Here I must for the present break off my arduous work of educating the
Press. We shall resume our studies later on; but just now I am tired of
playing the preceptor; and the eager thirst of my pupils for improvement
does not console me for the slowness of their progress. Besides, I must
reserve space to gratify my own vanity and do justice to the six artists
who acted my play, by placing on record the hitherto unchronicled
success of the first representation. It is not often that an author,
after a couple of hours of those rare alternations of excitement and
intensely attentive silence which only occur in the theatre when actors
and audience are reacting on one another to the utmost, is able to step
on the stage and apply the strong word genius to the representation with
the certainty of eliciting an instant and overwhelming assent from the
audience. That was my good fortune on the afternoon of Sunday, the fifth
of January last. I was certainly extremely fortunate in my interpreters
in the enterprise, and that not alone in respect of their artistic
talent; for had it not been for their superhuman patience, their
imperturbable good humor and good fellowship, there could have been no
performance. The terror of the Censor's power gave us trouble enough to
break up any ordinary commercial enterprise. Managers promised and even
engaged their theatres to us after the most explicit warnings that the
play was unlicensed, and at the last moment suddenly realized that Mr
Redford had their livelihoods in the hollow of his hand, and backed
out. Over and over again the date and place were fixed and the tickets
printed, only to be canceled, until at last the desperate and overworked
manager of the Stage Society could only laugh, as criminals broken on
the wheel used to laugh at the second stroke. We rehearsed under great
difficulties. Christmas pieces and plays for the new year were being
produced in all directions; and my six actor colleagues were busy
people, with engagements in these pieces in addition to their current
professional work every night. On several raw winter days stages for
rehearsal were unattainable even by the most distinguished applicants;
and we shared corridors and saloons with them whilst the stage was
given over to children in training for Boxing night. At last we had to
rehearse at an hour at which no actor or actress has been out of bed
within the memory of man; and we sardonically congratulated one another
every morning on our rosy matutinal looks and the improvement wrought
by our early rising in our health and characters. And all this, please
observe, for a society without treasury or commercial prestige, for
a play which was being denounced in advance as unmentionable, for an
author without influence at the fashionable theatres! I victoriously
challenge the West End managers to get as much done for interested
motives, if they can.

Three causes made the production the most notable that has fallen to my
lot. First, the veto of the Censor, which put the supporters of the play
on their mettle. Second, the chivalry of the Stage Society, which, in
spite of my urgent advice to the contrary, and my demonstration of the
difficulties, dangers, and expenses the enterprise would cost, put my
discouragements to shame and resolved to give battle at all costs to
the attempt of the Censorship to suppress the play. Third, the artistic
spirit of the actors, who made the play their own and carried it through
triumphantly in spite of a series of disappointments and annoyances much
more trying to the dramatic temperament than mere difficulties.

The acting, too, required courage and character as well as skill and
intelligence. The veto of the Censor introduced quite a novel element of
moral responsibility into the undertaking. And the characters were very
unusual on the English stage. The younger heroine is, like her mother,
an Englishwoman to the backbone, and not, like the heroines of our
fashionable drama, a prima donna of Italian origin. Consequently she
was sure to be denounced as unnatural and undramatic by the critics.
The most vicious man in the play is not in the least a stage villain;
indeed, he regards his own moral character with the sincere complacency
of a hero of melodrama. The amiable devotee of romance and beauty is
shewn at an age which brings out the futilization which these worships
are apt to produce if they are made the staple of life instead of
the sauce. The attitude of the clever young people to their elders is
faithfully represented as one of pitiless ridicule and unsympathetic
criticism, and forms a spectacle incredible to those who, when young,
were not cleverer than their nearest elders, and painful to those
sentimental parents who shrink from the cruelty of youth, which pardons
nothing because it knows nothing. In short, the characters and their
relations are of a kind that the routineer critic has not yet learned
to place; so that their misunderstanding was a foregone conclusion.
Nevertheless, there was no hesitation behind the curtain. When it went
up at last, a stage much too small for the company was revealed to an
auditorium much too small for the audience. But the players, though it
was impossible for them to forget their own discomfort, at once made the
spectators forget theirs. It certainly was a model audience, responsive
from the first line to the last; and it got no less than it deserved in
return.

