ACT I

 

 

 

    8.30 in the morning. The kitchen of an Italian villa — a big open fire-place of stone, with a little charcoal grate — fornello — on either side — cupboards, table, rush-bottom chairs with high backs — many bright copper pans of all sizes hanging up. The door-bell rings in the kitchen — rings hard — after a minute a door is heard to bang.

 

    Enter WESSON, in dressing-gown and pyjamas: a young man of about twenty-six, with thick hair ruffled from sleep. He crosses and goes through door R. Sounds of voices. Re-enter WESSON, followed by Italian maid-servant, FRANCESCA, young, fair, pretty — wears a black lace scarf over her head. She carries a saucepan full of milk. On the table stand a soup-tureen and an enamel jug.

 

 

 

FRANCESCA: Questa? (Puts her hand on the jug.)

 

WESSON: No, in the other. (She pours the milk into the tureen.)

 

FRANCESCA (smiling): Abondante misura!

 

WESSON: What’s that? Come?

 

FRANCESCA: Abondante misura latte!

 

WESSON: Oh — full measure. Si! — running over!

 

FRANCESCA: Ranning ova. (Both laugh.)

 

WESSON: Right you are — you’re learning English.

 

FRANCESCA: Come?

 

WESSON: Vous apprenez anglais — voi — inglese!

 

FRANCESCA: O — non — niente inglese!

 

WESSON: Nothing English? Oh yes! Er — fa tempo cattivo!

 

FRANCESCA: Tempo cattivo — si.

 

WESSON: Rotten weather —

 

FRANCESCA: Come?

 

WESSON: It’s all the same. (She puts the lid on her saucepan and turns away.) Er — what day is it? — er — giorno che giorno?

 

FRANCESCA: Oggi? Domenica.

 

WESSON: Domenica! — dimanche — Sonntag — Sunday.

 

FRANCESCA: Come?

 

WESSON: Sunday!

 

FRANCESCA: Sendy!

 

WESSON: That’s it. (Both laugh — she blushes and turns away — bows.)

 

FRANCESCA: Buon giorno, Signore.

 

WESSON: Buon giorno.

 

Exit FRANCESCA R. He drinks some milk, wipes his mouth and begins to whistle: “Put me among the girls!” — takes some branches of olive and ilex from a box near the fire — puts them in the fireplace. As he is so doing, enter Left — BARBARA — age about twenty-six — fair — rather a fine young woman, holding her blue silk dressing-gown about her. She stands in the doorway L., holding up her finger.

 

BARBARA: Yes, you may well whistle that! I heard you, Giacometti.

 

WESSON (turning round): And did it fetch you out of bed?

 

BARBARA: Yes, it did. I heard your dulcet tones.

 

WESSON: They were no dulcetter than usual.

 

BARBARA: And, pray, what right had they to be as dulcet! — (draws herself up) — to a little servant-maid, indeed!

 

WESSON: She’s awfully nice, and quite a lady.

 

BARBARA: Yes — yes — I know you! She’s pretty, is she?

 

WESSON: Awfully pretty! (Lighting the heap of branches in the fire.) These matches are the stinking devil.

 

BARBARA: Aren’t they! I tried to light a cigarette with them, and I thought I should have died!

 

WESSON: You should have waited till the sulphur had burned away (laughing). And the pretty maid had got a mantilla on this morning.

 

BARBARA: Ah! I suppose the poor thing had been to church.

 

WESSON: It took my breath away when I opened the door, and I said “Oh!”

 

BARBARA: Giacomo!

 

WESSON: Do call me Jimmy — I hate to be Italianized! — and she blushed like fury.

 

BARBARA: Poor thing! Really, Giacometti, really, you are impossible.

 

WESSON: What for?

 

BARBARA: Fancy saying “Oh!” to the young maid! Remember, you’re a gentleman in her eyes.

 

WESSON: And what’s wrong with saying “Oh!” when she’s got a fascinating mantilla on? I can’t say delicate things in Italian — and — ”Oh!” — who can’t say “Oh!” — after all, what is there in it?

 

BARBARA: What could have been more expressive! Think of the poor thing, how embarrassed she must feel.

 

The fire blazes up in the big chimney.

 

Oh, how beautiful! Now that makes me perfectly happy. How gorgeous! How adorable! No, but, Wesson, I don’t like it.

 

WESSON: What’s that, the fire?

 

BARBARA: No, the little servant-maid. And you made her feel so uncomfortable.

 

WESSON: I didn’t.

 

BARBARA: You must have done! Think — to her, at any rate, you’re a gentleman.

 

WESSON: A thundering lot of a gentleman, when she finds me lighting the fire and grinding the coffee —

 

BARBARA: Yes, but no doubt she thinks that’s an eccentricity.

 

WESSON: There’s a lot of eccentricity about living on a hundred-and-twenty a year, the pair of us.

 

BARBARA: And you must remember how fearfully poor these Italians are —

 

WESSON: It’s enough for me how fearfully poor we are ourselves — you in your silk dressing-gown! It’ll be some time before you get such a one out of our purse.

 

BARBARA: Well, it doesn’t matter — you are a gentleman here. Look, this flat is quite grand.

 

WESSON: It will be when you have to clean it.

