Exiles

Name: Exiles
Author: James Joyce

James Joyce

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Dramatis Personae

Richard Rowan, a writer
Bertha
Archie, their son, aged eight years
Robert Hand, journalist
Beatrice Justice, his cousin, music teacher
Brigid, an old servant of the Rowan family
A Fishwoman

At Merrion and Ranelagh, suburbs of Dublin.

Summer of the year 1912.

First Act

The drawingroom in Richard Rowan’s house at Merrion, a suburb of Dublin. On the right, forward, a fireplace, before which stands a low screen. Over the mantelpiece a giltframed glass. Further back in the right wall, folding doors leading to the parlour and kitchen. In the wall at the back to the right a small door leading to a study. Left of this a sideboard. On the wall above the sideboard a framed crayon drawing of a young man. More to the left double doors with glass panels leading out to the garden. In the wall at the left a window looking out on the road. Forward in the same wall a door leading to the hall and the upper part of the house. Between the window and door a lady’s davenport stands against the wall. Near it a wicker chair. In the centre of the room a round table. Chairs, upholstered in faded green plush, stand round the table. To the right, forward, a smaller table with a smoking service on it. Near it an easychair and a lounge. Coconut mats lie before the fireplace, beside the lounge and before the doors. The floor is of stained planking. The double doors at the back and the folding doors at the right have lace curtains, which are drawn halfway. The lower sash of the window is lifted and the window is hung with heavy green plush curtains. The blind is pulled down to the edge of the lifted lower sash. It is a warm afternoon in June and the room is filled with soft sunlight which is waning.

	Brigid and Beatrice Justice come in by the door on the left. Brigid is an elderly woman, lowsized, with irongrey hair. Beatrice Justice is a slender dark young woman of 27 years. She wears a wellmade navyblue costume and an elegant simply trimmed black straw hat, and carries a small portfolioshaped handbag.
Brigid	The mistress and Master Archie is at the bath. They never expected you. Did you send word you were back, Miss Justice?
Beatrice	No. I arrived just now.
Brigid	Points to the easychair. Sit down and I’ll tell the master you are here. Were you long in the train?
Beatrice	Sitting down. Since morning.
Brigid	Master Archie got your postcard with the views of Youghal. You’re tired out, I’m sure.
Beatrice	O, no. She coughs rather nervously. Did he practise the piano while I was away?
Brigid	Laughs heartily. Practice, how are you! Is it Master Archie? He is mad after the milkman’s horse now. Had you nice weather down there, Miss Justice?
Beatrice	Rather wet, I think.
Brigid	Sympathetically. Look at that now. And there is rain overhead too. Moving towards the study. I’ll tell him you are here.
Beatrice	Is Mr. Rowan in?
Brigid	Points. He is in his study. He is wearing himself out about something he is writing. Up half the night he does be. Going. I’ll call him.
Beatrice	Don’t disturb him, Brigid. I can wait here till they come back if they are not long.
Brigid	And I saw something in the letterbox when I was letting you in. She crosses to the study door, opens it slightly and calls. Master Richard, Miss Justice is here for Master Archie’s lesson.
	Richard Rowan comes in from the study and advances towards Beatrice, holding out his hand. He is a tall athletic young man of a rather lazy carriage. He has light brown hair and a moustache and wears glasses. He is dressed in loose lightgrey tweed.
Richard	Welcome.
Beatrice	Rises and shakes hands, blushing slightly. Good afternoon, Mr. Rowan. I did not want Brigid to disturb you.
Richard	Disturb me? My goodness!
Brigid	There is something in the letterbox, sir.
Richard	Takes a small bunch of keys from his pocket and hands them to her. Here.
	Brigid goes out by the door at the left and is heard opening and closing the box. A short pause. She enters with two newspapers in her hands.
Richard	Letters?
Brigid	No, sir. Only them Italian newspapers.
Richard	Leave them on my desk, will you?
	Brigid hands him back the keys, leaves the newspapers in the study, comes out again and goes out by the folding doors on the right.
Richard	Please, sit down. Bertha will be back in a moment.
	Beatrice sits down again in the easychair. Richard sits beside the table.
Richard	I had begun to think you would never come back. It is twelve days since you were here.
Beatrice	I thought of that too. But I have come.
Richard	Have you thought over what I told you when you were here last?
Beatrice	Very much.