I grieve to add that the second performance, given for the edification
of the London Press and of those members of the Stage Society who cannot
attend the Sunday performances, was a less inspiriting one than the
first. A solid phalanx of theatre-weary journalists in an afternoon
humor, most of them committed to irreconcilable disparagement of problem
plays, and all of them bound by etiquette to be as undemonstrative
as possible, is not exactly the sort of audience that rises at the
performers and cures them of the inevitable reaction after an excitingly
successful first night. The artist nature is a sensitive and therefore
a vindictive one; and masterful players have a way with recalcitrant
audiences of rubbing a play into them instead of delighting them with
it. I should describe the second performance of Mrs Warren's Profession,
especially as to its earlier stages, as decidedly a rubbed-in one. The
rubbing was no doubt salutary; but it must have hurt some of the thinner
skins. The charm of the lighter passages fled; and the strong scenes,
though they again carried everything before them, yet discharged that
duty in a grim fashion, doing execution on the enemy rather than moving
them to repentance and confession. Still, to those who had not seen the
first performance, the effect was sufficiently impressive; and they
had the advantage of witnessing a fresh development in Mrs Warren, who,
artistically jealous, as I took it, of the overwhelming effect of the
end of the second act on the previous day, threw herself into the fourth
act in quite a new way, and achieved the apparently impossible feat of
surpassing herself. The compliments paid to Miss Fanny Brough by
the critics, eulogistic as they are, are the compliments of men
three-fourths duped as Partridge was duped by Garrick. By much of her
acting they were so completely taken in that they did not recognize it
as acting at all. Indeed, none of the six players quite escaped this
consequence of their own thoroughness. There was a distinct tendency
among the less experienced critics to complain of their sentiments and
behavior. Naturally, the author does not share that grievance.

PICCARD'S COTTAGE, JANUARY 1902.





MRS WARREN'S PROFESSION


[Mrs Warren's Profession was performed for the first time in the theatre
of the New Lyric Club, London, on the 5th and 6th January 1902, with
Madge McIntosh as Vivie, Julius Knight as Praed, Fanny Brough as Mrs
Warren, Charles Goodhart as Crofts, Harley Granville-Barker as Frank,
and Cosmo Stuart as the Reverend Samuel Gardner.]




ACT I


[Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a hill a
little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, the cottage is
seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and
porch, and a large latticed window to the left of the porch. A paling
completely shuts in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The
common rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some folded
canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side bench in the porch. A
lady's bicycle is propped against the wall, under the window. A little
to the right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big
canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the hammock,
in which a young lady is reading and making notes, her head towards
the cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front of the hammock,
and within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of
serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper on it.]

[A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind the
cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the artist
about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven
except for a moustache, with an eager susceptible face and very amiable
and considerate manners. He has silky black hair, with waves of grey and
white in it. His eyebrows are white, his moustache black. He seems not
certain of his way. He looks over the palings; takes stock of the place;
and sees the young lady.]

THE GENTLEMAN [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you direct me
to Hindhead View--Mrs Alison's?

THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs Alison's. [She
resumes her work].

THE GENTLEMAN. Indeed! Perhaps--may I ask are you Miss Vivie Warren?

THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good look at
him] Yes.

THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I'm afraid I appear intrusive.
My name is Praed. [Vivie at once throws her books upon the chair, and
gets out of the hammock]. Oh, pray don't let me disturb you.

VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr Praed.
[He comes in]. Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand and takes his
with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the
sensible, able, highly-educated young middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22.
Prompt, strong, confident, self-possessed. Plain business-like dress,
but not dowdy. She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen
and a paper knife among its pendants].

PRAED. Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate with a
vigorous slam. He passes in to the middle of the garden, exercising his
fingers, which are slightly numbed by her greeting]. Has your mother
arrived?

VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming?

PRAED [surprised] Didn't you expect us?

VIVIE. No.

PRAED. Now, goodness me, I hope I've not mistaken the day. That would be
just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she was to come down
from London and that I was to come over from Horsham to be introduced to
you.

VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? Hm! My mother has rather a trick of
taking me by surprise--to see how I behave myself while she's away, I
suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one of
these days, if she makes arrangements that concern me without consulting
me beforehand. She hasnt come.

PRAED [embarrassed] I'm really very sorry.

VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It's not your fault, Mr Praed, is
it? And I'm very glad you've come. You are the only one of my mother's
friends I have ever asked her to bring to see me.

PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good of you,
Miss Warren!

VIVIE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here and talk?

PRAED. It will be nicer out here, don't you think?

VIVIE. Then I'll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch for a
garden chair].

PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands on the
chair].

VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers; theyre rather
dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair with the books
on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with
one swing].

PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now do let me take that
hard chair. I like hard chairs.

