Plays By John Galsworthy - LightNovelsOnl.com
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There is a long silence. Without looking at him she takes up her hat, and puts it on.
MALISE. Not going?
[CLARE nods]
MALISE. You don't trust me?
CLARE. I do! But I can't take when I'm not giving.
MALISE. I beg--I beg you! What does it matter? Use me! Get free somehow.
CLARE. Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in for all this. I know what you want--or will want. Of course--why not?
MALISE. I give you my solemn word----
CLARE. No! if I can't be that to you--it's not real. And I can't.
It isn't to be manufactured, is it?
MALISE. It is not.
CLARE. To make use of you in such a way! No.
[She moves towards the door]
MALISE. Where are you going?
CLARE does not answer. She is breathing rapidly. There is a change in her, a sort of excitement beneath her calmness.
MALISE. Not back to him? [CLARE shakes her head] Thank G.o.d! But where? To your people again?
CLARE. No.
MALISE. Nothing--desperate?
CLARE. Oh! no.
MALISE. Then what--tell me--come!
CLARE. I don't know. Women manage somehow.
MALISE. But you--poor dainty thing!
CLARE. It's all right! Don't be unhappy! Please!
MALISE. [Seizing her arm] D'you imagine they'll let you off, out there--you with your face? Come, trust me trust me! You must!
CLARE. [Holding out her hand] Good-bye!
MALISE. [Not taking that hand] This great d.a.m.ned world, and--you!
Listen! [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the stillness] Into that! alone--helpless--without money. The men who work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let you be? The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy, bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the "chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help seeing you're made for love! Or suppose you don't take covert but struggle on in the open. Society! The respectable! The pious!
Even those who love you! Will they let you be? Hue and cry! The hunt was joined the moment you broke away! It will never let up!
Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the cart, and G.o.d pity you!
CLARE. Well, I'll die running!
MALISE. No, no! Let me shelter you! Let me!
CLARE. [Shaking her head and smiling] I'm going to seek my fortune.
Wish me luck!
MALISE. I can't let you go.
CLARE. You must.
He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it, suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them.
MALISE. Good luck, then! Good luck!
He releases her hand. Just touching his bent head with her other hand, CLARE turns and goes. MALISE remains with bowed head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. They die away. He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with his clenched fist.
CURTAIN.
ACT III
MALISE'S sitting-room. An afternoon, three months later.
On the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some tea-things. Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted spirit-stand. Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced man, with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is contemplating a piece of blue paper.
HAYWOOD. Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf without any return on your money----
MALISE. Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood. I wish I could see my way to smoking another.
HAYWOOD. Well, sir--that's a funny remedy.
With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears.
MALISE. Yes. What is it?
BOY. Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir.
MALISE. [Motioning him out] Yes. Wait!
The Boy withdraws. MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns them over, and takes up some volumes.
MALISE. This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's "Decameron," Mr. Haywood ill.u.s.trated. I should say you would get more than the amount of your bill for them.
