THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Via 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 BY 
 JOHN DRiNKWATER 
 
 PRICE SIXPENCE NET
 
 
 THE STORM
 
 By the same Author — 
 
 Poems of Men and Hours is 6d net 
 Poems of Love and Earth is 6d net 
 Crormvell and Other Poems 5s net 
 Swords and Ploughshares 2s 6d net 
 Cophetua A Play in verse 6d net 
 Rebellion A Play in verse is net 
 
 William Morris 7s 6d net 
 Swinburne 5s net
 
 THE STORM 
 
 A PLAY IN ONE ACT 
 
 By 
 JOHN DRINKWATER 
 
 Published by the Author 
 
 at the 
 
 Birmingham Repertory Theatre 
 
 1915
 
 All dramatic rights are reserved, by the Author
 
 
 To 
 BARRY V. JACKSON 
 
 727513
 
 The Characters are — 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 JOAN, her young Sister. 
 
 SARAH. 
 
 AN OLD MAN. 
 
 A YOUNG STRANGER.
 
 The Storm 
 
 A mountain cottage. It is a midwinter night. Out- 
 side a snowstorm rages. 
 
 ALICE is looking through the window. JOAN, her 
 young sister } and Sarah, an old neighbour 
 woman, are sitting over the fire. 
 
 Alice: It isn't fair of God. Eyes are no good, 
 Nor lanterns in a blackness like to that. 
 How can they find him out ? It isn't fair. 
 
 Sarah: God is for prayers. You'll anger Him 
 speaking so. 
 
 Alice: I have prayed these hours, and now I'm 
 
 tired of it. 
 He is caught in some grip of the rocks, and crying 
 
 out, 
 And crying and crying, and none can hear him cry, 
 Because of this great beastliness of noise. 
 
 Sarah : Past crying now, I think. 
 
 Joan: There, take no heed 
 
 Of what she says — it's a rusty mind she has, 
 Being old, and wizened with bad luck on the hills. 
 
 Sarah: Rusty or no, I've a thought the man is 
 dead. 
 No news has been growing apace from nightfall on 
 Into bad news, and now it's as though one stood 
 At the door and said — we found him lying cold. 
 
 Alice : Whist ! you old bitter woman. Will it 
 never stay 
 In its wicked fury, . . . and the snow's like a 
 black rain
 
 8 THE STORM 
 
 Whipping the crying wind. If it would rest awhile 
 I could think and mind me what were best to do 
 To help my man. But a savagery like this 
 Beats at the wits till they have no tidiness. 
 
 Sarah: We'll sit and wait till they come. 
 
 Alice: And I a woman 
 
 Would never let him ask for anything, 
 Because of the daily thought I took for him, — 
 And against this spite now I've no strength at all 
 
 Sarah: For all you would bake his bread to a 
 proper turn 
 And remember always the day for his clean shift, 
 There was many a scolding word for him to bear. 
 
 Joan : Hush — 
 
 Alice : Let her talk. What does she know at all, — 
 Thinking crossed words between a man and a woman 
 Have anything to do with the heart ? We have, 
 My man and I, more than a fretful mood 
 Can thieve or touch. My man — I must go myself. 
 
 Joan: There is nothing you could do. 
 
 Sarah : 'Tis men 
 
 Should carry the dead man in. 
 
 Alice: My man 
 
 Is alive I say — surely my man's not dead — 
 Surely, I say — old woman, your croaking talk 
 Teases my brain like the pestilence out there 
 Till I doubt the thing I know. There's not a crag 
 Or cleft of the hills but is natural to him 
 As the stairs beyond the door there — surely, surely — 
 Yet nothing is sure. 
 
 Sarah : Death has a way with him, 
 
 A confident way. 
 
 Alice : You know that he's not dead — 
 
 I know that too — if only that dark rage
 
 THE STORM 
 
 Howling out there would leave tormenting me, 
 
 And let me reason it out in peace a little, 
 
 I could be quite, quite sure that he's not dead. 
 
 Sarah : Age is a quiet place where you can watch 
 The world bent with its pain and still be patient, 
 And warm your hands by the fire because you know 
 That the newest sorrow and the oldest sorrow are one. 
 They will bring him and put him down upon the 
 
 floor : 
 Be ready for that, girl. There are times when hope 
 
 is cruel 
 As a fancy-man that goes without good-bye. 
 
 Alice I have a brain that is known in three shire- 
 towns 
 For a level bargain. It is strange that I should be 
 Listening now to a cracked old woman's clatter 
 When my own thoughts for him should be so clear 
 That I shouldn't heed the words of another body. 
 I want no hope — only an easy space 
 To remember the skill of my man among the hills 
 And how he would surely match their cunning with 
 
 his, — 
 Or else to count the hours that he's been gone 
 And see that his chance is whittled quite away. 
 To have a living thought against this fear 
 Is all I want — but those screaming devils there 
 Beat in my mind like the drums in Carnarvon streets 
 That they use when they want to cheat folk into 
 
 thinking 
 That death is a handsome trade. — And so 
 I let a woman with none but leaky wits 
 Tell me the way I should be, — when most I need 
 To ride no borrowed sense. 
 