VIVIE. So do I. Sit down, Mr Praed. [This invitation she gives with a
genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as
a sign of weakness of character on his part. But he does not immediately
obey].

PRAED. By the way, though, hadnt we better go to the station to meet
your mother?

VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way.

PRAED [disconcerted] Er--I suppose she does [he sits down].

VIVIE. Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope you are
disposed to be friends with me.

PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my _dear_ Miss Warren; thank you. Dear
me! I'm so glad your mother hasnt spoilt you!

VIVIE. How?

PRAED. Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear Miss
Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils the relations
between parent and child; even between mother and daughter. Now I was
always afraid that your mother would strain her authority to make you
very conventional. It's such a relief to find that she hasnt.

VIVIE. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally?

PRAED. Oh no: oh dear no. At least, not conventionally unconventionally,
you understand. [She nods and sits down. He goes on, with a cordial
outburst] But it was so charming of you to say that you were disposed
to be friends with me! You modern young ladies are splendid: perfectly
splendid!

VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment as to
the quality of his brains and character].

PRAED. When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of each
other: there was no good fellowship. Nothing real. Only gallantry copied
out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly
reserve! gentlemanly chivalry! always saying no when you meant yes!
simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls.

VIVIE. Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of time.
Especially women's time.

PRAED. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are improving.
Do you know, I have been in a positive state of excitement about meeting
you ever since your magnificent achievements at Cambridge: a thing
unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid, your tieing with the
third wrangler. Just the right place, you know. The first wrangler
is always a dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the
length of a disease.

VIVIE. It doesn't pay. I wouldn't do it again for the same money.

PRAED [aghast] The same money!

VIVIE. Yes. Fifty pounds. Perhaps you don't know how it was. Mrs Latham,
my tutor at Newnham, told my mother that I could distinguish myself in
the mathematical tripos if I went in for it in earnest. The papers were
full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the senior wrangler. You
remember about it, of course.

PRAED [shakes his head energetically] !!!

VIVIE. Well, anyhow, she did; and nothing would please my mother but
that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was not worth
my while to face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; but I
offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts for fifty pounds. She
closed with me at that, after a little grumbling; and I was better than
my bargain. But I wouldn't do it again for that. Two hundred pounds would
have been nearer the mark.

PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! Thats a very practical way of looking
at it.

VIVIE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical person?

PRAED. But surely it's practical to consider not only the work these
honors cost, but also the culture they bring.

VIVIE. Culture! My dear Mr Praed: do you know what the mathematical
tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind for six to eight hours a day
at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics.

I'm supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing except
the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for engineers,
electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I know next to
nothing about engineering or electricity or insurance. I don't even know
arithmetic well. Outside mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping,
cycling, and walking, I'm a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could
possibly be who hadn't gone in for the tripos.

PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I knew it!
I felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes womanhood
beautiful!

VIVIE. I don't object to it on that score in the least. I shall turn it
to very good account, I assure you.

PRAED. Pooh! In what way?

VIVIE. I shall set up chambers in the City, and work at actuarial
calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I shall do some law,
with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the time. I've come down here by
myself to read law: not for a holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate
holidays.

PRAED. You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, no beauty
in your life?

VIVIE. I don't care for either, I assure you.

PRAED. You can't mean that.

VIVIE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. When I'm
tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a little whisky,
and a novel with a good detective story in it.

PRAED [rising in a frenzy of repudiation] I don't believe it. I am an
artist; and I can't believe it: I refuse to believe it. It's only that
you havn't discovered yet what a wonderful world art can open up to you.

VIVIE. Yes I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with Honoria
Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of sightseeing together; but
I was really at Honoria's chambers in Chancery Lane every day, working
away at actuarial calculations for her, and helping her as well as a
greenhorn could. In the evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt
of going out except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my
life.

I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a
fee in the bargain.

PRAED. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that
discovering art?

VIVIE. Wait a bit. That wasn't the beginning. I went up to town on an
invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn's Avenue: one of the
girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery--

PRAED [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved].

VIVIE [continuing]--to the Opera--

PRAED [still more pleased] Good!

VIVIE.--and to a concert where the band played all the evening:
Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldn't go through that experience
again for anything you could offer me. I held out for civility's sake
until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn't stand
any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. N o w you know the sort
of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am. How do you think I shall
get on with my mother?

PRAED [startled] Well, I hope--er--

VIVIE. It's not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want
to know.

PRAED. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little
disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know: I don't
mean that. But you are so different from her ideal.

VIVIE. Her what?!

PRAED. Her ideal.

