewis. . . . 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Bless you. 
 
 lord silverwell. [Piling it on, quite sincerely.] I 
 thought we had been something more than master and . . . 
 agent. I thought we had been friends. If I have been 
 mistaken. . . . 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. You've not been mistaken. 
 
 noel. [Who mistrusts these competing emotions.] What is 
 it you're prepared to face, father? 
 
 lord silverwell. [Assuming importance.] Well, I have 
 been thinking as well as one could in these trying circum- 
 stances. Must the whole town know of this? 
 
 noel. [Agape]. Certainly not. 
 
 lord silverwell. Then ought we to tell each member 
 of the Committee ... in confidence? 
 
 noel. That comes to the same thing, doesn't it? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. [A little shamefaced now.] I don't 
 mind hanging on as chairman for a bit . . . say, till the 
 next election's in sight. 
 
 lord silverwell. No, that seems to me a little immoral. 
 
 noel. What's worrying you, father?
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 53 
 
 lord silverwell. For conscience' sake, ought there not 
 to be some sort of public announcement ? 
 
 noel". [With the utmost impatience.'} What on earth 
 good will that do? 
 
 lord silverwell. [Parental; fines pirited7\ It will be 
 very painful to me . . . very galling. I may be made to 
 appear almost ridiculous. But it is of Lewis I have been 
 thinking. When in doubt, make a clean breast of things. 
 It seems to me that this is a public matter. So somebody 
 should be told. It may not so much matter who . . . and 
 not the whole truth perhaps. . . . 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. [Curtly.'} I shall tell nobody else. 
 
 lord silverwell. That might perhaps relieve my mind, 
 Lewis, but are you sure that on general principles you are 
 not wrong? 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Look here! Is the ballot secret . . . 
 or is it not? 
 
 lord silverwell. That seems to me hardly a subject 
 at the moment . . . either for joke or argument. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Wychway, you're so trying when 
 you're pompous. 
 
 lord silverwell. I am not pompous. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. I beg your pardon ... I shouldn't 
 have said it. 
 
 lord silverwell. Nonsense . . . you know you can 
 say what you like to me . . . you always have. But 
 you've no right to tell me I'm pompous. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Who wants to stand in a white sheet 
 with his real and sham opinions hung round him? Confound 
 it . . . set me the example. Withdraw your poster that 
 Wychway's boots are the best. Advertise what we really 
 think of them. 
 
 lord silverwell. Wychway's boots are the best. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Then why don't you wear 'em? 
 
 lord silverwell. If we must go into details . . . be- 
 cause one of my feet is larger than the other and it would be
 
 54 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 absurdly extravagant to have a special pattern manufactured. 
 Wychway's boots are the best that can be made in the cir- 
 cumstances for the price, and any sensible man reading the 
 advertisement reads that into it. 
 
 noel. I've been wearing 'em at all our meetings ... on 
 the platform . . . and sticking 'em well out. But I don't 
 like the shape. 
 
 lord silverwell. My dear Noel, we have twenty-four 
 different shapes. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I've worn them for thirty years. 
 And whenever the spring weather comes they hurt me . . . 
 not at other times. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. I have tried my best to wear them 
 . . . but you don't make a point of ladies' shoes, do you? 
 
 lord silverwell. No. Women, my dear Mrs. Tor- 
 penhouse . . . who purchase our class of goods, seem to 
 prefer to pay seven and six or ten and six for a thoroughly 
 showy, shoddy article. We make a few ... to satisfy our 
 retailers, but I have always given instructions for that line 
 never to be ... as we say . . . pressed. We are wandering 
 hopelessly from the subject. 
 
 noel. There's one supreme happiness I could get out 
 of this situation. Torpenhouse . . . stand at the next elec- 
 tion on the other side . . . your right side. By Jove . . . 
 if you will I'll come back and fight you and watch you beat 
 me. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Noel . . . don't mock me. 
 
 noel. I'm serious. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. You're not sixty-three. You've not 
 wasted your life. 
 
 lord silverwell. ^Sharply.*} In my service? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. ^As sharply . . . throwing it back J] 
 Yes. 
 
 lord silverwell. Torpenhouse, you'd better stop. 
 Noel, we'd better go. You're beginning to say things 
 you'll be sorry for.
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 55 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Not till to-morrow . . . when you'll 
 have forgotten them. 
 
 lord ' silverwell. Thank you. Of all the queer sug- 
 gestions you have made this afternoon . . . that seems to 
 me quite the queerest. I think I may say without exaggera- 
 tion ... I am doing my best not to be pompous . . . that 
 this unhappy business will leave its mark on me. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. What sort of a mark? 
 
 lord silverwell. Had we not better let things rest for 
 the moment? We are all very upset. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. But I want you to understand a 
 little, dear old friend, how the whole thing happened. All it 
 ever meant to you and this sweating little town of yours 
 to have a seat in Parliament and you sitting in it was as far 
 from the statesmanship I'd kneel and pray for as the rag 
 heap on which his poem will be printed is from the soul of 
 the man who sings it. I've watched you in Parliament 
 shout and chatter about this measure and that . . . yes, and 
 I've shouted and chattered outside Parliament too ... it 
 has been so easy . . . taking our tune from those worthy 
 people who are given the country to govern and kindly 
 give us something to chatter and shout for while they're 
 so busy-bodily doing it. From one decade to another . . . 
 the same old tune . . . different words to it. It really 
 didn't seem to me that it could hurt England at all to have 
 you in Parliament. . . . Honestly, I don't think it ever 
 has. . . . 
 
 lord silverwell. Thank you. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Oh, if having you and five or six 
 hundred men like you talking there could hurt her . . . well, 
 only by God's mercy could she be saved anyhow! And I 
 owed so much to you, Wychway, in those old days . . . 
 and I do now . . . that I felt I owed it to you first of all 
 just to be silent when they asked you to stand. I dug a pit 
 for myself then. I think if we'd waited a few years the 
 other side might have asked you too.
 
