CHANGE 
 
 J. O. FRANCIS
 
 CHANGE 
 
 VOLUME VII 
 The Drama League Series of Plays
 
 VOLUMES IN 
 THE DRAMA LEAGUE SERIES OF PLAYS 
 
 I. KINDLING . . . By Charles Kenyan 
 
 II. A THOUSAND YEARS AGO . By Percy MacKaye 
 
 III. THE GREAT GALEOTO . . By Jose Echegaray 
 
 IV. THE SUNKEN BELL . By Gerhart Hauptmann 
 
 V. MARY GOES FIRST . . By Henry Arthur Jones 
 
 VI. HER HUSBAND'S WIFE . . . By A. E. Thomas 
 
 VII. CHANGE By J. 0. Francis 
 
 VIII. MARTA OF THE LOWLANDS . By Angel Guimerd 
 
 Other Volumes in Preparation
 
 J. O. FRANCIS 
 
 AUTHOR OF CHANGE, WHICH WON THE LORD HOWARD DE 
 WALDEN PRIZE
 
 CHANGE 
 
 BY 
 
 J. O. FRANCIS 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 MONTROSE J. MOSES 
 
 GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 1915
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY WALTER HAST, PRODUCER 
 AND AGENT 
 
 Copyright, 1913, by JOHN OSWALD FRANCIS 
 
 In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading 
 public only, and no performances of it may be given. 
 Any piracy or infringement will be prosecuted in accord- 
 ance with the penalties provided by the United States 
 Statutes: 
 
 SEC. 4966. Any person publicly performing or representing 
 any dramatic or musical composition, for which copyright has 
 been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of the said 
 dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs or assigns, shall be 
 liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be as- 
 sessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the 
 first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to 
 the Court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance 
 and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or per- 
 sons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be 
 imprisoned for a period not exceeding: one year. U. S. Revised 
 Statutes, Title 60, Chap. S.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 THERE is nothing more fraught with the elements of 
 tragedy than a tradition which battles against change; 
 nothing more likely to win our sympathy than youthful 
 response to a powerful call for a new order of things. 
 Following in the footsteps of Ibsen's "The Masterbuilder," 
 the stage has been given a number of dramas that have 
 exalted the younger generation. Especially in the so- 
 called "new" drama of England has the topic been a 
 favourite one. Such plays as the late Stanley Houghton's 
 "The Younger Generation," Miss Githa Sowerby's "Ruth- 
 erford & Son," and Mr. Francis's "Change" have brought 
 to bear on the subject all the minuteness of observation 
 which characterizes their "school." But there is an ethical 
 difference between Mr. Francis and the other dramatists 
 mentioned; he carries the art of the realist to a very high 
 pinnacle by being eminently fair; by allowing his sense 
 of justice full swing. After a close reading of "Change," 
 one cannot help but feel that all of the characters have been 
 given a fair chance to express themselves upon their most 
 poignant interests, and in accordance with their separate 
 training and tradition. It is only toward the end of his 
 play that Mr. Francis throws the weight of his sympathy 
 on the side of Gwen, and adds the saving human grace to 
 an otherwise earnestly conceived problem of change. 
 
 In a very picturesque fashion, Mr. Arnold Bennett's
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 "Milestones" illustrated the truth that the new order 
 becomes old in the face of a newer order still; such is the 
 law of progress. Mr. Bernard Shaw, in "Fanny's First 
 Play," however vigorous his plea for youth, made unpro- 
 gressive O'Dowda a sympathetic figure, and cast a sur- 
 prising glow of sentiment around formal religion; perhaps 
 he is beginning to feel the force of Browning's "Grow old 
 along with me, The best is yet to be, The last of life for 
 which the first was made." Yet, after reading these vari- 
 ous plays, I return to Mr. Francis's "Change" with the 
 conviction that it is one of the most interesting studies 
 of the younger generation we have thus far had. 
 
 "Change" is a notable play. It has intrinsic literary 
 value, its dialogue containing much to stamp it as a drama 
 of national significance and of excellent workmanship. 
 In its social philosophy, it is so very extreme in expression 
 that one has perfect right to regard it as a play of to- 
 morrow rather than as a drama of to-day. This extreme at- 
 titude suggests that the author himself, with his quickened 
 understanding, has broadened his scope as a dramatist, and 
 has within himself a far-reaching, democratic spirit. 
 
 There is another interesting claim that "Change" has 
 to our recognition; its compact canvas introduces for the 
 first time in modern drama Welsh atmosphere and Welsh 
 tradition. A pioneer play assuredly affords us an oppor- 
 tunity of regarding its historical position in the country of 
 its birth. If history repeats itself, and Wales is on the eve 
 of a literary flowering such as that through which Ireland 
 has passed under the inspiration of Mr. Yeats and Lady 
 Gregory, "Change" will, sooner or later, be regarded as 
 the first of a line of native plays with a particular genre 
 of its own. 
 
 [vi]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 To my mind, the mere fact that "Change" is a prize 
 play is its least recommendation. Those judges who, in 
 1911, awarded one hundred pounds to Mr. Francis because 
 he had conformed with Lord Howard de Walden's con- 
 dition that the successful contestant should have sub- 
 mitted "the best play written by a Welsh author and 
 dealing with life in Wales a Welsh setting with Welsh 
 characters" those judges must have felt a delightful 
 satisfaction that a competition should have been the 
 means of encouraging the creation of such a piece as 
 "Change," with its sense of life under human and social 
 stress. But what seems to have been a mere vagary of a 
 prize competition has turned out to be something of 
 national significance to Wales. In 1912 and 1913 Lord 
 Howard continued to offer prizes, and at last he found 
 that he had on hand a sufficient number of plays, together 
 with what he himself had written under the pseudonym 
 of T. E. Ellis, to form a repertory of native dramas. He 
 was further encouraged in his next step by the fact that 
 when "Change" was given its first London production by 
 the Incorporated Stage Society on December 7, 1913, 
 it was hailed by the leading critics for its distinction of 
 dialogue and for its forceful ideas. 
 
 Thus encouraged, Lord Howard founded the Welsh 
 National Drama Company, himself serving as chairman 
 of directors; this company is bi-lingual, its object being, 
 as in the history of the Irish theatre, to encourage the 
 native tongue, which seems, with the rise of the younger 
 generation, to be losing hold on Wales. 
 
 Again, "Change" adds still further to its significance 
 by being the initial play to launch the Welsh National 
 Drama Company when it began operations at Cardiff in 
 
 [vii]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 May, 1914, the first instance, so Mr. Francis writes, "of a 
 performance in Wales of a Welsh play by a professional 
 repertory company in the history of the country." And 
 it is encouraging to hear that, so far, the venture has been 
 successful, artistically and financially. 
 
 Wales is now beginning to open up to the influence of the 
 theatre. For centuries she has remained indifferent to 
 drama, receiving no impetus from the period of mystery 
 and miracle plays, or from the Elizabethan era. As Mr. 
 Francis declares, this was probably due to the fact that 
 Wales had no towns and cities "to foster the most 
 'social' of the forms of literature." From the legendary 
 and chivalric influence of the Arthurian cycle, Wales suc- 
 cumbed to the gloom of Calvinism during the great 
 Puritan Revival. So that it is only now, when Wales 
 seems on the verge of social and industrial upheaval, that 
 drama declares itself a force, without any native tradition, 
 without any evolutionary history to trace. Full grown, 
 it declares itself with modern technique in such a play as 
 "Change." 
 
 In this twentieth century, nevertheless, Wales is forced 
 to adopt a mediaeval custom. All the towns and cities 
 are to be found in the south of the country where the 
 industrial people live. To the north the population is al- 
 most entirely agricultural, and, therefore, more scattered 
 and diffuse. The Welsh National Drama Company has 
 adopted a novel expedient of "taking the drama to the 
 people, where they cannot get to the drama." During the 
 summer of 1914, the directors intend purchasing a travel- 
 ling theatre for the country districts, fully equipped with 
 electric lights, and drawn by traction engines. More 
 modern in its arrangement, with the tradition of the 
 
 [viii]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 modern theatre to follow, yet does this not suggest the 
 pageant wagon of old, which was wont to wheel the miracle 
 and mystery plays of the fifteenth century through the 
 streets of Chester, Coventry, and York? It will be curious 
 to follow the outcome of such an undertaking. "This is 
 not to be a mere travelling booth," declares Mr. Francis. 
 "Hamlet" and "Macbeth" in a theatre booth were Mr. 
 Francis's first introductions to drama when he was a boy. 
 A new play was put on every night, with an entrance fee 
 of three pence. " We sat around the fire in a bucket," he 
 writes, "staring and hypnotised, we boys, while the har- 
 dened men about town cracked nuts and lifted the blase* 
 ginger beer bottle." 
 
 It would seem that one of the strongest forces with which 
 the Welsh National Drama Company would have to con- 
 tend is the spirit of Calvinism which has so long held the 
 Welsh people in its grip. From what Mr. Francis has to 
 say, I glean that these pioneers who are at the head of the 
 drama movement girded themselves bravely for a long and 
 arduous fight, inasmuch as instances had been known 
 where actors were denounced as emissaries of the devil 
 himself, and were brought up to render an account before 
 the various chapel authorities. Yet these pioneers found 
 nothing to fight. "In the main," Mr. Francis asserts, 
 "the chapel people have been with us, and the London 
 Union of Welsh Chapel Literary Societies made us sit up 
 and think when they, last winter, produced under their 
 auspices a play that is the most biting attack on Welsh 
 Nonconformity yet written." 
 
 Indeed, change is befalling the Welsh people, and two 
 of the most vital aspects of Mr. Francis's play, now that 
 I know something of the man, are the national and 
 
 [ix]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 autobiographical influences in almost every line of the 
 text. The sincerest work is that which is drawn from 
 the innermost recesses of one's heart and one's conviction. 
 "Change" shows a realization of all that is significant in 
 the modern spirit settling over Wales; it reveals a young 
 man's own deep-rooted political faith. But though it be 
 autobiographical and national, the great literary value of 
 "Change" lies in the very fact that it is not insular in 
 spirit as is so much of the work of the Irish playwrights. 
 With all these new forces at work within the author, it is 
 surprising how lacking in conscious pose "Change" really 
 is. Nevertheless, through correspondence it has been my 
 privilege to learn something of Mr. Francis's own tradition, 
 and I cannot help but see in "Change" the intellectual 
 features of the author. 
 
 Mr. Francis has lived the life of Aberpandy in his own 
 home town of Merthyr Tydfil, where he was born on Sep- 
 tember 7, 1882. He was reared among the industrial people 
 of South Wales, and has been bred in their traditions. He 
 has gone the road of John Henry at the University; he has 
 felt some of the industrial unrest of Lewis; and through it 
 all he has maintained a large part of the sanity of Gwilym. 
 In his own person, he is representative of that new force 
 which has entered Welsh life through the extension of 
 education in the Intermediate Schools and colleges a 
 force which has done much to widen the breach between 
 the older and younger generations such a breach, for 
 example, as almost disrupts the Price household. 
 
 "Change" is national in so far as it represents truth- 
 fully the industrial situation confronting the men in South 
 Wales now and to-morrow. It depicts with understanding 
 and sympathy, the religious, social, and economic problems 
 
 [x]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 likely to confront the inhabitants of a small Welsh town, 
 dependent upon the coal and iron industries for existence. 
 In its labour disputes, in its riots, in its expression of 
 political thought, it reflects the whole trend of Welsh 
 sentiment and development for two generations. Mr. 
 Francis knows the workings of that mill of destiny which 
 destroys the happiness of the Price family. So many 
 things in Wales have been, as he expresses it, of sudden 
 creation. With full-grown force these things have swept 
 in on the Welsh people like an unexpected tide, and 
 loosed the younger generation from their moorings. The 
 peasantry and the leading men of the industrial districts 
 gave the money for the founding of their university, 
 situated at Aberystwyth, by the sea. Little did they 
 think what instrument they were putting into the hands 
 of the younger generation; little did they realize what the 
 scientific spirit of inquiry would do when it grappled with 
 such a religious revival as that headed by Evan Roberts. 
 This suggestion of the local problem throws infinite light 
 upon the character of John Henry, the preacher-boy. The 
 inevitable cleavage amidst such forces results in tragedy, 
 especially where we have human nature that clings so 
 tenaciously, as the Welsh nature does, to what it believes. 
 "I think," Mr. Francis comments, "we take things more 
 grimly than our Saxon neighbours. Whatever we do, we 
 go the whole way. Once we were tremendous Catholics. 
 We've also been tremendous Calvinists. Once we fought 
 in the last ditch for Charles Stuart and the Divine Right 
 of Kings. Now we are in the advance guard of democracy, 
 and Lloyd George is our great man. But, remember, 
 whichever side it has been, we've always been it utterly" 
 No man could have written "Change," holding casual 
 
 [xi]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 views on social questions. However truthfully an artist 
 depicts conditions as they strike his outward eye, he cannot 
 help but colour them with intellectual comment of some 
 kind. All during his novitiate years in Wales, Mr. Francis 
 absorbed unconsciously the meaning of what was taking 
 place around him. He saw Socialism slowly gain hold in 
 Wales. In his childhood he heard his elders argue the 
 cause of Liberalism, and during his school years he used 
 to follow in the trail of the ever-present political orator. 
 Ostensibly, so he writes, he did this in order to record 
 their speeches in shorthand, which he was studying at the 
 time. Gradually the voice of labour began to be heard. 
 "So you see," declares Mr. Francis, "once revolution gets 
 into Welsh blood, there is not going to be much hedging, 
 or over-politeness, or concern for the sub-sections of a 
 schedule. The tide of labour-thought was on the flow. 
 Merthyr Tydfil used to return two Liberal members. I 
 was at Kier Hardie's first meeting. He was returned with 
 a Liberal. Merthyr did not know. I, a small boy in the 
 audience, did not know. But the step was pregnant with 
 significance." 
 
 With this training, there gradually began to dawn upon 
 Mr. Francis the deep import of the labour disputes he heard 
 around him. He went through precisely the same sort of a 
 strike which he has, in "Change," painted with skill and 
 understanding. His recollection is vivid of the appearance 
 of soldiers, and the charge of the police. The killing of 
 Gwilym on the wall is a slice of life from the history of 
 Lit nelly. 
 
 As a part of all this, Mr. Francis did not at first measure 
 the full weight of the social revolution at hand. Then he 
 went to college, having thrown his sympathies in with the 
 
 [xii]
 
 IN PRODUCTION 
 
 socialists, and having joined the Fabian Society. All this 
 while he was reading Ibsen, and in diverse ways fitting 
 himself for newspaper work. But after he had taken his 
 degree, he went to Paris and taught English, returning as 
 teacher to Wales, where in a coal and iron town, Ebbw Vale, 
 he again felt the pulse of something new throbbing through 
 the land. 
 
 Then he moved to London and found, as so many have 
 found before him, that in order to see his own country 
 aright, a man must go away from it and view it from afar. 
 He has remained in London ever since, teaching in a 
 Grammar School, and hearing the loud murmurs of dis- 
 satisfaction in South Wales. Sometimes he has paid visits 
 to the overwrought industrial districts. "It was impos- 
 sible not to feel," claims Mr. Francis, "that there was 
 arising something grimmer and more desperate than the 
 old Liberal-Labour attitude, or even the 'official' socialist 
 outlook that came next. The men often refused to follow 
 their leaders. They sometimes turned on them savagely." 
 What was to be the next step? Just what Lewis attempts 
 to preach in "Change." 
 
 "It is obvious," continues Mr. Francis, "that old 
 methods of industrial warfare are being suspected as in- 
 adequate. I do not think there is any organized syn- 
 dicalism in South Wales nothing to speak of. But the 
 point of view from which it rises is there, and is growing. 
 There is something about syndicalism that is not quite 
 consistent with the Gascon temperament. French people 
 take to it. The Welsh may take to it. It is there the 
 next stage, perhaps just unfolding. It follows, there- 
 fore, that the newest miners' leaders are always the most 
 violent." 
 
 [xiiij
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 These political demarcations are very excellently il- 
 lustrated in the social views of John Price, Dai Matthews, 
 Twm Powell, and Lewis. Of course the situation in the 
 play is more or less intensified, as it should be in drama, 
 and it is this added force which makes "Change" rather a 
 play of to-morrow than of to-day. "Though the forces 
 are arrayed as I try to point out," explains Mr. Francis, 
 "the new rebels have not quite as much political influence 
 as I have given them the reason being, I think, that 
 many of them are not voters, while the old workmen and 
 the trading classes are still powerful, usually householders, 
 etc., making a solid phalanx. If the proposed bill for 
 Manhood Suffrage goes through, one of the first things I 
 shall look for will be an accession of strength to the young 
 men." 
 
 Personally I do not contend that all this interesting in- 
 formation is necessary for the general appreciation of 
 "Change," but it has everything to do with the evolution 
 of "Change " as coming from the author. I feel that in the 
 light of what has here been narrated, we are better able to 
 understand Price's tradition as opposed to Socialism, 
 Agnosticism, the new Theology, and all the other products 
 of Satan against which he rails. So can we the better 
 realize the rights of his case in the light of the sacrifices he 
 has made. To the average theatregoer all this will appear 
 very undramatic. Especially in America we are not prone 
 to argue our political faith before audiences with the force 
 of newspaper editorials; we must have the outward situa- 
 tion in order to stir interest. The first three acts of 
 "Change" are intensive; this Glamorgan drama is one of 
 character individuals struggling for the maintenance of 
 their own standards. In all works of art, so Coventry 
 [xivl
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Patmore claims, there is a point of rest; particularly in 
 drama where all of the characters are supposed to be 
 involved in the action of the piece, there are one or 
 two persons whose attitudes, or whose views, may 
 be regarded as normal. In "Change," we are able to 
 apply this theory to Gwilym and Sam Thatcher, The in- 
 valid brother, poetic by temperament and loving by nature, 
 is a mean between the extremes of John Price and his other 
 two sons; we realize this in that speech of his where he 
 defends the narrowness of the old brigade. He is the 
 apostle of moderation. Mr. Francis is here expressing him- 
 self; he stands, holding the scales with weights in equal 
 balance. Then there is the opportunist philosophy of 
 Sam with which the majority of our audiences will agree. 
 He is the one real creation of the play, for he depends on 
 no problem, on no social theory for his attitude toward life. 
 He is an observer what one critic wisely called the 
 Chorus of the play. In his aptness at most poignant mo- 
 ments, lies the humour of the play. But it is purely 
 humour of character. 
 
 At the end of the third act of "Change" there begins 
 what is commonly known as action in the theatre. With 
 no semblance of trickery, Mr. Francis resorts to a trick 
 which has become so shop-worn in the hands of less ar- 
 tistic and less earnest playwriters. No better handling of 
 a scene off stage can be imagined than that of the riot, 
 where Gwen is told of the killing of Gwilym. From that 
 point to the close of the drama, the emphasis is shifted 
 from the intellectual to the human and emotional. One 
 can almost indicate the exact spot where Mr. Francis re- 
 belled against the intellectual, and threw his favour on the 
 side of the mother who is the real one upon whom the whole 
 
 [XV]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 tragedy falls. It is this sudden shifting to the human as- 
 pects of his characters that gives an unnecessary incom- 
 pleteness to "Change." In neither John Henry nor Lewis 
 is there any realization of what they must face in the 
 future. 
 
 But is it necessary for a drama of this type to offer a 
 solution? Mr. Galsworthy's "Strife," having shown the 
 innate inability of both capital and labour to come to a 
 compromise understanding, leaves his problem almost where 
 he found it. His other plays are equally as non-committal. 
 "Change" simply states in a moving drama what Tenny- 
 son put into a poetic line, that "the old order changeth, 
 yielding place to new." And in that transformation, some- 
 where a tragedy is certain to take place; somewhere the 
 innocent are bound to suffer. 
 
 As a concession to the management tha f brought 
 "Change" to America, where it was produced in New 
 York, at the Booth Theatre, on the evening of January 
 27, 1914, Mr. Francis had his final curtain fall at the 
 moment when John Price, witness to the spiritual agony 
 of the mother whose sons have left her, consents to write 
 John Henry in conciliatory tone. While there may be a 
 human justice to warrant such a compromise, I cannot 
 but feel that "Change" was conceived in the spirit of 
 tragedy, and as tragedy it should be taken. It is there- 
 fore with some gratification that I find the original ending 
 has been retained in the present edition. It seems to me 
 that the snapping of Owen's spirit as the curtain falls is one 
 of those necessary moments which the whole structure of 
 the play demands. 
 
 "Change" met with a most deplorable and undeserved 
 reception in America. Its first week was as disastrous as 
 [xvi]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 that of Mr. Charles Kenyon's "Kindling," and though ef- 
 forts were made to save so worthy a production from dis- 
 aster, it failed to have the later success which "Kin- 
 dling" attained. This American repudiation in no way 
 detracts from the significance of "Change" as a serious 
 work of art. It is not a flawless play either in its struc- 
 tural elements or in its intellectual capacity. But it is a 
 big play, showing the earnestness of a new author. Wales 
 has every reason to be proud that its theatre activity has 
 begun with such a drama as "Change." Some say that 
 it failed because it was advertised as a Welsh play, and 
 theatregoers believed they would be offered an enter- 
 tainment in a strange tongue. Others lay the cause of its 
 non-success to the fact that its local problems had to do 
 with Wales instead of America. Yet to my mind the 
 very spir" i of unrest which permeates every line of 
 "Change" lifts it out of its atmosphere, and gives it 
 meaning wherever there is industrial unrest, wherever 
 the old order is pitted against the new; wherever there 
 is a struggle for survival, social, economic, or religious. 
 It makes no difference whether a man mixes in his talk 
 phrases that are unfamiliar to the ear. One finds such 
 phrases in "Change," since Mr. Francis for the sake of 
 atmosphere had to adopt some suggestion of local speech. 
 He therefore resorted to a common characteristic among 
 families in Wales who speak English; he brought in familiar 
 Welsh terms that have the force of household proverbs. 
 Nevertheless, faithful as Mr. Francis may have been to 
 the requirements of Lord Howard de Walden's prize com- 
 petition, "Change" is bigger than its environment; it 
 is, in fact, so far-reaching and inclusive as to be vague at 
 moments. The realist's method has here been practised 
 [xvii]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 with a simplicity that has been scarcely surpassed in 
 the history of the "new " drama. After reading " Change," 
 however, we are tempted to ask whether we have not a 
 right to expect that the future realist should strive to 
 sound a stronger note of spiritual exaltation, along with 
 the exercise of an intellect which aims to be fan- and just 
 and brooks no deception. 
 
 MONTROSE J. MOSES. 
 New York City, July 20, 1914. 
 