VIVIE. Do you mean her ideal of ME?

PRAED. Yes.

VIVIE. What on earth is it like?

PRAED. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are
dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think that the world
would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently.
Now your mother's life has been--er--I suppose you know--

VIVIE. Don't suppose anything, Mr Praed. I hardly know my mother. Since
I was a child I have lived in England, at school or at college, or with
people paid to take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my life.
My mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her.
I only see her when she visits England for a few days. I don't complain:
it's been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there
has always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But don't imagine
I know anything about my mother. I know far less than you do.

PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case--[He stops, quite at a loss. Then,
with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense we are talking! Of
course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and looks
abroad at the view]. What a charming little place you have here!

VIVIE [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed. Why won't
my mother's life bear being talked about?

PRAED. Oh, you mustn't say that. Isn't it natural that I should have a
certain delicacy in talking to my old friend's daughter about her behind
her back? You and she will have plenty of opportunity of talking about
it when she comes.

VIVIE. No: she won't talk about it either. [Rising] However, I daresay
you have good reasons for telling me nothing. Only, mind this, Mr
Praed, I expect there will be a battle royal when my mother hears of my
Chancery Lane project.

PRAED [ruefully] I'm afraid there will.

VIVIE. Well, I shall win because I want nothing but my fare to London
to start there to-morrow earning my own living by devilling for Honoria.
Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall
use that advantage over her if necessary.

PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh no! No, pray. Youd not do such a thing.

VIVIE. Then tell me why not.

PRAED. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She smiles at
his sentimentality]. Besides, you may be too bold. Your mother is not to
be trifled with when she's angry.

VIVIE. You can't frighten me, Mr Praed. In that month at Chancery Lane I
had opportunities of taking the measure of one or two women v e r y like
my mother. You may back me to win. But if I hit harder in my ignorance
than I need, remember it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now, let us
drop the subject. [She takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock
with the same vigorous swing as before].

PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I had
better tell you. It's very difficult; but--

[Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the gate. Mrs Warren is
between 40 and 50, formerly pretty, showily dressed in a brilliant
hat and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by
fashionable sleeves. Rather spoilt and domineering, and decidedly
vulgar, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old
blackguard of a woman.]

[Crofts is a tall powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably dressed
in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than might be expected
from his strong frame. Clean-shaven bulldog jaws, large flat ears, and
thick neck: gentlemanly combination of the most brutal types of city
man, sporting man, and man about town.]

VIVIE. Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden] How do,
mater? Mr Praed's been here this half hour, waiting for you.

MRS WARREN. Well, if you've been waiting, Praddy, it's your own fault:
I thought youd have had the gumption to know I was coming by the 3.10
train. Vivie: put your hat on, dear: youll get sunburnt. Oh, I forgot to
introduce you. Sir George Crofts: my little Vivie.

[Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly manner. She nods, but
makes no motion to shake hands.]

CROFTS. May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by
reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends?

VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like.

[She takes his tenderly proferred hand and gives it a squeeze that makes
him open his eyes; then turns away, and says to her mother] Will you
come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? [She goes into the porch
for the chairs].

MRS WARREN. Well, George, what do you think of her?

CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands with her,
Praed?

PRAED. Yes: it will pass off presently.

CROFTS. I hope so. [Vivie reappears with two more chairs. He hurries to
her assistance]. Allow me.

MRS WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the chairs,
dear.

VIVIE [pitching them into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her hands
and turns to Mrs Warren]. Youd like some tea, wouldn't you?

MRS WARREN [sitting in Praed's chair and fanning herself] I'm dying for
a drop to drink.

VIVIE. I'll see about it. [She goes into the cottage].

[Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant it by
Mrs Warren, on her left. He throws the other on the grass and sits down,
looking dejected and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in
his mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, fidgets around the garden on their
right.]

MRS WARREN [to Praed, looking at Crofts] Just look at him, Praddy: he
looks cheerful, don't he? He's been worrying my life out these three
years to have that little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that Ive
done it, he's quite out of countenance. [Briskly] Come! sit up, George;
and take your stick out of your mouth. [Crofts sulkily obeys].

PRAED. I think, you know--if you don't mind my saying so--that we had
better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little girl. You see
she has really distinguished herself; and I'm not sure, from what I have
seen of her, that she is not older than any of us.

MRS WARREN [greatly amused] Only listen to him, George! Older than any
of us! Well she _has_ been stuffing you nicely with her importance.

PRAED. But young people are particularly sensitive about being treated
in that way.

