Читать книгу Lady Patricia - Rudolf Besier - Страница 8
THE FIRST ACT
ОглавлениеThe scene shows the summer-house and platform built in an oak-tree at “Ultima Thule.” The stage, slightly raised, represents the platform. In the right-hand corner is the summer-house, built on branches a few feet higher than the platform. The entrance to the platform is through a square hole, reached by a ladder from beneath. The tree, a vast, ancient, and mossy oak, comes straight through the centre of the platform, its branches spreading aloft in every direction.
(Lady Patricia, in a loose and exquisite costume, lies full length in a deck-chair, reading aloud from some beautiful vellum MSS. She is a woman of about thirty-five, languid, elegant, exotic, romantic, and sentimental. Beside her is a tall vase with arum-lilies and a table with a samovar. It is a late afternoon in May.)
Lady Patricia.
(Reading with fine feeling.)
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life shall I command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forebore—
Thy touch upon the palm——
(Ellis, the footman, enters carrying a tray with a cup and saucer, and some sliced lemon. Lady Patricia raises her hand to command silence. He stands rigid. She continues with scarcely a break:)
The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine,
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee as the wine
Must taste of its own grape. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two....
(A pause; she repeats in a deep voice)
And sees within my eyes the tears of two ...
... the tears of two....
What is it, Browning?
(Ellis stands motionless; a pause; she looks round at him.)
Did I call you Browning? How absurd! I meant Ellis.... Oh, the tea! Yes, of course. Please put everything near me on the table.
(He does so.)
(She repeats dreamily) ... the tears of two....
Ellis.
I beg your pardon, my lady?
Lady Patricia.
Nothing. I will look after myself.
(Ellis turns to go.)
Oh, Ellis....
Ellis.
Yes, my lady?
Lady Patricia.
You have brought only one cup.
Ellis.
I thought you were taking tea by yourself, my lady.
Lady Patricia.
Please bring another cup.
Ellis.
Yes, my lady. And milk and cream, my lady?
Lady Patricia.
Milk and cream.... (After a dreamy pause.) Yes, I am afraid so. But don’t put it on the table. Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send Baldwin to me?
Ellis.
Yes, my lady.
(He goes out.)
Lady Patricia.
(Turns over the pages of a MS., and then reads with thrilling beauty.)
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me,
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree.
Be green the grass above me,
With showers and dewdrops wet,
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain,
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise or set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
(With dramatic emphasis.)
When I am dead, my dearest——
(Enter Baldwin, a gardener of about seventy, heavy, slow, phlegmatic.)
Baldwin.
(In spite of Lady Patricia’s raised hand.) Beg pardon, m’lady?
Lady Patricia.
Sing no sad songs—— (Fretfully.) Oh, Baldwin, what do you want?
Baldwin.
Mr. Ellis said as you wished to speak to me, mum.
Lady Patricia.
Mr. Ellis?... Oh, yes, I remember now. What is it I wanted to tell you?
Baldwin.
Mr. Ellis didn’t make mention, m’lady.
Lady Patricia.
How stupid of him! (She regards Baldwin dreamily.) Baldwin....
Baldwin.
Yes, ’um?
Lady Patricia.
You ought to be very happy.
Baldwin.
Yes, ’um.
Lady Patricia.
Very happy. Because you are a gardener. I can imagine no calling more beautiful. You are the father of innumerable children, and they are all lovely.
Baldwin.
Thank ’ee, m’lady. I’ve ’ad thirteen—and two of ’em by my first wife.
Lady Patricia.
Thir-teen!... Good heavens, Baldwin, what are you talking about?
Baldwin.
You made mention of my family, m’lady.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, but I meant the flowers you tend and rear. The gillyflowers and eglantine, myrtle, rosemary, columbine, and daffydowndillies. Not—how strange and dreadful! Thirteen!
Baldwin.
I’ve ’eard tell that thirteen’s an unlucky number, m’lady. But I ain’t suspicious.
Lady Patricia.
Suspicious?
Baldwin.
Yes, ’um. And if I was, fac’s won’t change for the wishin’. Thirteen’s the number, and thirteen it’s like to remain, seeing as Mrs. Baldwin’s turned sixty-three.