Richard	You must have known it before. Did you? She does not answer. Do you blame me?
Beatrice	No.
Richard	Do you think I have acted towards you—badly? No? Or towards anyone?
Beatrice	Looks at him with a sad puzzled expression. I have asked myself that question.
Richard	And the answer?
Beatrice	I could not answer it.
Richard	If I were a painter and told you I had a book of sketches of you you would not think it so strange, would you?
Beatrice	It is not quite the same case, is it?
Richard	Smiles slightly. Not quite. I told you also that I would not show you what I had written unless you asked to see it. Well?
Beatrice	I will not ask you.
Richard	Leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands joined. Would you like to see it?
Beatrice	Very much.
Richard	Because it is about yourself?
Beatrice	Yes. But not only that.
Richard	Because it is written by me? Yes? Even if what you would find there is sometimes cruel?
Beatrice	Shyly. That is part of your mind, too.
Richard	Then it is my mind that attracts you? Is that it?
Beatrice	Hesitating, glances at him for an instant. Why do you think I come here?
Richard	Why? Many reasons. To give Archie lessons. We have known one another so many years, from childhood, Robert, you and I—haven’t we? You have always been interested in me, before I went away and while I was away. Then our letters to each other about my book. Now it is published. I am here again. Perhaps you feel that some new thing is gathering in my brain; perhaps you feel that you should know it. Is that the reason?
Beatrice	No.
Richard	Why, then?
Beatrice	Otherwise I could not see you.
	She looks at him for a moment and then turns aside quickly.
Richard	After a pause repeats uncertainly. Otherwise you could not see me?
Beatrice	Suddenly confused. I had better go. They are not coming back. Rising. Mr. Rowan, I must go.
Richard	Extending his arms. But you are running away. Remain. Tell me what your words mean. Are you afraid of me?
Beatrice	Sinks back again. Afraid? No.
Richard	Have you confidence in me? Do you feel that you know me?
Beatrice	Again shyly. It is hard to know anyone but oneself.
Richard	Hard to know me? I sent you from Rome the chapters of my book as I wrote them; and letters for nine long years. Well, eight years.
Beatrice	Yes, it was nearly a year before your first letter came.
Richard	It was answered at once by you. And from that on you have watched me in my struggle. Joins his hands earnestly. Tell me, Miss Justice, did you feel that what you read was written for your eyes? Or that you inspired me?
Beatrice	Shakes her head. I need not answer that question.
Richard	What then?
Beatrice	Is silent for a moment. I cannot say it. You yourself must ask me, Mr. Rowan.
Richard	With some vehemence. Then that I expressed in those chapters and letters, and in my character and life as well, something in your soul which you could not—pride or scorn?
Beatrice	Could not?
Richard	Leans towards her. Could not because you dared not. Is that why?
Beatrice	Bends her head. Yes.
Richard	On account of others or for want of courage—which?
Beatrice	Softly. Courage.
Richard	Slowly. And so you have followed me with pride and scorn also in your heart?
Beatrice	And loneliness.
	She leans her head on her hand, averting her face. Richard rises and walks slowly to the window on the left. He looks out for some moments and then returns towards her, crosses to the lounge and sits down near her.
Richard	Do you love him still?
Beatrice	I do not even know.
Richard	It was that that made me so reserved with you—then—even though I felt your interest in me, even though I felt that I too was something in your life.
Beatrice	You were.
Richard	Yet that separated me from you. I was a third person, I felt. Your names were always spoken together, Robert and Beatrice, as long as I can remember. It seemed to me, to everyone …
Beatrice	We are first cousins. It is not strange that we were often together.
Richard	He told me of your secret engagement with him. He had no secrets from me; I suppose you know that.
Beatrice	Uneasily. What happened—between us—is so long ago. I was a child.
Richard	Smiles maliciously. A child? Are you sure? It was in the garden of his mother’s house. No? He points towards the garden. Over there. You plighted your troth, as they say, with a kiss. And you gave him your garter. Is it allowed to mention that?
Beatrice	With some reserve. If you think it worthy of mention.
Richard	I think you have not forgotten it. Clasping his hands quietly. I do not understand it. I thought, too, that after I had gone … Did my going make you suffer?
Beatrice	I always knew you would go some day. I did not suffer; only I was changed.
Richard	Towards him?
Beatrice	Everything was changed. His life, his mind, even, seemed to change after that.