MRS WARREN. Yes; and young people have to get all that nonsense taken
out of them, and good deal more besides. Don't you interfere, Praddy: I
know how to treat my own child as well as you do. [Praed, with a grave
shake of his head, walks up the garden with his hands behind his back.
Mrs Warren pretends to laugh, but looks after him with perceptible
concern. Then, she whispers to Crofts] Whats the matter with him? What
does he take it like that for?

CROFTS [morosely] Youre afraid of Praed.

MRS WARREN. What! Me! Afraid of dear old Praddy! Why, a fly wouldn't be
afraid of him.

CROFTS. _You're_ afraid of him.

MRS WARREN [angry] I'll trouble you to mind your own business, and not
try any of your sulks on me. I'm not afraid of y o u, anyhow. If you
can't make yourself agreeable, youd better go home. [She gets up, and,
turning her back on him, finds herself face to face with Praed]. Come,
Praddy, I know it was only your tender-heartedness. Youre afraid I'll
bully her.

PRAED. My dear Kitty: you think I'm offended. Don't imagine that: pray
don't. But you know I often notice things that escape you; and though you
never take my advice, you sometimes admit afterwards that you ought to
have taken it.

MRS WARREN. Well, what do you notice now?

PRAED. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray, Kitty, treat her with
every respect.

MRS WARREN [with genuine amazement] Respect! Treat my own daughter with
respect! What next, pray!

VIVIE [appearing at the cottage door and calling to Mrs Warren] Mother:
will you come to my room before tea?

MRS WARREN. Yes, dearie. [She laughs indulgently at Praed's gravity, and
pats him on the cheek as she passes him on her way to the porch]. Don't
be cross, Praddy. [She follows Vivie into the cottage].

CROFTS [furtively] I say, Praed.

PRAED. Yes.

CROFTS. I want to ask you a rather particular question.

PRAED. Certainly. [He takes Mrs Warren's chair and sits close to
Crofts].

CROFTS. Thats right: they might hear us from the window. Look here: did
Kitty every tell you who that girl's father is?

PRAED. Never.

CROFTS. Have you any suspicion of who it might be?

PRAED. None.

CROFTS [not believing him] I know, of course, that you perhaps might
feel bound not to tell if she had said anything to you. But it's very
awkward to be uncertain about it now that we shall be meeting the girl
every day. We don't exactly know how we ought to feel towards her.

PRAED. What difference can that make? We take her on her own merits.
What does it matter who her father was?

CROFTS [suspiciously] Then you know who he was?

PRAED [with a touch of temper] I said no just now. Did you not hear me?

CROFTS. Look here, Praed. I ask you as a particular favor. If you _do_
know [movement of protest from Praed]--I only say, if you know,
you might at least set my mind at rest about her. The fact is, I fell
attracted.

PRAED [sternly] What do you mean?

CROFTS. Oh, don't be alarmed: it's quite an innocent feeling. Thats what
puzzles me about it. Why, for all I know, _I_ might be her father.

PRAED. You! Impossible!

CROFTS [catching him up cunningly] You know for certain that I'm not?

PRAED. I know nothing about it, I tell you, any more than you. But
really, Crofts--oh no, it's out of the question. Theres not the least
resemblance.

CROFTS. As to that, theres no resemblance between her and her mother
that I can see. I suppose she's not y o u r daughter, is she?

PRAED [rising indignantly] Really, Crofts--!

CROFTS. No offence, Praed. Quite allowable as between two men of the
world.

PRAED [recovering himself with an effort and speaking gently and
gravely] Now listen to me, my dear Crofts. [He sits down again].

I have nothing to do with that side of Mrs Warren's life, and never had.
She has never spoken to me about it; and of course I have never spoken
to her about it. Your delicacy will tell you that a handsome woman needs
some friends who are not--well, not on that footing with her. The effect
of her own beauty would become a torment to her if she could not escape
from it occasionally. You are probably on much more confidential terms
with Kitty than I am. Surely you can ask her the question yourself.

CROFTS. I h a v e asked her, often enough. But she's so determined to
keep the child all to herself that she would deny that it ever had a
father if she could. [Rising] I'm thoroughly uncomfortable about it,
Praed.

PRAED [rising also] Well, as you are, at all events, old enough to be
her father, I don't mind agreeing that we both regard Miss Vivie in a
parental way, as a young girl who we are bound to protect and help. What
do you say?

CROFTS [aggressively] I'm no older than you, if you come to that.

