Читать книгу THE COLLECTED PLAYS OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM - Уильям Сомерсет Моэм - Страница 8
THE SECOND ACT
ОглавлениеAn Interval of One Year Elapses Between Acts I. and II.
The drawing-room in Basil's house at Putney. In the wall facing the auditorium there is a door leading from the passage. On the right two doors lead into bedrooms, and opposite these is a bay window. The same pictures and plates decorate the walls as in the preceding Scene; the writing-table is between the side doors. Jenny's influence is noticeable in the cushions in the wicker-work arm-chairs, in the window curtains and portières of art serge, and in the huge chrysanthemums of the wall paper.
[Jenny is sewing while James Bush is lounging in one of the arm chairs.
James.
Where's his lordship this afternoon?
Jenny.
He's gone out for a walk.
James.
[With a malevolent laugh.] That's what he tells you, my dear.
Jenny.
[Looking up quickly.] Have you seen him anywhere?
James.
No, I can't say I 'ave. And if I 'ad I wouldn't boast about it.
Jenny.
[Insisting.] What did you mean then?
James.
Well, whenever I come here he's out for a walk.... I say, old tart, could you oblige me with a couple of sovereigns till next Saturday?
Jenny.
[Pained to refuse.] Oh no, Jimmie, I can't manage it. Basil made me promise I wouldn't let you have any more.
James.
What! He made you promise that?—Ugh, the mean skinflint.
Jenny.
We've lent you so much, Jimmie. And ma's had a lot, too.
James.
Well, look here, you can manage a sovereign, can't you? You needn't say anything about it.
Jenny.
I can't really, Jimmie. I would if I could. But we've got a rare lot of debts worrying us, and the rent will be coming along next week.
James.
[Sulkily.] You can't lend it me because you won't. I should just like to know what Basil spends his money on.
Jenny.
He's had a bad year—it's not his fault. And I was so ill after the baby died, we had to pay the doctor nearly fifty pounds.
James.
[With a sneer.] Well, it was a wonderful fine thing you did when you married him, Jenny. And you thought you done precious well for yourself, too.
Jenny.
Jimmie, don't!
James.
I can't stick 'im at any price, and I don't mind who knows it.
Jenny.
[Impetuously.] I won't have you say anything against him.
James.
All right—keep your shirt in. I'm blowed if I know what you've got to stick up for him about. He don't care much about you.
Jenny.
[Hastily.] How d'you know?
James.
Think I can't see!
Jenny.
It's not true. It's not true.
James.
You can't get round me, Jenny. I suppose you 'aven't been crying to-day?
Jenny.
[Flushing.] I had a headache.
James.
I know those sort of headaches.
Jenny.
We had a little tiff this morning. That's why he went out.... Oh, don't say he doesn't care for me. I couldn't live.
James.
[With a laugh.] Go along with you. Basil Kent ain't the only pebble on the beach.
Jenny.
[Vehemently.] Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, sometimes I don't know which way to turn, I'm that unhappy. If the baby had only lived I might have kept my husband—I might have made him love me. [The sound is heard of a door being closed.] There's Basil.
James.
Good luck to 'im.
Jenny.
Oh, Jimmie, take care not to say anything to make him angry.
James.
I'd just like to give 'im a piece of my mind.
Jenny.
Oh, Jimmie, don't. It was my fault that we quarrelled this morning. I wanted to make him angry, and I nagged at him. Don't let him see that I've said anything to you. I'll see—I'll see if I can't send you a pound to-morrow, Jimmie.
James.
[Defiantly.] He'd better not start patronising me, because I won't put up with it. I'm a gentleman, and I'm every bit as good as he is—if not better.
[Basil comes in, notices James, but does not speak.
James.
Afternoon, Basil.
Basil.
[Indifferently.] You here again?
James.
Looks like it, don't it.
Basil.
[Quietly.] I'm afraid it does.
James.
[Becoming more aggressive as the conversation proceeds.] Are you? I suppose I can come and see my own sister?