 56 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 lord silverwell. I should have refused. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Why? We could have kept you 
 unattached. Of course I meant at first to keep out of the 
 vile business altogether. But that was no use. You 
 wouldn't even try to get on without me. I wondered if 
 I could make you a Tory. But that didn't do. You 
 hadn't the stamina or the style. So I had to help you dis- 
 cover that you were a Liberal. Once I thought I'd declare 
 right against you. . . . Perhaps it would have braced you 
 up and made you take things seriously. 
 
 lord silverwell. Take things seriously! 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. What I call seriously. But it was 
 that ticklish Home Rule time. I'd have smashed you 
 politically if I had. You were wobbling badly over it, you 
 know, and it wouldn't bear wobbling over. So of course 
 I couldn't. And my fravid grew and grew . . . and all 
 my salvation when the day came was to fold up my little 
 Tory vote so tight and drop it gently in. Well . . . 
 Newman could find comfort telling beads at a miracle- 
 working altar in Naples. It all seems unreal now ... as 
 I look back on it. 
 
 lord silverwell. Lewis, I wonder at you . . . you still 
 show a most twisted sense of things ... I must say it. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I have a twisted sense of things. 
 I told you so. I am the crooked man . . . whose life's a 
 crooked mile ... he earns 1 a crooked sixpence . . . and 
 climbs a crooked stile . . . into a straighter world for him, 
 he always hopes. 
 
 lord silverwell. Have you ever done a thing for me 
 . . . have I ever asked you to . . . which was not straight 
 as a die? I wish to be told. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. In one word? 
 
 lord silverwell. Yes or No. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. White or black . . . Liberal, Tory. . . 
 true or false. If only God had made you such a world . . . 
 and given it to you once for all . . . why then perhaps that
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 57 
 
 honest best you've always done would be enough to keep it 
 straight! But under our clothes and in your boots we're 
 queer God's creatures still. 
 
 lord silverwell. Frankly, it all sounds to me mere 
 rubbish. But if that's how you feel . . . why you couldn't 
 abstain from voting, I can't think . . . that would have 
 been bad enough. 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. I did one year. I simply couldn't 
 stomach the other man that time. 
 
 lord silverwell. Then if you ever let it be a personal 
 question, the least you could have done was to vote for me. 
 No, Lewis, I take that very badly. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. That year I was tempted to vote for 
 you. You were turning so nicely that year . . . but I 
 knew you'd still go the wrong way at Westminster. ... So 
 I didn't. 
 
 lord silverwell. Turning? 
 
 noel. Tory. 
 
 lord silverwell. What on earth do you mean? 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Oh, you've been turned for some 
 years now. It has quieted my conscience a little . . . 
 when I grew sure you would. That's why they've made 
 you a peer . . . and for other reasons. So that it shouldn't 
 be noticed. 
 
 lord silverwell. Are you serious? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Of course. 
 
 lord silverwell. I have never been so insulted in all 
 my life. 
 
 noel. My dear father! 
 
 lord silverwell. Torpenhouse . . . you will apologise. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I'm afraid I can't. 
 
 lord silverwell. Then we part. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I thought we'd better. 
 
 noel. That seems a pity, though, doesn't it, if you're 
 really in political agreement for the very first time? 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. I doubt if we should find quite that.
 
 58 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 Mine is hardly the official Tory mind. Why should it be? 
 But he of course. . . . 
 
 lord silverwell. Mrs. Torpenhouse . . . Good-bye. 
 As I prefer not to be discussed like this in my own presence, 
 I will remove the temptation. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. We must part as good friends as 
 possible. 
 
 lord silverwell. Whether, my dear fellow, it is worth 
 while our doing anything but forget all the nonsense we've 
 been talking, I . . . I . . . will consider to-morrow. You're 
 an unaccountable chap, you know. You always were, 
 confound you. Noel, if you've your car here I'll drive 
 home. 
 
 noel. I'll walk. I want a walk. 
 
 lord silverwell. See you to-morrow, Lewis . . . see 
 you to-morrow. 
 
 Lord Silverwell goes. 
 
 noel. I'll tuck him in warm. You ought to lie down, 
 you're a bit shaken. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Just a bit. 
 
 noel. We must have you in Parliament. Stand . . . 
 somewhere else . . . next January. It'd relieve your mind 
 . . . and if you did get in they'd be the better for having 
 you, Heaven knows. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. What, join that mob of vulgar dema- 
 gogues who now prostitute the name of Tory to the nation! 
 Thank you. 
 
 noel. Yes, after a meeting . . . after a glorious rally 
 to our great Principles I used to feel something like that 
 about my lot. That's really why I'm not standing again. 
 But then I'm nothing particular. I'd be one of the mob . . . 
 just as he was. You wouldn't. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I shouldn't have been . . . perhaps. 
 
 noel. Good-bye, Mrs. Torpenhouse. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Good-bye. 
 Noel goes.
 
 VOTE BY BALLOT 59 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. My dear, I felt quite frightened for 
 you. .Are you better? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Better than I've been for years. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Oughtn't you to have done it? 
 
 MR. torpenhouse. Done what, Mary? 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Voted wrong. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I did not vote wrong. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Well . . . right. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. It was a matter for my own conscience. 
 The ballot is secret. 
 
 "mrs. torpenhouse. I never thought it was really secret. 
 I thought that was just pretence . . . like the other things. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I am prepared to advocate the 
 abolition of the ballot. It compromises dignity and inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. And that would have saved all this 
 happening. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. It is, in itself, demoralising. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. You know . . . I've got a vote. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Of course ... for that property at 
 Swindlands. Only for the Borough Council. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Oh, not a real one. And I've never 
 used it, for it seemed so silly. Is there a ballot there? 
 
 MR. TORPENHOUSE. Yes. 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. Then the next time I shall go over, 
 it'll be such fun. D'you remember years ago when we 
 promised to have no secrets? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I remember. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. You kept this from me. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. There are others, Mary. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. I don't mind. I daresay it has been 
 good for you. I shan't tell you about my ballot . . . ever. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. My dear. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Are you really going to leave Lord 
 ... Mr. Wychway? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. If he'll let me.
 
 00 VOTE BY BALLOT 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. He ought to. I wanted you to ten 
 years ago. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. We've money enough. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Have we? Could we do anything 
 with it? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. Would you like to travel? 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Yes, perhaps. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I've meant and meant to go to Spain 
 . . . not for a week or two ... for a year ... to live 
 there a bit. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Why Spain? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I thought of it when I had to learn 
 Spanish for our South American business. What a waste, 
 otherwise! 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. I don't think I should like Spain. 
 But you go . . . why not? 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. What . . . after telling you I wanted 
 to kiss pretty girls? 
 
 MRS. torpenhouse. They wouldn't look at you. Yes, 
 it was rather vulgar of you to say that . . . and before 
 Noel. Young men think you mean these things. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. It's not such a journey to Spain . . . 
 and if I didn't like it I could come back. You could have 
 Eleanor to stay with you. Wychway won't let me leave. 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. You could make him. 
 
 mr. torpenhouse. I'm rather done up . . . I'll take 
 a book to my room. . . . 
 
 mrs. torpenhouse. Yes . . . sleep's what you need . . . 
 
 1 do think. 
 
 So Torpenhouse goes to his room to lie down. And he may 
 take that journey to Spain, and in the years that are left 
 him he may do lots of other things. Why not indeed?
 