 

BARBARA: I don’t mind cleaning it; don’t be horrid! This adorable fire! But you won’t do it, will you?

 

WESSON: What?

 

BARBARA: Say “Oh!” to the little maid. It’s not nice, really.

 

WESSON: Well, you see, it popped out when I saw the mantilla. I s’ll be used to it another time.

 

BARBARA: And you won’t say it?

 

WESSON: I won’t say “Oh!”; oh dear, oh no, never no more, I won’t. (Sings.)

 

BARBARA (kissing him): Dear!

 

WESSON (kissing her): What d’yer want?

 

BARBARA: I love you.

 

WESSON: So you ought.

 

BARBARA: Why ought I?

 

WESSON (at the fire): There you are, you see, that’s how to set a fornello going.

 

BARBARA (teasing): Oh — oh, is it? And now you’re going to make coffee l’ltalienne, aren’t you? Oh, you wonderful person!

 

WESSON: I am.

 

Gets the coffee-mill from cupboard — grinds coffee on the table, singing:

 

    Johnny used to grind the coffee-mill,

    Mix the sugar with the sand;

    But he got run in and all through mixing

    His master’s money with his own.

 

BARBARA: What is that beautiful and classic song?

 

WESSON sings it again.

 

BARBARA (laughing): Oh, you common, common brat! Anybody could tell your father was a coal-miner.

 

WESSON: A butty collier — and I wish yours had been ditto — you’d ha’ been more use. Think of me, Lord of Creation, getting the breakfast ready. (She takes his head between her hands, and ruffles his hair.) While you stand messing about.

 

BARBARA: Oh, your lovely hair! — it makes waves just like the Apollo Belvedere.

 

WESSON: And come again to-morrer.

 

BARBARA: Don’t — don’t laugh at yourself — or at me when I say it’s nice hair. It is, Giacomo, it’s really beautiful.

 

WESSON: I know; it’s the Apollo Belvedere, and my beautiful nose is Antinous, and my lovely chin is Endymion — clear out.

 

BARBARA: You are horrid to yourself! Why won’t you let me say you’re nice?

 

WESSON: Because the water’s boiling.

 

BARBARA: You’re not a bit nice.

 

WESSON: Mind! — my water’s boiling! (Breaks away — making coffee in a brass jug.) If this was Pimlico or Bloomsbury, and this was a London kitchen, you wouldn’t love me, would you?

 

BARBARA: If you could do anything so horrid as to stifle me in a poor part of London, I would not love you — I would hate you for ever. Think of me!

 

WESSON: But because we come careering to Italy, and the pans are of copper and brass, you adore me, don’t you?

 

BARBARA: Yes — on the whole.

 

WESSON: That is, for the first month or two. We’ve been here six weeks.

 

BARBARA: Think of it — Giacomo mio, it seems like six minutes — it frightens me.

 

WESSON (hesitating): It doesn’t seem three months since we left England, does it?

 

BARBARA: I can’t believe we’re here yet. Giacomo, Giacomo, why is it so new, every day? Giacomo, why is it always more? It’s always more, isn’t it?

 

WESSON (putting his arms round her): You’re a Judy! (Kisses her.)

 

BARBARA: Do you love me?

 

WESSON: Not a bit.

 

BARBARA: Not a teenty bit?

 

WESSON: Not a seroddy atom. (Laughs — tightens her in his arms — kisses her.)

 

BARBARA: You’re a common thing!

 

WESSON: Am I no gentleman, as Frederick said?

 

BARBARA: No, no one could ever accuse you of being a gentleman.

 

WESSON: Am I a lout?

 

BARBARA: Oh — did it call him a lout!

 

WESSON: Am I a clodhopper?

 

BARBARA: Now — that makes me happy! That Frederick should call you a clodhopper — no, that is too much joy!

 

WESSON: Have they called me any more names?

 

BARBARA: You forget the clumsy clown —

 

WESSON: That your papa would have kicked downstairs — think of the poor old winded baronet —

 

BARBARA: Who’s had his Selma all his life! And then says you’re a degraded scoundrel for running away with me.

 

WESSON: Yes — his rotten old cheek.

 

BARBARA: He’s a failure, too, you know — Papa’s a failure! Why are all people failures?

 

WESSON: Couldn’t say.

 

BARBARA: It’s because their women have been so rotten to them. Mama treated my father badly, she did, just because of his Selma.

 

WESSON: You’d let me have a Selma, wouldn’t you?

 

BARBARA: What! I’d show you — I’ll show you if you try any of your little games on me. But poor Papa — everything he has done has gone wrong — his money — he had no son —

 

WESSON: So there’ll be no fifth baronet — how sad — what an awful loss to society!

 

BARBARA: And here am I, his favourite daughter, have run away with the son of a coal-miner, from my good and loving husband.

 

WESSON: The right worthy Frederick Tressider, doctor of medicine. Gentleman of means. Worth a dozen of me.

 

BARBARA: Oh, how I hated his wooden face!

 

WESSON: Well, you knocked spots off it pretty roughly.

 

BARBARA: How common, how inexpressibly common your language is.

 

WESSON: There goes the milk. (Dashes to the fire.) Are you going to have bregger in the kitchen, or in the bedroom?