Basil.
I suppose it's inevitable.
James.
Well?
Basil.
[Smiling.] Only I should be excessively grateful if you'd time your coming with my—with my going. And vice versa.
James.
That means you want me to get out, I reckon.
Basil.
You show unusual perspicacity, dear James.
James.
And who are you with your long words, I should like to know?
Basil.
[Blandly.] I? A person of not the least importance.
James.
[Angrily.] Well, I wouldn't put on so much side if I was you.
Basil.
I observe that you have not acquired the useful art of being uncivil without being impertinent.
James.
Look 'ere, I'm not going to stand this. I'm as good as you are any day.
Basil.
That is a fact I should never dream of contradicting.
James.
[Indignantly.] Then what 'ave you got to turn up your nose about, eh? What d'you mean by sneerin' and snarlin' at me when I come here?
Jenny.
[Nervously.] Jimmie, don't!
Basil.
[With a smile.] You're very eloquent, James. You should join a debating society.
James.
Yes, go on. That's right. You seem to think I'm nobody. I should just like to know why you go on as if I was I don't know what.
Basil.
[Abruptly.] Because I choose.
James.
You can bet anything you like I don't come 'ere to see you.
Basil.
[Smiling acidly.] Then I have at least something to be thankful for.
James.
I've got a right to come here as much as anybody. I come to see my sister.
Basil.
Really, that's very thoughtful of you. I was under the impression you generally came to borrow money.
James.
Throw that in my face now. I can't 'elp it if I'm out of work.
Basil.
Oh, I haven't the least objection to your being out of work. All I protest against—and that very mildly—is that I should be expected to keep you. How much did you want to-day?
James.
I don't want your dirty money.
Basil.
[With a laugh.] Have you already tried to borrow it from Jenny?
James.
No, I 'aven't.
Basil.
And she refused, I suppose.
James.
[Storming.] I tell you I don't want your dirty money.
Basil.
Well, then, we're both quite satisfied. You seemed to think that because I married Jenny I was bound to keep the whole gang of you for the rest of your lives. I'm sorry I can't afford it. And you will kindly tell the rest of them that I'm sick and tired of forking out.
James.
I wonder you don't forbid me your house while you're about it.
Basil.
[Coolly.] You may come here when I'm not at home—if you behave yourself.
James.
I'm not good enough for you, I suppose?
Basil.
No, you're not.
James.
[Angrily.] Ah, you're a pretty specimen, you are. You mean skinflint!
Basil.
Don't be abusive, James. It's rude.
James.
I shall say what I choose.
Basil.
And please don't talk so loud. It annoys me.
James.
[Malevolently.] I dare say you'd like to get me out of the way. But I mean to keep my eye on you.
Basil.
[Sharply.] What d'you mean by that?
James.
You know what I mean. Jenny has something to put up with, I lay.
Basil.
[Containing his anger.] You'll have the goodness to leave the relations between Jenny and myself alone—d'you hear?
James.
Ha, that's touched you up, has it? You think I don't know what sort of a feller you are. I can just about see through two of you. And I know a good deal more about you than you think.
Basil.
[Contemptuously.] Don't be foolish, James.
James.
[Sarcastic.] A nice thing Jenny did when she married you.
Basil.
[Recovering himself, with a smile.] Has she been telling you my numerous faults? [To Jenny.] You must have had plenty to talk about, my love.
Jenny.
[Who has been going on with her sewing, looking up now and then uneasily.] I haven't said a word against you, Basil.
Basil.
[Turning his back on James.] Oh, my dear Jenny, if it amuses you, by all means discuss me with your brother and your sister and your father and your mother, and the whole crew of them.... I should be so dull if I had no faults.
Jenny.
[Anxiously.] Tell him I've not said anything against him, Jimmie.
James.
It's not for want of something to say, I lay.
Basil.
[Over his shoulder.] I'm getting rather tired, brother James. I'd go, if I were you.