Richard	Musing. Yes. I saw that you had changed when I received your first letter after a year; after your illness, too. You even said so in your letter.
Beatrice	It brought me near to death. It made me see things differently.
Richard	And so a coldness began between you, little by little. Is that it?
Beatrice	Half closing her eyes. No. Not at once. I saw in him a pale reflection of you: then that too faded. Of what good is it to talk now?
Richard	With a repressed energy. But what is this that seems to hang over you? It cannot be so tragic.
Beatrice	Calmly. O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. I am given life and health again—when I cannot use them. Calmly and bitterly. I am convalescent.
Richard	Gently. Does nothing then in life give you peace? Surely it exists for you somewhere.
Beatrice	If there were convents in our religion perhaps there. At least, I think so at times.
Richard	Shakes his head. No, Miss Justice, not even there. You could not give yourself freely and wholly.
Beatrice	Looking at him. I would try.
Richard	You would try, yes. You were drawn to him as your mind was drawn towards mine. You held back from him. From me, too, in a different way. You cannot give yourself freely and wholly.
Beatrice	Joins her hands softly. It is a terribly hard thing to do, Mr. Rowan—to give oneself freely and wholly—and be happy.
Richard	But do you feel that happiness is the best, the highest that we can know?
Beatrice	With fervour. I wish I could feel it.
Richard	Leans back, his hands locked together behind his head. O, if you knew how I am suffering at this moment! For your case, too. But suffering most of all for my own. With bitter force. And how I pray that I may be granted again my dead mother’s hardness of heart! For some help, within me or without, I must find. And find it I will.
	Beatrice rises, looks at him intently, and walks away toward the garden door. She turns with indecision, looks again at him and, coming back, leans over the easychair.
Beatrice	Quietly. Did she send for you before she died, Mr. Rowan?
Richard	Lost in thought. Who?
Beatrice	Your mother.
Richard	Recovering himself, looks keenly at her for a moment. So that, too, was said of me here by my friends—that she sent for me before she died and that I did not go?
Beatrice	Yes.
Richard	Coldly. She did not. She died alone, not having forgiven me, and fortified by the rites of holy church.
Beatrice	Mr. Rowan, why did you speak to me in such a way?
Richard	Rises and walks nervously to and fro. And what I suffer at this moment you will say is my punishment.
Beatrice	Did she write to you? I mean before …
Richard	Halting. Yes. A letter of warning, bidding me break with the past, and remember her last words to me.
Beatrice	Softly. And does death not move you, Mr. Rowan? It is an end. Everything else is so uncertain.
Richard	While she lived she turned aside from me and from mine. That is certain.
Beatrice	From you and from … ?
Richard	From Bertha and from me and from our child. And so I waited for the end as you say; and it came.
Beatrice	Covers her face with her hands. O, no. Surely no.
Richard	Fiercely. How can my words hurt her poor body that rots in the grave? Do you think I do not pity her cold blighted love for me? I fought against her spirit while she lived to the bitter end. He presses his hand to his forehead. It fights against me still—in here.
Beatrice	As before. O, do not speak like that.
Richard	She drove me away. On account of her I lived years in exile and poverty too, or near it. I never accepted the doles she sent me through the bank. I waited, too, not for her death but for some understanding of me, her own son, her own flesh and blood; that never came.
Beatrice	Not even after Archie … ?
Richard	Rudely. My son, you think? A child of sin and shame! Are you serious? She raises her face and looks at him. There were tongues here ready to tell her all, to embitter her withering mind still more against me and Bertha and our godless nameless child. Holding out his hands to her. Can you not hear her mocking me while I speak? You must know the voice, surely, the voice that called you the black protestant, the pervert’s daughter. With sudden selfcontrol. In any case a remarkable woman.
Beatrice	Weakly. At least you are free now.
Richard	Nods. Yes, she could not alter the terms of my father’s will nor live forever.
Beatrice	With joined hands. They are both gone now, Mr. Rowan. They both loved you, believe me. Their last thoughts were of you.
Richard	Approaching, touches her lightly on the shoulder, and points to the crayon drawing on the wall. Do you see him there, smiling and handsome? His last thoughts! I remember the night he died. He pauses for an instant and then goes on calmly. I was a boy of fourteen. He called me to his bedside. He knew I wanted to go to the theatre to hear Carmen. He told my mother to give me a shilling. I kissed him and went. When I came home he was dead. Those were his last thoughts as far as I know.