 [xviii]
 
 Presented by the Incorporated Stage Society at the 
 Haymarket Theatre, December 7th, 8th, and 9th, 1913, 
 with the following cast: 
 
 John Price HARDING THOMAS 
 
 Gwen, His Wife LILIAN MASON 
 
 Gwilym Price HAROLD WEST 
 
 Sam Thatcher FRANK RIDLEY 
 
 Isaac Pugh TOM OWEN 
 
 Lewis Price R. A. HOPKINS 
 
 John Henry Price JOHN HOWELL 
 
 Dai Matthews GARETH HUGHES 
 
 Twm Powett WILLIAM HOPKINS 
 
 Jinnie Pugh DORIS OWEN 
 
 Lizzie Ann, a Poor Relation . . . ELEANOR DANIELS 
 
 Play produced by Tom Owen
 
 Ar arferion Cymru gynt 
 Newid ddaeth o rod i rod; 
 
 Mae cenhedlaeth wedi mynd, 
 A chenhedlaeth wedi dod. 
 
 Ceiriog.
 
 CHANGE 
 
 act i
 
 CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY 
 
 John Price An old collier 
 
 Gwen His wife 
 
 John Henry ^ 
 
 Lewis > Their three sons 
 
 Gurilym ) 
 
 Sam Thatcher Their lodger 
 
 Lizzie Ann A poor relation 
 
 Isaac Pugh 
 Twm Powett 
 Dai Matthews 
 Jinnie Pugh 
 
 Time: The Present 
 
 The action of the Play takes place in the living-room oj 
 the Prices' cottage on the Twmp, Aberpandy. 
 
 Act I. A Thursday Afternoon. 
 
 Act II. Sunday Evening. 
 
 Act III. Monday Morning. 
 
 Act IV. Afternoon of a day five weeks later.
 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE: Living-room of the PRICES' cottage on the 
 Twmp, Aberpandy. 
 
 The walls are covered with paper, bold in design, but 
 now rather faded. On the left, looking from stage 
 to audience, there is, in the back corner, a door lead- 
 ing to the road, and, in the middle of the wall, a 
 window with simple curtains and a plain holland 
 blind. Through the window is seen a rough wall. 
 On the right, in the middle of the wall, is an old- 
 fashioned fireplace. The fire has not been lit, 
 and there is a cheap paper screen before the bars. 
 On the mantelpiece above are brass candlesticks, 
 clock, fiat-irons, tin tea-canisters, etc. In the 
 corner, up stage from fireplace, is a door leading 
 to the back-kitchen, and thence to the little garden. 
 On the same side, down stage on the other side of 
 the fireplace, is another door, leading to the parlor. 
 The furniture is humbly serviceable, and has seen 
 long usage. At the back, in a central position, 
 
 [3]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 stands an old dresser hung with jugs and set with 
 plates. A simple vase filled with sweet peas is on 
 the second shelf. On the lowest shelf stands a row 
 of well-worn books, and two small book-shelves, well 
 stocked, hang one on each side of the dresser. There 
 are five ordinary kitchen chairs, usually arranged 
 in the following way one a little down stage from 
 the window, one near the parlor door, one near the 
 kitchen door, and one on each side of the dresser. 
 There is also a high-backed wooden armchair. 
 In the middle of the room stands an old-fashioned 
 round table, covered with a faded red cloth. At the 
 back, one on each side of the dresser, are pictures 
 of Gladstone and C. H. Spurgeon. In other places 
 are pictures of Henry Richard and some of the well- 
 known preachers. 
 
 When the curtain rises, JOHN PRICE is seated to the 
 right of table in the armchair; GWEN, to the left, 
 in the chair drawn up from the window. 
 
 PRICE is a rugged, hard-visaged man about sixty years 
 old. He has the collier's usual pallor, and there is 
 a blue mark, caused by coal dust, prominent on 
 his cheek-bone. A ragged rim of gray-white beard 
 runs, below his chin, from ear to ear. He is dressed 
 in an old suit, and wears a muffler over a shirt of 
 [4]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 gray flannel. His movements are slow and heavy, 
 suggesting the power of endurance, patient but 
 somewhat grim, that is the basis of his nature. 
 Alone with his wife at the opening of the play, he 
 shows, as in his attitude to GWILYM throughout, a 
 certain rough tenderness, which is not seen in his 
 relations with the other characters in the play. 
 GWEN, his wife, is of a different type a gentle, soft- 
 voiced woman, whose face is very kind and a little 
 sad. Even in her smile there is a certain touch of 
 wistfulness, suggesting some under-life in which 
 memory and emotion have greatest power. She 
 is a well-preserved little woman of sixty, with white 
 hair. Her dress is simple but very neat. When 
 the play begins, she is busily mending stockings, 
 of which there is a stock in a basket which lies on 
 the table near at hand. PRICE, with glasses on the 
 end of his nose and his face screwed into an expres- 
 sion of fierce concentration, is addressing an envelope 
 into which he puts a letter. He closes the envelope 
 with a hearty bang. 
 
 PRICE [with a sigh of relief]. Well, thank good- 
 ness, that's done. I've just written to Lizzie Ann. 
 You'll have her back here on Monday. 
 [5]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. I didn't think, when I let her go down 
 to Llantrisant, that I was going to miss her like this. 
 Of course it would not be right to stop her, and 
 them expecting a baby in the house in seven or 
 eight weeks. 
 
 PRICE. Well, anyhow, back she'll be on Monday. 
 
 GWEN. It isn't so much the extra work on me 
 I'm thinking of, but I miss her about the place here. 
 She hasn't got too much sense, and you couldn't 
 say she's such a great deal to look at but, some- 
 how, I miss her old face about the house. 
 
 PRICE [stretching himself]. I'm glad I've done 
 those two letters. It's a job I can't abide writing 
 letters. Comes of having so little schooling, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 GWEN. Have you finished the letter to Myfanw', 
 John? 
 
 PRICE [talcing up two or three written sheets]. Aay, 
 my gel. Finished at last! 
 
 GWEN [dropping the stocking to her lap]. And 
 you've put in that Gwilym is to go in five weeks' 
 time? 
 
 PRICE [with a little sigh]. Aay, my gel, I've put 
 it in. 
 
 GWEN. I don't know how I'm going to part with 
 [6]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 him, John. I don't know how I'm going to do it. 
 It's an awful thing to part like this, and me his 
 mother! I can't understand, John, why God puts 
 people together, if they've got to part after all. 
 
 PRICE. Don't you get low-hearted, Gwen fach. 
 It's all for the best. You know yourself that Doctor 
 Willie Jenkins was saying only the other day that 
 part of Australia is the very place for a man in 
 consumption. It's lucky for us Myfanw' asked us 
 to send him out, and her knowing that he's ill, too. 
 
 GWEN. Well, Myfanw'll be lucky to get him. 
 Who could she get better to keep the accounts on 
 the farm, and him writing such pretty bits of poetry 
 in English as well as Welsh? I suppose you put 
 in the letter about him winning the prize at the 
 Eisteddfod in Mountain Ash? 
 
 PRICE. Of course, Gwen! Of course! 
 
 GWEN. And only five weeks now before he'll 
 be going! I don't want to stand in his light, John. 
 But, oh, it's awful soon to lose him! 
 
 PRICE [with rough tenderness]. Think, Gwen, 
 think what it means! A few years, and then, after 
 all the praying and heart-breaking we've had for 
 him, we'll have him back again a fine, strong man] 
 
 GWEN. Aay, John, I know, I know! That's 
 [7]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 what I am trying to tell myself all the time. That's 
 all I'm asking of the Almighty to let me live to 
 see our Gwilym have his health again. There's 
 Lewis and John Henry they can fight their way 
 for themselves; but for our Gwilym, poor boy, it's 
 different. If only I am spared for that to see 
 him fine and strong and his face all brown with 
 health once, only just once before I die, and 
 then I think I will go singing from the world! 
 
 PRICE [looking over the letter to MYFANWY]. How 
 d'you spell "endeavoring," Gwen? 
 
 GWEN [very thoughtful]. "Endeavoring?" Let 
 me see now! Christian Endeavor Society. E-n-d 
 
 I don't know! Better for you, John bach, if 
 you'd written in Welsh! 
 
 PRICE. Oh, indeed! And let her husband think 
 I haven't got any English, and him and me not 
 speaking when they left Aberpandy? No fear! 
 [Looking over the letter again.] Aay! If I'd only 
 had a bit of schooling ! The chances they get to-day 
 
 board-school, intermediate, college! [He sighs 
 regretfully.] 
 
 GWEN [after a pause]. I wonder what he'll look 
 like! 
 
 PRICE. Look like? Who? 
 [8]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. Our Gwilym when he comes back 
 strong and well. [In a musing tone.] It's a fine 
 thing, John, for a woman to look at her children 
 and see them all strong men, so strong that they 
 could crush her with their hands, and those hands 
 never lifted but in kindness. Still there's some- 
 thing, too I can't explain in the child that's 
 weak and suffering keeps him very near your heart. 
 It's like having one who didn't grow up like the 
 rest, one that you must be always taking care of. 
 
 PRICE [with a friendly rebuke}. Gwen fach, you're 
 always thinking of the boys! 
 
 GWEN [with a touch of surprise]. Well, 'ent I 
 their mother? D'you know, John, I can't help 
 thinking Gwilym doesn't fancy his food as he ought 
 to these last few days. That's the worst of this 
 old hot weather! I was saying this morning at 
 breakfast if I could only get a chicken I'd make a 
 drop of broth nice and tasty. But it would cost a 
 good bit would a chicken, and it's getting rather 
 tight on us now, what with the strike and saving 
 up enough to send him away 
 
 PRICE [bitterly]. Aay, the strike! One after an- 
 other strike, strike, strike! Couldn't you get 
 one on old account from Parry the Fish Shop?
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. They aren't giving old account to any- 
 body now. They lost so much bad debts in the 
 last strike. 
 
 PRICE [angrily]. Aay, there you are ! [He gets up 
 and takes a few steps about the room.] And that's 
 the lot our Lewis is in with! And a respectable 
 man like me, that's paid his way all his life, has got 
 to suffer for a gang of rodneys willing to shout with 
 any fool that lifts his finger. [Looking out through 
 the window.} They're down there now in the Drill 
 Hall picking their new candidate for Parliament 
 and a fine beauty they will pick, too! 
 
 GWEN [who has been pursuing a course of private 
 reflection]. But there's one thing, John I dare- 
 say I could get a bit of the best end of the neck and 
 make him a bit of something tempting. [JOHN'S 
 anger collapses.] We shall have to watch the money 
 pretty close these next few weeks in order to get 
 him some more things. I wouldn't like Myfanw' 
 to see him without everything decent and respect- 
 able three of each, say, and p'raps a dozen collars. 
 [She goes on with her mending.] 
 
 PRICE [somewhat grimly]. Oh, he'll be respectable 
 enough for my sister Myfanw', don't you fear! I 
 don't see that she's got grounds to be over particular. 
 [10]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. You mean, John, about her running 
 away with the barman? 
 
 PRICE. Aay, I do! 
 
 GWEN. Well, she married him; that's some- 
 thing, anyhow. 
 
 PRICE. She was a disgrace to the family was 
 our Vanw'. There was her father had been a deacon 
 all those years, and me just made superintendent of 
 the Sunday-school! 
 
 GWEN. Well, John, it isn't for me to say any- 
 thing against your father, and him in his grave to- 
 day. But he was a hard man too hard and too 
 cold for a girl like Vanw'. 
 
 PRICE [in an injured tone]. He was a respectable, 
 God-fearing man and died without any one being 
 able to say he owed so much as a ha'penny. And he 
 lived in his own house for twenty years freehold, 
 mind you, too! 
 
 GWEN. All the same, John, I don't agree with 
 bringing up children as if there was always a corpse 
 in the house. And she was a strange girl was My- 
 f anw' all life and fire and feeling. And the way 
 she used to sing! I can't help thinking our John 
 Henry is growing up to look the living image of his 
 Aunt Myfaijw'.
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. There is a bit of likeness, it's true. And 
 there's no denying he's got a grand voice. 
 
 GWEN. And there's something about his nose 
 and chin, too. Have you put anything about him 
 in the letter? 
 
 PRICE. Oh, yes! [Resuming his seat and read- 
 ing.] "We are expecting our John Henry back from 
 college " 
 
 GWEN. University, John, University ! 
 
 PRICE [making an alteration]. "From the Uni- 
 versity in Cardiff to-morrow or the day after. I 
 think I told you before that he is preparing for the 
 ministry. He is now in his second year, and next 
 year he will be trying for the B. A." 
 
 GWEN [to herself with great gusto], The Rev. 
 John Henry Price, B. A. 
 
 PRICE. " Perhaps he will study for the B. D. after- 
 ward, but that isn't quite settled yet. Fortunately 
 [GwEN looks up at the long word] fortunately 
 he won a County Exhibition, so that we don't have 
 to keep him altogether." 
 
 GWEN. We couldn't have done it, John, not with 
 poor Gwilym bad as he is. It's been hard enough, 
 even with Sam lodging here. 
 
 PRICE [letting the letter drop to the tqble]. That 
 
 [it]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 was a grand sermon he gave us last Christmas, 
 Gwen a grand sermon ! There aren't many not 
 yet out of college would venture on a text like that 
 "In the beginning was the Word" "Yn y 
 dechreuad yr oedd y Gair." I can't understand 
 him sending Isaac Pugh's William Ewart up to 
 Treherbert the other Sunday. Must have been a 
 great disappointment to them up there. 
 
 GWEN. Working hard for the exams he is, no 
 doubt, because he hasn't written home these last 
 few weeks nothing beyond a couple of picture 
 postcards. 
 
 PRICE. I can't say Isaac Pugh was very en- 
 thusiastic about the sermon last Christmas, though 
 the other deacons praised it beyond. 
 
 GWEN. Well, you see, John, Isaac Pugh's Wil- 
 liam Ewart is studying for a preacher, too, so p'raps 
 we oughtn't to expect it. 
 
 PRICE. No. He couldn't stomach it was our 
 John Henry won the County Exhibition, and not 
 his William Ewart. And then he's so set on giving 
 the call to Jones of Dowlais. He's getting that 
 polite, is Isaac Pugh, I can hardly abide talking to 
 him. 
 
 GWEN. I suppose you've told Myfanw' about the 
 [13]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 call to Horeb? She'll sure to be interested, and 
 her sitting in the corner by the harmonium from the 
 time she was baptised. 
 
 PRICE [taking up the letter again]. "You'll be 
 glad to hear that, after being without a regular 
 pastor since Roberts and his gang started the split 
 at Bethania, we're going to give a call in Horeb at 
 last." [He pauses a moment and reflects.] I don't 
 know, Gwen, if you've been thinking what I've 
 been thinking about this call. 
 
 GWEN [calmly]. Yes, John, I have. 
 
 PRICE [with enthusiasm]. Well, it would be a 
 grand thing if John Henry had finished college and 
 could have it, wouldn't it now? Of course, it's only 
 seven pound a month, but he'd be able to work 
 it up. 
 
 GWEN [laying down her mending]. And he'd be 
 able to live at home with us, and I could look after 
 his clothes. What we'd have to do would be to 
 turn Lewis's bedroom into a study, and Lewis could 
 have Gwilym's room in the back. Anyhow, John 
 Henry will be here till October. That's one com- 
 fort; for it's a strange house it will be to me with 
 Gwilym going across the water. [She sighs.] Five 
 weeks! Only five more weeks! 
 [14]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. Dewch nawr, Gwen! Dewch! It's no 
 use looking at it like that. 
 
 GWEN. I can't help it, John bach. I'm as God 
 made me. Somehow, I feel afraid afraid of the 
 waiting and the waiting, thinking of him day and 
 night, and him away in foreign parts. I'll be seeing 
 his face every hour of the day, if I only shut my 
 eyes, and his voice will keep on coming back to me 
 as I go about the house and out in the garden by 
 his bank of flowers. [Saying this, she gets up slowly 
 and puts the basket of stockings on the dresser. Then 
 turning a little, she happens to look through the window. 
 She starts, and begins to talk more briskly.] Tan i 
 marw! Here's Gwilym and Sam coming up from 
 the crossing, and I haven't so much as laid the tea! 
 [She takes the white cloth from the dresser drawer.] 
 There's talk you do, John! [Spreading cloth on 
 table.] I don't like the boys to come home, and 
 things not ready. A woman can't expect to keep 
 much of a hold on her children if she doesn't look 
 after their comfort. [She bustles into the back- 
 kitchen, and a rattle of crockery is heard.] Pity Lizzie 
 Ann isn't here, too! She may be dull; I'm always 
 telling her she's not quite sixteen ounces [bustling 
 in with a basket containing cups and saucers] but 
 [15]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 she's handy, and it's nice to see her old face about 
 the house. And I'll get that drop of broth ready for 
 his supper. [She takes vase of flowers from the dresser 
 and puts it on table. Steps are heard without.] 
 
 Enter GWILYM and SAM THATCHER 
 
 SAM is a man of forty-two, but looks older, his 
 hair being thin and grizzled, his face tanned 
 by exposure and adorned with a ragged gray 
 moustache. He has lost his left arm, and 
 the empty sleeve is fixed into the pocket of 
 his rough blue coat. His trousers, strapped 
 up under the knee, are of old moleskin with 
 "cross" pockets, to the edge of which he 
 hooks his thumb in an easy attitude. Under 
 his arm he carries a red flag, rolled up. His 
 accent proclaims him a Cockney, and his 
 general air of suffering superiority to Aber- 
 pandy and all its works indicates a haughty 
 metropolitan outlook. 
 
 GWILYM is a young man of twenty-three or 
 twenty-four, simply and neatly dressed. 
 His thin, pale face tells of disease. His 
 expression suggests thoughtfulness and a 
 fund of sympathy, purified of humbug by 
 [16]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 quiet humor. He speaks in reflective man- 
 ner, often searching the listener's face as 
 if given to probing through the surface of 
 things for the causes beneath. In his bear- 
 ing toward others there is the natural courtesy 
 of one born with fine instincts. He is 
 treated by all with the greatest kindness, 
 concern for his welfare being the common 
 element that keeps the household together. 
 
 PRICE [with great sympathy]. Wei, Gwilym, ffor' 
 ma'i nawr, machan-i? 
 
 GWEN. Where you've been all the time, boy 
 bach? And the weather so hot like this. 
 
 PRICE. I was telling your mother after dinner 
 you ought to lie down a bit in the afternoons. 
 GWILYM. That's all right, 'nhad! 
 GWEN. Sit you down, 'nghariad-i. You shall 
 have your tea in a minute. 
 
 [GwEN hurries into the back-kitchen. GWILYM 
 moves toward the chair to the right of the 
 dresser, but the old man, murmuring, "All 
 right, my boy, all right," anticipates him 
 and brings up the chair, placing it on the 
 left of his own chair, which remains as 
 [17]
 
 CHANGE n 
 
 before. SAM, having placed flag on the 
 dresser, takes the chair on which GWEN 
 formerly sat. This is his usual place at 
 table. The three men seat themselves. 
 GWILYM takes vase and examines the blos- 
 soms with the eye of a good judge.] 
 SAM [mopping his forehead}. It's a scorcher, boss 
 a fair scorcher; that's wot it is! If this 'ere 
 weather goes on on top of orl the bloomin' eloquence 
 we're 'avin' there'll be trouble 'ere in Aberpandy. 
 Mawk my words, boss, I'm tellin' yer nah. 
 
 [GWEN comes in with the teapot and a large 
 plate of bread and butter and a plate of 
 small round cakes. She takes the chair 
 from left of dresser and sits on SAM'S right. 
 LEWIS'S place between GWILYM and 
 GWEN is thus left vacant. GWEN pours 
 out the tea.] 
 
 GWEN. Where have you been, Gwilym? 
 GWILYM. Well, I went for a stroll as far as the 
 Institute, and then I thought I'd wait to hear whom 
 they had selected as candidate. 
 
 PRICE. That feller Pinkerton, I suppose. 
 SAM. Got it, boss, got it fust taime! 
 
 [PmcE shakes his head in disgust.] 
 [18]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. Bread and butter, Sam? 
 SAM. Skooliki da, as yer say dahn 'ere missis. 
 Skooliki da! 
 
 [Knock at door. 
 GWEN. Come in. 
 
 [ISAAC PUGH appears in the doorway an 
 old man in a shabby suit. Relations be- 
 tween him and PRICE having been strained 
 by the affairs of Horeb, his attitude is rather 
 formal, but, at the same time, touched with a 
 suggestion of meek apology.] 
 
 GWEN [coldly polite]. Ah! Shwt ych-chi, Isaac 
 Pugh? Dewch miwn. 
 
 PUGH. Shwt ych-chi 'ma heddy'? [Hesitating 
 in doorway.] Have tea you are? 
 
 GWEN. Yes, yes. Come in you. [Pointing to 
 the chair by the parlor door.] Will you take a cup 
 with us? 
 
 PUGH [advancing across the room]. No, indeed! 
 No, indeed ! Dim, diolch. Just had my tea, I have. 
 [He sits down.] 
 
 GWEN. There's plenty of welcome, mind you 
 now. 
 
 PUGH. Oh, yes! I know, I know! [To PRICE.] 
 I suppose you've heard the news? 
 [19]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. Aay, I've heard. 
 
 PUGH. Well, I never thought I'd live to see a 
 man like that Pinkerton being Member of Parlia- 
 ment for the valley never! 
 
 GWILYM. They say he's a very able man, Mr. 
 Pugh. 
 
 PRICE. It's men like him are the curse of South 
 Wales to-day. Who is he, I'd like to know, that he 
 should be made a proper "god" of? I've been in 
 the valley here now for sixty years. I remember 
 Aberpandy before ever the Powell-Griffiths sank 
 the first pit, and the sheep of Pandy Farm were 
 grazing quiet where the Bryndu Pit is now. And 
 I never so much as heard talk of this fellow Pinker- 
 ton till two or three years ago. 
 
 PUGH. Well, I thought it was understood, long 
 enough ago, too, that Evan Davies would get it 
 when George Llewelyn went. 
 
 GWILYM. He'd have had it ten years ago, Mr. 
 Pugh. He might have had it five years ago. But 
 there's a change come over the valley. 
 
 PRICE. Aay, Gwilym, a change, a sad change, 
 
 and a bad one. A good, steady man is Evan Davies 
 
 a tidy, respectable man, and been a deacon for 
 
 twenty years I know of. I remember the time when 
 
 [20]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 we went down the valley together to see Gladstone. 
 [He looks up at Gladstone's portrait on the wall.] Aay 
 
 yr hen Gladstone! There was a man for you! 
 And look at this feller Pinkerton. D'you ever hear 
 of him so much as darkening the door of a chapel 
 
 or even of the Church for a matter of that? Why 
 can't he hold his old meetings on some other day 
 than Sunday? Isn't it hard enough to keep the 
 congregation together without him and his meetings? 
 "Six days shalt thou labor" "Chwe diwrnod y 
 gweithi" isn't it written? But, of course, that 
 don't count to-day. 
 
 GWEN [pouring out a cup of tea]. Ah, yes! It 
 isn't like it was, when we'd have to bring the benches 
 out of the vestry on a Sunday night. [Giving the 
 cup of tea to her husband that he may pass it on.] 
 Take you this in your hand by there now, Isaac 
 Pugh. 
 
 PUGH. Well, indeed now, I didn't want it. But 
 
 since you're so kind [He takes the tea and stirs 
 
 it with vigor. Then drinks it.] 
 