James.
[Very aggressively.] I shan't go till I choose.
Basil.
[Turns round, smiling blandly.] Of course, we're both Christians, dear James; and there's a good deal of civilisation kicking about the world nowadays. But, notwithstanding, the last word is still with the strongest.
James.
What d'you mean by that?
Basil.
[Good-humouredly.] Merely that discretion is the better part of valour. They say that proverbs are the wealth of nations.
James.
[Indignantly.] That's just the sort of thing you'd do—to 'it a feller smaller than yourself.
Basil.
Oh, I wouldn't hit you for worlds, brother James. I should merely throw you downstairs.
James.
[Making for the door.] I should just like to see you try it on.
Basil.
Don't be silly, James. You know you wouldn't like it at all.
James.
I'm not afraid of you.
Basil.
Of course not. But still—you're not very muscular, are you?
James.
You coward!
Basil.
[Smiling.] Your repartees are not brilliant, James.
James.
[Standing at the door for safety's sake.] I'll pay you out before I've done.
Basil.
[Raising his eyebrows.] James, I told you to get out five minutes ago.
James.
I'm going. D'you think I want to stay 'ere? Good-bye, Jenny, I'm not going to stand being insulted by any one. [He goes out slamming the door.]
[Basil, smiling quietly, goes to his writing-table and turns over some papers.
Basil.
The only compensation in brother James is that he sometimes causes one a little mild amusement.
Jenny.
You might at least be polite to him, Basil.
Basil.
I used up all my politeness six months ago.
Jenny.
After all, he is my brother.
Basil.
That is a fact I deplore with all my heart, I assure you.
Jenny.
I don't know what's wrong with him.
Basil.
Don't you? It doesn't matter.
Jenny.
I know he isn't a Society man.
Basil.
[With a laugh.] No, he wouldn't shine at duchesses tea-parties.
Jenny.
Well, he's none the worse for that, is he?
Basil.
Not at all.
Jenny.
Then why d'you treat him as if he was a dog?
Basil.
My dear Jenny, I don't.... I'm very fond of dogs.
Jenny.
Oh, you're always sneering. Isn't he as good as I am? And you condescended to marry me.
Basil.
[Coldly.] I really can't see that because I married you I must necessarily take your whole family to my bosom.
Jenny.
Why don't you like them? They're honest and respectable.
Basil.
[With a little sigh of boredom.] My dear Jenny, we don't choose our friends because they're honest and respectable any more than we choose them because they change their linen daily.
Jenny.
They can't help it if they're poor.
Basil.
My dear, I'm willing to acknowledge that they have every grace and every virtue, but they rather bore me.
Jenny.
They wouldn't if they were swells.
[Basil gives a short laugh, but does not answer; and Jenny irritated, continues more angrily.
Jenny.
And after all we're not in such a bad position as all that. My mother's father was a gentleman.
Basil.
I wish your mother's son were.
Jenny.
D'you know what Jimmie says you are?
Basil.
I don't vastly care. But if it pleases you very much you may tell me.
Jenny.
[Flushing angrily.] He says you're a damned snob.
Basil.
Is that all? I could have invented far worse things than that to say of myself.... [With a change of tone.] You know, Jenny, it's not worth while to worry ourselves about such trifles. One can't force oneself to like people. I'm very sorry that I can't stand your relations. Why on earth don't you resign yourself and make the best of it?
Jenny.
[Vindictively.] You don't think they're good enough for you to associate with because they're not in swell positions.
Basil.
My dear Jenny, I don't in the least object to their being grocers and haberdashers. I only wish they'd sell us things at cost price.
Jenny.
Jimmie isn't a grocer or a haberdasher. He's an auctioneer's clerk.
Basil.
[Ironically.] I humbly apologise. I thought he was a grocer, because last time he did us the honour of visiting us he asked how much a pound we paid for our tea and offered to sell us some at the same price.... But then he also offered to insure our house against fire and to sell me a gold mine in Australia.