Beatrice	The hardness of heart you prayed for … She breaks off.
Richard	Unheeding. That is my last memory of him. Is there not something sweet and noble in it?
Beatrice	Mr. Rowan, something is on your mind to make you speak like this. Something has changed you since you came back three months ago.
Richard	Gazing again at the drawing, calmly, almost gaily. He will help me, perhaps, my smiling handsome father.
	A knock is heard at the hall door on the left.
Richard	Suddenly. No, no. Not the smiler, Miss Justice. The old mother. It is her spirit I need. I am going.
Beatrice	Someone knocked. They have come back.
Richard	No, Bertha has a key. It is he. At least, I am going, whoever it is.
	He goes out quickly on the left and comes back at once with his straw hat in his hand.
Beatrice	He? Who?
Richard	O, probably Robert. I am going out through the garden. I cannot see him now. Say I have gone to the post. Goodbye.
Beatrice	With growing alarm. It is Robert you do not wish to see?
Richard	Quietly. For the moment, yes. This talk has upset me. Ask him to wait.
Beatrice	You will come back?
Richard	Please God.
	He goes out quickly through the garden. Beatrice makes as if to follow him and then stops after a few paces. Brigid enters by the folding doors on the right and goes out on the left. The hall door is heard opening. A few seconds after Brigid enters with Robert Hand. Robert Hand is a middlesized, rather stout man between thirty and forty. He is cleanshaven, with mobile features. His hair and eyes are dark and his complexion sallow. His gait and speech are rather slow. He wears a dark blue morning suit and carries in his hand a large bunch of red roses wrapped in tissue paper.
Robert	Coming towards her with outstretched hand which she takes. My dearest coz! Brigid told me you were here. I had no notion. Did you send mother a telegram?
Beatrice	Gazing at the roses. No.
Robert	Following her gaze. You are admiring my roses. I brought them to the mistress of the house. Critically. I am afraid they are not nice.
Brigid	O, they are lovely, sir. The mistress will be delighted with them.
Robert	Lays the roses carelessly on a chair out of sight. Is nobody in?
Brigid	Yes, sir. Sit down, sir. They’ll be here now any moment. The master was here.
	She looks about her and with a half curtsey goes out on the right.
Robert	After a short silence. How are you, Beatty? And how are all down in Youghal? As dull as ever?
Beatrice	They were well when I left.
Robert	Politely. O, but I’m sorry I did not know you were coming. I would have met you at the train. Why did you do it? You have some queer ways about you, Beatty, haven’t you?
Beatrice	In the same tone. Thank you, Robert. I am quite used to getting about alone.
Robert	Yes, but I mean to say … O, well, you have arrived in your own characteristic way.
	A noise is heard at the window and a boy’s voice is heard calling, “Mr. Hand!” Robert* turns.*
	By Jove, Archie, too, is arriving in a characteristic way!
	Archie scrambles into the room through the open window on the left and then rises to his feet, flushed and panting. Archie is a boy of eight years, dressed in white breeches, jersey and cap. He wears spectacles, has a lively manner and speaks with the slight trace of a foreign accent.
Beatrice	Going towards him. Goodness gracious, Archie! What is the matter?
Archie	Rising, out of breath. Eh! I ran all the avenue.
Robert	Smiles and holds out his hand. Good evening, Archie. Why did you run?
Archie	Shakes hands. Good evening. We saw you on the top of the tram, and I shouted Mr. Hand! But you did not see me. But we saw you, mamma and I. She will be here in a minute. I ran.
Beatrice	Holding out her hand. And poor me!
Archie	Shakes hands somewhat shyly. Good evening, Miss Justice.
Beatrice	Were you disappointed that I did not come last Friday for the lesson?
Archie	Glancing at her, smiles. No.
Beatrice	Glad?
Archie	Suddenly. But today it is too late.
Beatrice	A very short lesson?
Archie	Pleased. Yes.
Beatrice	But now you must study, Archie.
Robert	Were you at the bath?
Archie	Yes.
Robert	Are you a good swimmer now?
Archie	Leans against the davenport. No. Mamma won’t let me into the deep place. Can you swim well, Mr. Hand?
Robert	Splendidly. Like a stone.
Archie	Laughs. Like a stone! Pointing down. Down that way?
Robert	Pointing. Yes, down; straight down. How do you say that over in Italy?