 

BARBARA: We’ll have it here for once. Should we — because of this lovely fire — put some more sticks on.

 

WESSON: Put ‘em on yourself — or, wait a minute — want eggs, or don’t you?

 

BARBARA: Yes, let’s have eggs.

 

WESSON: You’re a lazy little devil.

 

BARBARA: Think — think how I worked yesterday!

 

WESSON: Yes — it nearly killed you, didn’t it!

 

Silence for a moment.

 

BARBARA: Poor Frederick. He does love me! If I’d seen it before I’d left him — I don’t think I could have done it. Why did he always hide it from me?

 

WESSON: He didn’t. You merely never saw it.

 

BARBARA: Oh, but it never came out!

 

WESSON: What did you want him to do! He loved you right enough; you merely didn’t love him — and there it stands.

 

BARBARA: But — I knew he was in love with me — but — why could I never feel his love? Why could I never feel it warm me?

 

WESSON: Because you never wanted to. You were non-conductive to this particular form of love, that’s all.

 

BARBARA: Think, I was married to him for three years, and I was no nearer to him than I am to that fornello.

 

WESSON: Poor devil — it wasn’t his fault.

 

BARBARA: Yes, I have treated him badly.

 

WESSON: You might have done worse by staying with him.

 

BARBARA: But think — how he adored me! Why did it never seem anything to me, his love? But think, Giacomo, how he must suffer — such a highly esteemed man, and so proud and sensitive —

 

WESSON: And we’d only known each other three weeks.

 

BARBARA: Oh, Giacomo; it makes me tremble! Do you think we shall bring it off?

 

WESSON: We shall — if we make up our minds to. But if you keep footling with the idea of Frederick, and your people, and duty — then we shan’t.

 

BARBARA: But, Giacomo — they loved me so.

 

WESSON: So do I.

 

BARBARA: Yes, but they needed me more. And I belonged to them! And they say love wears off — and if it does!

 

WESSON: You were saying only a minute since it was always more.

 

BARBARA: Giacomo, I’m frightened.

 

WESSON: What of?

 

BARBARA: Of everything — and sometimes I wonder — don’t be cross if I say it, will you?

 

WESSON: Say what you like.

 

BARBARA: Sometimes I wonder — it seems horrid — I wonder if I can trust you.

 

WESSON: Why?

 

BARBARA: You are so queer — and I am so all alone — and if you weren’t good to me —

 

WESSON: I think you needn’t be mean —

 

BARBARA: But look — you seem to want to take me away from everything and everybody. I feel as if you wanted to swallow me, and take my will away. You won’t do it, will you, Giacomo?

 

WESSON: You’re fatter than I am — ask a cat not to swallow a camel.

 

BARBARA: But do you think Frederick will divorce me?

 

WESSON: You’ll have to insist on it.

 

BARBARA: No — I can’t — it seems so cruel. I can’t, dear. He’s so cut up. You know, he says he can’t publicly accuse me.

 

WESSON: If he’d hate you and have done with it, it would be easier. Or if he loved you, he would offer you divorce. But no, he messes about between one thing and another, and sentimentalizes.

 

BARBARA: But he does love me, Giacomo.

 

WESSON: And a fat lot of use it is to you. But he sees you don’t clearly want a divorce and so he hangs on. Now he talks about your going to live with your mother, and repenting, then he’ll have you back. But you like to leave a loophole by which you could creep out and go back, don’t you? Ah, you do.

 

BARBARA: No — no — don’t say it — don’t say it. Only I’m frightened.

 

WESSON: You know your people have given out you’ve gone into a convent in France, for a little while, because you had got religious ideas or something like that. And I know they think you’ll come crawling back at last — and Frederick is waiting for you — he’s waiting — and you like to have it so — you do.

 

BARBARA (putting her arms round his neck): No, it’s not true, Giacometti, it’s not true. I do love you, don’t I?

 

WESSON: You only don’t want to belong to me.

 

BARBARA: But I do belong to you.

 

WESSON: You don’t — you tamper with the idea of Frederick.

 

BARBARA: He’d never do to me what you want to do.

 

WESSON: What?

 

BARBARA: Humble me, and make me nothing — and then swallow me. And it’s wrong. It’s wrong for you to want to swallow me. I am myself — and you ought to leave me free.

 

WESSON: Well, so I do.

 

BARBARA: You don’t. All the time you’re at me. Oh, and I hate you so sometimes, Giacomo. Now you’re cross with me.

 

WESSON: I should think the eggs are done.

 

BARBARA (seating herself): I’m hungry, Giacomo — are you?

 

WESSON: No — it makes me sick, the way you’re always bleeding my self-respect.

 

BARBARA: I! I! Why it’s I who’ve given you your self-respect. Think of the crumpled up, despairing, hating creature that came into Mrs Kelly’s drawing-room — and now look at yourself.

 

WESSON: But you won’t love me — you want to keep upper hand.

 

BARBARA (laughing with scorn): There you are quite mistaken. I want there to be no upper hand. I only want both of us to be free to be ourselves — and you seem as if you can’t have it — you want to bully me, you want to bully me inside.

 

WESSON: All right — eat your breakfast then.

 

BARBARA: And it makes me feel as if I want to run — I want to run from you.

 

WESSON: Back to Frederick.