 Farewell to the Theatre 
 
 1916 
 
 PROPERTY OF 
 DEPARTMENT OF DRAMATIC ART
 
 PROPERTY OF 
 DEPARTMENT OF DRAMATIC ART 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 This talk took place in Edward's office. He is a London solici- 
 tor and his office reflects his standing. It is, that is to 
 say, a musty dusty room in a house two hundred years 
 old or so, now mercilessly chopped into offices. The 
 woodwork is so old and cracked that new paint looks old 
 on it and fresh paper on the walls looks dingy in a day. 
 You may clean the windows (and it is sometimes 
 done) but nothing will make them shine. The 
 floor has been polished and stained and painted and 
 scraped and painted again till it hardly looks like wood 
 at all. And the furniture is old, not old enough to be 
 interesting, old enough to be very respectable. There 
 are some pictures on the wall. One is a good print of 
 Lord Mansfield, one represents a naval battle, the third 
 a nondescript piece of mountain scenery. How the 
 battle and the twndescript came there nobody knows. 
 One pictures some distracted client arriving with them 
 under his arm. They were left to lean against the 
 wall ten years or so; then a clerk hung them up. The 
 newest thing in the room and quite the strangest seeming 
 there is a photograph on the mantelpiece of Edward's 
 daughter, and that has been here nine years or so, ever 
 since she died. A pretty child. 
 
 Well, the papers renew themselves and the room is full of them, 
 bundles and bundles and bundles. They spread about 
 poor Edward like the leaves of a forest; they lie packed 
 close like last year's leaves and in time are buried 
 deep like leaves of the year before last. His clerk 
 knows what they all are and where everything is. He 
 flicks a feather duster over them occasionally and has 
 been observed to put some — very reluctantly — away. 
 
 63
 
 64 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 Very reluctantly. For, after all, these are the fabric of 
 a first-class practice and it is his instinct to have them 
 in evidence. Edward has never thought about it. Thus 
 was the room when his uncle walked out of it and he 
 walked in and thus he will leave it in a few years for 
 some junior partner. 
 Note the signs then by which a lawyer marks himself above re- 
 proach. Beware the businesslike well-polished office, 
 clicking with machinery. There works a man who does 
 not practice law so much as make a practice of it. 
 Beware! 
 Edward is at his desk. Wherever else is he, unless he rises 
 wearily to stretch his long limbs before the fire? Thin, 
 humorous and rather more than middle-aged, a sen- 
 sitive, distinguished face. One likes Edward. 
 His clerk shows in Dorothy Taverner. Everybody knows 
 Miss Dorothy Taverner. The clerk beams at her 
 with forgetful joy — shamelessly a t her while he tries 
 to say to Edward, " Miss Taverner, sir." Then he 
 departs. 
 Edward. How punctual! 
 
 dorothy. Twelve ten by the clock out there. Your note 
 said eleven thirty. 
 
 edward. And I said "How punctual!" 
 
 They shake hands like the oldest friends. He bends a 
 little over her pretty hand. 
 dorothy. You have no right to send for me at all when 
 I'm rehearsing . . . and you know it. 
 edward. It was urgent. Sit down. 
 dorothy. My dear Edward, nothing is more urgent 
 than that my rehearsals should go right . . . and if I leave 
 the company to the mercy of my understudy and this 
 author-boy . . . though he's a nice author-boy . . . they 
 don't. 
 edward. I'm sure they don't. 
 dorothy. His beating heart tells him that we must all
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 65 
 
 be bad actors because we don't live and move just like the 
 creatures as he began thinking them into being. He almost 
 weeps. Then I tell him God called him -into collaboration 
 fifty-three flying years too late as far as I'm concerned. 
 
 EDWARD. Oh ... oh! 
 
 dorothy. Fifty-four will have flown on November the next 
 eighteenth. And that cheers us all up and we start again. 
 Well, dear friend, you are fifty-seven and you . . . look 
 it. Having made point pause for effect. Edward carefully 
 places legal documents on one side. 
 
 edward. My dear Dorothy. . . . 
 
 dorothy. That tone means that a little business talk 
 has now begun. Where's the rickety paper-knife that I 
 play with? Thank you. 
 
 edward. Vernon Dix and . . . Boothby, is that the name 
 of your treasurer? . . . paid me a formal visit yesterday 
 afternoon. 
 
 dorothy. Behind my back! What about? 
 
 edward. They complain you won't look at your balance 
 sheets. . . . 
 
 dorothy. XWith cheerful charm.'} But they're liars. 
 I look at them every week. 
 
 edward. . . . That you won't study them. 
 
 dorothy. I'm studying a new part. 
 
 edward. They brought me a pretty full statement. I 
 spent some hours over it. 
 
 dorothy. More money wanted? 
 
 edward. They also brought me the estimate for this new 
 play. 
 
 dorothy. It'll be exceeded. 
 
 edward. Can more money be found? 
 
 dorothy. We can search. 
 
 edward. You remember the last search. 
 
 dorothy. The rent's paid till Christmas. 
 
 edward. Trust your landlord! 
 
 dorothy. This play may do well.
 
 66 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 edward. It may not. 
 
 Dorothy gives a sigh. With an impatient gesture or 
 two she takes ojf her hat and puts it obliviously on 
 Edward's inkstand. She runs her fingers through her 
 front hair, takes out a hairpin, and viciously replaces it. 
 Signs, these are, that she is worried. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, I remember the last search. Nearly 
 kissed by old James Levison for Dear Art's sake. At my 
 age! I wonder did he guess what an even choice it was 
 between five thousand pounds and boxing his fiat white 
 ears. 
 
 edward. There was Shelburne's five thousand and Mrs. 
 Minto's . . . 
 
 dorothy. Well, I did kiss Lord Shelburne . . . he's a 
 dear. Blue-eyed and over seventy or under twenty . . . 
 then I always want to kiss them. Why? 
 
 edward. My eyes . . . alas . . . were never blue and 
 never will be now. 
 
 dorothy. Because I suppose then they don't care whether 
 I do or not. All that money gone? I'm sorry. Mrs. 
 Minto can't afford it. 
 
 edward. No, it's not all gone. And another five thousand 
 will make you safe through this season. Another ten thou- 
 sand unless you've very bad luck should carry you to Christ- 
 mas . . . otherwise, if this new play isn't an instant success, 
 you must close. 
 
 Dorothy sits upright in her chair. 
 
 dorothy. I have been in management for sixteen years. 
 I have paid some dividends. "Dividends" is correct, I 
 think. 
 
 edward. I keep a sort of abstract which reminds me 
 of the fearful and wonderful way you have been financed. 
 
 dorothy. Dear Edward, I should have cheated every- 
 body but for you. 
 
 edward. I have also managed mostly to stop you from 
 cheating yourself. Dorothy, it is odd that the people who
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 67 
 
 put money in only to make some did often manage to make 
 it out of you, while the people who stumped up for art's sake 
 and your's never got anything at all. 
 
 dorothy. I don't see anything odd in that. They got 
 what they wanted. People always do. Some of them got 
 the art . . . and one of them nearly got me. 
 
 edward. Why didn't you marry him, Dorothy? A good 
 fellow ... a good match. 
 
 dorothy. Oh, my dear! Marry him? Marry! Con- 
 found him . . . why did he ask me? Now I can't ever ask 
 him for a penny again. Yes ... on that bright Sunday 
 morning the manageress was tempted, I won't deny. 
 