Archie	That? Giù. Pointing down and up. That is giù and this is sù. Do you want to speak to my pappie?
Robert	Yes. I came to see him.
Archie	Going towards the study. I will tell him. He is in there, writing.
Beatrice	Calmly, looking at Robert. No; he is out. He is gone to the post with some letters.
Robert	Lightly. O, never mind. I will wait if he is only gone to the post.
Archie	But mamma is coming. He glances towards the window. Here she is!
	Archie runs out by the door on the left. Beatrice walks slowly towards the davenport. Robert remains standing. A short silence. Archie and Bertha come in through the door on the left. Bertha is a young woman of graceful build. She has dark grey eyes, patient in expression, and soft features. Her manner is cordial and selfpossessed. She wears a lavender dress and carries her cream gloves knotted round the handle of her sunshade.
Bertha	Shaking hands. Good evening, Miss Justice. We thought you were still down in Youghal.
Beatrice	Shaking hands. Good evening, Mrs. Rowan.
Bertha	Bows. Good evening, Mr. Hand.
Robert	Bowing. Good evening, signora! Just imagine, I didn’t know either she was back till I found her here.
Bertha	To both. Did you not come together?
Beatrice	No. I came first. Mr. Rowan was going out. He said you would be back any moment.
Bertha	I’m sorry. If you had written or sent over word by the girl this morning …
Beatrice	Laughs nervously. I arrived only an hour and a half ago. I thought of sending a telegram but it seemed too tragic.
Bertha	Ah? Only now you arrived?
Robert	Extending his arms, blandly. I retire from public and private life. Her first cousin and a journalist, I know nothing of her movements.
Beatrice	Not directly to him. My movements are not very interesting.
Robert	In the same tone. A lady’s movements are always interesting.
Bertha	But sit down, won’t you? You must be very tired.
Beatrice	Quickly. No, not at all. I just came for Archie’s lesson.
Bertha	I wouldn’t hear of such a thing, Miss Justice, after your long journey.
Archie	Suddenly to Beatrice. And, besides, you didn’t bring the music.
Beatrice	A little confused. That I forgot. But we have the old piece.
Robert	Pinching Archie’s* ear.* You little scamp. You want to get off the lesson.
Bertha	O, never mind the lesson. You must sit down and have a cup of tea now. Going towards the door on the right. I’ll tell Brigid.
Archie	I will, mamma. He makes a movement to go.
Beatrice	No, please Mrs. Rowan. Archie! I would really prefer …
Robert	Quietly. I suggest a compromise. Let it be a half-lesson.
Bertha	But she must be exhausted.
Beatrice	Quickly. Not in the least. I was thinking of the lesson in the train.
Robert	To Bertha. You see what it is to have a conscience, Mrs. Rowan.
Archie	Of my lesson, Miss Justice?
Beatrice	Simply. It is ten days since I heard the sound of a piano.
Bertha	O, very well. If that is it …
Robert	Nervously, gaily. Let us have the piano by all means. I know what is in Beatty’s ears at this moment. To Beatrice. Shall I tell?
Beatrice	If you know.
Robert	The buzz of the harmonium in her father’s parlour. To Beatrice. Confess.
Beatrice	Smiling. Yes. I can hear it.
Robert	Grimly. So can I. The asthmatic voice of protestantism.
Bertha	Did you not enjoy yourself down there, Miss Justice?
Robert	Intervenes. She did not, Mrs. Rowan. She goes there on retreat, when the protestant strain in her prevails—gloom, seriousness, righteousness.
Beatrice	I go to see my father.
Robert	Continuing. But she comes back here to my mother, you see. The piano influence is from our side of the house.
Bertha	Hesitating. Well, Miss Justice, if you would like to play something … But please don’t fatigue yourself with Archie.
Robert	Suavely. Do, Beatty. That is what you want.
Beatrice	If Archie will come?
Archie	With a shrug. To listen.
Beatrice	Takes his hand. And a little lesson, too. Very short.
Bertha	Well, afterwards you must stay to tea.
Beatrice	To Archie. Come.
	Beatrice and Archie go out together by the door on the left. Bertha goes towards the davenport, takes off her hat and lays it with her sunshade on the desk. Then taking a key from a little flowervase, she opens a drawer of the davenport, takes out a slip of paper and closes the drawer again. Robert stands watching her.
Bertha	Coming towards him with the paper in her hand. You put this into my hand last night. What does it mean?