 

BARBARA: Yes — poor Frederick — he never made me feel like this. I was always a free woman with him.

 

WESSON: And mightily you regretted it.

 

BARBARA: No — no! Not that! Your idea of marriage is like the old savages: hit a woman on the head and run off with her.

 

WESSON: Very well.

 

The bell rings noisily.

 

There’s the butcher.

 

Goes out door R — voices — re-enter WESSON.

 

What do you want?

 

BARBARA: I don’t know — what do we?

 

WESSON: I! —

 

He turns round. The butcher, a handsome young fellow of about twenty, has followed him and stands in the doorway.

 

BARBARA: Oh! — Buon giorno!

 

BUTCHER: Buon giorno, signora.

 

BARBARA: Piove?

 

BUTCHER: Si.

 

BARBARA: Ah! — e il lago — ?

 

BUTCHER: È burrascoso.

 

BARBARA: Ah — tempo cattivo per voi.

 

The butcher laughs.

 

WESSON: What do you want?

 

BARBARA: Er — ha vitello?

 

BUTCHER: Si — Si — quanto?

 

BARBARA: How much do we want?

 

WESSON: Mezzo chilo.

 

BARBARA: Mezzo chilo.

 

BUTCHER (touching his hood): Grazia — buon giorno.

 

The door is heard to close.

 

BARBARA: Oh, I like him, I like him — you said he wasn’t nice.

 

WESSON: He’s not — look at the way he comes in.

 

BARBARA: I like it. It’s so decided, at any rate. I hate English people for the way they always hang fire.

 

WESSON: Do you?

 

BARBARA: Yes! I like him as he stands there — he looks like a wild young bull or something, peering out of his hood.

 

WESSON: And you flirt with him.

 

BARBARA: Wesson!

 

WESSON: I know it’s a great insult to say so. But he is good-looking — and see the way you stretch out your arm, and show your throat.

 

BARBARA: But Wesson, how can you. I simply spoke to him. And when you think of yourself with the servant maid —

 

WESSON: I only laugh — you sort of show yourself.

 

BARBARA: Well, really, this is too much!

 

WESSON: True, whether or not. And you’re always doing it. You always want men to think I don’t keep you. You write to your mother like that, you write to Frederick like that — always as if I didn’t keep you, as if you were rather undecided, you would make up your mind to walk away from me in a little while, probably.

 

BARBARA: How can you be so false? It would serve you right if I did leave you.

 

WESSON: I know that, you’ve said it before.

 

BARBARA: Really — no one but a common man would say I flirted with that butcher —

 

WESSON: Well, I am common — what’s the odds? You’ve lived with me for three months.

 

BARBARA: That doesn’t say I shall live with you for ever.

 

WESSON: You can go the minute you want to go.

 

BARBARA: Ha, could I! It’s easy for you to talk. You’d see, when it came to it, how you would let me go.

 

WESSON: I wouldn’t try to stop you, if you really, really wanted to leave me. But you’ve got to convince me of that first.

 

BARBARA: You think there’s not another like you, don’t you?

 

WESSON: For you, there isn’t.

 

BARBARA: I’m not so sure.

 

WESSON: I am! But try, only try. Only try, and make your mistake. But it’ll be too late, once you’ve done it.

 

BARBARA: Pooh! you needn’t think you’ll threaten me.

 

WESSON: I only tell you. Can I give you anything?

 

BARBARA: The honey.

 

He rises and gets it from the cupboard.

 

WESSON: I wait on you, yet I want to bully you.

 

BARBARA: Yes, it’s subtler than that.

 

WESSON: If you let me wait on you, you leave yourself in my hands.

 

BARBARA: Not a bit of it — not a bit of it! Do you think it makes any difference to me? Frederick would have waited on me on his knees.

 

WESSON: Then it’s time somebody taught you you’re not as great as you think. You imagine you’re the one and only phoenix.

 

BARBARA (laughing): And I am, aren’t I, Giacometti? Say I am.

 

WESSON: I say you’re a pecky, scratchy one, at that rate.

 

BARBARA: No — no! Say I’m nice — say I’m ever so nice.

 

WESSON: On rare occasions.

 

BARBARA: Always — say always.

 

WESSON: It wouldn’t be true.

 

BARBARA: Yes — yes, it would, Giacomo. See, I’m ever so nice, aren’t I? I’m ever so nice! Look at my nice arms, how they love you.

 

WESSON: Better than you do.

 

BARBARA: No — not better than I do. Come and kiss them. Come and give them a little kiss.

 

WESSON (going and kissing her arms): You’re cruel, if you’re nothing else.

 

BARBARA: No, I’m not. Say I’m not. Kiss me!

 

WESSON, laughing shakily, kisses her — A voice is heard outside. “La posta.”

 

WESSON: Oh, Lord, there’s the postman — he’s the serpent in my Eden.

 

VOICE: La posta!

 

WESSON goes to the door, re-enters with letters.

 

WESSON (tearing open an envelope): The serpent’s left his venom.

 

BARBARA (making a frightened face): Is it Frederick?

 

WESSON: And your mother.

 

BARBARA: Oh dear! Gia, I can’t stand it.

 

WESSON: Why not?

 

BARBARA: I can’t stand it — I can’t — poor Frederick. If he was ill, Giacomo?