 GWEN [holding out the plate of bread and butter]. 
 Sure now you won't have a bit of bread and butter? 
 There's a nice thin piece for you. 
 
 PUGH. Well, indeed, Mrs. Price fach, since 
 [21]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 you're so pressing [He gets up and takes the 
 
 piece of bread and butter.] 
 
 GWEN. I suppose, Isaac Pugh, like us, you're 
 looking forward to them coming home from college. 
 
 PRICE [lying hospitably]. I heard your William 
 Ewart did very well up in Treherbert the other 
 Sunday. 
 
 PUGH. I had a letter from William Ewart this 
 morning. [He hesitates a moment, looking furtively 
 from PRICE to GWEN.] Have you heard from John 
 Henry lately? 
 
 GWEN. Only a few picture postcards these last 
 few weeks, but we haven't worried him about it, 
 and him studying for the examination. Awful 
 things, those old examinations ! I hope his landlady 
 is looking after him; though I must say she seemed 
 a tidy little woman, if she was Church of England. 
 
 PUGH [more or less to himself]. I wonder he hasn't 
 written! [Changing the subject.] I suppose your 
 Lewis has been working for Pinkerton, Price? 
 
 SAM. Workin'? Workin'? Not'arf! 'E'sbeen 
 at it ever since the other feller daied! There's one 
 thing abaht Lewis, any 'ah 'e can tork. I've 
 'card 'em in Trafalgar Square; I've 'card 'em in 
 'Yde Pawk; I've 'card 'em on Tahr rill (Tower 
 [22]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Hill). But I've never 'card one as could better 
 'im. Where 'e gits it from, I don't know. Arter 
 electin' the candidite this arternewn, they 'ad a 
 public meetin' over the quest'n of the blacklegs they 
 say the mawsters are torkin' of bringin' in. And 
 yer orter've 'card 'im! Sich shahtin,' sich waivin* of 
 'is awms, and 'is eyes burnin' laike fire in 'is 'ead, 
 and the people risin' to 'im laike as if 'e'd mesmer- 
 ised 'em. Arter it was over, 'e was clean done and 
 shaikin' laike a leaf. 'E 's nothin' but a bundle of 
 red-'ot feelin's is Lewis. But 'e's a smawt chap, if 
 only 'e could keep 'is 'ead a bit a smawt chap ! 
 
 GWEN [with great pleasure]. There you are, 
 John! Didn't I always tell you? And him left 
 school when he was only fourteen, too! But there 
 was no keeping him back. Off he went to the night- 
 school every winter. And the books he was always 
 buying him only a collier, too! 
 
 GWILYM. There's one thing about Lewis, whether 
 you agree with him or not, you can't help feeling 
 proud of him. 
 
 GWEN. That's it, Gwilym, proud of him. That's 
 it. You can't help it 
 
 PRICE. Aay, there's a fat lot to be proud of. 
 Fine ideas he's got hold of all this here Socialism 
 [231
 
 CHANGE 
 
 and Agnosticism, as he calls it. Why, he's worse 
 than the Unitarians! 
 
 GWEN [shocked]. Taw s6n, John! For shame on 
 you ! Worse than the Unitarians ! 
 
 SAM. Maind yer, I don't blime 'im. Ow, no! 
 If I could tork laike 'im, I'd be a Socialist meself ter- 
 morrer! It's only 'uman niture. And if I was a 
 mawster, I'd do wot I bloomin' well laiked with my 
 pits. That's only 'uman niture, tew! O' course 
 this 'ere Socialism is orl tommy-rot, but since the 
 men will 'ave it, why shouldn't Lewis give it 'em as 
 well as anybody else? 
 
 GWEN [innocently]. Of course. That's what I've 
 been thinking. 
 
 SAM. And if there's any pickin's ter be got aht of 
 it, why shouldn't 'e git 'em as well as any other 
 feller? 
 
 GWILYM. You wicked old cynic, Sam! 
 
 SAM. Nah, me son, no nimes! Wot I sez is in 
 this 'ere world yer've got ter use yer common sense; 
 that's orl. Why shouldn't 'e git inter Parliament, as 
 well as the rest of 'em four 'undred a year nah, 
 and a naice soft job 
 
 GWILYM [looking over SAM'S shoulder to the win- 
 dow]. H'sh! Here he is! 
 
 [24]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Enter LEWIS with a parcel under his arm. He is be- 
 tween twenty-eight and thirty years of age. His 
 face is pale, clean-shaven, and very mobile. His 
 dark, intense eyes suggest great nervous energy, but 
 his mouth is sensitive rather than strong. A lock 
 of his waving black hair falls carelessly over his 
 forehead. All his movements are rapid. His 
 demeanor is always restless, and indicates a lack of 
 repose. In speaking, he gesticulates with graceful 
 vigor. His voice is sweet and resonant, and, when 
 it rises to declamation, there is in it a faintly plain- 
 tive note. 
 
 GWEN [rising]. Well, Lewis, so you've come at 
 last? I'll make you a cup of tea nice and fresh. 
 [Taking teapot, she goes toward back-kitchen.] 
 
 LEWIS. One minute, ma'am, there's this. [He 
 holds out the parcel.] 
 
 GWEN [taking parcel]. What is it, Lewis? [Open- 
 ing parcel.] Well, tan i marw, it's a chicken! Oh, 
 Lewis bach, and you so busy making such grand 
 speeches! How did you remember, boy bach? 
 
 LEWIS. Oh, I suppose I had it at the back of my 
 head since you mentioned it this morning. Old 
 Parry the Fish Shop had been worrying me to take 
 [25]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 a present since I taught him to ride a bicycle; so I 
 just slipped down and called quits on the chicken. 
 [He takes chair from near kitchen door, and goes to his 
 place at the table.] Don't be long, ma'am, I've got to 
 go to a committee. 
 
 [GwEN goes into back-kitchen, lost in admira- 
 tion of the bird.] 
 
 SAM. And when yer come ter consider the saize 
 of Parry, it would 'a' been a bit more appropriate if 
 'e'd mide it a turkey. 
 
 [GwiLYM sniggers. LEWIS only smiles a little, 
 
 vaguely.] 
 
 LEWIS. I saw you at the meeting, Gwilym. 
 GWILYM. Did you? Your speech was wonder- 
 ful, Lewis. 
 
 LEWIS. Wasn't it rather hot there for you? 
 GWILYM. Well, it was a bit; but I didn't want to 
 go away without hearing you. 
 
 [The two brothers interchange smiles. There 
 is evidently a great bond between them. 
 GWEN comes in with the teapot, a cup and 
 saucer, and a plate. She pours out a cup 
 of tea for LEWIS.] 
 
 GWEN. Bread and butter, Lewis? 
 LEWIS, No, thanks, nothing to eat,
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN [coaxingly]. Dera nawr, dera! One of my 
 round cakes, then? You won't turn up your nose 
 at my tishen gron? 
 
 LEWIS [taking one of the cakes]. Thank you, ma'am. 
 [He goes on with his tea, lost in thought.] 
 
 GWEN. More tea, Sam? 
 
 SAM. Well, diolk un vawer, missis. Diolk un 
 vawer ! 
 
 GWEN [pouring out SAM'S tea]. Well, we'll have 
 Lizzie Ann back on Monday. That's one thing, 
 however. I missed her by me in chapel last Sunday, 
 I can't tell you. [She resumes her seat.] 
 
 PUGH. Talking of Horeb, Price, I had a little 
 chat this morning with Rees the Top Shop and 
 Powell the Stockings 
 
 PRICE. Oh, indeed! 
 
 PUGH. They aren't so sure now, after all, it's 
 Thomas Llanstephan ought to have the call. 
 
 PRICE [with determination]. So you're trying to 
 talk them round, are you, Isaac Pugh? 
 
 PUGH. No, no! We just had a few words as I 
 was passing 
 
 PRICE. I tell you that Jones of Dowlais and his 
 New Theology, as you call it, aren't going to put 
 foot in Horeb. 
 
 [27]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PUGH [insinuatingly]. But, Price bach, you can't 
 deny he's just the man to draw the young people 
 
 PRICE. We've got other business in Horeb, 
 Isaac Pugh, than to draw the young people. We've 
 got to preach the living truth to men that have got 
 to die; and if the young people won't give heed, so 
 much the worse for them on Judgment Day and for 
 those who've blinded them. New Theology, indeed ! 
 
 GWEN. What's it all about this New Theology 
 they're talking of? 
 
 PRICE. It's making black white and white black. 
 It's making religion neither one thing nor the other. 
 It's treating the Devil himself as if he was one of the 
 Twelve Apostles 
 
 GWEN [dismissing the topic from her mind]. Well, 
 if it goes against the Bible of course, there's an 
 end to it. 
 
 PUGH. Well, indeed, for my own part, I prefer 
 the old-fashioned preaching and a bit of hwyl here 
 and there. 
 
 GWEN. It's very pretty a little bit of hwyl 
 toward the end, very pretty! 
 
 PUGH. But the old fashion doesn't draw the 
 young people. I can't stand by and see Horeb 
 
 getting emptier and emptier 
 
 [28]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. And I can't stand by either and see it 
 go into the hands of them that's making a mockery 
 of religion. I can't do it, Isaac Pugh. I'd just as 
 soon see it go to the Roman Catholics. Who was it 
 built Horeb up there on the hillside more than forty 
 years ago? Men like your father and my father, and 
 old Job Williams, and Roderick Rees the gaffer 
 sober, God-fearing men that you don't see here in 
 Aberpandy to-day. And how was it built, Isaac 
 Pugh? Have you forgot so soon? Every day, after 
 coming home from the pit, every day we did a 
 little, tired as we were, for the love of the cause. You 
 were there, and I was there young men just turned 
 twenty your father, my father, and all the others. 
 Stone by stone we built it. With our own hands we 
 built it, for the glory of His name. I've sat there, 
 Sunday after Sunday, all these years. All that I 
 have known noble and good, all that has given me 
 power to go on from day to day, has come from that 
 old chapel up there on the hill. And d'you think, 
 Isaac Pugh, I'll stand by and see it lost without 
 making a struggle? 
 
 [GwEN sighs with a kind of pleasant melan- 
 choly, as is her way when the talk is of 
 bygone days. LEWIS, who has listened to 
 [29]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 the latter part of his father's speech, smiles 
 somewhat contemptuously. GWILYM is look- 
 ing from his father to LEWIS, watching them 
 keenly. SAM is staring at the ceiling, hoping 
 that some one will change the subject.] 
 PUGH. Aay, that's all very well, Price. Good 
 days they were, I don't deny ; and us able to pay the 
 preacher so much as eleven pound a month. But 
 now, mun, it's as much as we can do to raise 
 seven. 
 
 PRICE. There's things that matter more than 
 money. 
 
 PUGH. Not if you're treasurer of the chapel, as 
 you'd find out in my place, Price. For my own part, 
 I hope Jones of Dowlais will get it, however. 
 
 PRICE. There's only one theology I know, and 
 Jones of Dowlais can't alter it, nor all the other 
 Joneses either. 
 
 PUGH. It's the young people 
 
 SAM [cheerfully]. Aw, well! Boys will be boys, 
 yer know. Boys will be boys! 
 
 PUGH [mysteriously]. Aay, I've always said you 
 never know how they'll turn out. [LEWIS looks at 
 him inquiringly.] No, no! I don't mean you, 
 Lewis, I don't mean you. 
 
 [30]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. Well, who d'you mean, then? 
 
 PUGH [changing the topic again]. So you got 
 Pinkerton nominated between you then, Lewis? 
 
 LEWIS. Yes, I don't think anybody would have a 
 chance against him. There were a few who sup- 
 ported Evan Davies, but I knew we'd get a major- 
 ity for Pinkerton. 
 
 PUGH. He's a proper firebrand, I think. I 
 can't abide a man like that. None of the old stock 
 here wanted him. 
 
 PRICE [bitterly]. That don't count in Aberpandy 
 now, Pugh. If you want advice to-day, you've got 
 to listen to the boys. If you want to be heard at all, 
 you must talk of nothing but strikes and the rights 
 of the workingman. You must stir up strife all 
 over the place 
 
 LEWIS [looking straight into his father's face]. 
 Yes, you must stir up strife all over the place. As 
 long as Labor and Capital exist as they do now, you 
 must stir up strife all over the place. 
 
 PUGH. There you are, Price. That's the kind of 
 talk you've got to listen to now. That's the kind of 
 thing that goes down with them to-day. 
 
 PRICE [seriously]. Now listen to me, Lewis. If 
 you and the like of you go on talking like this, and 
 [31]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 the temper of the men rising every day, sooner or 
 later there'll be hell upon earth here in Aberpandy. 
 
 LEWIS. There's never been anything but hell 
 upon earth here in Aberpandy; but it shan't be hell 
 forever. 
 
 PUGH. What's the matter with Aberpandy, 
 Lewis? Your father and me have been living here 
 now this sixty years and it's good enough for us. 
 
 LEWIS. It may be, but it isn't good enough for 
 me and the men I stand for. Here you are, you and 
 my father, squabbling as to which of your candi- 
 dates is to be given this job in Horeb at star- 
 vation wages. 
 
 PUGH [indignantly]. Squabbling? D'you say 
 squabbling? I'm sure 
 
 LEWIS. Aay, squabbling! D'you think we are 
 going to lose our sleep over Jones of Dowlais or 
 Thomas Llanstephan? There's another kind of 
 fight going on here, if you only knew it. Labor and 
 Capital are at grips, always, always! Whether 
 we're working or whether we're striking, we're 
 fighting that battle, day by day and hour by hour. 
 And you're not in the fighting line. You're prison- 
 ers of the past. It's tied your hands and it's blinded 
 
 your eyes 
 
 [32]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PUGH. Fine words, my boy; but wait you a 
 bit 
 
 LEWIS [his voice rising as he begins to be carried 
 away by the force of his own words]. The time for 
 waiting is done with; it's time for doing now. All 
 along you've been waiting and compromising. You 
 called yourselves " Liberal-Labor." Even your very 
 name was compromise and that's why you've 
 never, never done anything at all. 
 
 PRICE. I've done my duty all my life, and I've 
 paid my way to the last ha'penny. 
 
 LEWIS. Yes, you have, I know. And what's the 
 end of it all? You can scarcely sleep at night now 
 in your old age because you've got to take a few 
 shillings out of the Post Office in the time of need. 
 You've had a long, gray life, and you lived it the 
 best you knew. You haven't been a waster or a 
 drunkard; but tell me tell me honestly are you 
 so much better off than the man who is? Why, 
 if this is all that's possible for men, if this is the be- 
 ginning and the end, then I say that the sooner they 
 drink themselves to death the better it will be for 
 them. 
 
 PUGH. You hear that, Price? You hear the 
 kind of talk that's going on? 
 [33]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE [getting up and raising his voice]. I won't 
 have this ungodliness in my house. D'you hear 
 that? [LEWIS rises, facing his father. His lips are 
 set, his eyes ablaze. He shows signs of intense emo- 
 tional strain.] If that's part of the New Gospel 
 you talk about 
 
 LEWIS. Aay, that's part of it! There are terms 
 on which it's cowardly to live, and those are the terms 
 on which you and the like of you are living. You 
 may be satisfied with slavery; but we are not 
 
 PUGH. Slavery? 
 
 LEWIS. Aay, slavery! And there on Bryndu 
 stands the pit that is your master. From the cradle 
 to the grave it's been holding you in the hollow of 
 its hand. The food you eat, the clothes you wear, 
 the bed you lie in it's master of them all, aay, 
 almost of the very souls within you! When it gives, 
 it gives with grudging, and, when it gives no more, 
 sooner or later you've got to tighten your belt and 
 see the sorrow writing deep on the faces of the 
 women. But it's not going on forever, I tell you; 
 and all the cowardice and cant won't serve to 
 save it. 
 
 PRICE. No. We must leave it to loafers and 
 unbelievers to put things right to-day. 
 [34]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 LEWIS. Don't make a mistake. Men were 
 never more earnest than they are now. There's 
 something stirring in the dark. All over the wide 
 earth it's stirring, and there's nothing can keep it 
 still. Call it Socialism, Syndicalism, unrest, or 
 revolution. Call it what you like. But it's the 
 worker coming to his own at last through suffering 
 and through struggle. And here in Aberpandy 
 we're facing our share of the battle we, the young 
 men you make light of. And we're facing it not only 
 for ourselves, but for the men and women to come 
 after, who'll know the things we didn't know and 
 hardly dared to dream. [Taking his cap from dresser 
 and going toward the door.] But you're not with us. 
 You're looking back; we're looking forward. And 
 because you're looking back, you can't understand 
 what's going on about you day by day. 
 
 [He goes out. PUGH and PRICE exchange fur- 
 tive glances. GWEN follows LEWIS'S de- 
 parture, moving a few steps toward the win- 
 dow. Her face shows bewilderment, through 
 which shines maternal pride. GWILYM 
 watches his father with an expression touched 
 with pity. SAM is smoking hard, with an 
 appearance of critical appreciation.] 
 [351
 
 CHANGE 
 
 SAM. Well, I'm a tariff reformer, meself; but I 
 don't m ii i ml allowin' 'e can tork. I enjoy listenin' 
 to 'im, some'ah. O' course, it's only 'is enthewsi- 
 asm 'is Celtic enthewsiasm, I suppose yer'd 
 call it. 
 
 GWEN. There's a man he'd be in the pulpit! I 
 always think he's just the man for the pulpit when I 
 hear him going on like that. 
 
 PUGH. I don't deny he's got power, Mrs. Price; 
 but he's a strange chap a strange chap. I can't 
 understand him being his father's child ! 
 
 GWILYM. He's the child of his times, Mr. Pugh. 
 
 GWEN. Well, you know, Isaac Pugh, if your 
 children happen to be born clever, 'tisn't the same 
 as if they were born only middling 
 
 PUGH [nettled]. It seems to me, however, it would 
 be better for them to be born a bit less clever and a 
 bit more respectful. 
 
 SAM [judicially]. They say it's a waise chaild 
 that knows it's own fawther; but it's a waiser fawther 
 that can arrainge to 'ave 'is chaild accordin' to 'is 
 laikin'! 
 
 PUGH. What I say is a man ought to be able to 
 control his own sons 
 
 PRICE. Sons? Sons? I don't deny I may have 
 [36]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 got grounds of complaint about Lewis. If Gwilym 
 here wasn't a bit fond of him, he'd have been out of 
 the house long ago 
 
 GWEN [shocked]. John! 
 
 PRICE [to PUGH, not heeding her]. But there's 
 John Henry now so good a boy as any father could 
 wish 
 
 GWEN. And not only good, Isaac Pugh, but 
 clever. 
 
 PUGH [with a contemptuous snort]. Bit too clever, 
 I'm thinking. 
 
 GWEN [very sweetly]. Come now, Isaac Pugh. 
 Wara teg for John Henry. You mustn't be down 
 on him just because he happened to win 
 
 PUGH. Well, I'll say this for Lewis, anyhow, 
 whatever he's done, it's always before your face. 
 
 [There is some sensation after this. All rise 
 except SAM.] 
 
 PRICE [taking a step toward PUGH]. What d'you 
 mean, Isaac Pugh? 
 
 GWEN. What's our John Henry done? Quick! 
 Tell me! He's gone and got married? 
 
 PUGH. No, Mrs. Price. It's not that. [To 
 PRICE.] P'raps I may as well tell you now. 
 
 PRICE. Well? 
 
 [37J
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PUGH. You'd have to hear sooner or later 
 
 PRICE. Out with it, mun! 
 
 PUGH. I had a letter from our William Ewart 
 this morning 
 
 PRICE. Well? 
 
 PUGH. John Henry's going to throw up the min- 
 istry 
 
 GWEN. What? 
 
 PRICE. It's a lie, Isaac Pugh! 
 
 PUGH [putting his hand into his pocket]. I've got 
 the letter here. Look at it, you! 
 
 PRICE [in a low, broken voice]. John Henry, too! 
 Duw mawr, John Henry, too! 
 
 Curtain 
 
 [38]
 
 ACT fl
 
 ACT II 
 
 TIME: Evening of the following Sunday. 
 
 SCENE: The same. 
 
 The table is now closer to the fireplace. The sweet- 
 peas in the vase on the dresser have been changed. 
 PRICE'S week-day coat and a straw hat with Cardiff 
 College band are behind door on left. SAM, in his 
 best clothes, is sitting on the left-hand side of the 
 dresser, his face hidden behind the "News of the 
 World." GWILYM, reading a copy of " Cymru," is 
 seated in the armchair, which is now on the left 
 side of the table. LEWIS is standing near the win- 
 dow, looking out. JOHN HENRY is seated in the 
 chair by the parlor door. He is a young man of 
 twenty-one, in appearance something like his 
 brother LEWIS. Just now he is lost in thought. 
 There is a short spell of silence; then GWILYM, un- 
 consciously, begins to hum the old Welsh hymn, 
 "Bydd myrdd o ryfeddodau." After a bar or two, 
 LEWIS and JOHN HENRY take it up in harmony. 
 [41]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 SAM lowers the newspaper and looks at the brothers 
 with perplexity and disgust. 
 
 SAM. Cheerful, ain't it? Cawn't yer give us 
 somethin' a bit more laively? Laife ain't orl a 
 fun'ril, long drawn aht. 
 
 LEWIS. Strange what a hold they get on a man 
 those old hymns. [Sits down on chair by window.] 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Yes, very strange! They seem to 
 get down into your blood somehow. 
 
 SAM. Not maine, me boy. No fear! Gimme a 
 seat in a music 'all, a pot o' beer, a paipe of baccy, 
 and I'm 'appy puffickly 'appy. [Looking at the 
 clock.] I suppose the boss and the missis will be 
 'ome from chapel before long, nah. I'd better 'op it. 
 
 GWILYM. They won't be here for some time yet. 
 It's the first Sunday in the month. And there'll be 
 a lot of talk about the Church Meeting next week. 
 They're going to choose the pastor then. 
 
 LEWIS. Aay. There'll be father pulling the 
 strings for Thomas Llanstephan, and Isaac Pugh 
 pulling the strings for Jones of Dowlais, so that ona 
 of them can get seven pound a month for preaching 
 claptrap to a lot of old women. Ach! 
 
 SAM, Steady nah, Lewis! Steady, me boy! I 
 [42).
 
 CHANGE 
 
 don't 'old with goin' agen religion. I've bin a 
 sailor in me taime; and when yer've spent a few 
 years aht on the maighty deep as the song sez 
 yer gits the idea there may be more in religion than 
 yer think. So there's no 'awm in bein' perlite ter 
 it, any'ah. 
 
 GWILYM. After all, Lewis, you must make allow- 
 ance for their view of things, or how can you expect 
 them to make allowance for yours? 
 
 LEWIS. I tell you it makes me wild to see them 
 worrying over things that don't matter twopence. 
 
 GWILYM. It's a low price, Lewis, for honest con- 
 victions. 
 