Jenny.
Well, it's better to make a bit as best one can than to.... [She stops.]
Basil.
[Smiling.] Go on. Pray don't hesitate for fear of hurting my feelings.
Jenny.
[Defiantly.] Well, then, it's better to do that than moon about like you do.
Basil.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] Really, even to please you, I'm afraid I can't go about with little samples of tea in my pocket and sell my friends a pound or two when I call on them. Besides, I don't believe they'd ever pay me.
Jenny.
[Scornfully.] Oh no, you're a gentleman and a barrister and an author, and you couldn't do anything to dirty those white hands that you're so careful about, could you?
Basil.
[Looking at his hands, then up at Jenny.] And what is it precisely you want me to do?
Jenny.
Well, you've been at the Bar for five years. I should have thought you could make something after all that time.
Basil.
I can't force the wily solicitor to give me briefs.
Jenny.
How do other fellows manage it?
Basil.
[With a laugh.] The simplest way, I believe, is to marry the wily solicitor's daughter.
Jenny.
Instead of a barmaid?
Basil.
[Gravely.] I didn't say that, Jenny.
Jenny.
[Passionately.] Oh no. You didn't say it, but you hinted it. You never say anything, but you're always hinting and insinuating—till you drive me out of my senses.
Basil.
[After a moment's pause, gravely.] I'm very sorry if I hurt your feelings. I promise you I don't mean to. I always try to be kind to you.
[He looks at Jenny, expecting her to say something in forgiveness or in apology. But she, shrugging her shoulders, looks down sullenly at her work, without a word, and begins again to sew. Then Basil, tightening his lips, picks up writing materials and goes towards the door.
Jenny.
[Looking up quickly.] Where are you going?
Basil.
[Stopping.] I have some letters to write.
Jenny.
Can't you write them here?
Basil.
Certainly—if it pleases you.
Jenny.
Don't you want me to see who you're writing to?
Basil.
I haven't the least objection to your knowing all about my correspondence.... And that's fortunate, since you invariably make yourself acquainted with it.
Jenny.
Accuse me of reading your letters now.
Basil.
[With a smile.] You always leave my papers in such disorder after you've been to my desk.
Jenny.
You've got no right to say that.
[Basil pauses and looks at her steadily.
Basil.
Are you willing to swear that you don't go to my desk when I'm away to read my letters? Come, Jenny, answer that question.
Jenny.
[Disturbed but forced by his glance to reply.] Well, I'm you're wife, I have a right to know.
Basil.
[Bitterly.] You have such odd ideas about the duties of a wife, Jenny. They include reading my letters and following me in the street. But tolerance and charity and forbearance don't seem to come in your scheme of things.
Jenny.
[Sullenly.] Why d'you want to write your letters elsewhere?
Basil.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] I thought I should be quieter.
Jenny.
I suppose I disturb you?
Basil.
It's a little difficult to write when you're talking.
Jenny.
Why shouldn't I talk? D'you think I'm not good enough, eh? I should have thought I was more important than your letters.
[Basil does not answer.
Jenny.
[Angrily.] Am I your wife or not?
Basil.
[Ironically.] You have your marriage lines carefully locked up to prove it.
Jenny.
Then why don't you treat me as your wife? You seem to think I'm only fit to see after the house and order the dinner and mend your clothes. And after that I can go and sit in the kitchen with the servant.
Basil.
[Moving again towards the door.] D'you think it's worth while making a scene? We seem to have said all this before so many times.
Jenny.
[Interrupting him.] I want to have it out.
Basil.
[Bored.] We've been having it out twice a week for the last six months—and we've never got anywhere yet.
Jenny.
I'm not going to be always put upon, I'm your wife and I'm as good as you are.
Basil.
[With a thin smile.] Oh, my dear, if you're going in for women's rights, you may have my vote by all means. And you can plump for all the candidates at once if you choose.
Jenny.
You seem to think it's a joke.
Basil.