 

WESSON: He’d have to get better.

 

BARBARA: He might die.

 

WESSON: He wouldn’t be such a fool. What’s up in your letter?

 

BARBARA (wiping her eyes): It seems so cruel!

 

WESSON: Your father’s ill.

 

BARBARA (starting and snatching the letter from his hand): Papa!

 

She reads, crying quietly. WESSON sits waiting — he has read Frederick’s letter.

 

BARBARA (looking up): Is he very ill, Giacomo?

 

WESSON: No.

 

BARBARA: They’ll say it’s me.

 

WESSON: Let ‘em. It’s the whisky, as a matter of fact.

 

BARBARA: Look how cruel mama is, “Your father is very ill, but he does not wish to see you while you continue your present mode of life. The doctor says he is to be spared all strain and anxiety.”

 

WESSON: And they’re thinking of going to Harrogate, so he’s not at death’s door.

 

BARBARA: And look at Frederick’s letter — ”Ever since you drove a spike into my brain, on February the 24th, I have been mad.” Do you think he is mad, Giacomo?

 

WESSON: A bit, perhaps — but so were you when you lived with him — going clean cracked.

 

BARBARA: He won’t commit suicide, will he?

 

WESSON: No — no more than I shall.

 

BARBARA (reading): “There are some nights when I never sleep at all — I try to work, but my brain has gone.” (Shudders.)

 

WESSON: It is vile — but I can’t help it. Think of the hell if you went back to him.

 

BARBARA (reading — laughs): “Do not speak of Wesson. I do not wish to hear of his existence, or to know that he exists. Only, if ever he crosses my path, I will crush him like a beetle.” How strong his feelings are!

 

WESSON: His words, you mean.

 

BARBARA: No, he is passionate — you don’t know. And he can hate.

 

WESSON: He can sound like it.

 

BARBARA: But if he came here and killed you?

 

WESSON: I should offer myself to the knife, of course. I must practise being “daggerous” in readiness. (Puts a pointed kitchen knife between his teeth.) So!

 

BARBARA: Oh, you are lovely! (Laughs.) Let me kiss you. (He takes the knife from between his teeth — she kisses him.) Oh, the way he submits! Doesn’t he like it, then?

 

WESSON: He likes it all right — but he’s sick of this tragedy.

 

BARBARA: Are you tired of me, Giacomo?

 

WESSON: Tired of the mess we’re in, that’s all.

 

BARBARA: Do you want to be rid of me?

 

WESSON: I want to be sure of you.

 

BARBARA: Well, and you are. Do you think Frederick will ever let me go?

 

WESSON: You must insist on his divorcing you.

 

BARBARA: But I daren’t, Giacomo, I daren’t.

 

WESSON: You’d rather remain as we are?

 

BARBARA: No — no! Only he seems something so sure — you know — like when he said: “You have dishonoured our marriage vow, but I never will.”

 

WESSON: That’s as he pleases.

 

BARBARA: But it’s rather fine.

 

WESSON: He is fine, in a thousand ways where I’m not. But you never loved him.

 

BARBARA: No — I never loved him. Poor Frederick, it doesn’t seem fair, does it?

 

WESSON: It does not. You were rottenly unfair to him.

 

BARBARA: In what way?

 

WESSON: Holding him cheap. Holding his love for you lightly, when it was the biggest thing about him.

 

BARBARA: Why did it never seem so much to me, till I’d left him?

 

WESSON: You hated him. While he could keep you, he felt a man — but you didn’t mean to be kept — you tortured him — you fought against him — you undermined him — you were killing him.

 

BARBARA: Oh no — oh no! I never hated him. I did a lot for him.

 

WESSON: You, perhaps, had plenty of good-will towards him — but you tortured him like hell. You, with your kindness, are one of the cruellest things going.

 

BARBARA: How can you say so, Giacomo! Am I cruel to you?

 

WESSON: You are.

 

BARBARA (laughing): It seems to me only funny when you say I’m cruel — I, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

 

WESSON: Then I wish I was a fly, and not a man.

 

BARBARA: Aw, did it be a man! — did it be a little man in trousers, then, did it!

 

WESSON: It did! — I think they’re getting a bit impatient, your people. You’ll see they’ll combine forces just now to get you back.

 

BARBARA: Even if they did, I’d be gone again in three weeks.

 

WESSON: But if they got hold of the right handle, they’d get you back and keep you.

 

BARBARA: What handle?

 

WESSON: Oh, I dunno. Your pity, your self-sacrifice, your desire to be straight.

 

BARBARA: Self-sacrifice! There’s a lot of self-sacrifice about me. (Laughs.) They’d find I don’t work well with that handle.

 

WESSON: You don’t know yourself. You keep them dangling.

 

BARBARA: Why do you hate me?

 

WESSON: Go to hell.

 

BARBARA (plaintive): Are you cross with me? But you are! (very plaintive). Why are you cross with me, Giacomo, when I love you?

 

WESSON: You — you only love yourself.

 

BARBARA: No, Giacometti, no, I don’t. See how loving I am, really — see how unselfish I am —

 

WESSON: So unselfish you’d rob Peter to pay Paul, then go back to Peter to console him.