 LEWIS [getting up with his usual restlessness]. 
 Jones of Dowlais or Thomas Llanstephan what 
 does it matter? Think of the great problems round 
 us staring at us crying at us everywhere ! 
 Look at this place we're living in mean streets, 
 mean homes, mean chapels, mean public-houses! 
 On and on the people go, driven by some blind im- 
 pulse within them, breeding children who will grow 
 up to go through the same old senseless round 
 unless we change it. [Grimly.] Unless we change it ! 
 
 SAM. Where yer gits the words from beats me 
 'oiler simply 'oiler ! 
 
 [43]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Oh, Lewis, if you only knew how I 
 envy you your enthusiasm! I'm so sick of fighting 
 things. Don't you ever get tired of it all? 
 
 LEWIS. Get tired? Yes, I do. Often and often. 
 But then I remember what it is we're fighting for, 
 and I see them in my mind, those men and women of 
 the future. There are great things going to happen, 
 things that I want to have a hand in shaping. And 
 when I think of all this, I'm not tired any longer. 
 
 SAM. Nah wot I sez, Lewis, is, it's no use lettin' 
 yer feelin's git the better of yer judgment and spoilin' 
 yer chawnces. It don't do yer no good in the long 
 run ter go settin' yerself up agen religion as yer do. 
 It's got a strong 'old dahn 'ere, and yer mustn't 
 fergit it. Nah taike my tip Christian Socialism 
 is the tack yer orter go on; it is, strite! 
 
 GWILYM [smiling, but earnest]. Now then, devil's 
 advocate! He's much better as he is. As I've told 
 you before, you're the most cynical old 
 
 SAM. Nah, Gwilym, no nimes, no 'awd nimes! 
 I'm older than orl of yer, and I'm advaisin' of yer for 
 yer own good. When yer gits on in years a bit, yer 
 gits ter see that laife is a thing o' give and taike 
 and the waiser yer are, the less yer gives and the 
 more yer taikes. That's abaht wot it comes tew. 
 [44]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWILYM. Rot ! 
 
 JOHN HENRY. That's all very well; but a man's 
 got his conscience to consider. There are times 
 when it's right to make a stand. 
 
 SAM. Sometaimes it may be raite, and agen, some- 
 taimes it may be wrong; but it's always very dis- 
 turbin'. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I knew that. But I did right. 
 Don't you think so, Lewis? 
 
 LEWIS. Quite right. It was the only thing to do. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Father's scarcely looked at me 
 since I've been home. Isaac Pugh passed me in the 
 street without stopping. I'm not a criminal. 
 
 LEWIS. No. But they'll be down on you as if 
 you'd committed murder. [Bitterly.] I know what 
 they're like the old brigade. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. You don't blame me, Gwilym? 
 
 GWILYM. No, I don't blame you. I'm sorry; 
 that's all. You've made up your mind, John 
 Henry? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Quite. I don't care what happens, 
 but I won't go back to it. 
 
 LEWIS. What will you do now? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I don't know. Teach, I suppose. 
 I'm not sure I like the idea of it. 
 [45]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 LEWIS. I don't think he'll let you go back to 
 finish your degree. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. If he doesn't suggest it, I shan't 
 ask him. 
 
 SAM. Yer don't think, John 'Enry, yer maite in 
 taime bring yerself ter toe the laine agen, so ter 
 speak? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Never! I'm out of it now. You 
 don't know what misery it was those heavy days 
 and those endless nights! 
 
 GWILYM. Of course, you understand it's bound to 
 be a terrible blow for father. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Yes, I know. That's why I hung 
 on through this second session. I never dreamt a 
 man's mind could change like this in a couple of years. 
 
 SAM [with kind curiosity}. Wot was it put yer orf 
 it, if I may awsk the question? 
 
 JOHN HENRY [with a gesture of helplessness}. Oh! 
 I can't explain. It all just slipped away; that's all. 
 I suppose I made up my mind too soon. It seemed 
 so easy up here in Aberpandy after the Revival. 
 
 SAM. Aw, yus! TheDeewigiad! 
 
 JOHN HENRY. But down there in Cardiff it wa*. 
 different. 
 
 GWILYM. How? 
 
 [46]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I hadn't to work very hard, be- 
 cause I had taken Higher Honors. So I read all 
 kinds of things. 
 
 SAM. Aw, yus! There yer are, Lewis. Wot did 
 I tell yer? Give me the newspiper. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I went about to concerts and 
 plays. 
 
 SAM. Did yer ever see George Robey , John 'Enry ? 
 I seen 'im many a taime before I got stuck in this 
 Gawd-fersaiken 'ole. 'E wasn't 'arf a corf -drop was 
 George! Yer orter 'ave seen 'im as the pre'istoric 
 man. Laugh? That ain't no word for it! 
 
 JOHN HENRY. There never was any laughter in 
 this house, not even when we were children. 
 
 LEWIS. There's little room for laughter in the 
 homes of the poor. 
 
 JOHN HENRY [to GWILYM]. Sometimes I almost 
 feel sorry we didn't stick to Roman Catholicism, all of 
 us. I've met five or six fellows who think that, too. 
 
 GWILYM [looking at him more closely]. Oh! 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Say what you like, it's got a 
 place for joy and beauty 
 
 SAM. 'Arf a mow! Yer've never bin ter Spine 
 [Spain], 'ave yer? 
 
 JOHN HENRY [still to GWILYM]. It isn't that I 
 [47]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 didn't try to keep to the old faith. You mustn't 
 think I didn't try, Gwilym. 
 
 GWILYM. I know that. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. But, somehow, the harder I 
 tried to grasp it, the more it crumbled away. 
 
 LEWIS. You're not the only one who's been 
 through that, John Henry. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. It's horrible, Gwilym all 
 through the day as you try to work, and then at 
 night as you tramp along under the stars always 
 that one same question, always, always! But no 
 answer ever comes. 
 
 SAM. Well, it isn't for me ter say nothin'. Wot 
 yer torkin' abaht nah is a bit above me. But wot 
 I've always said is, Give me comfort. And it ain't 
 a bad motter, either. 
 
 GWILYM. Didn't you ask advice from older men, 
 John Henry? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. At first I was afraid to say any- 
 thing about it, but I found out afterwards there were 
 many others like me. The older men didn't under- 
 stand, as far as I could see. Some of them men- 
 tioned Darwin, as if it was all his fault. And then 
 sometimes I had to preach. D'you know, Gwilym, 
 I got to hate the very thought of Sunday. 
 [48]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWILYM. You kept up your publications, then? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. For a time. It was only trying to 
 convince myself. Then I began to send other stu- 
 dents in my place. But I knew I couldn't go on 
 with it. Sooner or later, Gwilym, it had to come. 
 I simply couldn't go on. 
 
 GWILYM. It's a hard case at best a hard case ! 
 
 JOHN HENRY. But what I can't understand is 
 the way so many take it. After all, I couldn't help 
 myself, and it's I who've suffered most. Yet they 
 treat me as if I'd done some dreadful thing. Look 
 at father and Isaac Pugh. 
 
 LEWIS. It's the way of the old brigade, John 
 Henry. They think they've got the truth, and the 
 whole truth. They hate any new idea 
 
 GWILYM. Yes; but, Lewis, they can't help it. 
 You sympathize with John Henry because you 
 understand. You know it's only change. The old 
 brigade, as you call them they think it's desertion. 
 Remember, the things you're leaving are a part of 
 their very lives. Don't you see? 
 
 LEWIS. I'll tell you what I see a lot of cantan- 
 kerous old devils, too out-of-date to do anything 
 themselves, and too jealous to let alone those who 
 can. 
 
 [49]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWILYM [reflectively]. I see something quite dif- 
 ferent something rather sad. 
 
 LEWIS. What is it? 
 
 GWILYM. It's men and women growing old in a 
 world that doesn't understand them, and that they 
 themselves don't understand. Sometimes I think 
 that because I'm an invalid, and perhaps, too, because 
 I'm a bit of a poet I see things in the old brigade 
 that you've never realized. Half my time I've been 
 on my back, outside life altogether, thinking and 
 looking on. It's all very well for you, Lewis 
 
 LEWIS [with protest]. All very well for me? 
 
 GWILYM. Yes. It's quite all right for you. 
 You're on the winning side. You've got the great 
 ally- 
 
 LEWIS. What ally? 
 
 GWILYM. Time; and in your heart you know it. 
 You've only got to wait, and you'll win. But the old 
 brigade can only see that they're losing, and they're 
 bewildered, pressed on all sides by things that they 
 don't understand. If they argue with you, they get 
 beaten. Why ? Because they've been careful to give 
 you the education they never had themselves 
 
 JOHN HENRY. But they won't understand. 
 
 GWILYM. Because, of course, they can't under- 
 [50]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 stand. Take father's case now. Did ever any man 
 work harder? [To LEWIS.] Tell me. 
 
 LEWIS. No, I suppose not. 
 
 GWILYM. Could any man ever have denied 
 himself more than he has done? [To JOHN HENRY.] 
 Come, John Henry, answer. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. No. I must confess. Nobody 
 could have. 
 
 GWILYM. You said just now there'd never been 
 any laughter in this house. I'll tell you why. 
 There's been one long, slow self-sacrifice; and the 
 world needs sacrifice as much as it needs laughter. 
 Don't be hard on him, boys, because he doesn't 
 look at things with your eyes. He can't help him- 
 self any more than you. He belongs to the old 
 valley. At heart he's of the agricultural class 
 slow, stolid, and conservative. You, Lewis, you're 
 of a different kind altogether you've grown up in 
 modern industry, with no roots in the soil. That's 
 why you're a rebel. That's why the men of your 
 time are rebels, too. 
 
 [Knock at door. 
 
 LEWIS. Come in. 
 
 [The door opens. DAI MATTHEWS and TWM 
 POWELL are seen in the doorway.] 
 [51]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 DAI. Busy, Lewis? 
 
 LEWIS. No. Only chatting. Any news? Come 
 in. 
 
 Enter DAI and T WM. DAI MATTHEWS is a young man, 
 plainly dressed. TWM POWELL is a collier, in his 
 best clothes. He wears a red necktie. 
 
 DAI. We wanted to see you on a bit of business, 
 Lewis. 
 
 LEWIS. Oh! Any thing important? [He gets up.] 
 
 TWM. Aay, Lewis, most important. Some more 
 of their damned capitalist tricks; that's what's the 
 matter. 
 
 GWILYM. Well, if you've got business, we won't 
 interrupt you. [He gets up, leaving " Cymru" on the 
 table.] Come and have a look at my new sweet- 
 peas, John Henry. I meant to cut a few of those 
 King Edward the Sevenths. 
 
 JOHN HENRY [rising] . Right you are ! 
 
 DAI. How are they getting on in this hot weather, 
 Gwilym? I see old Roberts has got a fine show of 
 them down there at the crossing. 
 
 GWILYM. Yes, but the drought's spoiling them 
 especially his White Spencers. He's asked me to go 
 [52]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 down and see them in the morning. [Going toward 
 back-kitchen.] Come on, John Henry ! 
 
 SAM [taking up his newspaper]. 'Arf a mow, boys. 
 I'm aht o' this 'ere conspiracy, tew. A man with 
 one awm cawn't afford ter git mixed up in such 
 affairs. It's as much as my job would be worth. 
 Ta, ta! [Follows the others through kitchen.] 
 
 LEWIS. Sit down. Now what is it? 
 
 [LEWIS takes the armchair. TWM takes the 
 chair by the window, DAI that to the left of 
 dresser.] 
 
 TWM. I'll tell you what it is, Lewis; they're try- 
 ing to trick us workingmen that they've been ex- 
 ploiting all our lives. 
 
 LEWIS [turning to DAI, as if used to TWM'S out- 
 bursts]. Well? 
 
 DAI. The masters are going to run up a special 
 train to-morrow with two hundred blacklegs 
 
 LEWIS [rising]. What? 
 
 DAI. Yes. We had word to-day from Cardiff. 
 
 TWM. It makes me sick to think there are men in 
 the country to-day will take the gold of the capitalist 
 to betray their fellow- workers ! 
 
 LEWIS. Dai, those blacklegs are not to come in. 
 
 DAI. And what's more, the soldiers in the next 
 [53]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 valley have been shifted up. They're only just over 
 the hill - 
 
 LEWIS. Soldiers or no soldiers, those blacklegs 
 are not to come in. 
 
 TWM. Soldiers? Tools in the hands of the privi- 
 leged classes, grinding down the 
 
 DAI. What's to be done, Lewis? 
 
 LEWIS [pacing the room]. There's a lot to be 
 done, Dai. If those blacklegs come in, they'll 
 break the strike. 
 
 DAI. Yes, I know. 
 
 LEWIS. It would be fatal to the whole cause for us 
 to be beaten here. Aberpandy gave the lead. Who- 
 ever else gives in, we've got to go on to the bitter end. 
 
 DAI. And then, there's the bye-election coming 
 off. It would cost Pinkerton hundreds of votes if 
 the strike was to be broken here 
 
 TWM. Of course! Of course! It's hopelessness 
 if he can't keep his own district loyal. 
 
 LEWIS. Look here. There's only one thing to 
 do. Get them to wire from Cardiff telling us what 
 time the train starts. Then we'll call a demonstra- 
 tion up here on Bryndu an hour or so before the 
 train gets to Aberpandy. It will have to slow up at 
 
 the crossing 
 
 [54]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 TWM. Dyna fe! I see! Da iawn! And then 
 we can get the men down to the crossing and pull the 
 blacklegs off the train 
 
 LEWIS. Yes. We've only got to close the 
 gates 
 
 DAI. It's risky, Lewis and the soldiers only 
 over the hill. 
 
 LEWIS. But you know what blacklegs are ! They 
 nearly always give in when they see a crowd 
 
 TWM. Anyhow, a bit of a row won't do much 
 harm neither. It's time the public was shown that 
 organized labor is a power in the land. 
 
 DAI. You're sure it's worth it, Lewis? 
 
 LEWIS. It's worth everything. Don't you see 
 it's worth everything? If we let them beat us now, 
 it's the beginning of the end. You can't expect a 
 strike like this to be a Sunday-school tea-party. 
 You're not weakening, Dai? 
 
 DAI. No, I'm not weakening. I've taken my 
 side with the workingmen here. It looks as if it 
 may cost me my job in school. But I'll stick to my 
 side. Don't be afraid. 
 
 LEWIS. Good boy, Dai. We must see the Com- 
 mittee to-night. 
 
 DAI. If you'll take my advice, Lewis, you'll 
 [55]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 keep out of this. I've had a tip that the police have 
 got their eye on you because of the speeches you've 
 been making. If they see you organizing this, 
 they'll be sure to think there's something in the 
 wind; and that would spoil all. 
 
 LEWIS. Aay, p'raps you're right. 
 
 DAI. They're watching you closely, now. You're 
 a marked man. 
 
 TWM. You'd better leave the demonstration to 
 Dai and me. It'll be all right. I'll make a speech. 
 
 DAI. If they think there's trouble brewing, 
 they'll have the soldiers over at once. Now, if you, 
 Lewis, were to lie low until the last moment 
 
 TWM. We'll work it up. Leave that to me! 
 
 DAI. And then slipped down to the crossing and 
 made an appeal to the blacklegs to go away without 
 causing trouble 
 
 TWM. Duck the devils in the river, I would! 
 
 LEWIS. Right, Dai! Your way's the right one. 
 There's no need to make a row if we can avoid it. 
 Look here! I'll stay in till you send for me, shall I? 
 
 DAI. Yes, that will be best. We'll take that as 
 fixed, then? 
 
 LEWIS. Very well. 
 
 DAI. There's another matter I want to talk 
 [56]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 about, too. [He takes out a letter, smiling myster- 
 iously.] 
 
 LEWIS. Oh! What's that? 
 
 DAI. You know they're going to appoint a 
 miner's agent for the new district they've opened up 
 in Carmarthenshire? 
 
 LEWIS. Yes? 
 
 DAI. Well, Pinkerton's pushing you for all he's 
 worth. It's pretty sure now, he says, that you'll be 
 able to have it for the asking. 
 
 LEWIS. He mentioned it to me some time ago, 
 but there was nothing settled then. 
 
 TWM. If it had been anybody else but you, I'd 
 have had a shot myself. But, of course, I shouldn't 
 stand a chance against you. 
 
 DAI [giving LEWIS the letter]. There's nothing 
 private in it. I'm glad the opportunity is coming 
 your way. You've always had an ambition to give 
 your whole time to the Labor Movement. Pinker- 
 ton says something about starting at once 
 
 LEWIS. At once? But 
 
 TWM. There's nothing to stop you, anyhow. 
 Don't you be afraid for Aberpandy. There's men 
 here can keep the cause going. 
 
 LEWIS. It's Gwilym I'm thinking of. He's 
 [57]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 going to Australia in five weeks' time. I don't like 
 the idea of leaving him just before he goes. I dare 
 say it could be arranged I don't want to miss a 
 chance like this 
 
 DAI. Oh, that'll be all right. I'm sure Pinkerton 
 can manage it. I'll drop a line to him to-night 
 
 LEWIS. Of course, if it came to that, I could run 
 up week-ends. 
 
 DAI. That'll be all right. Don't you worry! 
 
 TWM. It's strange what a soft spot you've all 
 got for Gwilym. You've been a good butty to him, 
 I must say, ever since you were children. 
 
 LEWIS. Well, you see, Twm, he's always been the 
 weak one of us three boys, and I got into the habit of 
 looking after him when we were in school. 
 
 DAI. He cost you many a fight up there in the 
 British School, did Gwilym. By the way, is it true 
 that John Henry's thrown up the ministry? 
 
 LEWIS. Yes. Things are very much strained 
 between him and the old man because of it. 
 
 DAI. Yes, I suppose it's a bit unpleasant. Look 
 here, why doesn't he go away for a bit? There's the 
 Male Voice Party going up to London to-morrow 
 morning to sing for the Strike Fund. A good tenor 
 like John Henry would be very useful. 
 [58]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 LEWIS. I hadn't thought of that. I'll mention 
 it to him. 
 
 TWM. And Gwilym's going for good? 
 
 LEWIS. For some years, anyway. 
 
 DAI. It's rather strange. I may be going to 
 Australia about that time, too ! 
 
 LEWIS [surprised]. You? To Australia? 
 
 DAI. Yes. You know that some of the old 
 brigade on the Council are trying to get rid of me 
 because of the part I've played in the strike? 
 
 LEWIS. Well? 
 
 DAI. They've been raking up some trouble about 
 the registers. If I get the sack, I'm going out to 
 Australia, too. That's the place for a Labor-man. 
 
 LEWIS. Are they likely to turn you out? 
 
 DAI. It's touch and go. 
 
 TWM. It'll be another case of victimizing the 
 friend of the workingman. 
 
 DAI. There's a cattle-boat going from Cardiff 
 in five weeks' time. Somebody's taking out a breed 
 they want to try in Australia and New Zealand. 
 There's three or four chaps from Aberpandy going 
 to work their passages. It's not difficult work. 
 
 LEWIS. Let's hope it won't come to that. 
 
 DAI [rising], I don't care much if it does. We'd 
 [59]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 better be off now to call on the Committee. Come 
 on, Twm. 
 
 LEWIS. And you'll come for me when you want 
 me in the morning? 
 
 DAI. Yes. P'raps Twm will run up. [He goes to- 
 ward door, preceded by TWM.] 
 
 TWM. We'll teach them a thing or two. Soli- 
 darity, that's what we want. Solidarity of labor! 
 
 LEWIS [taking DAI by the arm]. You won't for- 
 get to write to Pinkerton? 
 
 DAI. That'll be all right. [Patting him on 
 shoulder.] You've got a great future, Lewis a 
 great future. If I go to Australia, I'll often think 
 of you. You're bound to make a name for yourself 
 sooner or later. 
 
 LEWIS. Diolch i ti, Dai. 
 
 DAI. Well, noswath dda nawr. 
 
 TWM. Noswath dda, Lewis. 
 
 [DAi and TWM go out. LEWIS stands for a 
 moment in thought, then goes to the table 
 and takes up the letter given him by DAI. 
 As he reads it, he smiles with pleasure. 
 He opens back-kitchen door and whistles to 
 those outside. They are heard approaching.} 
 LEWIS. They're gone now, boys. 
 [60]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Enter JOHN HENRY, GWILYM, and SAM. JOHN 
 HENRY has a few crimson sweet-pea blooms in his 
 hand. LEWIS sits down in armchair. 
 
 GWILYM. Conspirators departed, eh, Lewis? 
 LEWIS [with a little start, which he covers with an 
 affectation of lightness]. Yes. All gone. All gone. 
 GWILYM [pointing to the letter in LEWIS'S hand]. 
 What have you got there a list for the guillotine? 
 LEWIS. This? Oh, only a letter! Bit of busi- 
 ness. That's all. 
 
 [SAM and JOHN HENRY take the seats they occu- 
 pied before. GWILYM goes to the dresser t 
 and adds the blooms to those already in 
 the vase.] 
 
 SAM. Accordin' ter wot I 'ear, Dai Matthews 
 'as bin gittin' inter trouble on acahnt of torkin' 
 politics in school an' one thing and another. 
 
 LEWIS. He suggested, John Henry, that you 
 might like to join the Male Voice Party. They're 
 going to sing in London, starting to-morrow. They'd 
 be glad of a good first tenor. 
 
 JOHN HENRY [with some eagerness]. Would they, 
 really? 
 
 SAM [sadly]. Wish I was a tenor, first tenor, second 
 [61]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 tenor, third tenor any bloomin' tenor! I'd give a 
 lot ter sit dahn ter a plaite o' fish and chips in Cannin* 
 Tahn agen. I would. Not 'arf ! 
 
 [LEWIS is re-reading the letter.] 
 
 GWILYM. Are you homesick, Sam? 
 
 SAM. It ain't so much bein' 'omesick as sick of 
 Aberpandy. Some'ah I ain't at 'ome dahn 'ere. 
 Even the beer don't taiste the saime. I've traied it 
 maild; I've traied it bitter, and I've traied it mixed. 
 [Cheerfully.] But it ain't no good grumblin', is it? 
 Much better to taike things as they come. I think 
 I'll just 'op on to a tram and go dahn to the "Stag 
 and Pheasant ' ' for 'arf a bitter. 
 
 JOHN HENRY [to LEWIS], D'you think they really 
 want 
 
 GWILYM. You're not seriously thinking of it? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Well, I wouldn't mind. 
 
 GWILYM. You see, there's mother. You've only 
 been here a couple of days. She wouldn't like you 
 to run away at once. 
 
 JOHN HENRY, Oh, yes! There's mother, of 
 course. 
 
 SAM [looking toward the window]. 'Ere they are 
 comin' up the 'ill, and Isaac Pugh with them. I'm 
 goin' ter 'op it aht through the back. [Crjsses to 
 [62]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 kitchen door.] Not a word ter the boss, maind yer! 
 Well, nows dawkee, boys ! [He goes out. 
 
 LEWIS. I'm going out into the garden. I don't 
 want to quarrel with old Pugh again. 
 
 [He goes out. Voices are heard on the road.] 
 
 GWEN [just outside door]. Won't you come in for 
 a minute, Isaac Pugh? 
 
 PUGH. Well, indeed, just a minute then, just a 
 minute! 
 