[Bitterly.] Oh no, I promise you I don't do that. It's lasted too long. And God knows where it'll end.... They say the first year of marriage is the worst; ours has been bad enough in all conscience.
Jenny.
[Aggressively.] And I suppose you think it's my fault?
Basil.
Don't you think we're both more or less to blame?
Jenny.
[With a laugh.] Oh, I'm glad you acknowledge that you have something to do with it.
Basil.
I tried to make you happy.
Jenny.
Well, you haven't succeeded very well. Did you think I was likely to be happy—when you leave me alone all day and half the night for your swell friends that I'm not good enough for?
Basil.
That's not true. I hardly ever see any of my old friends.
Jenny.
Except Mrs. Murray, eh?
Basil.
I've seen Mrs. Murray perhaps a dozen times in the last year.
Jenny.
Oh, you needn't tell me that. I know it. She's a lady, isn't she?
Basil.
[Ignoring the charge.] And my work takes me away from you. I can't always be down here. Think how bored you'd be.
Jenny.
A precious lot of good your work does. You can't earn enough money to keep us out of debt.
Basil.
[Good-humouredly.] We are in debt. But we share that very respectable condition with half the nobility and gentry in the kingdom. We're neither of us good managers, and we've lived a bit beyond our means this year. But in future we'll be more economical.
Jenny.
[Sullenly.] All the neighbours know that we've got bills with the tradesmen.
Basil.
[Acidly.] I'm sorry that you shouldn't have made so good a bargain as you expected when you married me.
Jenny.
I wonder what you do succeed in? Your book was very successful, wasn't it? You thought you were going to set the Thames on fire, and the book fell flat, flat, flat.
Basil.
[Recovering his good temper.] That is a fate which has befallen better books than mine.
Jenny.
It deserved it.
Basil.
Oh, I didn't expect you to appreciate it. It isn't given to all of us to write about wicked earls and beautiful duchesses.
Jenny.
Well, I wasn't the only one. The papers praised it, didn't they?
Basil.
The unanimity of their blame was the only thing that consoled me.
Jenny.
And one of them advised you to study an English grammar. And you're the fine gentleman who looks down on poor things like us!
Basil.
I often wonder if the reviewer who abuses you for a printer's error realises what pleasure he causes the wife of your bosom.
Jenny.
Oh, I've learnt to know you so well this last six months—since the baby died. You've got no cause to set yourself up on a pedestal.
Basil.
[With a laugh.] My dear Jenny, I never pretended to be a golden idol.
Jenny.
I know what you are now. And I was such a fool as to think you a hero. You're merely a failure. In everything you try you're a miserable failure.
Basil.
[With a slight sigh.] Perhaps you're right, Jenny.
[Basil walks up and down; and then, stopping, looks at her for a moment meditatively.
Basil.
I sometimes wonder whether we shouldn't be happier—if we lived apart.
Jenny.
[With a start.] What d'you mean?
Basil.
We don't seem able to get on very well. And I see no chance of things going any better.
Jenny.
[With staring eyes.] D'you mean to say you want to separate?
Basil.
I think it might be better for both of us—at least for a time. Perhaps later on we might try again.
Jenny.
And what'll you do?
Basil.
I should go abroad for a while.
Jenny.
With Mrs. Murray. Is that it? You want to go away with her.
Basil.
[Impatiently.] No. Of course not.
Jenny.
I don't believe it. You're in love with her.
Basil.
You've got no right to say that.
Jenny.
Haven't I? I suppose I must shut my eyes and say nothing. You're in love with her. D'you think I've not seen it in these months? That's why you want to leave me.
Basil.
It's impossible for us to live together. We shall never agree, and we shall never be happy. For God's sake let us separate and have done with it.
Jenny.
You're sick of me. You've had all you want out of me, and now I can go. The fine lady comes along, and you send me away like a housemaid. D'you think I can't see that you're in love with her? You'd sacrifice me without a thought to save her a moment's unpleasantness. And because you love her you hate me.