 edward. But the record of the past five years does not 
 warrant your promising more dividends . . . and that's 
 the truth. 
 
 dorothy. Well . . . shall we hide the balance sheets 
 away and shall I gird myself with boastfulness once 
 more . . . once weary more? What is our record for Dear 
 Art's Sake? Shakespeare . . .without scenery . . . Moliere, 
 Holberg, Ibsen, Strindberg, Maeterlinck, Shaw, Hauptmann, 
 d'Annunzio, Benevente, Giacosa, Parraval, Ostrowsky, 
 Lavalliere, Tchekoff, Galsworthy, Masefield, Henniker 
 and Borghese, Brieux, Yeats, van Arpent and Claudel. 
 Some of it sounds quite old-fashioned already . . . and 
 some has begun to pay. When a Knight of the Garter dies, 
 you know, they proclaim his title over his tomb. You'll 
 have to come to my burning, Edward, and through a trumpet 
 of rolled-up balance sheets proclaim my titles to fame. 
 "She, here deceased, did her duty by them, Shakespeare, 
 Ibsen" . . . How I hate boasting! And boasting to 
 millionaires to get money out of them. I'm as vain as a 
 peacock still . . . but boasting I hate. 
 
 edward. Then consider. You can see through the pro- 
 duction of this . . . what's it called? 
 
 dorothy. The Salamander. Good title! 
 
 edward. If it fails . . . shut up . . . finally.
 
 68 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 dorothy. Yes ... I've been thinking of doing that, 
 Edward. The Salamander won't succeed in the fine full 
 business sense . . . though now I'm whispered that for the 
 first time it most perversely may. 
 
 edward. Then what on earth are you putting it up for? 
 dorothy. Because it's good enough . . . and then the 
 next can be better. It won't succeed because I've only a 
 small part in it. Say Egoist ... say Actress. 
 edward. Wiser to keep out altogether. 
 dorothy. And then it wouldn't succeed because the dear 
 Public would think I didn't believe in it enough. Queer 
 silly children the dear Public are, aren't they? For ten 
 years now my acting is held to have grown steadily worse, 
 so quite rightly they won't rush to plays with me in them. 
 But then they won't have my plays with me out of them 
 either. So what's a poor body to do? 
 
 edward. I don't hold that your acting has grown 
 steadily worse. 
 
 dorothy. Well . . . not steadily perhaps. But I never 
 was steady, was I? And you don't like the parts I choose? 
 edward. Not when you hide yourself behind them. 
 dorothy. I never do. 
 
 edward. Your old self! But I want you to finish with 
 it all anyway. 
 dorothy. Why? 
 
 edward. Because I fear I see heart-break ahead. 
 dorothy. That you need never look to see ... for the 
 best of reasons. 
 
 edward. You still do care ... far too much. 
 dorothy. Do I hanker for the old thrill . . . like wine 
 bubbling in one's heart . . . and then the stir in the audi- 
 ence when ... on I came. Dear friend, you now prefer 
 my acting ... off the stage. My well-known enthusiasm. 
 It seems to me it rings more tinny every day. I'm glad it 
 takes you in. Still, even that's only an echo . . . growing 
 fainter since I died.
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 69 
 
 edward. My dear Dorothy. 
 
 dorothy. Oh . . . but you knew I was dead. You 
 own now to mourning me. You know the day and hour 
 I died. Hypocrite ... I remember how you congratulated 
 me on the tragic occasion . . . kissing my hand . . . you're 
 the only man that does it naturally. Doesn't that ab- 
 stract remind you when we produced The Flight of the 
 Duchess? 
 
 edward. Many of us thought you very good. 
 
 dorothy. Because I was far, far better than many a bad 
 actress would have been. It is the queerest sensation, 
 Edward, to be dead . . . though after a while you get quite 
 used to it. Are you still alive, by the way? 
 
 edward. There is the same feeble flicker that there has 
 ever been. 
 
 dorothy. Burn on, dear Edward, burn on . . . that I 
 may warm my poor hands sometimes at the flame you are. 
 
 edward. It can serve no better purpose. 
 
 dorothy. No. ... so I'm sure I think. 
 
 There falls a little silence. Then Edward speaks, the 
 more bitterly that it is without anger. 
 
 edward. Damn them! I'd damn their souls, if they had 
 any. They've helped themselves to you at so much a time 
 for . . . how many years? Dorothy . . . what have they 
 ever given you in return? 
 
 dorothy. Oh, if that were all my grievance I'd be a 
 happy ghost this day. If I'd a thousand souls and they 
 wanted them . . . the dear Public ... as they need them 
 . . . God knows they do . . . they should have every one, 
 for me. What does the law say, Edward? Is a soul private 
 property? 
 
 edward. There are decisions against it. 
 
 dorothy. Then I prefer your law to your religion. It's 
 more public-spirited. 
 
 edward. My ancestral brand of religion, my dear, 
 taught me to disapprove very strongly of the theatre.
 
 70 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 dorothy. And after watching my career you've found 
 out why. How long have you been in this office, Edward? 
 
 edward. Thirty years, nearly. 
 
 Dorothy. The weight of them! Do you remember hav- 
 ing tea at Richmond ... at The Roebuck at Richmond 
 . . . when they'd offered you this billet and we talked 
 wisely of the future? 
 
 EDWARD. I do. 
 
 dorothy. And I made you take it, didn't I? 
 
 edward. You did. 
 
 dorothy. And I wouldn't marry you. 
 
 Edward looks at her. One side of his mouth twitches 
 a little. You might charitably call it a smile. But his 
 eyes are smiling. 
 
 dorothy. Don't say you didn't ask me to marry you. 
 
 edward. On that occasion? 
 
 dorothy. Yes ... on that occasion, too. That's what 
 one calls the Past, isn't it? How right I was . . . and what 
 successes we've both been. 
 
 edward. My son Charles tells me that I have done 
 very well. Do you know, I was moved to ask him the other 
 night as we sat in the box whether he wasn't in love with you? 
 
 dorothy. Do you think it's hereditary? 
 
 edward. He said he had been as a boy. 
 
 dorothy. How old is he? 
 
 edward. Twenty-three. 
 
 dorothy. Bless him! If young things love you, be quite 
 sure that you're alive. I do regret sometimes. 
 
 edward. What did happen ... so suddenly? 
 
 dorothy. What happens to the summer? You go 
 walking one day and you feel that it has gone. 
 
 edward. You've been that to the Theatre. 
 
 dorothy. A summer day ... a long, long summer day. 
 Thank you. I prefer the sonnet which calls me a breath of 
 spring. But truly he died . . . oh, that lion's head of 
 his! . . . before I was full blown.
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 71 
 
 edward. I know it by heart. 
 
 dorothy. It's a good sonnet. 
 
 edward. It makes history of you. 
 
 dorothy. And it never made me vain a bit because in- 
 deed I knew it was true. Yes, I like to be standard 
 literature. 
 
 edward. Easy enough for a poet to be public-spirited 
 over you. 
 