 Enter PRICE, GWEN, and ISAAC PUGH. They are 
 all in their best clothes, old-fashioned garments and 
 very worn. PRICE is carrying a big tonic sol-fa 
 hymn book. 
 
 They're burying old Jonah Jones to-morrow, and I 
 promised to go up to the prayer meeting there to- 
 night. [To GWILYM, kindly.] How are you this 
 evening? 
 
 GWILYM. Pretty well, thank you. 
 PUGH [to JOHN HENRY with cold politeness]. And 
 how are you, John Henry? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. All right, thanks. How are you? 
 [PuGH takes the chair by the window. JOHN 
 HENRY takes "Cymru" from the table and 
 [63]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 idly turns over the pages. He is obviously 
 somewhat uncomfortable, PRICE, after a few 
 quiet words with GWILYM, takes the arm- 
 chair, ignoring JOHN HENRY altogether.] 
 GWEN [taking off bonnet and cloak}. Where's 
 Lewis? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Out in the garden. 
 
 GWEN. Has he got his waistcoat on, Gwilmy? 
 
 There's no trusting the evenings, however hot it is. 
 
 GWILYM. That's all right, ma'am. He's got it on. 
 
 [GwEN takes up her cloak and bonnet very 
 
 carefully, and carries them into the parlor.] 
 PUGH. Aay. As I was saying, they're burying 
 poor old Jonah to-morrow. 
 
 GWEN [as she comes from parlor]. Will you stop 
 for a bit of supper, Isaac Pugh? 
 
 PUGH. No, indeed, thank you fawr, Mrs. Price. 
 You see, poor Jonah's wife was a second cousin to 
 my missis; so it wouldn't look the thing for me not 
 to be there at the prayer meeting. 
 
 GWEN. Well, Jonah might have treated her 
 better, poor thing! But now he's dead and gone, 
 I s'pose it's only right to paint him whiter than he 
 was. [To PRICE.] Don't you think you'd better 
 put on your everyday coat, John? 
 [64]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 [PRICE has been sitting with every appearance 
 of grim displeasure on his face. Now and 
 then he glances at JOHN HENRY in fierce 
 anger. At OWEN'S suggestion, Tie gets up 
 and takes off his cuffs, which are held to- 
 gether by huge buttons. Then he removes 
 his coat, showing a rough gray flannel shirt. 
 Without a word he carries the things into 
 the parlor, and, coming back, takes his coat 
 from behind the door.] 
 
 PUGH. If they ask me to offer up a few words, it 
 won't be easy to know quite what to say. He wasn't a 
 full member in Horeb. [ Turning to PRICE.] Talking 
 of Horeb, Rees the Top Shop and Powell the Stock- 
 ings were telling me in the vestry to-night they're 
 pretty sure Jones of Dowlais will get the vote in the 
 Church Meeting. 
 
 PRICE. I dare say. [He sends a look of rage to- 
 ward JOHN HENRY.] 
 
 PUGH. And if he gets it mind you, I don't say 
 
 he will 
 
 PRICE. He'll get it now! [He sends another 
 look toward JOHN HENRY.] 
 
 GWEN [trying to change the subject}. Who's preach- 
 ing with us next Sunday? 
 
 [65]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PUGH. Well, indeed, now you come to ask, I 
 think it's our William Ewart is there next Sunday. 
 
 GWEN. Oh, yes! William Ewart! Of course, 
 if we are spared, we shall be sure to come to hear 
 William Ewart, morning and evening. [She looks 
 at JOHN HENRY, and turns away stifling a little sigh.] 
 
 PUGH. Don't you go out of your way, Mrs. 
 Price. Well, I must be off now, indeed. [With a 
 touch of triumph.] I suppose if I don't see you before, 
 Price, you'll be at the Church Meeting on Tues- 
 day? 
 
 [PRICE, goaded by all this, flashes round to give 
 an angry reply, but it is anticipated by 
 GWEN.] 
 
 GWEN [quickly]. Oh, yes, of course. We shall be 
 there for sure both of us. 
 
 PUGH. Well, good night now. Good night, all 
 of you. [He goes out. 
 
 [There is a short pause. PRICE looks hard at 
 JOHN HENRY, who is pretending to read. 
 GWILYM is watching his father with con- 
 siderable apprehension.] 
 
 GWEN. Well, I'm glad I asked him to stop to 
 supper, and I'm glad he didn't stop. Nobody can 
 say we owe the Pughs anything. [She goes toward 
 [66]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 the back-kitchen, but is stopped by the tone of her hus- 
 band's next words.] 
 
 PRICE [in a cold, hard voice]. I didn't see you in 
 chapel to-night, John Henry. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. No, I wasn't there, 'nhad. 
 
 PRICE. Wasn't there? And first Sunday in the 
 month, too? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I didn't feel like it. 
 
 GWILYM. It's rather close this evening [goes 
 toward fireplace] 'nhad. 
 
 PRICE. There's plenty of room in Horeb now. 
 You needn't be afraid of that 
 
 GWEN. Would you like to have your supper 
 now, John? 
 
 PRICE [without noticing her]. I suppose you think 
 it's a very clever thing to have everybody talking 
 about you like this? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. About me? 
 
 PRICE. Yes; the deacons and the members. 
 D'you think they don't talk? Haven't I been 
 working all this time to keep Jones of Dowlais out 
 of Horeb? And here you are my own son ten 
 times worse than him. D'you think I don't know 
 what they're saying behind my back? 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I'm sorry, 'nhad; but I can't 
 [67]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 help it. [With an air of being tired of the whole matter, 
 he gets up and crosses toward the window, where he 
 stands looking out.] 
 
 GWEN [advancing toward table]. Nawr, John, 
 nawr! You mustn't go on like that. He wouldn't 
 have given it up if he didn't think it was right. 
 After all, there's no disgrace in it not really, John! 
 It's only the foolishness of people's talk. And he'll 
 go in for the teaching. A clever boy like him can 
 easily get into an intermediate; and you can't deny, 
 John, it's nearly as respectable as being a preacher. 
 
 PRICE. He's chosen his own way. It makes no 
 difference to me now what that way is 
 
 GWEN. John! 
 
 GWILYM. 'Nhad! 'Nhad! 
 
 PRICE. One thing I know he'll never touch 
 another penny of my money. 
 
 JOHN HENRY [hotly]. And he'll never ask for it, 
 either! 
 
 GWEN. John! John! Don't be hard on him 
 
 JOHN HENRY. It's all right, ma'am 
 
 GWEN. He's only a boy after all, and he didn't 
 understand. He's very sorry if he's upset your 
 plans about Horeb. You are sorry, aren't you, 
 John Henry? 
 
 168]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. Plans for Horeb? He's upset more than 
 my plans for Horeb. [To JOHN HENRY.] Haven't 
 we been slaving and sacrificing all these years? 
 Haven't we given you education when you might 
 have had to go to pit? Haven't we done all we 
 could books, clothes, and all the rest? And what 
 ; ,vas it all for? To have you turn out an unbeliever 
 at the end of all ! 
 
 GWEN. No. He's not an unbeliever. You're 
 not an unbeliever, are you, John Henry? 
 
 JOHN HENRY [wearily]. But 'nhad, 'nhad! Can't 
 you understand? Can't you see? 
 
 PRICE. I can see that you've turned your back on 
 the religion you've been brought up in. I can under- 
 stand that you despise the faith of your father and 
 your mother 
 
 JOHN HENRY. Despise? I despise your faith? 
 Why, good heavens, it's the one thing I envy 
 you! 
 
 PRICE. If you don't despise it, why have you 
 given it up? Answer me that. 
 
 GWILYM. But, 'nhad, does he despise your coat 
 because it doesn't happen to fit him? 
 
 PRICE [not unkindly]. Now, Gwilym, don't you 
 interfere. 
 
 [69]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN [eagerly]. Yes, yes. Speak your mind, 
 you, Gwilym bach! 
 
 GWILYM. You musn't be unjust to John Henry, 
 'nhad. [He goes to chair right of table.] 
 
 PRICE [to GWEN]. There you are, he's turning 
 Gwilym against me now 
 
 GWILYM. No 'nhad, no! 
 
 PRICE. He is, I tell you. He wants to make you 
 like himself. It's the way with all these unbelievers. 
 They're at it now down there by the bridge 
 
 JOHN HENRY. But surely, if you're allowed to 
 preach what you like 
 
 PRICE. Oh, yes! You can argue, I dare say. If 
 I'd let you go to the pit instead of sending you to 
 school and college 
 
 JOHN HENRY [with irritation]. Yes, but you sent 
 me to school and college 
 
 PRICE [raising his voice]. And whose money kept 
 you in school? Whose money helped to keep you 
 hi college? I'd rather have thrown it into the 
 river. 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I'm not sure it wouldn't have been 
 better. 
 
 GWEN. Now, machan-i! 
 
 PRICE. That's your gratitude, is it? That's the 
 [70]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 thanks I get for all these years and the extra 
 turns I worked because of you. 
 
 JOHN HENRY [bursting out angrily]. Oh, I'm 
 sick of it all, sick of struggling against what can't be 
 conquered, sick of being badgered and bullied by 
 people too dull to understand ! I tell you I couldn't 
 help it. Why don't you let me alone? I took the 
 honest course where it was easy to play double. 
 You make no allowance for that. You wanted a 
 preacher hi the family. It flattered your pride. 
 That's what you're thinking of now. You don't care 
 about me and the hell on earth I've had over all this. 
 You wouldn't care if I sold myself ten times over 
 
 GWEN [frightened]. Now, John Henry bach, you 
 mustn't talk like that not to your father 
 
 PRICE. So it's come to this, has it? [With cold 
 restraint.] If my eye offends me, I can pluck it 
 out 
 
 GWILYM [rising]. 'Nhad! 
 
 JOHN HENRY [with the same cold restraint]. What 
 d'you mean? 
 
 PRICE. I mean that I've done with you for- 
 ever! 
 
 GWEN [with a gasp of terror]. No! No! John, 
 
 he's our child 
 
 [71]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. He's mine no longer. 
 
 GWEN [rushing to JOHN HENRY] . Don't you listen 
 to him ! Don't you listen to him ! It's only because 
 he's in a temper about Jones of Dowlais 
 
 JOHN HENRY [who has not turned his eyes from 
 PRICE'S face]. So you've done with me? 
 
 PRICE. Yes. 
 
 GWEN. But I don't care, 'nghariad-i! I don't 
 care about you giving up the ministry. I'm your 
 mother; that's all I care about, and if you're an un- 
 believer, it's the same you are to me, boy bach 
 
 PRICE. Gwen, do you put your children before 
 your God? 
 
 GWEN [in a low voice]. Even before my God! 
 
 PRICE [to JOHN HENRY]. You've brought a curse 
 on the house. Get out of my sight ! 
 
 GWILYM [advancing toward his father]. Think 
 what you're doing, 'nhad ! 
 
 PRICE. He's taken my money from me. He's 
 robbed me of my rest. He's no better than a com- 
 mon thief! 
 
 JOHN HENRY. I'm going. I've suffered enough. 
 
 GWILYM. No, no! It will blow over! 
 
 GWEN. But what about me? D'you hear, both 
 of you? What about me? 
 
 [72]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 [JOHN HENRY, looking toward his mother, 
 softens a little. Then, looking toward his 
 father, he grows hard again, and with a 
 savage exclamation, takes his hat and goes 
 out, banging the door. GWILYM sinks into 
 his chair and covers his face with his hands, 
 evidently suffering a shock. GWEN, after a 
 moment of helplessness, turns furiously on 
 her husband, and GWILYM jumps to his feet, 
 clutching the chair for support. LEWIS, 
 anxious and astonished, appears in the 
 doorway of the kitchen.] 
 
 GWEN [to PRICE, vehemently]. You brute! You 
 wicked, cruel brute! You've driven him away. 
 I hate you ! I hate you ! 
 
 GWILYM [swaying to and fro as he moves toward his 
 
 father]. I can't stand it. I can't stand 
 
 [He collapses, fainting, on to the armchair. 
 GWEN, LEWIS, and PRICE hurry toward him.] 
 GWEN. Duw mawr! He's bad. Lewis, run for 
 the doctor. Quick, Lewis, quick! 
 
 LEWIS [loosening GWILYM'S clothing] . He's fainted ; 
 that's all. [To PRICE.] Get some water. [To 
 GWEN.] Open the door, ma'am. 
 
 [GwEN opens the door. PRICE hastens into the 
 [73]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 kitchen and returns with a glass of water, 
 which LEWIS puts to GWILYM'S lips.] 
 
 PRICE [as GWILYM stirs]. He's coining round. 
 
 LEWIS. Yes, he's coming round. 
 
 [All the differences between the three have, for 
 the moment, disappeared, as they stand 
 around GWILYM in equal solicitude. Then 
 GWILYM opens his eyes and smiles faintly.} 
 
 PRICE [tenderly]. Better now, Gwilym bach? 
 
 GWILYM. Where is he our John Henry? 
 
 [The little interlude of sympathy ends with the 
 question. LEWIS turns to his father with 
 a hard, inquiring gaze, beneath which the 
 old man shrinks a little. GWEN, looking 
 through the open door, begins to cry quietly.} 
 
 GWEN. He's going down to the crossing. And he 
 hasn't looked back. And he hasn't looked back. 
 
 Curtain 
 
 [74]
 
 ACT in
 
 ACT III 
 
 TIME: Monday Morning. 
 
 SCENE : The same. 
 
 The table has been drawn out toward the middle of the 
 room. Breakfast is just over. GWILYM, SAM, and 
 LEWIS are seated in their usual places during meals. 
 There is a short spell of silence. GWILYM, as if 
 thinking of the previous evening, sighs quietly and 
 shakes his head. LEWIS, laboring under suppressed 
 excitement, moves uneasily on his chair, sending 
 occasional glances toward the window. Dressed in his 
 working clothes, SAM is reading the " Daily Mail " 
 as he smokes his morning pipe, at peace with all the 
 world. The old red flag stands against the side of 
 his chair. GWEN enters with a small tray holding 
 cup, saucer, plate, etc. She places the tray on the 
 table, and looks about her in a troubled way. Her 
 manner betrays a mind heavily burdened. She has 
 a trick of sighing softly to herself. 
 [77]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 SAM [trying to be cheerful]. Well, missis, yer'll 
 'ave Lizzie Ann back with yer this mornin', eh? 
 
 GWEN [arranging some crockery on the dresser]. 
 Yes, I hope so, Sam. 
 
 SAM. She's a useful kaind o' gel is Lizzie Ann, and 
 no nonsense abaht 'er. I dare say she'll be glad ter 
 be back. " There's no plaice like 'ome" as the 
 song says. 
 
 GWEN. It's a sad home she's coming back to. 
 
 SAM. Cheer up, missis! Cheer up! We ain't 
 dead yet none of us. 
 
 GWEN [cutting bread and butter for the small plate 
 on the tray]. If anybody had told me, I wouldn't 
 have believed it. Turning him out like that and 
 on a Sunday night, too! There's thirty years 
 we've been living up here on the Twmp, always as 
 tidy and respectable as the best of them. What 
 the neighbors will be saying I hardly dare to 
 think. 
 
 SAM. There's no need ter tell 'em, missis ! 
 
 GWEN. No. They know already, Sam. 
 
 SAM. Know? 'Ah do they know? 
 
 GWEN. Neighbors always know, Sam. 
 
 [Knock at door. 
 
 GWEN. Come in. 
 
 [78]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Enter JINNIE PUGH, a little girl of twelve or thirteen. 
 She is carrying " The South Wales Daily News." 
 All bid her good morning. 
 
 JINNIE. Please, Mrs. Price, here's the paper from 
 father. And please, has Mr. Price finished with 
 "Cymru"? 
 
 [She gives the paper to MRS. PRICE, who gives 
 it to GWILYM. He takes out some inside 
 sheets and passes the rest to LEWIS.] 
 GWEN. Yes. It's here somewhere. [She looks 
 about the dresser.] 
 
 LEWIS [hastily scanning the sheets]. D'you see 
 anything there, Gwilym, about the new district 
 they're forming in Carmarthenshire? 
 GWILYM. I'll have a look. 
 LEWIS. Or about the strike you know, the 
 blacklegs? 
 
 SAM. I see in the "Mile" [Mail] 'ere there's been 
 some trouble dahn Swansea way. Three p'licemen 
 in the 'orspital. But, arter all, p'licemen is only 
 p'licemen. 
 
 LEWIS. Nothing very special here. I hope 
 there'll be no trouble in our valley. 
 
 If there is, I 'ope the authorities will taike 
 [79]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 a pretty strong laine with orl jew respect ter you, 
 Lewis. O' course, I don't say anythin' agen knockin' 
 a p'liceman abaht nah and then but no extremes 
 that's wot I sez no extremes! 
 [The men read in silence.] 
 
 GWEN {finding the magazine]. Yes. Here it is, 
 Jinnie fach. [She gives the copy of "Cymru" to 
 JINNIE.] 
 
 JINNIE. And please, Mrs. Price, will you ask Mr. 
 Price if he will open the prayer meeting to-night, 
 because father is going down to Treforest with our 
 William Ewart. 
 
 GWEN [with the usual touch of hostility]. Oh! 
 William Ewart! [Overcome by curiosity.] Is there 
 anything the matter? 
 
 JINNIE [proudly]. They're having the big meet- 
 ings in Salem, and one of the preachers is taken ill; 
 and they've sent for our William Ewart to preach 
 down there to-night. He's going on his holidays 
 this week. 
 
 GWEN. Where to, Jinnie? 
 
 JINNIE. Llandrindod Wells. 
 
 GWEN. Oh! Going to stay with his Aunt Marged, 
 I s'pose? 
 
 JINNIE, No, though she sent him an invite; but 
 [80]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 [proudly] he's going to stop in a boarding- 
 house. 
 
 GWEN [impressed in spite of herself]. Is he? 
 He'll be there for a week or ten days? 
 
 JINNIE. A fortnight. He's preaching in Builth 
 the second Sunday. [She makes a movement as if to 
 
 go-] 
 
 GWEN. Well, I'll tell Mr. Price about the prayer 
 meeting as soon as I take him his breakfast. He 
 hasn't got up yet. He isn't feeling very well this 
 morning. Will you have a round cake before you go? 
 
 JINNIE. Thank you. 
 
 [MRS. PRICE gives her a cake, and she goes 
 toward the door.] 
 
 ALL. Good morning, Jinnie. 
 
 JINNIE. Good morning, Mrs. Price. Good morn- 
 ing, all. [She goes out. 
 
 GWEN. William Ewart, indeed! They must be 
 getting very hard up in Treforest! 
 
 GWILYM [laying down the paper]. But, ma'am 
 fach, you mustn't blame him. It isn't his fault. 
 
 GWEN. What did he want to write that letter 
 to his father for? 
 
 GWILYM. Well, how would you feel if John 
 Henry hadn't written to you? 
 [81]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. There was plenty for William Ewart 
 to write about without bringing in our John Henry. 
 
 GWILYM. Father would have to know sooner or 
 later. 
 
 GWEN [stubbornly]. He was jealous; that's what 
 was wrong with William Ewart. He knew our John 
 Henry was too clever for him. I know those Pughs, 
 come you, boy bach. And there's John Henry 
 that was always a king to William Ewart turned 
 out of house and home. I haven't closed my eyes 
 all night. And now, there he is gone off to London 
 with the Male Voice Party, without so much as a 
 nightshirt. 
 
 GWILYM. Don't you worry, ma'am. We can find 
 out where he is and send some things after him. 
 
 GWEN. Can we, Lewis? 
 
 LEWIS. Yes, yes. Of course, that will be all 
 right. 
 
 GWEN. I was thinking in bed we might be able 
 to send some things after him. If only he could 
 have his other suit now, and a couple of shirts and a 
 few collars. It goes to my heart to think of him 
 looking so simple before all the others. You know 
 what a proud spirit he's got. Fair play for you, 
 Gwilym; you follow my family more. But John 
 [82]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Henry is a Price a proper Price; and they're all 
 stubborn, the Prices. They're born stubborn; they 
 live stubborn; and they die that stubborn they keep 
 hanging on for months. 
 
 LEWIS. Dai Matthews will tell us where they're 
 staying in London. We can send a parcel after him 
 this evening. 
 
 GWEN. And I'll make some round cakes, nice 
 and fresh, after dinner. He was always fond of my 
 round cakes. I can't help feeling afraid, too, that 
 they'll p'raps be giving him a damp bed. There 
 was Jones the Machine Shop caught his death in a 
 damp bed in London, as his wife will tell you to this 
 day. 
 
 SAM. 'E'll be orl raite, missis. Don't yer worry 
 yer 'ead abaht 'im. It'll do 'im good. My stawrs, 
 I'd 'ave gawn pretty quick if I'd 'ad the chawnce 
 even if it was only goin' rahnd with the 'at! 'E'll 
 see laife. 'E'll git polish. That's what Vll git 
 polish! 
 
 GWEN [with a touch of dignity}. He's got polish 
 enough on him already. Remember you, Sam, he's 
 been down hi Cardiff for two years. 
 
 SAM [with profound contempt]. Cawdiff? Caw- 
 diff ? Tew bloomin' rileway stations ; that's Cawdiff. 
 [83]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Wite till 'e comes 'ome from London, and 'ear 'im 
 tork abaht it. 
 
 GWEN [the mood of sadness rising again]. "Wait 
 till he comes home!" Aay, wait! There's something 
 telling me it's wait I'll have to. 
 
 GWILYM. Nonsense, ma'am fach! The party's 
 due back inside a month 
 
 GWEN. Ah, yes. The party may be. But he's a 
 strange boy is our John Henry. He's like his Aunt 
 Myfanw'. You've only got to look at his nose and 
 chin. He's one of those who remember things for- 
 ever. I know his nature. [Shaking her head with 
 a certain shrewdness in her sorrow.] I know his 
 nature, machan-i. I've brought him up! 
 
 SAM. Tut, tut, missis ! It'll pawss over sooner 
 or later, la ike everythin' else; and then all will come 
 raite agen. 
 
 GWEN [shaking her head slowly as she gazes into 
 space before her]. No, Sam. It's no use saying 
 that. It won't all come right again. I heard words 
 in this room last night that I can never, never forget. 
 The words have been spoken, and nothing can make 
 it as if they had not been said. They go down, 
 deep down into your heart. For a long, long time 
 it seems as if you'd forgotten, but one day they'll 
 [84]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 come back, when you're sitting by the fire in the 
 evening or doing your work about the house. 
 
 SAM. It ain't any use broodin', missis. The 
 world is a 'awrd plaice for them that don't forgit. 
 
 GWEN [in the same tone]. It's a hard thing for 
 a woman that's getting old to see her own husband 
 and her son standing face to face like that, and so 
 bitter against each other! [Trying to shake off her 
 sadness.] Ah, well! I suppose I'd better take him 
 a bit of breakfast. [She pauses as she lifts the tray.] 
 His own son turned out into the road like a 
 strange dog! 
 
 [Sighing quietly to herself, she goes off with 
 the tray through the kitchen. There is a 
 short pause, in which the three men stare 
 after her.] 
 