Basil.
It's not true.
Jenny.
Can you deny that you're in love with her?
Basil.
You're simply mad. Good heavens, I've done nothing that could give you the least cause to be jealous.
Jenny.
[Passionately.] Will you swear that you're not in love with her? Swear it on your honour?
Basil.
You're mad.
Jenny.
[With growing excitement.] Swear it. You can't. You're simply madly in love with her.
Basil.
Nonsense.
Jenny.
Swear it. Swear it on your honour. Swear you don't care for her.
Basil.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] I swear it ... on my honour.
Jenny.
[Scornfully.] It's a lie!... And she's just as much in love with you as you are with her.
Basil.
[Seizing her wrists.] What d'you mean?
Jenny.
D'you think I haven't got eyes in my head? I saw it that day she came here. D'you suppose she came to see me? She despises me. I'm not a lady. She came here to please you. She was polite to me to please you. She asked me to go and see her to please you.
Basil.
[Trying to compose himself.] It's absurd. She was an old friend of mine. Of course she came.
Jenny.
I know that sort of friend. D'you think I didn't see the way she looked at you, and how she followed you with her eyes? She simply hung on every word you said. When you smiled, she smiled. When you laughed, she laughed. Oh, I should think she was in love with you; I know what love is, and I felt it. And when she looked at me I know she hated me because I'd robbed her of you.
Basil.
[Unable to contain himself.] Oh, what a dog's life it is we lead! We've been both utterly wretched. It can't go on—and I only see one way out.
Jenny.
That's what you've been brooding over this last week, is it? Separation! I knew there was something, and I couldn't find out what it was.
Basil.
I do my best to hold myself in, but sometimes I feel it's impossible. I shall be led to saying things that we shall both regret. For Heaven's sake let us part.
Jenny.
No.
Basil.
We can't go on having these awful quarrels. It's too degrading. It was a horrible mistake that we ever married.
Jenny.
[Horror-stricken.] Basil!
Basil.
Oh, you must see that as well as I. We're utterly unsuited to one another. And the baby's death removed the only necessity that held us together.
Jenny.
You talk as if we only remained together because it was convenient.
Basil.
[Passionately.] Let me go, Jenny. I can't stand it any more. I feel as if I shall go mad.
Jenny.
[Full of pain and anguish.] It's nothing at all to you.
Basil.
Jenny, I did my best for you a year ago. I gave you all I had to give. It was little enough in all conscience. Now I ask you to give me back my freedom.
Jenny.
[Distracted.] You only think of yourself. What is to become of me?
Basil.
You'll be much happier. It's the best thing for both of us. I'll do all I can for you, and you can have your mother and sister to live here.
Jenny.
[With a cry of grief and passion.] But I love you, Basil.
Basil.
You!! Why, you've tortured me for six months beyond all endurance. You've made all my days a burden to me. You've made my life a perfect hell.
Jenny.
[Gives a long groan of horror and dismay.] Oh!
[They stand facing one another, when the housemaid, Fanny, comes in.
Fanny.
Mr. Halliwell.
[John comes in. Jenny, after taking his hand, sinks down on a chair, paying no attention to the following conversation; she stares in front of her, quite distraught. Basil tries with all his might to appear calm and natural.
Basil.
Hulloa, what are you doing in these parts?
John.
How d'you do, Mrs. Kent? I've been having an early lunch at Richmond, and I thought I'd just drop in on my way back. As it was Saturday afternoon I thought I might find you.
Basil.
I'm sure we're delighted to see you. [John gives a side-glance at Jenny, and slightly raises his eyebrows.] But you've only just come in time, because I've got to go up to town. We might travel up together.
John.
Certainly.
Jenny.
Where are you going, Basil?
Basil.
To Chancery Lane, to see my agent on business.
Jenny.
[Suspiciously.] On Saturday afternoon? Why, he won't be there.
Basil.
I have an appointment with him.