PRAED. Yes you are, my dear fellow: you were born old. I was born a boy:
Ive never been able to feel the assurance of a grown-up man in my life.
[He folds his chair and carries it to the porch].

MRS WARREN [calling from within the cottage] Prad-dee! George!
Tea-ea-ea-ea!

CROFTS [hastily] She's calling us. [He hurries in].

[Praed shakes his head bodingly, and is following Crofts when he is
hailed by a young gentleman who has just appeared on the common, and is
making for the gate. He is pleasant, pretty, smartly dressed, cleverly
good-for-nothing, not long turned 20, with a charming voice and
agreeably disrespectful manners. He carries a light sporting magazine
rifle.]

THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed!

PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands cordially].
What on earth are you doing here?

FRANK. Staying with my father.

PRAED. The Roman father?

FRANK. He's rector here. I'm living with my people this autumn for the
sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the Roman father had
to pay my debts. He's stony broke in consequence; and so am I. What are
you up to in these parts? do you know the people here?

PRAED. Yes: I'm spending the day with a Miss Warren.

FRANK [enthusiastically] What! Do you know Vivie? Isn't she a jolly girl?
I'm teaching her to shoot with this [putting down the rifle]. I'm so
glad she knows you: youre just the sort of fellow she ought to know.
[He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a singing tone as he
exclaims] It's e v e r so jolly to find you here, Praed.

PRAED. I'm an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me over to
make her daughter's acquaintance.

FRANK. The mother! Is _she_ here?

PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea.

MRS WARREN [calling from within] Prad-dee-ee-ee-eee! The tea-cake'll be
cold.

PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. I've just met a friend
here.

MRS WARREN. A what?

PRAED [louder] A friend.

MRS WARREN. Bring him in.

PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation?

FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused] Is that Vivie's mother?

PRAED. Yes.

FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she'll like me?

PRAED. I've no doubt youll make yourself popular, as usual. Come in and
try [moving towards the house].

FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my confidence.

PRAED. Pray don't. It's only some fresh folly, like the barmaid at
Redhill.

FRANK. It's ever so much more serious than that. You say you've only just
met Vivie for the first time?

PRAED. Yes.

FRANK [rhapsodically] Then you can have no idea what a girl she is. Such
character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my eye, Praed, but I can
tell you she is clever! And--need I add?--she loves me.

CROFTS [putting his head out of the window] I say, Praed: what are you
about? Do come along. [He disappears].

FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog show, ain't
he? Who's he?

PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren's. I think we had
better come in.

[On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate.
Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it.]

THE CLERGYMAN [calling] Frank!

FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] Yes,
gov'nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: youd better
go in to tea. I'll join you directly.

PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage].

[The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of
it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established
Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy,
important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the
family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously
asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command
respect in either capacity.]

REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask?

FRANK. Oh, it's all right, gov'nor! Come in.

REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering.

FRANK. It's all right. It's Miss Warren's.

REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came.

FRANK. Of course not: she's a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took
a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach?

REV. S. Don't be disrespectful, sir.

FRANK. Oh, it don't matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the gate,
unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden]. I want to
introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me last July,
gov'nor?

REV. S. [severely] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and
flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on
it and not upon me.

FRANK. No: thats what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said
was that since I had neither brains nor money, I'd better turn my good
looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss
Warren has brains: you can't deny that.

REV. S. Brains are not everything.

FRANK. No, of course not: theres the money--

REV. S. [interrupting him austerely] I was not thinking of money, sir. I
was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance.

FRANK. I don't care a rap about that.

REV. S. But I do, sir.

FRANK. Well, nobody wants y o u to marry her. Anyhow, she has what
amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money
as she wants.

REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor] I greatly doubt whether
she has as much money as y o u will want.

FRANK. Oh, come: I havn't been so very extravagant. I live ever so
quietly; I don't drink; I don't bet much; and I never go regularly to the
razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age.

REV. S. [booming hollowly] Silence, sir.

FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass
of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman
fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when--

REV. S. [terrified] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven's sake! [He looks round
apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom
again, but more subduedly]. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of
what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you
would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father's
follies, sir; and don't make them an excuse for your own.

FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his
letters?

REV. S. No, sir; and I don't want to hear it.

FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn't throw away fifty pounds: not he. He
just wrote: "Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately,
Wellington." Thats what you should have done.

REV. S. [piteously] Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put
myself into that woman's power. When I told you about them I put myself,
to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money
with these words, which I shall never forget. "Knowledge is power" she
said; "and I never sell power."

Thats more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her
power or caused me a moment's uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me
than she did, Frank.

FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach
at me every day?

REV. S. [wounded almost to tears] I leave you, sir. You are
incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate].

FRANK [utterly unmoved] Tell them I shan't be home to tea, will you,
gov'nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is
met by Praed and Vivie coming out].

VIVIE [to Frank] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him.

FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov'nor. Youre wanted. [The
parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses
the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities].
My father: Miss Warren.

VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand] Very glad to see
you here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come along: youre
wanted.

[Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed,
recognizing the clergyman.]

VIVIE [continuing] Let me introduce--

MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel] Why it's Sam Gardner, gone
into the Church! Well, I never! Don't you know us, Sam? This is George
Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don't you remember me?

REV. S. [very red] I really--er--

MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters
still: I came across them only the other day.

REV. S. [miserably confused] Miss Vavasour, I believe.

MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper] Tch! Nonsense! Mrs
Warren: don't you see my daughter there?




ACT II


[Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within
instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains
drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with
the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door
leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser
with a candle and matches on it, and Frank's rifle standing beside them,
with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands
with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie's books and writing materials are on a
table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on
the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set
right and left of the table.]

[The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs
Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters,
followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had
enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat;
takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the
table.]

MRS WARREN. O Lord! I don't know which is the worst of the country, the
walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. I could do with a
whisky and soda now very well, if only they had such a things in this
place.

FRANK. Perhaps Vivie's got some.

MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing with
such things! Never mind: it don't matter. I wonder how she passes her
time here! I'd a good deal rather be in Vienna.

FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her shawl,
gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze as he does
so].

MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I'm beginning to think youre a chip of the
old block.

FRANK. Like the gov'nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest chair,
and sits down].

MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things?

Youre only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from
temptation].

FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It'd be ever such larks.

MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you--at least not
until youre a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize this piece of
advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes.
She looks at him; then comes back to him]. Now, look here, little boy
[taking his face in her hands and turning it up to her]: I know you
through and through by your likeness to your father, better than you
know yourself. Don't you go taking any silly ideas into your head about
me. Do you hear?

FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice] Can't help it, my dear Mrs
Warren: it runs in the family.

[She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing
upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and
immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.]

MRS WARREN. There! I shouldn't have done that. I _am_ wicked. Never you
mind, my dear: it's only a motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie.

FRANK. So I have.

MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her voice]
What!

FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums.

MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I won't have any young scamp
tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I won't have it.

FRANK [quite unabashed] My dear Mrs Warren: don't you be alarmed. My
intentions are honorable: ever so honorable; and your little girl is
jolly well able to take care of herself. She don't need looking after
half so much as her mother. She ain't so handsome, you know.

MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a nice
healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I don't know where you got it.
Not from your father, anyhow.

CROFTS [in the garden] The gipsies, I suppose?

REV. S. [replying] The broomsquires are far worse.

MRS WARREN [to Frank] S-sh! Remember! you've had your warning.

[Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, the
clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.]

REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable.

MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And wheres Praddy and Vivie?

CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the chimney
corner] They went up the hill. We went to the village. I wanted a drink.
[He sits down on the settle, putting his legs up along the seat].

MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtn't to go off like that without telling me.
[To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are your manners?
[Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes
another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the middle, with
his father on his right and Mrs Warren on his left]. George: where are
you going to stay to-night? You can't stay here. And whats Praddy going
to do?

CROFTS. Gardner'll put me up.

MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt you've taken care of yourself! But what about
Praddy?

CROFTS. Don't know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn.

MRS WARREN. Havn't you room for him, Sam?

REV. S. Well--er--you see, as rector here, I am not free to do as I
like. Er--what is Mr Praed's social position?

MRS WARREN. Oh, he's all right: he's an architect. What an old
stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam!

FRANK. Yes, it's all right, gov'nor. He built that place down in Wales
for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must have heard of it.
[He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs Warren, and regards his father
blandly].

REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. I
suppose he knows the Duke personally.

FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina's old room.

MRS WARREN. Well, thats settled. Now if those two would only come in and
let us have supper. Theyve no right to stay out after dark like this.

CROFTS [aggressively] What harm are they doing you?

MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I don't like it.

FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay out as
long as possible. He has never known before what it is to stray over the
heath on a summer night with my Vivie.

CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation] I say, you know! Come!

REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into real force
and sincerity] Frank, once and for all, it's out of the question. Mrs
Warren will tell you that it's not to be thought of.

CROFTS. Of course not.