 GWILYM. Poor old ma'am ! She's living in a little 
 world of her own 
 
 SAM. That's raite. Yer've got it, Gwilym a 
 little world of 'er own. It's my belief if she 'ad ter 
 choose between 'ell with you three boys and 'eaven 
 without yer, she'd beg the Almighty's pawdon 
 and vote for 'ell. 
 
 LEWIS [smiling kindly]. Of course, she may be a 
 bit narrow in some ways, but all the same 
 [85]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWILYM. Narrow? Ah, yes! But deep, danger- 
 ously deep 
 
 SAM. Nah, I don't 'old with maiking yerself 
 miserable on acahnt of yer children, meself . If yer 
 want ter be 'appy in this 'ere world, yer've got ter 
 keep yer feelin's dahn. Feelin's, if yer let 'em go f 
 they're the very devil; and, Lewis, I'm tellin' yer nah, 
 don't yer forgit it neither. [LEWIS gets up and goes 
 to door, where he stands for a short time, looking 
 rather furtively up the hill and down toward the crossing. 
 Then he returns to his seat, trying to show interest in 
 SAM'S talk, but falling gradually into abstraction.] 
 Wot I sez is, don't worry. Tike things easy. As 
 the old song sez, "Yer 'ere ter-day, gawn ter-morrer." 
 So why not enjoy yer pot of ile and yer paipe o* 
 baccy while yer can? Look at me, nah! Born in 
 Cannin' Tahn, and knocked abaht the world for 
 years. Then, orl of a sudden, 'appenin* ter 'ave a 
 drop tew much, I gits run over dahn there at the 
 crossin* and loses me awm. I'd no clime for com- 
 pensaish'n, and the Company offers me a job at 
 eighteen -and-a-tanner a week carryin' the bloomin* 
 old flag abaht. D'yer think I laike bein' stuck in 
 an 'ole sich as this? It ain't me ambition, I tell yer. 
 But wot's the use o' turnin' yerself insaide aht over 
 [86]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 wot cawn't be 'elped? Mike yer miserable self 
 'appy that's my motter. 
 
 GWILYM. That's all very well, Sam. But take 
 my mother's case now. She can't help feeling 
 
 SAM. Look 'ere, me boy. I'll tell yer wot's 
 wrong with this 'ere country of yours there's a 
 lot tew much feelings abaht for comfort. Nah, 
 d'yer remember Shewni Good-lookin', as yer call 
 'im? [GwiLYM nods.] Faine nime ter give a feller 
 that is! A pal o' mine was Shewni; laiked 'is pot 
 o' beer as much as any man. Then the Revaiv'l 
 come along the Deewigiad, as yer call it. Next 
 thing I 'card, Shewni'd been claim on 'is knees, call- 
 ing 'isself a miserable sinner, and prayin* I'd be con- 
 verted from me evil ways aht lahd, maind yer. 
 Nah, I awsk yer, wot can yer mike of a man 
 laike that? Where is the common sense o' sich 
 goin's on? 
 
 GWILYM. But you'll admit that he's been a 
 steady fellow ever since? 
 
 SAM. Ow, I don't say nothin' abaht that 
 
 GWILYM. And it was a good thing for his wife 
 and children that it happened? 
 
 SAM. Well, 'e was a waild 'un, and no mistaike. 
 But wot I sez is, where's the common sense of it 
 [87]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 goin' dahn on 'is knees and bringin' in my nime 
 laike that? 
 
 ' GWILYM [with a smile]. Ah, well, Sam! It's no 
 use trying to explain. You'd never understand 
 
 SAM [emphatically}. I can understand anything 
 that's got plain sense in it, and I don't want ter 
 understand no more. 
 
 GWILYM [teasingly]. No? 
 
 SAM [defiantly]. No! 
 
 GWILYM [sympathetically]. Hard luck, Sam! 
 
 SAM [confidently]. Don't yer worry abaht me. 
 I'm orl raite. I can keep my bit o' common sense, 
 thank Gawd! [Getting up and taking the flag] Well, 
 I suppose I'd better be gittin' dahn ter the crossin* 
 agen. I 'card some tork of a special bein' run up 
 ter-day. Some of the managers, I expect. 
 
 LEWIS [eagerly]. What time, Sam? 
 
 SAM. Taime? I dunno' exactly; some taime this 
 mornin' I believe. You ain't 'card anythin', 'ave yer? 
 
 LEWIS. I? No, no! [He turns away in some 
 embarrassment] I was only wondering, that's all. 
 
 SAM [looking at him keenly]. Ow! [In a light 
 tone] Well, I'm orf. 
 
 GWILYM. Half a minute, Sam. I'm coming 
 down as far as the crossing. [He goes to the dresser 
 [88]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 and selects a few white blooms from those in the vase.] 
 I want to show these White Spencers to old Roberts. 
 He tells me his are in a bad way. I told him all 
 along he'd planted them in the wrong place. 
 
 [GwEN comes in from kitchen with the tray} 
 
 GWEN. Going out you are, Gwilym? 
 
 GWILYM. Only down to Roberts's, ma'am. 
 
 LEWIS [with some anxiety}. Are you going to be 
 long, Gwilym? 
 
 GWILYM. Not if he doesn't start talking about 
 his garden. 
 
 LEWIS. If I were you 
 
 SAM [in the doorway]. Lot o* people abaht this 
 mornin'. Come on, Gwilym! [Over his shoulder.] 
 Well, boree dawkee, missis. Boree dawkee. 
 
 [He goes out, followed by GWILYM. 
 
 GWEN [beginning to clear the table]. Your father 
 wouldn't stay in bed after all. Here he is coining 
 down. 
 
 LEWIS. Is he? [Taking up the newspapers.] 
 When if anybody comes for me, ma'am, I'll be 
 reading in the parlor. 
 
 GWEN. All right. 
 
 [LEWIS goes into parlor* 
 [89]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Enter PRICE from the kitchen, dressed in his weekday 
 clothes, and carrying his boots in his hand. He 
 glances at GWEN. There is evidently a strain in their 
 relations. He sits down in the armchair and puts on 
 his boots. Without noticing him, GWEN begins to 
 clear the table, gathering the things into the tray. 
 
 PRICE. I've been thinking, Gwen, I'd better go 
 down this morning and see Peters the Insurance 
 about Gwilym's ticket. 
 
 GWEN [distantly]. Oh! 
 
 PRICE. From what they tell me, it will cost an 
 awful lot of money; but I dare say I can raise a few 
 pounds over what I've got in the Post Office. 
 
 GWEN. Yes, I dare say. 
 
 PKICE. If it hadn't been for this old strike we 
 could have managed well enough. [He looks in- 
 quiringly at GWEN, as if expecting some remark. She 
 is sighing quietly.] What's the matter, Gwen? 
 
 GWEN. I'm thinking of our John Henry. 
 
 PRICE [bitterly]. I've been thinking of him, too 
 thinking of the words he used to me last night to 
 me, his father. 
 
 GWEN. It's of the words you used to him I'm 
 thinking, John to him, your son, 
 [90]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. He was in the wrong. 
 
 GWEN. P'raps so. I don't know. But he's our 
 son. 
 
 PRICE. I've got my duty toward God as well as 
 my duty toward my children. Have you thought 
 of that? 
 
 GWEN. I'm not afraid of that, John. I think 
 God understands us mothers. Perhaps you can't; 
 you're only John Henry's father. 
 
 PRICE [with a little unexpected sadness in his 
 voice]. Are you going to turn against me, too, 
 Gwen? 
 
 GWEN [with a sudden movement toward him]. 
 No, John bach, I don't want to turn against you. 
 It will never be my fault if I do. We've lived here 
 together, man and wife, for over thirty years. We've 
 seen good days and bad, John, and we've always 
 faced them together. And you've been a good 
 husband to me always. Often and often I've 
 thought of it, when I know of many here in Aber- 
 pandy spending their wages in the public, and laying 
 their hands on their wives when they're wild with 
 the drink. You've never raised your voice against 
 me, John, not once since we began walking out to- 
 gether on the road up Bryndu. It's proud of you 
 [91]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 I've been and proud I've spoken, many and many's 
 the time, amongst the women up here on the Twmp. 
 [Going slowly toward him with appeal creeping into 
 her voice.] But there's the children, too, John bach; 
 there's the children, too. I'm not only your wife. 
 I'm their mother as well. 
 
 PRICE \Jirmly]. John Henry was in the wrong, 
 Gwen. 
 
 GWEN. No, John. It's you who are in the 
 wrong. You've put shame on him before all Aber- 
 pandy. You've sent him away as if he was a 
 drunkard or a thief 
 
 PRICE. An unbeliever isn't so much better 
 
 GWEN. Whatever he is, he's our son 
 
 PRICE [stubbornly]. I've done what I think is 
 right! 
 
 GWEN. How can you be doing right when you're 
 making me so unhappy? 
 
 PRICE. Unhappy? D'you think it's a happy 
 man I am to-day and the great hopes I had all gone 
 to bits? I haven't been to a Cymanfa Pregethu for 
 the last ten years but that, to myself, I was thinking 
 that one day I might have a boy of my own a great 
 preacher, too. 
 
 GWEN [kindly]. But it wasn't to be, John. I 
 [92]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 wanted a son in the ministry, too. But it wasn't 
 to be. 
 
 PRICE. I'm only an ignorant collier. I had to go 
 to the pit when I was twelve, and I've suffered for 
 it all my life. I've known what it means to have 
 had no schooling. There's ideas come into my head 
 at times that I can't explain. I struggle and strug- 
 gle and I'm dumb for want of words. But I made up 
 my mind that my boys should have schooling, if I 
 worked myself to the bone to give it. Lewis didn't 
 have much, it's true, but he was the eldest. And 
 we sent John Henry to college. You know yourself 
 what it meant, and Gwilym so bad. And now, what 
 have we got for it in the end for all the slaving and 
 hoping, for all the years of waiting? He's given 
 up the denomination; he's turned his back on the 
 ministry; he's denied his God! 
 
 GWEN. Oh! but John, he's very young. And 
 he's miserable, too. He was reading for hours at 
 night instead of going to sleep. I could see by the 
 candle 
 
 PRICE. Miserable? I don't wonder. A man 
 without religion can't help being miserable. What 
 would I have done, all these years, without my 
 religion? 
 
 [93]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. I don't know, John. But there's some- 
 thing in me, something I can't explain, that's always 
 hungry if I haven't got the boys about. [Pleadingly.] 
 Oh, John, John! Isn't it enough that we've got to 
 part with our Gwilym? Isn't it enough for me to 
 bear that he's going away thousands and thousands 
 of miles away, and it's somebody else will be looking 
 after him and seeing to his things? When you're 
 working in the pit, I'll have to be here, going about 
 the house, where he was always with me; and all day 
 long I'll be thinking of him, and him so far away, 
 fighting for his life, with the water between us! 
 It's hard enough on me as it is, John bach. Don't 
 you go and make it harder. 
 
 PRICE. What do you want me to do? 
 
 GWEN [insinuatingly]. Well, you know, John, 
 you know how stubborn our John Henry is. He 
 can't help it, poor boy ! It's born in him. You've 
 said yourself he's got Myfanw's nose and chin 
 
 PRICE. Well ? 
 
 GWEN. Well, I was thinking, John, that you 
 might write him a letter saying you are sorry 
 
 PRICE. Me? Sorry? 
 
 GWEN [quickly]. Yes, John, you mustn't say no. 
 If you don't, he'll never come back again till one of 
 [94]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 us is on our death-bed. It won't cost you anything 
 to write a letter only a few words, John ! 
 
 PRICE. So it's I am in the wrong, Gwen? 
 
 GWEN. But, John, John, what does it matter 
 who's in the wrong so long as he comes back? 
 
 PRICE [with cold determination]. I won't write. 
 Not a word ! 
 
 GWEN [drawing back a step. There is a note of 
 warning in her tone]. John! 
 
 PRICE [gravely]. It's come to this. Gwen are 
 you going to let the children divide us, after all 
 these years? 
 
 GWEN [frightened by his tone]. No, John bach, 
 don't say that. I don't want anything to divide us. 
 I want you all you, and John Henry, and Lewis, 
 and Gwilym. I want you all. And, oh, John, I 
 want us all to be quiet and happy together, just as 
 we used to be long ago. Don't you remember, 
 John bach, how happy we were here when they were 
 little? 
 
 PRICE [bitterly]. It's lucky we couldn't see the 
 future! 
 
 GWEN. There was Lewis in the Infants down at 
 the British School, and John Henry hanging on to 
 the chairs all day long as I went about the house 
 [95]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 you know he didn't learn to walk so quick as Lewis; 
 and there was Gwilym only a baby, with such big, 
 wondering eyes d'you remember? 
 
 PRICE. Poor Gwilym! 
 
 GWEN. And then, as things went on, you'd be 
 teaching them their verses for Sunday, in the even- 
 ings when you'd washed all over, after the work 
 was done. And sometimes we'd sit here talking 
 over what they were going to be. 
 
 PRICE. I did my best for them, Gwen. I've 
 always done my best. 
 
 GWEN. And once you took Lewis to Pontypridd 
 to see Gladstone do you remember, John? and 
 held him on your shoulder for nearly two hours. 
 Happy days they were, John the happiest days 
 of all. And all the time I was wishing for them to 
 grow up. That's the foolishness of us women, and 
 we're all the same. When we've got our children 
 for our very own even then we're not satisfied, 
 and when they've grown beyond us, we want them 
 as they used to be! 
 
 PRICE. We didn't think then there would be such 
 a disappointment. 
 
 GWEN [with mild rebuke]. Disappointment? Well, 
 there's a few people in Aberpandy who've got more 
 [96]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 right to be proud of their children taking them 
 through and through. 
 
 PRICE. There's not much room to be proud of 
 Lewis that I can see; and [bitterly] when I 
 think of John Henry, I wish he'd never been born. 
 
 GWEN. Can't you understand, John, whatever 
 he's done, he's our boy still? If he'd stolen money 
 or told lies aay, if he'd killed a man with his own 
 hands, he's our boy still; and that's beyond all 
 changing. [A pause.] You will write to him, John? 
 
 PRICE. No. 
 
 GWEN [looking at him with a little frown]. You're 
 a hard man, John! 
 
 PRICE. I'm following my conscience. 
 
 GWEN. If you loved him as you ought to, you 
 wouldn't think of your conscience. [She goes to 
 table and folds up the cloth.] 
 
 PRICE. It's not an easy thing for a man to send 
 his son from his own house. It's not an easy thing, 
 I tell you, for him to walk about the streets and know 
 he's had to do it. 
 
 [GwEN takes the tray into the back-kitchen, 
 and coming back at once, puts the cloth 
 into the dresser drawer.] 
 
 GWEN [at the dresser] . You won't write to him, John ? 
 [97]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. No. 
 
 GWEN [turning round and speaking slowly]. Take 
 care, John. Take care. If you let him go like this, 
 I'll never forgive you. 
 
 [For a moment they face each other, neither 
 
 flinching.] 
 
 PRICE. So it's come to this! 
 GWEN [with quiet menace]. Don't drive me, 
 John! [Seeing him shake his head sadly, she melts 
 at once, and adds in a tremulous whisper.} Oh, John, 
 don't drive me! 
 
 [There is a knock at the door. Without wait- 
 ing for an answer, LIZZIE ANN enters. 
 GWEN immediately assumes her normal 
 manner, as if anxious to hide her troubles, 
 even from LIZZIE ANN. LIZZIE ANN is a 
 woman in middle life, and of an appear- 
 ance that suggests more industry than 
 intelligence. She is dressed in her best 
 clothes, sufficiently humble. In one hand 
 she carries a small dilapidated dress-basket, 
 in the other a few roots wrapped up in 
 paper.] 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Well, modryb, here I am back 
 again. 
 
 [98]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE [kindly] . I hope you enjoyed yourself down 
 there in Llantrisant, Lizzie Ann. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Oh, yes, famous! Thank you, 
 ewyrth. And I've brought back a few roots for 
 Gwilym 
 
 GWEN. How is your sister Morfydd, Lizzie Ann? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [putting the roots on the dresser, then 
 removing her coat and hat]. Better than I expected, 
 modryb, much better. Such a nice little home 
 she's got there, you wouldn't believe three rooms 
 up and three down, counting the scullery. [She takes 
 her coat and hat to the back-kitchen door and hangs 
 them up very carefully.] 
 
 GWEN. Have you had breakfast, Lizzie Ann? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Oh, yes, thank you. I was think- 
 ing on the way up, before I met Mrs. Howells the 
 Pop Shop, I'd better change, and start the washing 
 at once. [Casually.] Is there a meeting this morn- 
 ing? There were a lot of men coming down Bryndu 
 toward the station 
 
 GWEN. I'm afraid, Lizzie Ann, we'll have to 
 put off the washing till to-morrow. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Wash on a Tuesday, modryb? 
 
 GWEN. I haven't put out the things. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Well, tan i marw! We haven't 
 [99]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 done the washing any day but Monday not since 
 Gwilym was born. [She gives PRICE a side-glance 
 of curiosity.] 
 
 GWEN. I - I've been upset, Lizzie Ann. 
 LIZZIE ANN [with another glance at PRICE]. Oh! 
 Modryb fach! Will I do a bit on the brass? 
 
 PRICE. I think I'll go down to see Peters about 
 the ticket, Gwen. 
 GWEN. All right. 
 
 [PRICE takes his hat and opens the door. A 
 
 sound of voices going down the hill is heard, 
 
 and in the distance, a confused hubbub. 
 
 PRICE looks out as if puzzled, and muttering, 
 
 "What's the matter?" he goes out. From 
 
 time to time during the dialogue between 
 
 GWEN and LIZZIE ANN the noise is heard 
 
 again, not loudly, however, for both door and 
 
 window are closed. GWEN takes her knitting 
 
 from the dresser and sits in the armchair.] 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [casually as PRICE goes out]. There's 
 
 no end to them and their old meetings! [Eagerly as 
 
 soon as the door is closed.] What is it, modryb? 
 
 What's he been doing to John Henry? I met Mrs. 
 
 Howells the Pop Shop down by the station, and she 
 
 said he'd turned him out of house and home. 
 
 [100]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN [with dignity]. H'm! So Mrs. Howells the 
 Pop Shop has got hold of it, has she? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Well, you know, modryb fach, how 
 neighbors will talk. If we're not going to wash 
 to-day, I suppose I may as well do a bit on the brass. 
 [Goes into kitchen and speaks.] Is it true he turned 
 John Henry out because of him taking to the drink? 
 [She comes back with apron and things for polish- 
 ing. She takes candlesticks from mantelpiece and 
 rubs.] 
 
 GWEN [indignantly]. Drink? Our John Henry 
 drink? Is that what's going about the place? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. No, not exactly, modryb. But 
 Mrs. Howells was saying that, once you send a 
 young man to college, there's no knowing. Not 
 that I see much harm in a glass of beer myself 
 
 GWEN. Well, next time you see Mrs. Howells the 
 Pop Shop, you can tell her from me that she'd better 
 be careful of what she's saying. Who is she to start 
 talking about us, I'd like to know? Why, it's a dis- 
 grace the way she lets them poor children go out on a 
 Sunday! It's coming to something when people 
 like us are being talked of by a woman like Polly 
 Howells! Why! you know yourself, Lizzie Ann, 
 her father was only a rag-and-bone man living down 
 [ 101 ]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 a gwli! [In her quiet way, she is, just now, a picture 
 of outraged self-respect.] 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. From what she was saying, John 
 Henry's given up studying for a preacher, after all? 
 
 GWEN. He's changed his mind; that's all, Lizzie 
 Ann. It's very likely now he'll be going in for the 
 teaching. And a very respectable position, too; 
 especially if he goes into the intermediate. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Oh, yes! I don't deny. There's 
 Willie Meredith now, son of Meredith the Bread. 
 Wears a box-hat every Sunday, so they do say. 
 
 GWEN. I'm not saying that John Henry and your 
 uncle didn't have a few words; but there's no need 
 for people to talk especially some people ! I dare 
 say your uncle will write to him one of these first 
 days. And, next time you see that Polly Howells, 
 you can tell her that John Henry has gone to London 
 for a bit of a holiday with the choir. [Pronounced 
 "Icoyer."] 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Oh, I'll let her know, come you. 
 True or not, I'll let her know. 
 
 GWEN. And if you just reminded her who she 
 is, and where she came from, there wouldn't be so 
 much harm done either. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. But one thing I must say for her 
 [102]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 whatever she spoke very kind about of my sister 
 Morfydd. Nothing would do but I must tell her 
 all about the house. And it is a nice little home, 
 there's no denying, clean as a pin in paper, upstairs 
 and down, and our Morfydd mistress of it all, and 
 proud as the Queen of England ! 
 
 GWEN [quietly and smiling to herself]. Ah, yes! 
 I know. [A pause.] What is she hoping for a 
 boy or a girl? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Well, indeed, one day one thing and 
 next day another. Of course he's all for a boy. I'm 
 hoping it's going to be a boy myself, and then they 
 can name him Daniel Richard after the two grand- 
 fathers 
 
 GWEN. I don't know. I don't know, indeed! 
 You haven't got the same hold on boys when they 
 grow up 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. No. That's true, of course 
 
 GWEN. There's work to be done; and one goes 
 here and another goes there 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Have you heard any more from 
 your sister-in-law in Australia? 
 
 GWEN. Yes. We had a letter just after you went 
 to Llantrisant. It's fixed now that Gwilym will go 
 in five weeks' time. 
 
 [ 103 ]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Diwedd anw'l! Five weeks? So 
 soon as that? [She stops work in order to digest 
 the news.] 
 
 GWEN. Doctor Willie Jenkins says it will be the 
 making of him 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. What the house will be like without 
 him, I don't know. 
 
 GWEN. And in a few years he'll be coming back 
 strong and well. I'm almost afraid to believe it, 
 Lizzie Ann. I'm almost afraid to believe I'll ever 
 see him strong and well. If only God will spare 
 till that day how glad I'll die! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. He's been a good boy to you, 
 modryb. 
 
 GWEN. Yes. He's been a good boy to his mother. 
 So have they all. Lewis and John Henry, too; 
 they've all been good to their mother. But Gwilym's 
 always been home here with me, and they've been 
 busy with one thing and another 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes, Gwilym's different somehow. 
 I know what you mean. Whatever you say or 
 don't say, Gwilym always understands. If he was 
 my boy, the wind shouldn't blow on him. It won't 
 be so easy to part with him when the time comes. 
 
 GWEN [tremulously}. No. But we must try not 
 [104]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 to lose heart, Lizzie Ann, and then Myfanw' will be 
 sure to be kind to him. She's got no children of 
 her own. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. No, I know. I never thought 
 much good would come of that barman. [A pause.] 
 Suppose now, modryb, he was never to come back. 
 
 GWEN [sharply]. Never come back? Don't talk 
 so foolish, Lizzie Ann! Of course he'll come back. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. His Aunt Myfanw' didn't come 
 back. [Struck by a sudden fear, GWEN lets her knit- 
 ting drop.] I was thinking she might take to him 
 altogether and leave him her money after her days. 
 And, again, he might get married out there 
 
 GWEN [rising]. What d'you mean, Lizzie Ann? 
 You think she'll try to turn him from me and keep 
 him to herself? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [apologetically]. I was only thinking, 
 modryb; that's all. 
 