[Jenny does not answer, but is obviously unconvinced. John, somewhat embarrassed, exerts himself to make conversation.
John.
I was thinking as I came along that one must lead quite an idyllic existence in the suburbs—with the river—and one's little garden.
Basil.
[Ironically.] And the spectacle of the fifty little houses opposite all exactly like one another.
John.
And the quiet is perfectly enchanting.
Basil.
Oh, yes. The only vehicles that disturb the peaceful seclusion are the milk-cart and the barrel-organs. It's quite idyllic.
Jenny.
I think it's a very nice neighbourhood. And you get such a superior class of people here.
Basil.
I'll just go and change. [Looking at his watch. There's a train at 4.15.
John.
All right, hurry up.
[Basil goes out of the room. Jenny at once springs to her feet and goes towards John. She is distracted and hardly knows what she says.
Jenny.
Can I trust you?
John.
What d'you mean?
[She stares into his eyes, doubting, trying to see whether he will be willing to help her.
Jenny.
You used to be a good sort. You never looked down on me because I was a barmaid. Tell me I can trust you, John. There's no one I can speak to, and I feel if I don't speak I shall go off my head.
John.
What is the matter?
Jenny.
Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?
John.
Of course.
Jenny.
On your oath?
John.
On my oath.
Jenny.
[After a momentary pause.] Is there anything between Basil and Mrs. Murray?
John.
[Aghast.] No. Certainly not.
Jenny.
How d'you know? Are you sure? You wouldn't tell me, if there was. You're all against me because I'm not a lady.... Oh, I'm so unhappy.
[She tries to restrain her tears, she is half-hysterical. John stares at her, surprised, at a loss for words.
Jenny.
If you only knew what a life we lead! He calls it a dog's life, and he's right.
John.
I thought you got on so well.
Jenny.
Oh, before you we've always kept up appearances. He's ashamed to let you know he regrets he ever married me. He wants to separate.
John.
What!
Jenny.
[Impatiently.] Oh, don't look so surprised. You're not an utter fool, are you? He proposed it to-day before you came in. We'd been having one of our rows.
John.
But what on earth is it all about?
Jenny.
God knows!
John.
It's nonsense. It can only be a little passing quarrel. You must expect to have those.
Jenny.
No, it isn't. No, it isn't. He doesn't love me. He's in love with your sister-in-law.
John.
It's impossible.
Jenny.
He's always there. He was there twice last week and twice the week before.
John.
How d'you know?
Jenny.
I've followed him.
John.
You followed him in the street, Jenny?
Jenny.
[Defiantly.] Yes. If I'm not ladylike enough for him, I needn't play the lady there. You're shocked now, I suppose?
John.
I wouldn't presume to judge you, Jenny.
Jenny.
And I've read his letters, too—because I wanted to know what he was doing. I steamed one open, and he saw it, and he never said a word.
John.
Good heavens, why did you do it?
Jenny.
Because I can't live unless I know the truth. I thought it was Mrs. Murray's handwriting.
John.
Was it from her?
Jenny.
No. It was a receipt from the coal merchant. I could see how he despised me when he looked at the envelope—I didn't stick it down again very well. And I saw him smile when he found it was only a receipt.
John.
Upon my word, I don't think you've got much cause to be jealous.
Jenny.
Oh, you don't know. Last Tuesday he was dining there, and you should have seen the state he was in. He was so restless he couldn't sit still. He looked at his watch every minute. His eyes simply glittered with excitement, and I could almost hear his heart beating.
John.
It can't be true.
Jenny.
He never loved me. He married me because he thought it was his duty. And then when the baby died—he thought I'd entrapped him.
John.
He didn't say so.
Jenny.
No. He never says anything—but I saw it in his eyes. [Passionately clasping her hands.] Oh, you don't know what our life is. For days he doesn't say a word except to answer my questions. And the silence simply drives me mad. I shouldn't mind if he blackguarded me. I'd rather he hit me than simply look and look. I can see he's keeping himself in. He's said more to-day than he's ever said before. I knew it was getting towards the end.