 Sarah : It is not wind, 
 
 For all it is louder than any flood on the hills, 
 Nor the crazy snow that maddens you till your brain 
 Is like three cats howling upon a wall,
 
 io THE STORM 
 
 But the darkness that comes creeping on a woman 
 When she knows of grief before it is spoken out. 
 And the sooner grieved is grief the sooner gone. 
 Be ready to make him decent for the grave. 
 
 Joan : If he should walk in now you will not forget 
 The trouble you are putting in the house with your 
 talk. 
 
 Sarah: The trouble is here 
 
 Alice: If he should walk in now — 
 
 Yes, that's the way to think. I'll work it out, 
 Slowly, his doings from when he left the door 
 Until he comes again. You stood at the oven 
 With cakes half-browned against his tea. And I 
 Stood here beside my man and strapped his coat 
 Under his chin. He looked across your way — 
 He is fond of you, child — he calls you Father Joan 
 Because — but that's not it — I told him then 
 To-morrow would be time to bring the slates, 
 And let him only mend the wire to-day — 
 He thought so too and said — it is like a beast 
 Greater than half the world and crushed in a trap, 
 Shrieking against the pain — what did he say ? — 
 I have forgotten now, and I had begun 
 To follow it all quite clearly — what did he say ? 
 
 Joan : That an hour would see him back, and 
 hungry too. 
 
 Alice: An hour would bring him back — but that is 
 
 nothing. 
 I know it now : he went to the broken wire 
 And mended it — three quarters of an hour — 
 And then he would think that after all the slates 
 Were best bespoken now — six miles to go: 
 He would be about a mile when this began — 
 This wrath that will surely last till the Judgment 
 
 Day— 
 And that would make two hours till he reached the 
 
 quarry —
 
 THE STORM n 
 
 But he went on, and the neighbours up and down 
 Were scared and went out searching with their 
 
 lanterns, 
 Like lighted gnats searching the mines of hell. 
 Isn't it queer to see them out there dancing 
 When all the time he has gone a twelve mile 
 
 journey — 
 And then this old woman came with her neighbour 
 
 duty — 
 It's odd folk are, — 
 
 Sarah : It's a poor thing, spinning tales 
 
 When there's no faith in them. 
 
 Alice: Hush, I have it all 
 
 Quite clearly now, in spite of that monster baying, — 
 Two hours to the quarry, hindered by the night, 
 Then half an hour to bargain, then two hours 
 For beating back, his boots heavy with snow, 
 Or a little longer — five hours and more all told — 
 It is nine o'clock — he went five hours ago, 
 Or a little more, so that's just how it works — 
 He should be coming now along the road, 
 Tired — we must warm the cakes again. 
 
 Sarah: Ay, warm them, 
 
 A dead man's heavy bearing. 
 
 The clock strikes nine. 
 
 Alice: That's the time 
 
 To bring him back, and we'll call the lanterns in — 
 He must be near by now — 
 
 A man is heard outside, kicking the 
 snow off his boots. Alice of ens the 
 door, and AN OLD MAN comes in, carry- 
 ing an unlit lantern. 
 
 The Old Man : My candle is spent. 
 
 Joan takes the lantern and fits a 
 new candle while they sfeak.
 
 12 THE STORM 
 
 Alice : And you are going out again ? 
 
 They have not found him ? 
 
 The Old Man : No. It's not easy there. 
 
 Alice : Then he didn't go to the quarry after all. 
 
 Joan : Because they hav'n't found him ? That's 
 no sign 
 They couldn't if he went. 
 
 Alice: Ah yes — how is it? — 
 
 He went, and they've been looking on the hills — 
 But have not found him. Yes — he must have gone. 
 He should be back. You should have found him for 
 me. 
 
 Sarah : She is strange because of the trouble in 
 the house. 
 I am old, and that is something. 
 
 Alice: It is not that — 
 
 I am caught away from myself by the screaming 
 
 thing 
 That scourges the hills. And yet in spite of that 
 I had reckoned all his doings since he went 
 Until his time for coming — but you came — 
 You came instead. That is not right. 
 
 The Old Man (taking the lantern and lighting it) : 
 
 We'll send 
 Across to the quarry now — 
 
 Alice : It is no use — 
 
 He'll not have gone. 
 
 The Old Man : The night is full of tricks, 
 
 But another hour will have ferreted all the hill. 
 