 

BARBARA: You’re horrid to me.

 

WESSON: And you are worse to me.

 

BARBARA: But I’m not.

 

WESSON: Hm.

 

BARBARA (mocking him): “Hm!” — what common grunts! Kiss me (pleading): Don’t you want to kiss me?

 

WESSON: No.

 

BARBARA (sadly): Aw!

 

WESSON (turning and taking her in his arms): You’re a baggage.

 

BARBARA: Do you want to kiss me? (She draws back.)

 

WESSON: Resigned, I kiss the rod.

 

BARBARA: And am I the rod? Oh, Giacomo, think of me as a rod.

 

WESSON: You see if Frederick and your mother aren’t up to some little trick just now.

 

BARBARA: I’m frightened, Giacomo.

 

WESSON: Then you’re frightened of yourself, of your own hesitating, half-and-half, neither-fish-flesh-fowl — nor — good-red-herring self.

 

 

 

CURTAIN

 

 

 

 

ACT II

 

 

 

    Evening, several days after the first act. The dining-room of the same villa — a rather large room, with piano, writing-desk and old furniture. In the big bay window, which looks over a garden on to the lake, is a large couch. BARBARA is lying on the couch. WESSON, without his collar and tie, sits beside her.

 

 

 

WESSON: You’ve got a nice chin.

 

BARBARA: Frederick used to adore it.

 

WESSON: Then he’d no business to.

 

BARBARA (putting her arms round his neck): Dear!

 

WESSON: Don’t you wish there’d never been any Frederick — or anybody else —

 

BARBARA: Well, you haven’t much room to talk; look what a mess your women had got you into.

 

WESSON: But don’t you wish we could have come straight to each other, and been married simply, before we’d knocked about?

 

BARBARA: I don’t trust marriage.

 

WESSON: Because you were stupid and married wrong — that’s not the fault of marriage.

 

BARBARA: No — but I don’t trust it.

 

WESSON: Folk are such fools, they should marry the right people.

 

BARBARA: Even when the right people are married, they go wrong.

 

WESSON: No — I don’t believe it — and I don’t believe you love me — and whether you do or not, I do love you.

 

BARBARA: Because you’ve decided to.

 

WESSON: Yes, because I know. I may hate you, I may rage against you, I may sneer at you — very well! It doesn’t alter the fact that I love you.

 

BARBARA: It seems to me so queer, to make up your mind that you love anybody.

 

WESSON: You poke holes in me — well, I’ll patch ‘em up — I won’t give in.

 

BARBARA: Oh — oh — the dear! He’s on his nice little high horse, is he? Oh! — he should be on the roundabouts, on his wooden prancer!

 

WESSON: Or on a round-about chicken.

 

BARBARA: And he looks so pathetic on his chicken — the dear. (Kisses him.)

 

WESSON: Will you stick to me, Barbara?

 

BARBARA: Oh, did it want to be stuck to? It shall then — Oh, it’s nice hair!

 

WESSON: Till death do us part —

 

BARBARA: Aw, is it talking about death, is it — aw!

 

WESSON: It’s ten-past-six. What train did your mother say — the five-to-six?

 

BARBARA (starting): No, half-past seven.

 

WESSON: The six train has just gone.

 

BARBARA: Are you frightened?

 

WESSON: No — no — I’m not frightened. Only we’re rather raw, really, about the business. It seems funny that we’re a scandal.

 

BARBARA: Doesn’t it!

 

WESSON: I’ll go and look if I can see anybody, shall I?

 

BARBARA: Yes! Kiss me first. (He kisses her.)

 

Exit WESSON. BARBARA sits up straightening her hair. She is in Bavarian peasant dress, with bare arms and throat. WESSON comes running in.

 

WESSON: I don’t think it’s she — but there is a woman —

 

BARBARA: Good gracious — and look at us! (She flies out — her voice is heard, excited): yes — it’s she. Quick!

 

WESSON: Well, I must get my collar on first.

 

In a great flurry, he ties his tie, then runs out. The stage is empty. Then voices are heard.

 

VOICE OF BARBARA: Poor Mama!

 

They both laugh — there is silence. The door-bell rings loudly. BARBARA rushes in and stands near the door. WESSON is heard outside.

 

VOICE OF WESSON: Oh, how do you do! This is earlier than we thought.

 

VOICE OF LADY CHARLCOTE: How do you do, Mr Wesson?

 

Enter LADY CHARLCOTE — about sixty — white hair, shortish, stout, rather handsome — looks resentful — uglily dressed.

 

BARBARA: Oh — Mama!

 

Runs forward, laughing shakily — does not kiss — takes her mother’s hand — then stands embarrassed.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE (looking round): Yes —

 

BARBARA: Take your things off —

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: But I mustn’t stay — I mustn’t stay. (Taking off her gloves — nervous.) I want to say to you, Mr Wesson, why don’t you do something for Barbara?

 

WESSON (astonished): But I do.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: But you don’t. A married woman, and you keep her here with you as she is. It is wrong, quite wrong.

 

WESSON: But you don’t know — you don’t understand.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Yes, yes, I do understand. It is you who don’t understand. What right have you to do it? Barbara has a husband in England, a good honest gentleman, who is going mad because of her. She is here, but she can go back.