Lady Patricia.
I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about.
Baldwin.
I——
Lady Patricia.
You needn’t repeat it.... Oh, I remember now why I sent for you, Baldwin. I wonder if, without hurting the beauty of the tree, you could open a window to the sunset?
Baldwin.
Open a winder?...
Lady Patricia.
You don’t understand me? Let me put it differently! I should like you to cut away some of the foliage so that I can watch the sun dropping behind the hills.
Baldwin.
Yes, m’lady. But——
Lady Patricia.
I know what you are going to say. When we built this place in the tree, I gave you special directions not to touch the western foliage as it hid the view of Ashurst Manor, which I found distressingly unsightly. Yes! But since my aunt, Mrs. O’Farrel, has taken the house, it seems to me far less offensive. Likes and dislikes are, after all, so much a matter of temperament and association! The former owner was an impossible person.
Baldwin.
The Scotch gentleman?
Lady Patricia.
He was a Jew, Baldwin, though his name was Mackintosh. I don’t wish to speak of him. When you cut the foliage, please use restraint and feeling. On no account disfigure the tree. Watch from this spot the sun going down, and lop away a little branch here and a little branch there, so as to give me some perfect glimpses of gold and rose.
(Ellis enters with cup and saucer, milk, cream, whisky, soda, and a tumbler.)
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
Lady Patricia.
(To Ellis.) What have you got there?
Ellis.
The cup and saucer and the milk and cream, my lady. And I thought I had better bring whisky and soda as well, my lady.
Lady Patricia.
I never told you to. I wish you wouldn’t be so enterprising. Please hide it with the cream in the summer-house. (Ellis does so.) So you think I can safely trust you with this important piece of work, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
(Ellis goes out.)
Lady Patricia.
Do it as soon as possible, as I shall often be sitting here during these adorable summer evenings—
(Bill O’Farrel enters during the rest of her sentence. He is a wholesome, typically English young man of about twenty-six.)
—and I couldn’t bear to miss many sunsets like yesterday’s.
Bill.
Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
(Without rising.) Bill!
Bill.
(Seizing her hands.) Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
Bill!... That will do, Baldwin.
Bill.
Quite well, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
Pretty middlin’, Mr. O’Farrel, sir, thank you.... Then it don’t matter showin’ up Ashurst Manor, m’lady?
Bill.
(With a laugh, to Patricia.) Hullo! what’s this?
Lady Patricia.
No, no, Baldwin! I wish to see it. It has suddenly grown beautiful! A fairy palace!
Bill.
Great Scott!
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m. But——
Lady Patricia.
That will do, Baldwin.
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
(He goes out.)
Bill.
What’s this about Ashurst?
Lady Patricia.
I have asked Baldwin to cut away some of those branches so that I can see it. I used to loathe the sight of the house. Then your mother bought it, and I liked it. I love it now that you have come to stay there.... You may kiss me, Bill.
Bill.
May I?
(He kisses her forehead.)
Lady Patricia.
You may kiss me again.
Bill.
May I?
(He kisses her cheek.)
Lady Patricia.
You may kiss me again.
Bill.
Patricia!
(He kisses her mouth.)
Lady Patricia.
(Clinging to him.) Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment—how I’ve longed for it!... All these weary months I’ve lived in the past and future, on memories and anticipations. Now, at last I have the present—I have reality—you—to have and to hold—you—you.... Kiss me.
Bill.
(Embracing her ardently.) Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
Hush! (Disengaging herself.) We mustn’t be foolish.... Sit down.... (He sits at her feet.) So you got my telegram?
Bill.
Directly the boat came alongside. But it took me a deuce of a time to make out! My French is a bit rusty, and the rotters had jumbled up some of the words. As it is, I only made out the gist of it—to take an earlier train from London than I’d intended, and to call on you before going on to Ashurst, as I’d find you alone in a summer-house you’d built on some tree or other. The twiddly bits of the message didn’t somehow seem to make sense....
Lady Patricia.
The ... twiddly bits?
Bill.
Yes; something about a star in red water, and horses with white manes. Couldn’t make it out at all.
Lady Patricia.
That was a quotation from De Musset, my poor boy.
Bill.