 He goes out. 
 
 Sarah : Simon who took his money down to market. 
 And wouldn't change for a good sound fact of cattle, 
 Fingered his earnings till a hole was worn 
 And came to the house again with an empty bag.
 
 THE STORM 13 
 
 Leave making tales, my girl, poor tales — they bring 
 
 no profit, 
 Keeping the truth outside, and breaking away 
 To a thimbleful of ash themselves. He is dead. 
 Think hard on that. When the old king of the world 
 With the scourge and flail turns his strokes from the 
 
 wheat 
 On the goodman's floor and scars the goodman's 
 
 back, 
 It is no time to wince. Your man is dead. 
 And a day and a day make Adam's fall a story. 
 
 Alice: Not down to the quarry — then — my little 
 Joan, 
 Do you know at all what a man becomes to a woman ? 
 How should you though ? If a man should take 
 A patch of the barren hill and dig with his hands 
 And down and down till he came to marble and gold, 
 And labouring then for a dozen years or twenty 
 Should build a place finer than Solomon's hall 
 Till strangers with money to travel came to praise it, 
 And, when he had dug and hewn and spent his years 
 To make it a wonder, should go, and be remembered 
 No more than an onion-pedlar in the street 
 By the gaping travellers, yet he might be glad, 
 If his heart was as big as a woman's, for the thing 
 
 he'd made, 
 The strong and lovely thing, knowing it risen 
 Out of his thought into the talk of the world. 
 That's how it is. A woman takes a mate, 
 And like the patient builder governs him 
 Into the goodman known through a countryside, 
 Or the wise friend that the neighbours will seek out, 
 And he, for all his love, may never know 
 How she has nourished the dear fine mastery 
 That bids him daily down the busy road 
 And leave's her by the hearth. And when he is dead 
 It comes to her that the strength she has given him
 
 14 THE STORM 
 
 To make him a gallant figure among them all 
 
 Has been the thing that has filled her, and she lonely 
 
 Or gossiping with the folk, or about the house. 
 
 Sarah: When he is dead. 
 
 Alice: Why should I think of that? 
 
 I am crazed, I say, because of the madness loosed 
 And beating against the panes. He is not dead — 
 You know it woman — Joan, it would be a lie 
 To say my man is dead ? 
 
 Joan: There, sister, wait — 
 
 It is all we can do — there is nothing else to do. 
 
 Sarah: When he is dead. Let the thought that 
 comes unbidden 
 Be welcome, for it's the best thought. When he is 
 dead. 
 
 Alice: There is treachery against us — my man — 
 my dear — 
 My brave love — they are trying to part us now ! 
 But we must be too strong when .... when 
 he is dead .... 
 
 There is a knock at the door. She 
 makes a half movement towards it. 
 
 He would not knock. See who it is. 
 
 Joan of ens the door and a Young 
 Traveller, buffeted and breathless, 
 comes in. 
 
 The Stranger : By Thor ! 
 
 There's beauty trampling men like crumpled leaves. 
 May I come in till it's gone ? 
 
 Joan : Surely. 
 
 The Stranger: I set 
 
 Every sinew taut against this power, 
 This supple torrent of might that suddenly rose 
 Out of the fallen dusk and sang and leapt
 
 THE STORM 15 
 
 Like an athlete of the gods frenzied with wine. 
 It seemed to rear challenging against me, 
 As though the master from Valhalla's tables, 
 Grown heady in his revels, had cried out — 
 Behold me now crashing across the earth 
 To shake the colonies of antic men 
 Into a fear shall be a jest, my fellows ! 
 And I measured myself against this bragging pride, 
 Climbing step by step through the blinding riot 
 Of frozen flakes swung on the cataract wind, 
 My veins praising the tyranny that was matched 
 Against this poor ambitious body of mine. 
 
 Alice : The storm is drenched with treachery and 
 sin — 
 It is not good to praise it. 
 
 The Stranger : You on the hills 
 
 Grow dulled, maybe, to the royalty that finds 
 In your crooked world a thousand splendid hours, 
 And a storm to you is but a hindered task 
 Or a wall for mending or a gap in the flock. 
 But I was strange among this gaiety 
 Plying black looms in a black firmament, 
 This joy that was spilt out of the iron heavens 
 Where pity is not bidden to the hearts 
 Of the immaculate gods. I was a dream, 
 A cold monotony suddenly thrust 
 Into a waking world of lusty change, 
 A wizened death elected from the waste 
 To strive and mate with eager lords of tumult. 
 Beauty was winged about me, darkling speed 
 Took pressure of earth and smote against my face ; 
 I rode upon the front of heroic hours, 
 And once was on the crest of the world's tide, 
 Unseared as the elements. — But he mastered me, 
 That god striking a star for holiday, 
 And filled himself with great barbaric laughter 
 To see me slink away.
 