 

BARBARA: But, Mama, what I do, I do of myself. (She is crocheting nervously.)

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Yes. (Turning to WESSON.) You have not got even enough money to keep her. She has to have money from her sister, from her friends. She is the daughter of a high-born and highly cultured gentleman.

 

BARBARA: But if I choose to do it, Mama, it is my own affair.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: No, it isn’t. Think of your father — think of Frederick. (Turning to WESSON.) And do you expect to build up happiness on the ruins of this life? You cannot. Think of your future. You can do nothing with my daughter. You can’t put her in her own station, you can’t even give her an honest name. Is she to live with you, and take money from her husband and her friends?

 

WESSON: She needn’t take any money from anybody.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: And you say you will live here. You try it for six months, Mr Wesson, and you will wish yourself dead, you will find it so dull. And Barbara is to be the servant, and she is to have no friends, no, not a friend in the world, but is to live buried here among these common Italians. Another man’s wedding ring and engagement ring on her finger at this minute. The very bills of her last dresses left for her husband to pay.

 

BARBARA: But, Mama, I’m not a horse that is to be kept. You don’t consider me.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Yes, it is you I consider. How can any man say he loves you, when he brings you into this shame. Where will you live?

 

WESSON: But if there were a divorce —

 

LADY CHARLCOTE (to him): You think only of yourself. Think of her father. He is getting old now. Where will he go, that he can hold his head up. It is a shame that will kill him. It will kill everybody. (Beginning to cry — looking in her handbag for a hanky.) We are old, and hoped to live at last in peace. Haven’t we had trouble enough in our lives? And how can I sleep at night, thinking of my daughter, and what is to become of her. Her father does not want to see her again. (Cries.) There is no rest, and no peace. Her husband comes, and it nearly kills me to see the state he is in. A woman — what is to become of her, what is to become of her. And you keep her here.

 

WESSON: No — I don’t keep her.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Yes, you keep her here — the daughter of a highly cultured gentleman, as your mistress. It is impossible. And her husband is so good. He will have her back in spite of all, and everything can be hushed up —

 

BARBARA: I don’t want things to be hushed up. What I do I want to be done openly —

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Don’t be a fool — you can’t live on ideas.

 

WESSON: No — I don’t want people to talk —

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: But they will talk. Sir William and I have come out here because they’ve started — and his heart so bad! We expect to be considered by our children, but they turn on us. It’s not natural that we should have all this trouble now, when we’re not expecting it. Everything begins to look comfortable, and Barbara so well settled, when this happens. As her mother, as a woman older than yourself, I’ve got to tell you it’s wrong, absolutely wrong, and can only end in sorrow. You will see in a few years’ time where you will be. It is my duty to warn you. And you must let Barbara go back with me.

 

WESSON shakes his head — BARBARA crochets nervously — there is silence.

 

BARBARA: Has Papa come with you, then?

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Yes — we’re staying a month with Laura in Gardone.

 

WESSON (rising): Let me give you something to eat.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: No — no — I must be going at once. I must be going. It’s such a long way to the station.

 

WESSON: Excuse me.

 

Exit WESSON.

 

BARBARA (quietly): How does Frederick look?

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Oh, poor fellow! If you saw him, you could never do it.

 

BARBARA (bending her head over her work): Is he ill?

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Ill! — poor fellow! He is three parts mad! And he loves you, Barbara, he loves you! How can you throw away the love of a man like that?

 

BARBARA: Does he really want me, or does he want his reputation — or rather mine.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Poor fellow — such a position to leave him in. And has he ever been anything but good to you? You have had everything you wanted —

 

BARBARA: I haven’t. He has been good to me — I wish he hadn’t, it would have been easier. He has been good to me, and he’s given me everything he could. But I haven’t had what I wanted, no, and he couldn’t give it me.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: And do you mean that this man can?

 

BARBARA crochets in silence — they wait for each other.

 

BARBARA: Will it kill him?

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: I tell him, at this rate he won’t live long.

 

Enter WESSON with a tray, wine, biscuits, bread and butter.

 

WESSON: Will you have a glass of wine — it’s “vin de pays”, but it’s — at any rate, it’s all right for me, though I’m no connoisseur.

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: No, thank you.

 

WESSON: Could I make you a cup of tea?

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Oh no, thank you very much.

 

BARBARA: Is Papa in Gardone?

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: In Brescia — but he doesn’t want to see you. Oh, thank you — But he expects you to come back in a proper state of mind — I think it’s all you can do, to make the best of it now. This is impossible. (Neither of them answers.) And we are staying at the Monte Baldo. You will write to me, Barbara.

 

BARBARA: Yes. Good-bye, Mama. (They shake hands.)

 

LADY CHARLCOTE: Good-bye. (To WESSON): Oh, don’t you trouble to come out.

 

WESSON: I think it is no good for Barbara to go back to Frederick. It would only be misery for them both. They can’t —

 

Exit talking. BARBARA remains alone. Her hands fall in her lap, and she broods. There is sound of a carriage — re-enter WESSON — he flings his cap on the table. When BARBARA hears him coming she picks up her crocheting. When he enters she looks up with a laugh.

 

BARBARA: Poor Mama — always full of commonsense. She was always a good one at showing the sensible side of the affair. But didn’t it seem common to you — like any of the women of the common people you’ve told me about?