 dorothy. But from the time I was born, Edward, I believe 
 I knew my destiny. And I've never quarrelled with it . . . 
 never. I can't imagine how people get along if they don't 
 know by sheer instinct what they're meant to be and do. 
 What muddles they must make of life! 
 
 edward. They do . . . and then come to me for advice. 
 It's how you told me to earn my living. 
 
 dorothy. You only tell them what the law says and 
 what two and two make. That's all you ever tell me. 
 But what I was alive for I have always known. So of course 
 I knew when I died. 
 
 edward. Dorothy, my dear, it hurts me to hear you say it. 
 
 dorothy. Why? We must all die and be born again 
 . . . how many times in our lives? I went home that 
 night and sent poor old Sarah to bed. And I didn't curse 
 and break things ... I'd always let myself do that a 
 little on occasion ... it seemed so much more human . . . 
 when I was alone . . . oh, only when I was quite alone. 
 But that night it had all been different . . . and I sat still 
 in the dark, . . . and wondered . . . wondered what was 
 to happen now. It's a frightening thing at best to lose 
 your old and well-trained trusted self . . . and not know 
 what the new one's going to be. I was angry. I had 
 rehearsed the wretched play so well too. Why do people 
 think I've no brains, Edward? 
 
 edward. I suppose because you're so pretty. 
 
 dorothy. Or perhaps because I don't use them for the 
 things they were never meant to be used for. I've sometimes
 
 72 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 thought, since I can't act any longer, I might show the dear 
 Public my rehearsing. That'd teach them! But there . . . 
 I've come down to wanting to teach them. Time to 
 retire. For, you see, after that night I wasn't born again. 
 Something . . . didn't happen. And a weary business it 
 has been finding out what. With the dear Public helping 
 me to discover . . . hard on them, they've thought it. And 
 you so patient with my passion to keep on failing . . . hard 
 on you. For you've not understood. I've disappointed you 
 these later years. Own up. 
 
 edward. If it's admitted that all my heart is your most 
 humble servant I'll own up again to disapproving of the 
 Theatre ... to disapproving most thoroughly of acting and 
 of actors too . . . and to doubly disapproving when any 
 new nonsense about them is added to life's difficulties. 
 
 dorothy. Yes ... if life's so important! Well ... I 
 have four hundred a year, safe, to retire on, haven't 
 I, Edward? 
 
 edward. As safe as money can be. 
 
 dorothy. I do think that money ought to learn to be 
 safe. It has no other virtues. And I've got my Abbey. 
 
 edward. Milford Abbey is safe for you from every- 
 thing but earthquake. 
 
 dorothy. How utterly right that I should end my days 
 in a shanty built out of the stones of that great Abbey and 
 buttressed up in its shell. 
 
 edward. Is it? 
 
 dorothy. Oh. Edward, if you had but the artist's 
 sense of the eternal fitness of things, you'd find it such a 
 help. . . . 
 
 edward. ... To imagining Miss Dorothy leading the 
 Milford monks a dance. 
 
 dorothy. Well . . . their religion was not of this world, 
 nor is mine. But yours is, dear Edward. Therefore the 
 follies of art and saintliness must seem to you two sorts of 
 folly and not one. St. Francis would have understood me.
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 73 
 
 I should have been his dear sister Happiness. But you and 
 the railway trains running on time would have puzzled him 
 no end. 
 
 edward. What foolishness makes you say you're dead, 
 my dear? 
 
 dorothy. While ... if I'd lived the cautious life, I 
 shouldn't be. If I'd sold my fancies for a little learning, 
 virginity for a gold ring, likings for good manners, hate for 
 silence ... if I ever could have learnt the world's way 
 ... to measure out gifts for money and thanks . . . well, 
 I'd .have been married to you perhaps, Edward. And then 
 you never could have enjoyed my Imogen as you used 
 to enjoy it. You used to say it was a perfect tonic. 
 
 edward. So it was! 
 
 dorothy. Yes, dear, you never had a gift for subtle 
 expression, had you? 
 
 edward. From the beginning I suppose you expected 
 more of life than ever I could find in it. 
 
 dorothy. Whatever I expected, my friend, I bargained 
 for nothing at all. 
 
 edward. I'd like you to know this, Dorothy, that ... for 
 all my rectangular soul, as you used to call it . . . when 
 I asked you to marry me . . . 
 
 dorothy. On which of those great occasions? 
 
 edward. On the various occasions I did ask you before 
 I did . . . otherwise . . . marry. 
 
 dorothy. I think there were five ... or six. I recall 
 them with pride. 
 
 edward. But not with enough of it to ensure accuracy. 
 
 dorothy. And was it never just for the sake of repeating 
 yourself? 
 
 edward. No. When I was most ridiculously in love 
 I used to think three times before I faced a life with you in 
 that . . . 
 
 dorothy. Well? 
 
 edward. That flowery wilderness which was your life.
 
 74 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 I knew there were no safe roads for me there. And yet I 
 asked you . . . knowing that very well. 
 
 dorothy. I'm glad ... for your sake . . . that you 
 risked it. 
 
 edwakd. Glad, for your own, you didn't? 
 
 dorothy. Did you really only marry her because I told 
 you to? 
 
 edward. I fear so. 
 
 dorothy. That was a wrong reason for doing the right 
 thing. But I could not have one of the ablest men of his 
 set in everything else said at his club to be sentimentalizing 
 his life away about an actress ... I really couldn't. They 
 told me she was desperately in love with you. And I 
 never would have spoken to you again if you hadn't. 
 Edward, it was never hard on her, was it? 
 
 edward. No, Dorothy, I hope and think it never was. 
 I made her happy in every ordinary sense ... at least I 
 felt she felt so. 
 
 dorothy. And you did love her, didn't you, Edward? 
 
 edward. I shouldn't put this into words perhaps. I 
 thought through those twenty-five years I gave her all the 
 love that her love asked for. But the world of . . . folly, 
 one calls it . . . into which your laugh had once lifted 
 me . . . 
 
 dorothy. Or was it wisdom? 
 
 edward. That, my dear Dorothy, was the problem you 
 would never consent to try and solve. 
 
 dorothy. She never could have liked me, Edward. 
 
 edward She thought you a great artist. She had judg- 
 ment and taste, you know. 
 
 dorothy. Yes . . . she thought me an attack of scarlet 
 fever, let us say . . . and that it was a very beautiful scarlet. 
 
 edward. Dorothy, somehow that hurts. 
 
 dorothy. I'm sorry. 
 
 edward. Some years before she died, her nature seemed 
 to take a fresh start, as it were. It shot out in the oddest
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 75 
 
 ways . . . over a home for horses and cooking reforms . . . 
 and. a most romantic scheme for sending strayed servant girls 
 to Australia to get married. If there had been any genius 
 in my love for her . . . would she have had to wait till 
 forty-five and then find only those crabbed half-futile 
 shoots of inner life begin to show? While her children 
 were amused . . . and I was tolerant! For quite incurably 
 middle-aged she was by then. . . . 
 