FRANK [with enchanting placidity] Is that so, Mrs Warren?

MRS WARREN [reflectively] Well, Sam, I don't know. If the girl wants to
get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried.

REV. S. [astounded] But married to _him!_--your daughter to my son! Only
think: it's impossible.

CROFTS. Of course it's impossible. Don't be a fool, Kitty.

MRS WARREN [nettled] Why not? Isn't my daughter good enough for your son?

REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons--

MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you can tell
them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your congregation, if you like.

REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair] You know very well that I
couldn't tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe me when I tell
him there a r e reasons.

FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy's conduct ever been
influenced by your reasons?

CROFTS. You can't marry her; and thats all about it. [He gets up
and stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, frowning
determinedly].

MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply] What have you got to do with it,
pray?

FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence] Precisely what I was going to
ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion.

CROFTS [to Mrs Warren] I suppose you don't want to marry the girl to a
man younger than herself and without either a profession or twopence to
keep her on. Ask Sam, if you don't believe me. [To the parson] How much
more money are you going to give him?

REV. S. Not another penny. He has had his patrimony; and he spent the
last of it in July. [Mrs Warren's face falls].

CROFTS [watching her] There! I told you. [He resumes his place on
the settle and puts his legs on the seat again, as if the matter were
finally disposed of].

FRANK [plaintively] This is ever so mercenary. Do you suppose Miss
Warren's going to marry for money? If we love one another--

MRS WARREN. Thank you. Your love's a pretty cheap commodity, my lad.
If you have no means of keeping a wife, that settles it; you can't have
Vivie.

FRANK [much amused] What do y o u say, gov'nor, eh?

REV. S. I agree with Mrs Warren.

FRANK. And good old Crofts has already expressed his opinion.

CROFTS [turning angrily on his elbow] Look here: I want none of your
cheek.

FRANK [pointedly] I'm e v e r so sorry to surprise you, Crofts; but you
allowed yourself the liberty of speaking to me like a father a moment
ago. One father is enough, thank you.

CROFTS [contemptuously] Yah! [He turns away again].

FRANK [rising] Mrs Warren: I cannot give my Vivie up, even for your
sake.

MRS WARREN [muttering] Young scamp!

FRANK [continuing] And as you no doubt intend to hold out other
prospects to her, I shall lose no time in placing my case before her.
[They stare at him; and he begins to declaim gracefully] He either fears
his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to
the touch, To gain or lose it all.

[The cottage doors open whilst he is reciting; and Vivie and Praed
come in. He breaks off. Praed puts his hat on the dresser. There is an
immediate improvement in the company's behavior. Crofts takes down his
legs from the settle and pulls himself together as Praed joins him at
the fireplace. Mrs Warren loses her ease of manner and takes refuge in
querulousness.]

MRS WARREN. Wherever have you been, Vivie?

VIVIE [taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly on the table] On
the hill.

MRS WARREN. Well, you shouldn't go off like that without letting me know.
How could I tell what had become of you? And night coming on too!

VIVIE [going to the door of the kitchen and opening it, ignoring her
mother] Now, about supper? [All rise except Mrs Warren] We shall be
rather crowded in here, I'm afraid.

MRS WARREN. Did you hear what I said, Vivie?

VIVIE [quietly] Yes, mother. [Reverting to the supper difficulty] How
many are we? [Counting] One, two, three, four, five, six. Well, two will
have to wait until the rest are done: Mrs Alison has only plates and
knives for four.

PRAED. Oh, it doesn't matter about me. I--

VIVIE. You have had a long walk and are hungry, Mr Praed: you shall have
your supper at once. I can wait myself. I want one person to wait with
me. Frank: are you hungry?

FRANK. Not the least in the world. Completely off my peck, in fact.

MRS WARREN [to Crofts] Neither are you, George. You can wait.

CROFTS. Oh, hang it, I've eaten nothing since tea-time. Can't Sam do it?

FRANK. Would you starve my poor father?

REV. S. [testily] Allow me to speak for myself, sir. I am perfectly
willing to wait.

VIVIE [decisively] There's no need. Only two are wanted. [She opens
the door of the kitchen]. Will you take my mother in, Mr Gardner. [The
parson takes Mrs Warren; and they pass into the kitchen. Praed and
Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly disapprove of the arrangement,
but do not know how to resist it. Vivie stands at the door looking in
at them]. Can you squeeze past to that corner, Mr Praed: it's rather a
tight fit. Take care of your coat against the white-wash: that right.
Now, are you all comfortable?