 

WESSON: Just. Only it’s natural. At any rate she wasn’t lofty.

 

BARBARA: Oh no — Mama would never have been that. She would have said just the same to a Grand Duke.

 

WESSON: She wouldn’t — look at the money business. You don’t need any of their money — we can live on what I earn.

 

BARBARA: And I don’t mind making your bed. I wouldn’t do it for any man — no, I wouldn’t. But I don’t mind.

 

WESSON: If I can’t give you much money, well, I give you everything I’ve got.

 

BARBARA: Yes, it was mean of her, bringing that up — it’s like kicking a man when he’s down.

 

WESSON: But I suppose anybody would do it. She doesn’t seem superior, that’s one thing. But I hate them! Why can’t they leave us alone! What do I care what the old Mrs Baronet says.

 

BARBARA (laughing): You looked as if you didn’t care — the way you sat in that chair. (Imitates him, half crouching.)

 

WESSON: Well — that coming all at once —

 

BARBARA: When we’d been so happy — yes, it was a bit overwhelming!

 

WESSON: I thought the heavens had opened and the last day come.

 

BARBARA: You looked it — the way you sat crumpled up in that chair. (Laughs.)

 

WESSON: What could I do?

 

BARBARA (laughing): You looked so frightened, so crumpled up! I expected you every minute to wither away into nothing. (Laughs uncontrollably) I thought there’d be nothing left of you (interrupted by her laughter). You — you seemed to get less and less — till — (helpless with laughter) I thought you’d be gone. (laughing) I was frightened — I wanted to get hold of your coat-tails (laugh) to keep you.

 

WESSON: Well, what could I do?

 

BARBARA: I thought you were going to creep under that desk. (Shaking and helpless with laughter, she points to the hole under the writing desk, by which he sits.) I thought you were going to crawl inside like a dog into a kennel (helpless laughter) and pop your head out, and look sideways at her, and say “Yap — yap” in a little, frightened voice — then rush inside.

 

WESSON: Well — if she’d been a man, I might have shouted — but what else could I do?

 

BARBARA: You looked so crumpled up, with your little tail between your legs. (Laughs.) You did want to get into that corner. (Laughs helplessly — then rises.) Mind, let me show you. (Laughing, she almost falls to the floor, then creeps inside the space under the desk — pokes out her head — falls face forward on the floor with laughter — lifts up her face, peering sideways.) Yap — yapyap! Yap! — the little dog! (She shrieks with laughter — he giggles from time to time — she rises again.)

 

WESSON: No — I wasn’t as bad as that.

 

BARBARA (shrieking): You were, you were! I thought I should have died. And every minute I had visions of you collapsing under the desk and barking at Mama. (Laughing.) Poor Mama, what would she have done if you had?

 

WESSON: I wish I had.

 

BARBARA: I wish you had, I wish you had! (Drying her eyes.) But no, you sat there getting less and less. You can go so little, like a dying pig.

 

WESSON: Well, you were impressed, you know you were.

 

BARBARA: I wasn’t — I wanted to scream. Why didn’t you suddenly get up and flap your arms like a cockerel and crow?

 

WESSON: But what good would it have done?

 

BARBARA: It would have been so beautiful. Or you might have got astride on a chair and gone riding round the room, shouting.

 

WESSON: I might have done a lot of things.

 

BARBARA: Oh, you might, and you did nothing but crumple up! What a pity! (Beginning to laugh again.) You looked anything but a hero that time.

 

WESSON: I didn’t feel a hero. And if I’d crowed like a cock I shouldn’t have looked a hero.

 

BARBARA: Mama little thought what havoc she’d work in our little ménage. (Laughing.) But why do you take it so seriously?

 

WESSON: I don’t take it seriously, but I reckon it’s rather rotten of her. We thought she was coming friendlily, to help. . . . What will you eat?

 

BARBARA: I don’t mind a bit.

 

WESSON (drinking wine): Drink?

 

BARBARA: Thank you. (She drinks a little.)

 

WESSON: I told her the only thing possible was a divorce.

 

BARBARA: You know what a muddler she is. She blows with every wind.

 

WESSON: I don’t care how she blows, so long as we can get that divorce.

 

BARBARA: If she goes and gets Frederick’s back up now, God knows when you’ll get it, I tell you.

 

WESSON: I don’t care — they can all go to hell! But until you stand up in front of me and say, “I want definitely to go back to Frederick — you’re no good to me”, I shall tell them to go to blazes.

 

BARBARA: It looks as if you’ll tell them a lot. Poor little dog, is his tail coming up again? Come here and be kissed.

 

WESSON: I don’t want to be kissed. Will you eat now?

 

BARBARA: Just as you like.

 

WESSON: A tray is ready.

 

Goes out — returns immediately with the supper tray.

 

BARBARA: Poor Frederick — it does twist my inside to think about him.

 

WESSON: And a lot of good may it do you.

 

BARBARA: Do you think he really might go mad?

 

WESSON: Not unless he’s weak-minded to start with.

 

BARBARA: Well, he isn’t — his mind is stronger than yours, if it came to it.

 

WESSON (rather ashamed): I know he’s not — and he won’t go mad.