 dorothy. Had she dreaded that? 
 
 edward. Not a bit. Not even in fun ... as we made 
 such a fuss of doing. 
 
 dorothy. Admirable Ethel! Clear-eyed and so firm 
 footed on this spinning earth. And Life her duty ... to 
 be punctually and cheerfully done. But over-trained a 
 little, don't you think . . . just for her happiness sake. 
 
 edward. She didn't count her happiness. 
 
 dorothy. She should have. 
 
 edward. She shouldn't have died when she did. 
 
 dorothy. The doctors were fools. 
 
 edward. Well, it was a while after . . , remembering 
 my love for you ... I suddenly saw how perhaps, after 
 all, I had wronged her. 
 
 dorothy. It was just three years after that you asked 
 me to marry you again. 
 
 edward. You forgave me. Let's forget it. It was good 
 to feel I was still a bit of a fool. 
 
 dorothy. Folly for certain, it was then? 
 
 edward. And not so old at heart as you thought. 
 
 dorothy. I like your declarations, Edward. They're 
 different. But never from the beginning have you been 
 like the others. 
 
 edward. And I was never jealous of any of the three. 
 
 DOROTHY. Four. 
 EDWARD. Four? 
 
 dorothy. One that you never knew about. I told you 
 though I should never marry . . . and I never have. Per-
 
 76 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 haps I'm as frightened at the meaning I might find in it . . . 
 as you ought to have been. 
 
 edward. They made you just as miserable at times, 
 Dorothy, as if you had married them. 
 
 dorothy. Poor dears. 
 
 edward. And two out of the three were really perfect 
 fools. 
 
 dorothy. Three out of the four, my friend, were perfect 
 fools . . . helpless fools. 
 
 edward. Then which wasn't? 
 
 dorothy. The one you never guessed about. Don't 
 try to, even now. He never really cared for me, you see 
 . . . and I knew he didn't . . . and so I was ashamed to 
 tell you. 
 
 edward. Now when was that? 
 
 dorothy. You're trying to guess. 
 
 edward. No, honestly . . . 
 
 dorothy. Do you remember a time when I was very 
 cross with life and wouldn't act for a whole year ... in the 
 days when I still could? I went down to Grayshott and 
 started a garden ... a failure of a garden. And you came 
 down to see me . . . and we talked into the dark. And I 
 said I ought to have married father's scrubby-headed assist- 
 ant and had ten children. . . . 
 
 edward. I vaguely remember. 
 
 dorothy. Well, it wasn't then . . . but shortly after. 
 
 edwaed. You wanted that experience. . . . 
 
 dorothy. No, no! How dare you? Am I that sort of a 
 creature . . . collecting sensations? Sometimes, Edward, I 
 find you the biggest fool of the lot ... a fool at heart, 
 which is worse than a fool at head . . . and wickeder. 
 
 edward. I'm sorry! 
 
 dorothy. Never mind, it's not your fault now if fresh 
 air disagrees with you. And you can't open the window 
 here, for only dust comes in. 
 
 edward. Is the room stuffy?
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 77 
 
 dorothy. Yes . . . but so's London . . . and so's life. 
 
 edward. I do remember there was a time when I thought 
 you were hardening a little. 
 
 dorothy. Well, it wasn't from that bruising. No man 
 or woman in this world shall make me hard. 
 
 edward. Dorothy, will you marry me? 
 
 dorothy \Mer voice pealing out.'} Oh, my dear! 
 
 edward. That's what you said to Blackthorpe when he 
 offered you his millions on a bright Sunday morning. Don't 
 say it to me. 
 
 - dorothy. I never called him My Dear ... I was much 
 too proper . . . and so is he! But you are the Dear of one 
 corner of my heart ... it is the same old corner always 
 kept for you. No, no . . . that sort of love doesn't live 
 in it. So for the . . . seventh? . . . let's make it the 
 seventh time . . . oh, yes, I wear them on my memory's 
 breast like medals . . . no, I won't. 
 
 edward. Very well. If you don't want to raise five 
 thousand pounds you'd better close the theatre after this 
 next play's produced. 
 
 dorothy. Heavens above . . . that's what we started 
 to discuss. What have we been talking of since? 
 
 edward. Dear Dorothy ... I never do know what we 
 talk of. I only know that by the time I've got it nound to 
 business it's time for you to go. 
 
 dorothy. Yes, I said I'd be back at the theatre by half- 
 past twelve. 
 
 edward. It's long after. 
 
 dorothy. I'm so glad. They'll finish the act without 
 me and lunch. I never want food. Isn't it odd? 
 
 edward. Do you decide to close the theatre after this 
 next play? 
 
 dorothy. I decide not to ask man, woman or devil for 
 another penny. 
 
 edward. Then you close. 
 
 dorothy. But if it's a success?
 
 78 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 edward. Then, when it's finished, you may have a few 
 pounds more than four hundred a year. 
 
 dorothy. I don't want 'em. 
 
 edward. But you'll close? 
 
 dorothy. I will. This time I really will and never, 
 never open again. I want my Abbey. I want to sit in the 
 sun and spoil my complexion and acquire virtue. Do you 
 know 1 can have fourteen volumes at a time from the London 
 Library? 
 
 edward. Yes . . . don't spoil your complexion. 
 
 dorothy. Well . . . when it is really m y complexion and 
 no longer the dear Public's I may get to like it better. To 
 acquire knowledge for its own sake! Do you never have 
 that hunger on you? To sit and read long books about 
 Byzantium. Not frothy foolish blank verse plays . . . but 
 nice thick meaty books. To wonder where the Goths went 
 when they vanished out of Italy. Knowledge and Beauty! 
 It's only when you love them for their own sake that they 
 yield their full virtue to you. And you can't deceive them 
 . . . they always know. 
 
 edward. I'm told that the secret of money making's 
 something like that. 
 
 dorothy. Oh, a deadlier one. Money 's alive and strong. 
 And when money loves you... look out. 
 
 edward. It has never wooed me with real passion. Six 
 and eightpences add up slowly. 
 