 GWEN [with agitation]. He wouldn't do it. He 
 wouldn't do it, I tell you. I'm his mother. He'll 
 always love me best of all. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. I only meant well, you know 
 what boys are how they grow up and forget. 
 
 GWEN [with vehemence]. But he won't forget. 
 What does it matter about the others? J never 
 [105]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 heard such nonsense as you're talking, Lizzie Ann 
 never in all my life. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. But, modryb fach, I was only just 
 saying 
 
 GWEN. All the same, I'll have to think it over. 
 She might do it. She's just that sort of woman 
 so strange and full of feeling. She's hungry to have 
 children about her. I know, I know! But she 
 shan't have mine not our Gwilym. He shan't 
 go if it comes to that 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. But you 
 
 GWEN. No. He shan't go. [Turning fiercely on 
 LIZZIE ANN.] And you're a wicked woman, Lizzie 
 Ann, to be putting such thoughts into my head ! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [injured]. Wicked? Me, wicked? 
 
 GWEN. I'll talk to his father. We can write an- 
 other letter 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. And how about his health, poor 
 boy 
 
 GWEN. We must find some other way. Some- 
 thing must be done. I I I [She bursts 
 
 into tears and drops into the armchair, her power of 
 resistance broken once again.] I want to keep him, 
 Lizzie Ann! If he was to turn to Myfanw' it 
 break my heart. 
 
 [106]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [melting at once]. There you! There 
 you now, modryb fach! I didn't think; that was 
 all. 
 
 GWEN. And you said he might get married 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Twt! Twt! We haven't even heard 
 of a sweetheart yet. 
 
 GWEN. You can venture it would be somebody 
 not half good enough for him. You know what the 
 girls are to-day ! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. There's plenty of time before think- 
 ing of that. 
 
 GWEN. If he'd let me choose her for him, I 
 wouldn't mind so much 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Come you now. Don't you fret 
 like this. It's John Henry going away that's upset 
 you. 
 
 GWEN. It wasn't right, Lizzie Ann what I 
 told you about John Henry. His father did 
 turn him out. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes. I knew that all the time. 
 [Cheerfully.] Now I'll make a cup of tea in half a 
 minute. [Clearing away the candlesticks, while 
 GWEN slowly dries her eyes.] And we'll have it by 
 here, nice and quiet. 
 
 [The murmur outside rises. There is a great 
 [107]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 shout. GWEN looks up. LIZZIE ANN at the 
 mantelpiece turns round quickly.] 
 LIZZIE ANN [going quickly toward window}. What's 
 that? [Looking out.] Diwedd anw'l, they're down 
 there at the crossing in their hundreds ! 
 
 [GwEN rises and goes toward the window. 
 LIZZIE ANN goes to the door and opens it. 
 The angry noise of the crowd comes in 
 more loudly.] 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [starting]. Duw mawr! Look! 
 GWEN [looking through the window]. What is it? 
 LIZZIE ANN. Soldiers! 
 
 GWEN. Where's Lewis? Oh, yes! Inthelarlwr. 
 But" Gwilym? Ble mae Gwilym? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. He'll be safe in somebody's house. 
 Here's your husband and Isaac Pugh coming. 
 
 GWEN. What's going on, Lizzie Ann? I can't 
 see so clear as I used to. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. The soldiers down there d'you 
 see? They're keeping the men back from the gates. 
 GWEN. They're rushing. Listen! 
 
 [There is a roar of voices. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. And they're being driven back. 
 Can you see? Look! They're throwing stones 
 again over the wall before Roberts's house. 
 [108]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Duw, Duw ! They've hit one of the soldiers. Look ! 
 look! His face is all over blood. [She shrinks.] 
 Oh, ach! 
 
 GWEN. Oh! Poor man! Poor man! And 
 there's two more hurt. D'you see, at the back? 
 
 Enter PRICE and ISAAC PUGH. 
 
 PRICE. Is Lewis here? 
 
 GWEN. Where's Gwilym, John? He isn't down 
 there? 
 
 PRICE. He's safe in Roberts's house. Where's 
 Lewis? 
 
 Enter LEWIS from the parlor. He is quivering vrith 
 excitement. 
 
 PRICE. Come down to the crossing. Quick! 
 
 GWEN. No, Lewis. No! [To PRICE.] How can 
 you ask him? 
 
 PUGH. We've done our best. They won't listen 
 to us. The soldiers can't stand it much longer. 
 
 PRICE. They say you've got most power over the 
 men. Come and use it, for God's sake, before 
 there's murder done! 
 
 [109]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Enter hurriedly TWM POWELL. 
 
 TWM. It's now or never, Lewis. They've brought 
 the soldiers over the hill. The train's coming up the 
 valley. 
 
 LEWIS. I'm coming, Twm. It's got to be 
 stopped. 
 
 PUGH. They'll shoot! 
 
 TWM. No. They've only got blank; that's all. 
 [LEWIS moves to go. His father stops him.] 
 
 PUGH. They said they'd have to shoot. 
 
 LEWIS [brushing his father aside]. Then, damn 
 them, let them shoot! Come on, Twm. 
 
 [GwEN intercepts him on the way to the door, 
 trying to hold him back.] 
 
 GWEN. You shan't go, Lewis! O boy bach, boy 
 bach, what if they kill you? 
 
 LEWIS [putting her aside and laughing grimly]. 
 I shan't be the first. [He goes out followed by TWM. 
 
 GWEN [to PRICE]. Go after him, John. Don't 
 let them hurt him. He's young and wild, that's 
 all, that's all. 
 
 PRICE. Come on, Pugh. 
 
 [PRICE and PUGH go out together. 
 GWEN [as they go]. Don't let them hurt him. 
 [110]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 [Wringing her hands.] Oh, the trouble that's in the 
 world! [She goes to the window.] Where is he? 
 Where's our Lewis? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. There he is, running down the hill. 
 
 GWEN. They're throwing stones again. Oh! 
 Why don't they go home? Why don't they go home 
 quiet? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. There's another soldier hurt. Look! 
 They're dragging him behind. 
 
 GWEN. What are they going to do? Look at 
 him that one the leader, talking to the sol- 
 dier 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. He's going to fire in the air to 
 warn them. [Shot without.] 
 
 GWEN. Arglwyddmawr! They're rushing again. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. There's the train. I can see the 
 smoke down the valley. 
 
 GWEN. Look! Look! Isn't it Lewis? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes. There he is in the front 
 
 GWEN. He's climbing the wall by Roberts's 
 house. He's shouting to them. Lewis! Lewis! 
 Go down! [She bends forward, and gives a frightened 
 shriek.] There's our Gwilym. Look! He's on the 
 wall, trying to pull Lewis away 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. There's four soldiers. Dduw!
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Don't look! Don't look! They're going to shoot! 
 [She drags GWEN away from the window. 
 There is a sound of firing without, followed by 
 deep silence. In a whisper.] 
 They've done it! 
 
 GWEN [pointing to the window]. Look! 
 LIZZIE ANN [shuddering]. I can't. 
 GWEN. You must! 
 LIZZIE ANN. I can't. 
 
 [GwEN wavers a moment, and then forces her- 
 self toward the window and looks out.] 
 GWEN. They're carrying some one into Roberts's 
 house. It's Lewis. No, there's Lewis! [She bends 
 forward; then in a harsh voice.] Lizzie Ann, come 
 here! 
 
 [LizziE ANN goes quickly to her, and looks out. 
 She starts and turns away, sobbing out, 
 "Oh, machgen bach-i!"] 
 GWEN. Is it Gwilym? 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes. Gwilym! 
 
 [For a moment GWEN stands swaying to and 
 fro. Then, with a cry of anguish, she falls 
 prostrate on the floor.] 
 
 Curtain 
 [11*]
 
 ACT IV
 
 ACT IV 
 
 TIME: Afternoon of a day five weeks later. 
 
 SCENE : The same. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN is at the table making cake. She is 
 dressed in black. Her sleeves are rolled up to the 
 elbow. Her face is lit up by gladness. She has 
 paused in her work to talk to SAM, who, seated in the 
 chair by the window, looks at her with an air of 
 satisfied proprietorship. The chair from left of 
 dresser is close to table on left side. 
 
 SAM. So that's settled, eh, Lizzie Ann? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. It's kind of you to ask me, Sam. 
 
 SAM [with a touch of condescension]. Ow no! Ow 
 no! Of course, I don't say yer 'aven't got a taidy 
 sort of plaice 'ere as things go. There's no denyin' 
 it was kaind of 'em ter taike yer in when yer fawther 
 was killed, and orl that. But yer've worked 'awrd 
 for yer keep. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [resuming her work]. Well, I sup- 
 [115]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 pose, Sam, every woman wants a little home of her 
 own. I've been working hard all my life. And 
 I'm not so young as I was, Sam. 
 
 SAM. Well, come ter that, I ain't no chicken, 
 either. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [with hesitation]. Somehow, I don't 
 seem to see myself as a married woman 
 
 SAM. I ain't exactly bin 'avin' visions of meself 
 as a married man, either not till laitely any'ah. 
 But there's sich a lot of funny things bin goin' on 
 this lawst couple o' months, a man maite get married 
 and buried withaht so much as noticin' it. Nah, as 
 I was tellin' yer, I've been offered this 'ere job dahn 
 at the goods-yard in Cwmyglo. It ain't a fortune 
 twenty -three bob a week; but it's more than I 
 was gittin' 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. But a woman can make it go a 
 long way if she's saving, Sam. 'Tisn't the same 
 as if I'd be wanting to send out any of the washing 
 or to have a girl coming in now and then. I know 
 the way to work. That's one thing, whatever! 
 
 SAM. And I dare say they'll give me something 
 better later on. It orl comes of stickin' ter the Com- 
 pany in the rileway straike! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes, you were wise there, Sam, 
 [116]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 though there's many here in Aberpandy were look- 
 ing so black at you. 
 
 SAM. You bet! I ain't knocked abaht this 
 bloomin' old world for nothin'. Look at Dai Mat- 
 thews, nah! 'E's 'ad the push from the Board 
 School. Orl comes of openin' 'is math tew much. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Aay, poor feller! Mrs. Ho well the 
 Pop Shop was telling me she'd heard he was thinking 
 of going to foreign parts. 
 
 SAM. Yus. Aht to Australia, I b'lieve. Nah, I 
 reckon from wot the foreman tells me, I'll be shifted 
 dahn ter Cwmyglo in abaht five or six weeks; and 
 we could git married just before 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [agitated by some romantic spasm]. 
 Oh, Sam, so soon as that? 
 
 SAM. Well, it won't be any use me goin' into 
 lodgin's dahn there. I'd be more comfortable in 
 my own 'ouse. We could git a bit o' furniture on 
 the 'ire system. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Where were you thinking we'd 
 better go, Sam to get married, I mean? 
 
 SAM. Well, I was thinkin' of the registry or- 
 fice 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. No, Sam bach, not the office 
 
 SAM. But I don't maind so long as we git over it 
 [117]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 quick, laike. And we maite spend the day in 
 Cawdiff , and 'ave a bob's worth at the Empire. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [still romantic]. Oh, Sam! I must 
 write and tell our Morfydd. 
 
 SAM [meditatively], Yus. It's the best way. I 
 don't want no more lodgin's. Of course, I ain't 
 sayin' nothin' agen me plice 'ere. I've bin comfort- 
 able enough in a way of speakin' 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes, I know, I know. But it 
 isn't like having a little home of your own after all, 
 is it, Sam? 
 
 SAM. But this lawst month 'as fair given me the 
 bloomin' 'ump. There's the missis, nah, she gives 
 a feller the blues every taime 'e claps eyes on 'er. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Oh, but, Sam, it was an awful blow 
 for her losing poor Gwilym like that. I don't 
 think she'll ever get over it. She was always dull 
 on him, poor boy; fair dull she was. 
 
 SAM. Yus. But wot's the use o' worryin' over 
 it? That's wot I sez, wot's the use o' worryin'? 
 'Tain't as if worryin' would bring 'im back. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. But a woman can't help her feel- 
 ings, Sam. How can she? I know how it would be 
 on me, if I was his mother. And then there was 
 John Henry again. Just fancy him going on the 
 [118]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 stage like that, and brought up so respectable, 
 too! 
 
 SAM. My dear gel, the boy 'ad ter earn a livin' 
 some'ah. 'E couldn't stawrve. It ain't orl beer 
 and skittles singin' in the chorus of a mewsical 
 comedy. Couple o' quid a week 'e'll git, I suppose. 
 It ain't so bad, yer know. And the 'stawrs,' they 
 git anythin' up ter a hundred and fifty pahnd a 
 week 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. A hundred and fifty a week? Cer- 
 ona, Sam ! 
 
 SAM. Fact! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [reflectively]. Well, a man can afford 
 to put up with a bit of disgrace when he's getting 
 a hundred and fifty pound a week for it. Can't he 
 now? But his father was furious, all the same. 
 
 SAM. 'E would be. 'E's narrer-mainded. That's 
 wot 'e is. Wot can yer expect of a man brought up 
 in an 'ole laike this? 
 
 "LizziE ANN. Anyhow, you can be pretty sure 
 John Henry won't show his face here again for 
 years. It's hard on his mother, poor woman! I 
 don't know what's come over her. It isn't like her 
 to be setting me to make the cake like this. That's 
 the one thing she would always do herself. And 
 [119]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 there's she's been, all day long, up in poor Gwilym's 
 room 
 
 SAM. Well, p'raps yer couldn't expect her ter 
 look at it in a proper laite. But there's Lewis, nah ! 
 Wot can yer mike of Lewis? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Aay. There's a change come over 
 Lewis. It's hard to understand it, but after all, 
 Sam, you mustn't forget Gwilym was his own flesh 
 and blood. It's a pity he hasn't gone back to work 
 like the others. There's no good can come of him 
 moping about all day like this. 
 
 SAM. 'E's gittin' on me nerves, is Lewis. I 
 cawnt stand it. I tell yer strite this 'ere 'ouse is 
 gittin' as solemn as a church; and I don't want a 
 church; I wants a bit o' comfort. Nah there was 
 lawst naite. The old people 'ad gawn ter bed. 
 Lewis come 'ome very laite, and 'e'd bin drinkin' 
 'awrd 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. It's a pity, Sam, and him such an 
 abstainer as he used to be; but, when you come to 
 think of it, it isn't such a wonder! 
 
 SAM. Well, ter put it in plain English, 'e was 
 
 clean up the pole was Lewis, and, some'ah, there was 
 
 a kaind of waild look abaht 'im. I offered him a 
 
 paipe o' baccy, sociable-laike, and stawrted torkin' 
 
 [120]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 ter 'im in a friendly way; but 'e didn't tike much 
 notice. Orl of a suddin', up 'e jumps and grips me 
 by the awrm. "It wasn't my fault," 'e sez in a 
 'oarse voice, "it wasn't my fault. Nobody can say 
 it was my fault." And I felt 'im tremblin' all over. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Did you now? Poor Lewis bach! 
 
 SAM. 'E began walkin' abaht. Then 'e stopped, 
 shiverin' agen, and waite as a sheet. "There's a 
 ghost in the 'ouse," 'e sez; "I'll never 'ave peace any 
 more. ' ' And then would you believe it ? before 
 I know wot ter say, dahn 'e goes on 'is knees by the 
 taible 'ere with 'is 'ead on 'is 'ands, and stawrted 
 prayin' yus, prayin' and cryin' tergether, and 
 'arf drunk all the taime. Mide me feel bloomin' 
 uncomfortable, I can tell yer! Nah wot can yer 
 mike of a man goin' on laike that? It's worse than 
 Shewni Good-lookin' in the Revaiv'l, and I thought 
 'e was abaht the limit! It's taime I cleared aht. 
 Orl this is gittin' on me nerves. If it goes on much 
 longer, I'll be seein' things meself . 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [who does not seem to see anything 
 very extraordinary in SAM'S tale]. Of course, there's 
 no real blame on Lewis. He didn't know what 
 was going to happen. But he was always so fond 
 
 of Gwilym 
 
 [121]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 SAM. Yus, but fancy 'im cryin' and prayin' 
 laike that, till the perspiraish'n come aht orl over 
 me. And 'im only two months ago, maind yer 
 a shainin' laite in the Ethical Society, and turnin' 
 up 'is nose at the very idear of the Alinaighty. 
 It ain't good enough. I gives it up. I can under- 
 stand Scotchmen. I've got the 'ang of niggers and 
 Chinamen. But the ways of the Welsh are beyond 
 me quaite beyond me. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [ingenuously]. D'you see something 
 funny about us then, Sam? 
 
 SAM. Funny? Ow Lor! I do; and, wot's more, 
 I seem ter see the Recordin' Aingel lookin' dahn and 
 scratchin' 'is 'ead pretty 'awrd. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [listening]. Here's modryb coming 
 down from Gwilym's room. 
 
 SAM. I'm goin' for a turn before tea. There's 
 tew much sorrer in 'er fice for me. 
 
 [He goes to the door. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. And, Sam, don't tell about us 
 you know not yet. 
 
 SAM. Raite ow ! He goes out. 
 
 [The kitchen door opens, and GWEN is seen in 
 
 the doorway, dressed simply in plain black. 
 
 She is slower and heavier in movement. 
 
 [122]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 Her voice is softer and more wistful. 
 Throughout the act, though habit drives 
 her to take up her knitting, she does little 
 more than sit with the work in her hands. 
 She shows only an intermittent interest in 
 what takes place around her, and her mind 
 seems to revert continually to her sorrow. 
 From time to time she sighs quietly, and 
 murmurs to herself. Since GWILYM'S death 
 she has aged very much, as if breaking 
 under the burden that has been laid upon 
 her.] 
 
 GWEN. Where's your uncle, Lizzie Ann? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [with some surprise]. He hasn't come 
 down from the pit yet. It isn't time. 
 
 GWEN. Where's Lewis? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Out somewhere, modryb. 
 
 GWEN. Making cake you are? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes. I thought I'd better get a 
 bit ready. 
 
 GWEN. Have you got everything? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes, for this lot. But we're get- 
 ting short of currants. You said you were going to 
 order some more. 
 
 GWEN. Yes? [Puzzled.] I'm not quite sure. I 
 [123]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 ordered something, I know. Did you tell me about 
 the currants? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Oh, yes ! I'm sure ! 
 
 GWEN [going slowly to the dresser and taking up 
 the grocer's books]. When was it, Lizzie Ann? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [with a glance, half curious, half 
 startled]. Why, day before yesterday, of course! 
 
 GWEN. Oh, yes ! Day before yesterday. I was 
 forgetting. No. There's no currants down here. 
 P'raps you'll see to it, Lizzie Ann? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. All right. And how about bees- 
 waxing the upstairs? I've been thinking it would 
 do just as well next Monday 
 
 GWEN. You think it would do just as well next 
 Monday ? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. And I thought that on Saturday I 
 could run down to see our Morfydd. It'll be getting 
 a bit anxious on her now, and her so near her time. 
 
 GWEN [with appeal]. Oh, Lizzie Ann fach, don't 
 go away! I can't spare you, not even for a day. 
 It's so lonely in the house. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [temporizing]. Well, some day next 
 week, then. 
 
 GWEN [taking her knitting from the dresser drawer, 
 and going to the armchair]. Yes; next week next 
 [ 1241
 
 CHANGE 
 
 week! [There is a pause, during which LIZZIE ANN 
 works energetically, while GWEN falls into reverie.] 
 It's to-day he was to go. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. To go? Who? [Remembering.] Oh, 
 yes! Poor Gwilym! 
 
 GWEN. I was just breaking my heart only to 
 think of him crossing the water; and now he's in his 
 grave up there on the hill by Horeb; and the grass 
 will be growing above him, and I won't see him any 
 more. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Don't vex, modryb fach! Don't 
 vex! 
 
 GWEN. There's his bed up there empty, where he 
 used to lie, and the pictures looking down that he'd 
 see when he woke in the morning. There's the 
 world going on just the same, and men and women 
 walking about in the streets. But he's in his grave 
 by Horeb, and they've put his name on the cold, 
 white stone. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. It was the will of God, modryb 
 fach ! That's what uncle said it was the will of 
 God! 
 
 GWEN. God's far away, Lizzie Ann, far away 
 in the kingdom of heaven; but Gwilym was here as 
 I went about the house. There was always a kind- 
 [125]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 ness in his voice, and his hands were always ready to 
 smooth away all the troubles. There's no comfort 
 in your words, Lizzie Ann no comfort at all! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [sighing]. Ah, well! P'raps you're 
 right. P'raps you're right, after all ! 
 
 GWEN. And there's John Henry gone away 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. He'll be back one of these days. 
 
 GWEN. I know him, Lizzie Ann. I know him! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [with an effort at cheerfulness}. You'll 
 see, modryb f ach, wait you ! Wait you ! 
 
 GWEN. Aay. Wait! Wait! Wait! But wait- 
 ing won't bring Gwilym back from his grave by 
 Horeb. Waiting won't blot out the words John 
 Henry and his father said in this room that Sunday 
 night. Oh! If only waiting would make them 
 babies once more, how glad I'd be waiting! That 
 was the time, Lizzie Ann. That was the happy 
 time; but I never knew. It's for me they cried 
 when there was anything the matter. It's I that 
 washed them and dressed them and gave them food. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. He was always a good baby was 
 Gwilym. 
 
 GWEN. Yes. A good baby a good baby, 
 lying so quiet all day, with such big, thoughtful 
 eyes he had. And there was Lewis, too, always 
 [126]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 hanging on to my skirt, with his 'Mam! Mam! 
 Mam!' all day long. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Aay. He was always a handful, 
 was Lewis! 
 
 GWEN. And John Henry there was a picture 
 of a child for you now! [LizziE ANN nods sympa- 
 thetically.] And clever oh, clever beyond ! I can 
 see him now, even before he was put in trousers, 
 marching up to the set fawr to say his verses on a 
 Sunday night. Never a mistake, never though 
 Isaac Pugh's William Ewart would break down as 
 often as not. And then he'd look toward me and 
 smile so pretty he was and the deacons would 
 pat him on the head. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Aay. It's proud a woman must 
 feel, very proud ! I was telling our Morfydd 
 
 GWEN. I can't help thinking of your sister 
 Morfydd these last few days. She's got the grand 
 times before her, Lizzie Ann, the same as I had then. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Yes. She ought to be happy ought 
 our Morfydd, such a nice little home she's got, and 
 him earning regular money ! 
 
 GWEN. And she'll be having children, one after an- 
 other little children that will be all her own for a 
 long, long time. It's to her they'll be running all 
 [1*7]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 the day long; and when they're tired, she'll put them 
 to bed, and sing some song she learnt from her 
 mother, till they fall to sleep. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [whispering]. Yes! Yes! Yes! 
 