John.
[With a helpless gesture.] I'm very sorry.
Jenny.
Oh, don't you pity me, too. I've had a great deal too much pity. I don't want it. Basil married me from pity. Oh, I wish he hadn't. I can't stand the unhappiness.
John.
[Gravely.] You know, Jenny, he's a man of honour.
Jenny.
Oh, I know he's a man of honour. I wish he had a little less of it. One doesn't want a lot of fine sentiments in married life. They don't work.... Oh, why couldn't I fall in love with a man of my own class? I should have been so much happier. I used to be so proud that Basil wasn't a clerk, or something in the City. He's right, we shall never be happy.
John.
[Trying to calm her.] Oh, yes, you will. You mustn't take things too seriously.
Jenny.
It isn't a matter of yesterday, or to-day, or to-morrow. I can't alter myself. He knew I wasn't a lady when he married me. My father had to bring up five children on two-ten a week. You can't expect a man to send his daughters to a boarding-school at Brighton on that, and have them finished in Paris.... He doesn't say a word when I do something or say something a lady wouldn't—but he purses up his lips, and looks.... Then I get so mad that I do things just to aggravate him. Sometimes I try to be vulgar. One learns a good deal in a bar in the City, and I know so well the things to say that'll make Basil curl up. I want to get a bit of revenge out of him sometimes, and I know exactly where he's raw and where I can hurt him. [With a laugh of scorn.] You should see the way he looks when I don't eat properly, or when I call a man a Johnny.
John.
[Drily.] It opens up endless possibilities of domestic unhappiness.
Jenny.
Oh, I know it isn't fair to him, but I lose my head. I can't always be refined. Sometimes I can't help breaking out. I feel I must let myself go.
John.
Why don't you separate, then?
Jenny.
Because I love him. Oh, John, you don't know how I love him. I'd do anything to make him happy. I'd give my life if he wanted it. Oh, I can't say it, but when I think of him my heart burns so that sometimes I can hardly breathe. I can never show him that he's all in the world to me; I try to make him love me, and I only make him hate me. What can I do to show him? Ah, if he only knew, I'm sure he'd not regret that he married me. I feel—I feel as if my heart was full of music, and yet something prevents me from ever bringing it out.
John.
D'you think he means it seriously when he talks of separation?
Jenny.
He's been brooding over it. I know him so well, I knew there was something he was thinking over. Oh, John, I couldn't live without him. I'd rather die. If he leaves me, I swear I'll kill myself.
John.
[Walking up and down.] I wish I could help you. I don't see anything I can do.
Jenny.
Oh, yes, there is. Speak to your sister-in-law. Ask her to have mercy on me. Perhaps she doesn't know what she's doing. Tell her I love him.... Take care. There's Basil. If he knew what I'd said he'd never speak to me again.
[Basil comes in, dressed in a frock-coat; with a tall hat in his hand.
Basil.
I'm ready. We've just got time to catch the train.
John.
All right. Good-bye, Mrs. Kent.
Jenny.
[Keeping her eyes fixed on Basil.] Good-bye.
[The two men go out. Jenny runs to the door and calls out.
Jenny.
Basil, I want you a moment, Basil!
[Basil appears at the door.
Jenny.
Are you really going to Chancery Lane?
[Basil makes a movement of impatience and goes out again without answering.
Jenny.
[Alone.] Oh, well, I'm going to see that for myself. [Calling to the Maid.] Fanny!... Bring my hat and my jacket. Quick!
[She runs to the window and looks out at Basil and John going away. Fanny appears with the clothes. Jenny hurriedly puts them on.
Jenny.
[As Fanny is helping her.] What time is it?
Fanny.
[Looking up at the clock.] Five minutes past four.
Jenny.
I think I can catch it. He said 4.15.
Fanny.
Will you be in to tea, mum?
Jenny.
I don't know. [She runs to the door and rushes out.]
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