Great Scott! I thought it was a cypher. People don’t generally quote poetry in their telegrams.
Lady Patricia.
I do.
Bill.
In any case, it seemed to me a bit rash of you to send the wire at all—even in French.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, did it? As a matter of fact, I used French, not to conceal the message, but because the language seemed to me so beautifully appropriate for making a clandestine meeting.
Bill.
By Jove! Fancy thinking of that!
Lady Patricia.
To sin beautifully is the less a sin. Don’t forget, dear, that, however innocent, our love is wrong. We should never neglect an opportunity of ennobling it with little touches of beauty, should we?
Bill.
Rather not!... So Michael’s away?
Lady Patricia.
Only this afternoon. He has gone to a garden party at the Fitzgeralds’. Your mother’s there as well. Everybody’s there. But I wanted to see you for a little while before any one else, so I sent you that wire and pretended a headache. A petty deceit that avenged itself! For directly I told it, I felt a slight twinge of neuralgia.
Bill.
Hard luck! But it’s better, dear, isn’t it?
Lady Patricia.
I suppose it is. But you mustn’t say “hard luck.” My life, alas! is so full of deceits that when one of them is punished, I always try to be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself—everything that has happened these last months. Your letters have been too full of facts to tell me anything. And I do so long to hear all your news....
Bill.
Patricia....
Lady Patricia.
Yes, dear?
Bill.
What an awfully good woman you are!
Lady Patricia.
Am I?... I wonder!
Bill.
And your eyes are simply ripping.
Lady Patricia.
Are they?
Bill.
And your hands, by Jove!
Lady Patricia.
What of my hands, dear?
Bill.
They’re simply ripping.
Lady Patricia.
Dear heart! (Stroking his head.) Dear soft hair. But I’m waiting.
Bill.
Oh yes, I forgot. But there really ain’t much to tell that I haven’t told you in my letters. I arrived in New York on a Saturday after an awfully jolly passage. Those big Cunarders are corking boats. Had a bit of a dust-up at the Customs, but I squared the chap with a ten-dollar bill. A chap on board advised me to put up at the Waldorf-Astoria. He told me it was one of their swaggerest hotels, but I must say——
Lady Patricia.
(Laughing.) Yes, yes, dear, you’ve told me all that before! And about the nigger waiter whose thumb was always in the soup—and the Californian peach as big as a baby’s head—and the factory that was burned down in Chicago—and the card-sharper who tried to swindle you at poker, “but he got hold of the wrong chap, by Jove!”—and so many other thrilling details. (Almost with passion, taking his face in her hands.) You darling! Oh, you darling!
Bill.
I thought I’d told you everything.
Lady Patricia.
Of course you did—everything. (With far-off eyes.) I wonder why I am so foolish as to expect the essentials from you—those labourings of the soul at midnight, yearnings, ecstasies, and long, long thoughts under the stars. If you had been capable of these I should never have loved you. It’s just your simplicity and eternal boyishness that took my heart. Poor Michael’s spiritual nature, his dreams, his subtlety, his devotion, never touched me deeper than the intellect. I mistook sympathy for love—I seemed to have found a kindred spirit—I married him. Yes! we are all born to suffer and endure.... Which reminds me, my poor dear boy, you must be dying for tea. (Pouring out the tea.) I hope you had some lunch?
Bill.
Rather! I had a luncheon-basket in the train, and put away the best part of a chicken, among other things.
Lady Patricia.
How young and hungry you are!
(Hands him a cup of tea with a lemon slice in the saucer.)
Bill.
I say!...
Lady Patricia.
Yes, dear?
Bill.
Have you any milk or cream?
Lady Patricia.
(Sorrowfully.) Oh, Bill!...
Bill.
I can’t help it. This Russian mess ain’t a Christian drink. I can’t think how you can swallow it.
Lady Patricia.
I don’t suppose I like it any better than you, dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have often told you, produces an odious colour—and I refuse to encourage it. You should try to do likewise.... However, you will find cream in the summer-house.
Bill.
Right-ho! (Goes into summer-house.) Hullo! Good man! Here’s whisky-and-soda. (Talking in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her.) That’s the stuff! Nothing like a syphonated spot when one’s got a real thirst! No tea for me, thanks.