 Dorothy throws herself back in her chair and her eyes 
 up to the ceiling. 
 
 dorothy. You've never seen me asking for money and 
 boasting about my art, have you? 
 
 edward. That has been spared me. 
 
 dorothy. I'm sorry you've missed it for ever. It is 
 just as if the millionaire and I . . . 
 
 edward. Though they weren't always millionaires. 
 
 dorothy. They were at heart. I always felt we were 
 Striking some weird bargain. For all I'd see at his desk
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 79 
 
 was a rather apologetic little man . . . though the Giant 
 Money was outlined round him like an aura. And he'd 
 seem to be begging me as humbly as he dared to help save 
 his little soul . . . though all the while the Giant that en- 
 veloped him was business-like and jovial and stern. I 
 shouldn't like to be the marrow of a shadowy giant, Edward 
 . . . with no heart's blood in me at all. 
 
 edward. That's why our modern offices are built so 
 high, perhaps. 
 
 dorothy. Yes, he reaches to the ceiling. 
 
 edward. And are very airless, as you say. 
 
 dorothy. Ah . . . it's he that breathes up all the air. 
 You have made rather an arid world of it, haven't you, 
 Edward . . . you and Henry and John and Samuel and 
 William and Thomas? 
 
 edward. Will Mary Jane do much better? 
 
 dorothy. Not when you've made a bloodless woman of 
 her. And you used to bite your pipe and talk nonsense 
 to me about acting . . . about its necessarily debilitating 
 effect, my dear Dorothy, upon the moral character! Edward, 
 would I cast for a king or a judge or a duchess actors that 
 couldn't believe more in reigning or judging or duchessing 
 than you wretched amateurs do ? 
 
 edward. We "put it over," as you vulgar professionals 
 say. 
 
 dorothy. Do you think so? Because the public can't 
 tell the difference, as the voice of my business manager 
 drones. I've, fancied sometimes that poor actors, playing 
 parts . . . but with real faith in their unreal . . . yet live 
 those lives of yours more truly. Why . . . swiftly and 
 keenly I've lived a hundred lives. 
 
 edward. No . . . the trouble with my patients . . . 
 
 dorothy. Of course they are! That's why I've to be 
 brought here by force. I never feel ill. 
 
 edward. Never a pain in the pocket! 
 
 dorothy. I never feel it.
 
 80 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 edward. The trouble when most people do is that it's all 
 they can feel or believe in. And I have to patch them up. 
 
 dorothy. Put a patch on the pocket . . . tonic the 
 poor reputation. 
 
 edward. What can I say to them? If they found out 
 that the world as they've made it doesn't exist ... or per- 
 haps their next world as they've invented it either. . . . 
 
 dorothy. Oh but I think that exists . . . just about as 
 much. And that you'll all be there . . . bustling among 
 the clouds . . . making the best of things . . . beating your 
 harps into coin . . . bargaining for eternity . . . and saying 
 that of course what you go on in hope of is another and a 
 better world. , 
 
 edward. Shall we meet? 
 
 dorothy. I think not. I flung my soul over the foot- 
 lights before ever I was sure that I had one . . . well, I 
 was never uncomfortably sure. As you warned me I should 
 . . . biting your pipe. No, thanks, I don't want another. 
 I have been given happier dreams. Do you remember that 
 letter of your father's that I would read? 
 
 EDWARD. No. . . . 
 
 dorothy. Oh yes! Think twice, my dear boy, think 
 twice before you throw yourself away on this woman. 
 
 edward. Old innocent ! You were the cautious one. 
 
 dorothy. But you never knew, Edward, how tempted 
 I was. 
 
 edward. Dorothy, don't! The years haven't taught me 
 to take that calmly. 
 
 dorothy. Every woman is what I was more or less. . . . 
 
 edward. Less. 
 
 dorothy. So they seem. And you won't pay the price 
 of more. 
 
 edward. What was it? I was ready . . . and ready to 
 pay. 
 
 dorothy. The price to you of my freedom when you love 
 me! Why . . . dear Edward . . . your jaw sets even now.
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 81 
 
 And so . . . for your happiness . . . that your minds may 
 be easy as you bustle through the world's work . . . so we 
 must seem to choose the cat-like comfort of the fireside, 
 the shelter of your cheque-book and our well-mannered 
 world. And, perhaps I should have chosen that if I could 
 have had my choice. 
 
 edward. Dorothy! 
 
 dorothy. Had not some ruthless windy power from 
 beyond me . . . blown me free. 
 
 edward. Dorothy . . . I've loved you . . . and I do 
 ". . . with a love I've never understood. But sometimes I've 
 been glad you didn't marry me . . . prouder of you as you 
 were. Because my love would seem a very little thing. 
 
 DOROTHY. It is. 
 
 edward. I never boasted . . . never of that. 
 
 dorothy. But the more precious ... a jewel. And if 
 we're to choose and possess things . . . nothing finer. 
 My dear . . . what woman wouldn't love you? You've 
 not been flattered enough. Never mind . . . you lost no 
 dignity on your knees. I had no choice though but to 
 be possessed ... of seven angels. Oh, my dear friend 
 . . . could you ever have cast them out? 
 
 edward. I've watched them wear you through . . . the 
 seven angels of your art that kept you from me. 
 
 dorothy. Yes . . . I'm a weary woman. 
 For a moment there is silence. 
 
 edward. But sometimes I've wondered . . . what we 
 two together might have done. Dorothy, why didn't you 
 try? 
 
 dorothy. Not with these silly self-conscious selves. 
 Poor prisoners . . . born to an evil time. But visions do 
 come ... of better things than we are ... of a theatre 
 not tinselled . . . and an office not dusty with law . . . 
 all rustling with quarrelsome papers. How wrong to tie up 
 good lively quarrels with your inky tape! Oh, shut your 
 eyes . . . it's easier to see then. Are they shut?
 
 82 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 edward. Close. And the grip of your hand is wonderful 
 for the eyesight. 
 
 dorothy. Aren't you an artist, too, Edward . . . our 
 fault if we forget it. For Law is a living thing. It must 
 be, mustn't it? 
 
 edward. Yes ... I had forgotten. 
 
 dorothy. My dreams and the stories of them are worth- 
 less unless I've a living world to dream of? What are words 
 and rules and names? Armour with nothing inside it. So 
 our dreams are empty, too. 
 
 edward. Dorothy, my dear, it may sound as silly as 
 ever when I say it . . . but why, why didn't you marry me? 
 
 dorothy. Yes ... I should have made a difference to 
 this habitation, shouldn't I? 
 
 edward. Would you have cared to come here then? 
 
 dorothy. Always . . . the spirit of me. And I do think 
 you were a better match than the looking-glass. 
 
 edward. I promise you should always have found your- 
 self beautiful ... in my eyes. 
 
 dorothy. But I'm widowed of my looking-glasses, 
 Edward. Have you noticed that for fifteen years there's 
 not been one in my house . . . except three folding ones in 
 the bathrooms? 
 
 edward. I remember my wife remarking it. 
 
 dorothy. Some women did . . . and some men were 
 puzzled without knowing why. 
 
 edward. She wondered how you studied your parts. 
 
 dorothy. I could have told her how I learnt not to . . . 
 and it's rather interesting. 
 
 edward. Tell me. 
 
 dorothy. This is perhaps the little bit of Truth I've 
 found . . . my little scrap of gold. From its brightness 
 shines back all the vision I have . . . and I add it proudly 
 to the world's heap. Though it sounds the silliest thing 
 ... as silly as your loving me at fifty-seven, more babyishly 
 than you did at seventeen.
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 83 
 
 edward. Please heaven my clerks don't see me till . . . 
 
 dorothy. Till you're quite self-conscious again. Well 
 . . . before the child in me died . . . such an actress, as 
 you all thought, as never was . . . 
 