Robert	Do you not know?
Bertha	Reads. There is one word which I have never dared to say to you. What is the word?
Robert	That I have a deep liking for you.
	A short pause. The piano is heard faintly from the upper room.
Robert	Takes the bunch of roses from the chair. I brought these for you. Will you take them from me?
Bertha	Taking them. Thank you. She lays them on the table and unfolds the paper again. Why did you not dare to say it last night?
Robert	I could not speak to you or follow you. There were too many people on the lawn. I wanted you to think over it and so I put it into your hand when you were going away.
Bertha	Now you have dared to say it.
Robert	Moves his hand slowly past his eyes. You passed. The avenue was dim with dusky light. I could see the dark green masses of the trees. And you passed beyond them. You were like the moon.
Bertha	Laughs. Why like the moon?
Robert	In that dress, with your slim body, walking with little even steps. I saw the moon passing in the dusk till you passed and left my sight.
Bertha	Did you think of me last night?
Robert	Comes nearer. I think of you always—as something beautiful and distant—the moon or some deep music.
Bertha	Smiling. And last night which was I?
Robert	I was awake half the night. I could hear your voice. I could see your face in the dark. Your eyes … I want to speak to you. Will you listen to me? May I speak?
Bertha	Sitting down. You may.
Robert	Sitting beside her. Are you annoyed with me?
Bertha	No.
Robert	I thought you were. You put away my poor flowers so quickly.
Bertha	Takes them from the table and holds them close to her face. Is this what you wish me to do with them?
Robert	Watching her. Your face is a flower too—but more beautiful. A wild flower blowing in a hedge. Moving his chair closer to her. Why are you smiling? At my words?
Bertha	Laying the flowers in her lap. I am wondering if that is what you say—to the others.
Robert	Surprised. What others?
Bertha	The other women. I hear you have so many admirers.
Robert	Involuntarily. And that is why you too … ?
Bertha	But you have, haven’t you?
Robert	Friends, yes.
Bertha	Do you speak to them in the same way?
Robert	In an offended tone. How can you ask me such a question? What kind of person do you think I am? Or why do you listen to me? Did you not like me to speak to you in that way?
Bertha	What you said was very kind. She looks at him for a moment. Thank you for saying it—and thinking it.
Robert	Leaning forward. Bertha!
Bertha	Yes?
Robert	I have the right to call you by your name. From old times—nine years ago. We were Bertha—and Robert—then. Can we not be so now, too?
Bertha	Readily. O yes. Why should we not?
Robert	Bertha, you knew. From the very night you landed on Kingstown pier. It all came back to me then. And you knew it. You saw it.
Bertha	No. Not that night.
Robert	When?
Bertha	The night we landed I felt very tired and dirty. Shaking her head. I did not see it in you that night.
Robert	Smiling. Tell me what did you see that night—your very first impression.
Bertha	Knitting her brows. You were standing with your back to the gangway, talking to two ladies.
Robert	To two plain middleaged ladies, yes.
Bertha	I recognized you at once. And I saw that you had got fat.
Robert	Takes her hand. And this poor fat Robert—do you dislike him then so much? Do you disbelieve all he says?
Bertha	I think men speak like that to all women whom they like or admire. What do you want me to believe?
Robert	All men, Bertha?
Bertha	With sudden sadness. I think so.
Robert	I too?
Bertha	Yes, Robert. I think you too.
Robert	All then—without exception? Or with one exception? In a lower tone. Or is he too—Richard too—like us all—in that at least? Or different?
Bertha	Looks into his eyes. Different.
Robert	Are you quite sure, Bertha?
Bertha	A little confused, tries to withdraw her hand. I have answered you.
Robert	Suddenly. Bertha, may I kiss your hand? Let me. May I?
Bertha	If you wish.
	He lifts her hand to his lips slowly. She rises suddenly and listens.
Bertha	Did you hear the garden gate?
Robert	Rising also. No.
	A short pause. The piano can be heard faintly from the upper room.
Robert	Pleading. Do not go away. You must never go away now. Your life is here. I came for that too today—to speak to him—to urge him to accept this position. He must. And you must persuade him to. You have a great influence over him.
Bertha	You want him to remain here.
Robert	Yes.
Bertha	Why?
Robert	For your sake because you are unhappy so far away. For his sake too because he should think of his future.
Bertha	Laughing. Do you remember what he said when you spoke to him last night?