 16 THE STORM 
 
 Alice: It is no god, 
 
 But brainless anger, a gaunt and evil thing 
 That blame can't reach. 
 
 The Stranger : Not all have eyes to see. — 
 
 I'm harsh with my words, but I come from a harsh 
 
 quarrel 
 With larger thews than man's. 
 
 Alice : Stranger, I'ld give 
 
 Comely words to any who knocks at the door. 
 You are welcome — but leave your praising of this 
 
 blight. 
 You safely gabbing of sly and cruel furies, 
 Like a child laughing before a cage of tigers. 
 You with your fancy talk of lords and gods 
 And your hero-veins — young man, do you know this 
 
 night 
 Is eating through my bones into the marrow, 
 And creeping round my brain till thought is dead, 
 And making my heart the oldest thing of any ? 
 Do you see those lights ? 
 
 The Stranger: They seemed odd moving there, 
 
 In a storm like this. 
 
 Alice: A man is lost on the hills. 
 
 The Stranger: That's bad. But who? 
 
 Alice : My man is lost on the hills. 
 
 Sarah : She has it now ; her man is dead on the 
 hills. 
 
 The Stranger: I talked amiss, not knowing of 
 trouble here. 
 But why should he be dead ? 
 
 Alice: The woman is worn, 
 
 Her mind is worn, and she lives out of the world. 
 You ask at once as any wise man would. 
 I have told her and told and told that he's not dead,
 
 THE STORM 17 
 
 And my young sister, too, though but a girl, 
 
 Says it, and she has a head beyond her years. 
 
 He is lost for an hour, or maybe for a night, 
 
 But never dead. That is the way you think ? 
 
 It is waiting that steals your proper sense away ; 
 
 And then, although you know, you let in fear 
 
 Blaspheming the thing you know — it is waiting 
 
 to-night 
 In the midst of an idiot wrath drumming and 
 
 drumming 
 Like a plague of bees in swarm above your eyes. 
 I do not know — I have not any strength 
 To fathom it now, and there is none to tell me. 
 
 Sarah : She knows it all, though the thing is hard 
 to say. 
 
 Alice : Have done ! Young stranger, you have 
 
 travelled the world 
 I think, or have grown learned in great cities, 
 And can tell the way» things go — is it not wrong 
 To say that a man because of an ugly night 
 Should perish on his home-ground ? He would find 
 
 a road 
 Out of a danger such as that, because 
 That is the way things happen — tell me now ? 
 
 The Stranger : It is likely that he would. 
 
 Alice : You hear that, Joan — 
 
 A traveller who has been in foreign dangers 
 And comes a scholar from a hundred cities 
 Says it is well, and that we must be patient. 
 
 The Stranger : No, I've not travelled, and I only 
 say a man 
 Knowing the hills would likely weather a storm. 
 
 Alice: There, there — you must not take it back 
 again, 
 Because you know, and you have said it is well.
 
 18 THE STORM 
 
 Sarah : They cut a stone that is like a small 
 church window, 
 And they carve a name and a line out of the book, 
 And when that's done there is nothing then to doubt. 
 
 The storm has suddenly cleared, 
 The silence falls upon them strangely, 
 and there is a pause. 
 
 Alice : It is spent at last. He will come from his 
 shelter now. 
 My dear — come soon. Set the kettle again. 
 
 Joan does so. There is another -pause. 
 I have my thought again. It is an end. 
 I am broke-i. There is no pity anywhere. 
 
 The Stranger: The lights are coming. 
 
 Sarah : The anger never bates, 
 
 But scourges us till time betrays the limbs, 
 And strikes the tongue, and puts pence on the eyes, 
 And leaves the latch for stranger hands to lift. 
 
 The blackness beyond the window 
 has given -place to clear starlight on 
 the hills. A NUMBER OF MEN with lan- 
 terns pass by. There is a knock : 
 Alice opens the door, and the old 
 man stands there with his lighted 
 lantern. She looks at him, and neither 
 speaks. She turns away to the table. 
 
 Alice: Why have we waited .... all this 
 time .... to know .... 
 
 Her sorrow breaks over her. 
 
 The End
 
 THE STORM was first produced at the 
 Birmingham Repertory Theatre, on Saturday, 
 May 8th, 1915, under the direction of the 
 author, with the following cast : — 
 
 Alice 
 
 Joan 
 
 Sarah - 
 
 An Old Man 
 
 A Young Stranger 
 
 Cecily Byrne 
 Betty Pinchard 
 Margaret Chatwin 
 W. Ribton Haines 
 E. Ion Swinley
 
 Birmingham 
 
 Burmar., Cooper & Co., Ltd. 
 
 194, Corporation Street

 
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