 edward. "O breath of Spring! Our wintry doubts have 
 fled." 
 
 dorothy. But, remember, all children could be like that. 
 
 edward. I deny it. 
 
 dorothy. And that's why they're not. Well, growing 
 older, as we say . . . and self-conscious, Edward ... I 
 found that the number of my looking-glasses grew. Till one 
 day I counted them . . . and big and small there were forty- 
 nine. That day I'd bought the forty-ninth ... an old 
 Venetian mirror ... so popular I was in those days and 
 felt so rich. Yes . . . then I used to work out my parts in 
 front of every mirror in turn. One would make me prettier 
 and one more dignified. One could give me pathos and one 
 gave me power. Now there was a woman used to come 
 and sew for me. You know! I charitably gave her jobs 
 . . . took an interest in her "case" . . . encouraged her 
 to talk her troubles out for comfort's sake. I wasn't 
 interested ... I didn't care one bit ... it didn't comfort 
 her. She talked to me because she thought I liked it . . . 
 because she thought I thought she liked it. But, oddly, 
 it was just sewing she liked and she sewed well and sewing 
 did her good . . . sewing for me. You remember my Lily 
 Prince in The Backwater? 
 
 edward. Yes. 
 
 dorothy. My first real failure. 
 
 edward. I liked it. 
 
 dorothy. My first dead failure . . . dear Public. Do 
 you know why? I hadn't found her in the mirrors, I'd 
 found her in that woman as she sewed. 
 
 edward. I didn't think it a failure. 
 
 dorothy. Well . . . the dear Public wouldn't pay to 
 see it . . . and we've found no other word. But I knew
 
 84 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 if that was failure now I meant to fail . . . and I never 
 looked in a mirror again. Except, of course, to do my 
 hair and paint my poor face and comically comfort myself 
 sometimes ... to say . . . "Dorothy, as mugs go it's not 
 such an ugly mug." I took the looking-glasses down . . . 
 I turned their faces to the wall. For I had won free from 
 that shadowed emptiness of self. But nobody understood. 
 Do you? 
 
 edward. If I can't . . . I'll never say that I love you 
 again. 
 
 dorothy. What can we understand when we're all so 
 prisoned in mirrors that whatever we see it's but our- 
 selves . . . ourselves as heroes or slaves . . . suffering, tri- 
 umphant . . . always ourselves. Truth lives where only 
 other people are. That's the secret. Turn the mirror to 
 the wall and there is no you . . . but the world of other 
 people is a wonderful world. 
 
 edward. We've called them your failures perhaps . . . 
 when we wouldn't follow you there. 
 
 dorothy. And I that have, proudly, never bargained 
 was so tempted to bargain for success ... by giving you 
 what your appetites wanted . . . that mirrored mannequin 
 slightly oversize that bolsters up your self-conceit. 
 
 edward. But you had meant our youth to us, Doro- 
 thy. . . . 
 
 dorothy. I'd given you that . . . the flower of me. 
 Had I grudged it? 
 
 Edward. I think we're frightened of that other world. 
 
 dorothy. Well you may be! 
 
 edward. If we couldn't find ourselves there with our 
 virtues and our vanity . . . the best and worst of what we 
 know. 
 
 dorothy. So you all failed me, you see . . . for I'd 
 given you my life and what other had I? And I failed . . . 
 died . . . not to be born again. Oh, my poor theatre! 
 Keep it for a while then to patronise and play with. But
 
 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 85 
 
 one day it shall break you all in pieces. And now my last 
 curtsey's made . . . 
 
 The paper knife she has been playing with snaps. 
 
 Edward. Dorothy . . . what an omen! Not your last 
 visit here, too! 
 
 dorothy. A fine omen. I do not surrender my sword! 
 But I shouldn't march off quite so proudly, Edward, if it 
 weren't for a new voice from that somewhere in me where 
 things are born saying . . . shall I tell you what it says? 
 
 edward. Please. 
 
 dorothy. The scene is laid in Dorothy's soul. Charac- 
 ters ... A voice . . . Dorothy. Dorothy discovered as the 
 curtain rises in temper and tears. The voice: "Thirty-five 
 years finding out your mistake! But that's a very short 
 time." Dorothy: "Boohoo! . . . but now I'm going to die." 
 The voice: " Who told you so?" Dorothy: "Oh . . . aren't 
 I? ... or rather Am I not?" The voice: "Dorothy, my 
 dear . . . what led you that November day to your ruined 
 Abbey? What voice was it called to you so loud to make 
 it yours? Yours! What are you beside the wisdom of its 
 years? You must go sit, Dorothy, sit very patiently, in the 
 sunshine under the old wall . . . where marigolds grow . . . 
 and there's one foxglove . . . (hsh! I planted it!). Did it 
 trouble those builders . . . who built it not for themselves 
 . . . not for you . . . but to the glory of God they built 
 it . . . did it trouble them that they were going to die?" 
 Dorothy: "If they'd known that the likes of me would one 
 day buy it with good hard cash they'd have had heart 
 failure on the spot. Besides they did die and their blessed 
 Abbey's a ruin." Two thousand five hundred pounds it 
 cost me to do it up! 
 
 EDWARD. Well? 
 
 dorothy. If I say anything like that, of course, the voice 
 is silent. But if I sit there after sunset when the world's 
 all still ... I often sit to watch the swallows, and if you 
 keep quiet they'll swoop quite close . . . then I can hear
 
 86 FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 
 the voice say: "They built the best they could . . . they 
 built their hearts into the walls . . . they mixed the mortar 
 with their own heart's blood. They spoke the truth that 
 was in them and then they were glad to die." "But was it 
 true? "I ask. "And see how the wall is crumbling." And 
 then the voice says, " What is Truth but the best that we can 
 build? . . . and out of its crumbling other truth is built. 
 Are you tired, Dorothy?" I answer: Yes, that I am very 
 tired. I sit there till the stars shine and there are friendly 
 spirits around me. Not the dead . . . never . . . but the 
 unborn . . . waiting their heritage . . . my gift to them 
 . . . mine, too. That's the true length of life . . . the 
 finished picture of his being that the artist signs and sells 
 . . . gives . . . loses! It was his very soul and it is gone. 
 But then he is glad to go ... to be dust again . . . noth- 
 ingness ... air ... for he knows most truly . . . 
 
 edward. What? 
 
 dorothy. Why, I told you. That he was always nothing- 
 ness called by some great name . . . that the world of 
 other people is the only world there is. Edward . . . what's 
 the time? 
 
 edward. Past one. 
 
 dorothy. Well, I'm hungry. Take me out and give me 
 lunch. 
 
 edward. Bless you ... I will. 
 
 With three fine gestures she puts on her hat again. Time 
 was when one would sit through forty minutes of a dull 
 play just to see Dorothy take of her hat and put it on 
 again. Much less expressively he finds his and they 
 go out together. The clerks all stare ecstatically as 
 she passes.
 
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