 GWEN. And, in the middle of the night, without 
 waking up at all, she'll feel her baby coming closer 
 when she moves. She'll be laughing without know- 
 ing as she goes about the house, and sometimes 
 she'll be afraid and can't tell why. Oh, yes! She'll 
 he having the happy time the happiest time of 
 all ! And, till it's gone, and there's change come over 
 everything, she'll never know. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [reflectively]. But, I think when a 
 woman has children, she couldn't help wishing to see 
 them grown up. 
 
 GWEN. Oh, yes ! When you see the men coming 
 home from work, strong and tired, and the dirt of 
 the pit on their faces, and the smell of it on their 
 clothes it's different then. You can't help think- 
 ing of the women putting the water for them to 
 wash, and laying the tea, and making the place nice 
 and homely. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Ah, yes! I can understand the 
 feeling. If there's one thing a woman do like to see, 
 it's the men sitting down tired to their tea, with 
 [128]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 their faces clean, and the smell of the soap about 
 them. 
 
 GWEN. But there's times when she'll be dream- 
 ing. There's this and that keeps running in her head, 
 and sometimes, though she's only a workingman's 
 wife, she can't help having big ideas. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Well, nobody can say you didn't 
 give the boys the best chance you could. 
 
 GWEN. And now, if I tell the truth, what was it 
 all for the waiting, and the dreaming, and all the 
 big ideas? [Rising and turning away.] For nothing ! 
 For nothing at all! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [protestingly]. But, modryb fach 
 
 ^ GWEN [swinging round to face LIZZIE ANN]. For 
 nothing, I tell you. All the ways of our life have 
 changed, as we've just gone on from one day to an- 
 other. There's something in the world here a 
 woman can't understand something strong and 
 cruel, and waiting always. It's a terrible thing, 
 Lizzie Ann, for a woman to live so long, and find in 
 the end that there's something stronger than all 
 her love. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. But there's Lewis still! Wara 
 tSg for Lewis. He's got his faults; but nobody can 
 say he's a bad son. 
 
 [129]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. You mean he doesn't swear at me, like 
 Mrs. Harris's Evan next door? He doesn't beat me 
 like Gomer Rees beats his poor mother? So I 
 ought to be thankful, Lizzie Ann? You think I 
 ought to be thankful? [Sitting down and shaking 
 her head, with a wan smile of resignation.} Well, 
 p'raps you're right, after all. P'raps you're right! 
 P'raps you're right! 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. I don't understand what you 
 mean modryb. 
 
 GWEN. Never mind! Never mind! [Glancing at 
 the clock and changing her tone.} Isn't it time to be 
 laying the tea? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Diwedd anw'l, yes! They're com- 
 ing down from the pit. [She takes the things from 
 table into the kitchen, and, returning with the crockery, 
 she takes the cloth from dresser drawer and spreads it.} 
 
 [Knock at the door. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Come in. 
 
 Enter DAI MATTHEWS and TWM POWELL. DAI 
 is dressed as before, TWM, coming straight from the 
 pit, is in his working clothes. He has a "jack" in one 
 pocket and a "box" in the other. His face is black 
 with coal dust. 
 
 [130]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 DAI. Prydnawn da 'chi, Lizzie Ann. Prydnawn 
 da 'chi, Mrs. Price. 
 \TwM. Shwt ych-chi nawr? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN and GWEN. Prydnawn da! 
 
 DAI. Is Lewis in, Mrs. Price? 
 
 GWEN. Not yet, indeed, Dai. But he'll be home 
 before long now. Sit down, you! 
 
 [TwM takes the chair to the left of dresser. 
 DAI takes that by the wndow. He seems 
 rather downcast.} 
 
 TWM. Dai came up to meet me out of work, so 
 we thought we'd look in to see Lewis. He hasn't 
 started work with us others. 
 
 GWEN. There's no hurry no hurry! You've 
 only begun just over a week. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. He isn't quite up to the mark these 
 last few weeks. 
 
 DAI. I've heard he's not looking very well. I 
 haven't seen him for some time myself. 
 
 GWEN [anxiously]. He's not looking so bad as 
 all that d'you think, Lizzie Ann? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [humoring her]. No, no! He's not 
 quite himself; that's all. [To DAI.] Is it true, Dai, 
 you're going to foreign parts? 
 
 DAI. Yes. I'm going. I've had the sack. 
 [131]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 TWM. There'll be a day, though, when the 
 friends of the workingman won't be treated like that. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. Where are you going, Dai? 
 
 DAI. To Australia. [GwEN starts.] I'm leaving 
 to-morrow. I thought I'd just call in and say good- 
 bye to Lewis. 
 
 GWEN. To Australia? Did you say to Australia, 
 Dai? Our Gwilym was going to Australia. Did 
 you hear about it, Dai? He'd have been sailing 
 to-day. [She falls into abstraction.] 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [changing the subject]. I suppose 
 you're not sorry to be in work again, Twm? [Lay- 
 ing the things on the table.] It's a sad place is Aber- 
 pandy, when there's no winding on the hill and no 
 black faces coming down Bryndu. 
 
 TWM. It's starved back we've been, Lizzie Ann, 
 and the trouble isn't settled like that. 
 
 GWEN [who has not been listening]. P'raps 
 you've got relations out there? Our Gwilym was 
 going to his Aunt Myfanw'. Sister to his father 
 she is. 
 
 DAI. No, Mrs. Price. I've got no relations out 
 there. I'm going out on a cattle-boat, altogether 
 on chance. Has Lewis said anything about going 
 back to the pit, Mrs. Price? 
 [132]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN. Not yet, indeed. But there's plenty of 
 time, plenty of time! 
 
 TWM. Nor about any other job he had in view 
 nothing about Carmarthenshire? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN. No. We haven't heard a word. 
 [DAI and TWM look at each other in surprise.] 
 
 GWEN. There's dozens not gone back yet dozens. 
 
 DAI. Yes, I know. But, if you'll take it in the 
 right spirit, Mrs. Price, I'd say you might drop him 
 a hint all the same. There were many down on him, 
 as they were on me, over the strike; and they might 
 say he's too lazy 
 
 GWEN [bridling up]. Lazy? So that's what they're 
 saying now, is it? There's not a lazy bone in his 
 body. Didn't he wear himself out for them in the 
 strike, from early morning till late at night, and hah* 
 of them on their backs in bed till dinner? 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [who has finished laying the table, 
 and is just going toward kitchen]. S sh! Here he 
 is ! [She goes into kitchen.] 
 
 Enter LEWIS. He is wearing the same suit as before, 
 
 but with a black necktie, and a band of crepe on his 
 
 arm. His face is pale and haggard. His natural 
 
 restlessness has grown considerably. There is, also y 
 
 [133]
 
 .CHANGE 
 
 a new element in his manner a certain feverish 
 furtiveness, in which he looks from one to another, 
 as if racked by suspicion and always on the watch. 
 Seeing DAI and TWM, he attempts to assume an easy 
 and familiar attitude. 
 
 LEWIS. Hullo, Dai? Shw' ma'i, Twm? 
 
 DAI [looking at him closely]. Oh, weddol, Lewis. 
 Weddol! 
 
 TWM. Pretty fair, indeed! 
 
 [LEWIS takes up a position at the back, leaning 
 against the dresser. There is a short and 
 rather awkward pause, in which he looks 
 from DAI to TWM, and then away through 
 the window.] 
 
 LEWIS. Ah! Here's Sam! 
 
 Enter SAM. 
 
 SAM [in the doorway]. 'Ullo! 'Ullo! 'Ullo! Shoo 
 duckee hay dee, boys? Gawn back ter work then, 
 Twm? [He goes to chair left of table, and, turning it 
 round, sits on it, facing the visitors.] Well, I thought 
 yer would! 
 
 [GwEN, meanwhile, is watching LEWIS, who 
 has begun to smoke a cigarette in his uneasy 
 manner. LIZZIE ANN comes in with the loaf.] 
 [134]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN [to LEWIS in a soothing voice]. Would you 
 like a nice bit of toast, Lewis, and a boiled egg? 
 
 LEWIS [scarcely noticing]. Yes, diolch! Diolch 
 I s'pose there's a good many asking why I've not 
 gone back to work, eh, Twm? 
 
 GWEN. Twt! Twt! Never you mind, Lewis! 
 [To LIZZIE ANN.] Plenty of butter, Lizzie Ann, and 
 mind you not to boil the egg hard. 
 
 [LizziE ANN nods and goes out.] 
 
 SAM [to DAI]. So they've given it yer in the neck, 
 Dai? Got the push, 'aven't yer? 
 
 DAI. Yes, I've had to go. 
 
 SAM. Goin' abroad, so I 'ear? 
 
 [LEWIS looks toward DAI with new interest.] 
 
 DAI. Yes, I'm leaving to-morrow. I'm going 
 out to Australia. 
 
 LEWIS [eagerly]. You're going to Australia, Dai? 
 To-morrow? Have you got sick of it, too? Aay! 
 It's the place where a man could forget things 
 
 DAI. I'm going because I must. Australia's the 
 country for those who believe in the Labor Move- 
 ment. 
 
 [LEWIS makes a gesture of impatience. GWEN 
 is watching him with growing anxiety.] 
 
 SAM. Cost yer a bit ter git there, Dai! 
 [135]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 DAI. Oh, no! I'm going to work my passage. 
 D'you remember, Lewis? I told you a cattle- 
 boat. There's three or four of us going 
 
 LEWIS. Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! [Trying to sup- 
 press his eagerness.] You said didn't you I 
 think you said there'd be plenty of room? 
 
 [GwEN, grasping the arm of the chair, half 
 rises, whispering 'Lewis I* in a startled 
 tone.} 
 
 DAI [not seeing G WEN'S movement]. There's more 
 now than ever. Two that I know have backed out, 
 now that it's time to go. I thought they would. 
 
 TWM [trying to be casual]. By the way, Lewis, 
 now that we're talking, how about that new district 
 in Carmarthenshire? [LEWIS looks puzzled.] You 
 remember Dai telling you? 
 
 LEWIS. Carmarthenshire? Oh, yes! Yes! And 
 about Pinkerton? Oh, yes, of course ! 
 
 GWEN. Were you thinking, Lewis, of going to 
 work in Carmarthenshire? 
 
 DAI. It's a good job, Mrs. Price agent for a 
 district that's bound to grow. Pinkerton got them 
 to postpone the appointment 
 
 GWEN. Well, I won't try to stand in your light, 
 Lewis. I don't so much mind, since it's Sher Gar 
 [136]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 if you've made up your mind to go. There's a lot 
 of your father's people down there. [Forgetting 
 what she was going to say, she falls into thought. Then 
 she sighs, and quietly brushes her hand over her eyes.] 
 
 TWM. I suppose now, Lewis, there's no doubt 
 you'll take it? 
 
 LEWIS [looking at TWM with a queer smile]. No, I 
 won't take it, Twm. 
 
 DAI [in surprise]. What? Won't take it? Didn't 
 you always say 
 
 TWM [his eagerness breaking through]. No? You're 
 sure? Then you might p'raps you'll put in a 
 word for me, Lewis? You know how much I've 
 done for the cause 
 
 DAI. But think, Lewis, think 
 
 LEWIS. I don't want to think. I'm sick of think- 
 ing. I want to forget! 
 
 SAM. Wot's up, old feller? Forgit wot? 
 
 LEWIS [with a look of unspeakable pain, as he 
 points toward the crossing]. That down there! 
 
 GWEN [rising to her feet]. Lewis, 'nghariad-i! 
 
 DAI. But, Lewis bach, it wasn't your fault 
 
 LEWIS [imploringly]. No! No! It wasn't my 
 fault! It wasn't my fault, was it, Dai? It wasn't 
 my fault, was it, Sam? 
 
 [137]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 SAM. O' course not! Wot puts sich an idear into 
 yer 'ead? 
 
 LEWIS [muttering to himself]. No, it wasn't my 
 fault ! It wasn't my fault ! 
 
 TWM. You mustn't think of it like that 
 
 LEWIS. Not think of it? I tell you it's with me 
 day and night, and night and day. I shall never 
 have peace and simple sleep again! If I shut my 
 eyes now, I can see it before me ; 
 
 GWEN. Lewis! Lewis! 
 
 LEWIS. I can see it before me, I tell you all, all, 
 all! The crowd about the gates the faces moving 
 to and fro the sun shining on the rails the 
 soldiers there they are in two brown lines, and 
 there's one with blood running down his face. And 
 there are sounds that keep coming into my mind 
 the shouting, and the rushing, and women shrieking 
 I don't know where. It's all so clear, so horribly 
 clear. And then I heard Gwilym calling to me. 
 He tried to pull me away. They fired and there 
 he was at my feet, dead my brother Gwilym 
 dead! 
 
 [There is a long pause. LEWIS covers his eyes 
 with his hands. GWEN is heard crying to 
 herself.] 
 
 [138]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 DAI. Aay, Lewis, it was a terrible thing to 
 happen. But, Lewis, as true as I'm sitting here, 
 I see no blame on you. 
 
 LEWIS. No! I didn't know, Dai, did I? It 
 wasn't my fault. Nobody can say it was my fault. 
 How could I tell what was going to happen? I'd 
 have seen the strike in hell and all Aberpandy with 
 it, before harm should come to a hair of his head. 
 
 TWM. All you did was what you thought best 
 for the cause. 
 
 LEWIS [looking away]. Ah! There! I wonder! 
 I wonder? 
 
 DAI. Come, Lewis, come! You were the most 
 sincere of us all. 
 
 LEWIS. Yes. I was honest enough in my way. 
 But I had ambition I wanted power. All my 
 life, I'd wanted that power, power! I was poor; 
 but there was something always whispering to me, 
 driving me on and on. It sent me to the night- 
 school; it sent me to books; it sent me to politics; and 
 [pointing toward the crossing] it sent me there! 
 
 TWM. Dewch, mun, dewch! Look here now, 
 never mind about me. You take that job in Car- 
 marthenshire. 
 
 LEWIS. It's no use. I've lost all heart. D'you 
 [139]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 know what's the matter with me, Twm? I'm a 
 haunted man. Sleeping and waking, I'm a haunted 
 man. There's a ghost in Aberpandy that will not 
 let me rest. It's looking at me always with his 
 kind, kind eyes. And I am afraid. D'you want to 
 know why I haven't gone back to work? Because 
 I'm afraid afraid of his voice in the echoes, afraid 
 of his face down there in the dark, with the shadows 
 moving across the coal. I'm a beaten man. I'm a 
 beaten man. And all I'm asking now is a place 
 where I can forget. 
 
 Enter PRICE in his working clothes, with "jack" and 
 "6ox" and the dust of the pit upon him. Seeing 
 the visitors, he halts a moment, and his manner 
 grows stiff and frigid. 
 
 DAI. Dydd da 'chi, Mr. Price. 
 PRICE [abruptly]. How d'you do? 
 TWM. Nice day again! 
 
 [GwEN rises as if to give the armchair to PRICE.] 
 PRICE [kindly]. No, no! Sit down, you. 
 
 [He crosses in front of table, and takes the chair 
 
 by parlor door, facing the visitors.] 
 DAI. So you've started, too, Mr. Price? 
 [140]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 GWEN [toward back-kitchen]. Put the water for 
 your uncle to wash, Lizzie Ann. 
 
 LIZZIE ANN [without]. All right. 
 
 PRICE. Aay, I've started. [With a glance toward 
 LEWIS.] Started first day, and glad of the chance, 
 too, after being out all these months, for nothing. 
 
 TWM. Well, it's true we didn't get our terms this 
 time 
 
 PRICE. There were men here told you you 
 wouldn't, too ! 
 
 TWM. But we'll get them in the end, don't you 
 fear. The trouble isn't ended yet. 
 
 PRICE. Aay! That's the kind of talk I hear 
 them using coming down Bryndu. A man would 
 think, after all we've been through, even the young- 
 sters had had enough for a bit, whatever. But I 
 suppose it's no use trying to make them see reason. 
 
 SAM. No, boss. Not a bit! It's always struck 
 me as peculiar that a man don't develop common- 
 sense till 'e's pawst the taime when it would come 
 in useful. 
 
 TWM. Well, I'll say this, anyhow we'd be in 
 a better position to-day, all of us, if we'd stuck to- 
 gether, old men and young. 
 
 SAM. I've noticed, 'ahever, that when one lot 
 [141]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 o' men awsks another lot o' men ter stick tergether, 
 it generally means follerin' the partickler views of 
 them wot awsks. 
 
 PRICE. You've put that fellow Pinkerton into 
 Parliament. I don't know what more you want. 
 
 DAI. I'm not sure it's putting men in Parliament 
 that's going to save the working classes. 
 
 PRICE. Not men like Pinkerton. 
 
 TWM. We've got to work till we've organized the 
 unions so well that we can call out every worker in 
 the country at a day's notice. "Direct Action" 
 that's what's got to come, and that won't come till 
 we've got solidarity in Labor. 
 
 PRICE. Talk! All talk! Wait till you're over 
 sixty, and then you'll see. 
 
 DAI. See what? 
 
 SAM. Yer'll see another pack of youngsters 
 torkin' of things yer don't understand, and maikin' 
 'ell's delaite of wot yer set most store by. Yer'll 
 see yerselves comin' dahn on 'em laike a thahsand o' 
 bricks. And yer'll all be the saime bloomin' fools 
 as yer f awthers before yer. 
 
 DAI. Wait, Sam. There's such a thing as prog- 
 ress. 
 
 SAM [with a circular movement of his hand\. Rahnd 
 [142]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 and rahnd, that's 'ow things go. I'm gettin' on 
 in years. I know rahnd and rahnd. 
 
 DAI. Yes. But, Sam, what if the centre is 
 moving on? 
 
 PRICE. It's no use talking, Sam. I talked 
 enough to Lewis. 
 
 LEWIS [grimly]. That's true enough, anyhow. 
 [To SAM, reflectively.] I wonder, Sam, if you're 
 right! 
 
 SAM. Don't wonder, me boy. I've bin abaht the 
 world. I know. 
 
 LEWIS [to TWM and DAI]. They may say what 
 they like if the strike was to go on, we had to 
 stop the blacklegs coming in. 
 
 TWM. Yes. That's where they beat us. No- 
 body had the heart to tackle them again after 
 after 
 
 PRICE [grimly and quietly]. After Gwilym was 
 killed. Oh, aay! You thought you'd arranged it 
 all very fine. But I've lived in the world for more 
 than sixty years, and I've never seen good come out 
 of anything that was in the hands of unbelievers. 
 
 LEWIS [with irritation]. Oh, don't begin all that 
 again! 
 
 GWEN. Nawr, John. It's time to wash. 
 [143]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 PRICE. No. It doesn't do, when the evil has 
 happened, to mention the cause. 
 
 LEWIS [with gathering anger]. I tell you I can't 
 stand such talk! We didn't know what was going to 
 happen. It wasn't my fault! I acted for the best! 
 
 PRICE. A man who has acted for the best ought 
 to have a clean conscience. 
 
 LEWIS [startled], A clean conscience? What 
 d'you mean? [Defiantly.] What d'you mean? 
 
 PRICE. There oughtn't to be any need for him to 
 blind himself with drink. 
 
 GWEN [rising]. Nawr, John, nawr! 
 
 LEWIS [advancing a step angrily]. There's noth- 
 ing on my conscience. It wasn't my fault! It 
 wasn't my fault! 
 
 PRICE [rising]. You can't work. You can't sleep. 
 You know! 
 
 LEWIS. Be careful! Be careful! I tell you! 
 Don't drive me too far! 
 
 GWEN [moving to get between them] . John ! Lewis ! 
 
 PRICE [stopping her with a single gesture]. Taw 
 son, Gwen. [To LEWIS.] God is not mocked. 
 
 LEWIS [hotly] You're down on me. You've al- 
 ways been down on me. I followed the truth as I 
 saw it. I took my stand openly. I haven't lied to 
 [144]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 myself, or covered things up with cant. If the men 
 listened to me more than to you, I couldn't help it. 
 You've been jealous of me. All along you've been 
 jealous you and Isaac Pugh, and all the lot of you! 
 PRICE. You set yourself up against the Almighty 
 in the blindness of your pride, and you wouldn't 
 listen when I warned you. 
 
 LEWIS. Humbug! All humbug! You were jeal- 
 ous! 
 
 PRICE. You had to learn your lesson, like many 
 more before you. He's there, and He's watching. 
 He's put a judgment upon you. [LEWIS shrinks a 
 little.] Yes, He's put a judgment upon you, and it's 
 the brand of Cain! 
 
 [Groaning out "0 TJffern!" through his clenched 
 teeth, LEWIS raises his fist to strike his 
 father. GWEN shrieks. There is a general 
 movement in the room. The old man does 
 not quail, but meets LEWIS squarely, eye to 
 eye. Suddenly LEWIS'S anger collapses, 
 and his hand drops to his side. The look of 
 haunting and of anguish comes over his 
 face. He staggers back, and supports him- 
 self against the table.] 
 
 LEWIS [in a low, broken voice]. Yes, it's true 
 [145]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 the brand of Cain! The brand of Cain! The 
 brand of Cain ! I've felt it down in my heart 
 all the time. All the men and women in the street 
 
 I'm wondering if they're saying, "There he is, the 
 man who killed his brother." All these weeks I've 
 been waiting to hear somebody say it five long 
 weeks waiting to hear somebody say it; and now 
 
 it's said! 
 
 GWEN. Don't you mind him, machan-i. He's a 
 
 hard, hard man 
 
 DAI [turning toward the door], I think we'd better 
 be going. 
 
 [TwM and SAM go out. LEWIS rushes to DAI, 
 
 and grips his arm.] 
 
 LEWIS. No, Dai, I want you. [To GWEN.] 
 Ma'am, I'm going away, far away. 
 GWEN. Going away? No, no, no! 
 LEWIS [looking at his father]. You heard what 
 he said, ma'am "the brand of Cain" ? His face has 
 been saying it all the time. His face will say it for- 
 ever. If I stay here, sooner or later, it will make 
 me kill him. 
 
 PRICE [going toward the kitchen]. I'm not afraid. 
 
 [He goes out. 
 
 GWEN. You mustn't leave me, Lewis. You 
 [146]
 
 CHANGE 
 
 mustn't leave me. There's John Henry gone away, 
 and Gwilym in his grave forever. What shall I do? 
 What shall I do, if I haven't got one left, and old 
 age coming heavy upon me? 
 
 LEWIS. There's no help for it, ma'am. [To DAI.] 
 Dai, I'm coming with you to-morrow. 
 
 DAI. Don't be impulsive, Lewis. Think it 
 over. [Exit. 
 
 GWEN. Don't be hard on me, Lewis. Don't be 
 hard. Think what it will be for me in this old 
 house, one year after another. 
 
 LEWIS. It's too late! too late! I'm going where 
 there are no hills to keep a man thinking always, and 
 perhaps some day I'll forget. [Moving toward the 
 door.] I want peace ! peace ! [He goes out. 
 
 [GwEN throws herself into the armchair, rock- 
 ing herself to and fro disconsolately.] 
 
 GWEN. Not one, after all ! O Dduw, not even 
 one. Dim un! Dim un! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 [147]
 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
 GARDEN CITY, N. Y ti
 
 Date Due 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S. 
 
 CAT. NO. 24 161
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000812176 6