Lady Patricia.
(To herself, smiling.) Dear babbler....
Bill.
(Coming down, a glassful in his hand.) Here’s to you, Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
(In a deep voice, looking into eternity.) We are all born to suffer, to endure, to renounce....
Bill.
Oh, well! I’ll drink that Russian stuff if you like.
Lady Patricia.
I was not thinking of tea. I was thinking of life.
Bill.
(Unfeignedly relieved.) Yes, it’s an awfully hard world. (Takes a long draught.) By Jove, that’s clinking good!
Lady Patricia.
It becomes more and more difficult to play my part, and return Michael’s love, which seems to grow stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes follow my every movement, his mind anticipates my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere of passionate worship. Few women have ever received such love. It is the love that poets dream of—the love that must follow those marriages that are made in heaven.
Bill.
Good Lord, it’s awfully rough on you!
Lady Patricia.
I think and I think and I think, but I can see no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the best gift of God, and that such love as Michael’s—so noble, so pure, so unselfish—should be utterly wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am unworthy.
(She pauses expectantly.)
Bill.
And it puts me in such a rotten position. If Michael treated you badly, I shouldn’t care a rap how much I made love to you.
Lady Patricia.
(With slight asperity.) Can it be that I am unworthy?
Bill.
As it is I often feel such a beastly cad....
Lady Patricia.
Then you think me unworthy?
Bill.
I?
Lady Patricia.
You never denied it.
Bill.
But I didn’t know you wanted me to! You’re worthy of anything! You know that!
Lady Patricia.
Dear, dear boy! But am I? I wonder! Heaven only knows how desperately I tried to love him, and when I found it impossible, how I never faltered in pretending a love equal to his. And I knew that it would kill him should he learn the truth. But if the part I played was difficult before you came, after you came, and I knew what love was, it was almost beyond my power. And yet I drew strength somehow, not only to resist temptation and keep our love pure, but never by word, deed, or expression to let Michael suspect for one moment that his devotion was not returned. Yes! I think a woman who has done all this cannot be altogether unworthy.
Bill.
You’re—you’re a saint—you’re an angel!
Lady Patricia.
Am I? I wonder!
Bill.
You really are!
Lady Patricia.
Dear, inarticulate boy!... And, Bill, remember this. We have put our hands to the plough, and there must be no turning back. The martyrdom which must be lifelong has only just begun. I feel I shall find strength to play my bitter rôle to the final curtain. For I love renunciation, endurance, and purity. They are such exquisite virtues. And virtue is very beautiful.... But you are made of more earthly materials, my poor boy. Do you realise that your love must always remain unsatisfied? Can you love me without the faintest hope of more reward than a look, a touch, a kiss?...
Bill.
That’s all right, Patricia. Don’t you worry about me.
Lady Patricia.
But you are young and vigorous and passionate....
Bill.
That’s all right!
Lady Patricia.
I can only offer you the shadow; your nature will some day cry out for the substance.
Bill.
Not it!
Lady Patricia.
Ah, if only I had the strength and courage to bid you good-bye for ever!
Bill.
I shouldn’t go.
Lady Patricia.
Ah, Bill!...
(She invites his caress with a beautiful movement. Kneeling beside her, he gathers her in his arms and kisses her. At that moment Baldwin enters, carrying a saw and a pair of shears. They are blissfully unconscious of his presence. He glances at them with complete indifference, then comes down looking carefully at the sky on the right, his head dodging from side to side as though he were spying for something among the branches.)
Baldwin.
If you please, ’m....
(Bill, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his feet.)
Bill.
What the devil are you doing here?
Lady Patricia.
(Calmly.) Well, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
If you please, m’lady, I thought as I ’ad best watch the sun early. It’s close on six ’m, and I thought as p’raps you’d like some branches lopped ’igher up. The sun’s a fine sight at six, mum—much more light in it than a hour later, an’ it’s a neasier job loppin’ they ’igher branches than them out there, as I shan’t need no ladder.
Bill.
Quite mad!
Lady Patricia.
I don’t want to sit here and look at the sun through a pair of smoked glasses. You may return here when the sun is lower.
Baldwin.
Yes, m’lady. But——
Lady Patricia.
Go away....
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