Robert	About … ? Reflecting. Yes. He quoted the Our Father about our daily bread. He said that to take care for the future is to destroy hope and love in the world.
Bertha	Do you not think he is strange?
Robert	In that, yes.
Bertha	A little—mad?
Robert	Comes closer. No. He is not. Perhaps we are. Why, do you … ?
Bertha	Laughs. I ask you because you are intelligent.
Robert	You must not go away. I will not let you.
Bertha	Looks full at him. You?
Robert	Those eyes must not go away. He takes her hands. May I kiss your eyes?
Bertha	Do so.
	He kisses her eyes and then passes his hand over her hair.
Robert	Little Bertha!
Bertha	Smiling. But I am not so little. Why do you call me little?
Robert	Little Bertha! One embrace? He puts his arm around her. Look into my eyes again.
Bertha	Looks. I can see the little gold spots. So many you have.
Robert	Delighted. Your voice! Give me a kiss, a kiss with your mouth.
Bertha	Take it.
Robert	I am afraid. He kisses her mouth and passes his hand many times over her hair. At last I hold you in my arms!
Bertha	And are you satisfied?
Robert	Let me feel your lips touch mine.
Bertha	And then you will be satisfied?
Robert	Murmurs. Your lips, Bertha!
Bertha	Closes her eyes and kisses him quickly. There. Puts her hands on his shoulders. Why don’t you say: thanks?
Robert	Sighs. My life is finished—over.
Bertha	O, don’t speak like that now, Robert.
Robert	Over, over. I want to end it and have done with it.
Bertha	Concerned but lightly. You silly fellow!
Robert	Presses her to him. To end it all—death. To fall from a great high cliff, down, right down into the sea.
Bertha	Please, Robert …
Robert	Listening to music and in the arms of the woman I love—the sea, music and death.
Bertha	Looks at him for a moment. The woman you love?
Robert	Hurriedly. I want to speak to you, Bertha—alone—not here. Will you come?
Bertha	With downcast eyes. I too want to speak to you.
Robert	Tenderly. Yes, dear, I know. He kisses her again. I will speak to you; tell you all; then. I will kiss you, then, long long kisses—when you come to me—long long sweet kisses.
Bertha	Where?
Robert	In the tone of passion. Your eyes. Your lips. All your divine body.
Bertha	Repelling his embrace, confused. I meant where do you wish me to come.
Robert	To my house. Not my mother’s over there. I will write the address for you. Will you come?
Bertha	When?
Robert	Tonight. Between eight and nine. Come. I will wait for you tonight. And every night. You will?
	He kisses her with passion, holding her head between his hands. After a few instants she breaks from him. He sits down.
Bertha	Listening. The gate opened.
Robert	Intensely. I will wait for you.
	He takes the slip from the table. Bertha* moves away from him slowly. Richard comes in from the garden.*
Richard	Advancing, takes off his hat. Good afternoon.
Robert	Rises, with nervous friendliness. Good afternoon, Richard.
Bertha	At the table, taking the roses. Look what lovely roses Mr. Hand brought me.
Robert	I am afraid they are overblown.
Richard	Suddenly. Excuse me for a moment, will you?
	He turns and goes into his study quickly. Robert* takes a pencil from his pocket and writes a few words on the slip; then hands it quickly to Bertha.*
Robert	Rapidly. The address. Take the tram at Lansdowne Road and ask to be let down near there.
Bertha	Takes it. I promise nothing.
Robert	I will wait.
	Richard comes back from the study.
Bertha	Going. I must put these roses in water.
Richard	Handing her his hat. Yes, do. And please put my hat on the rack.
Bertha	Takes it. So I will leave you to yourselves for your talk. Looking round. Do you want anything? Cigarettes?
Richard	Thanks. We have them here.
Bertha	Then I can go?
	She goes out on the left with Richard’s hat, which she leaves in the hall, and returns at once; she stops for a moment at the davenport, replaces the slip in the drawer, locks it, and replaces the key, and, taking the roses, goes towards the right. Robert precedes her to open the door for her. She bows and goes out.
Richard	Points to the chair near the little table on the right. Your place of honour.
Robert	Sits down. Thanks. Passing his hand over his brow. Good Lord, how warm it is today! The heat pains me here in the eye. The glare.
Richard	The room is rather dark, I think, with the blind down but if you wish …
Robert	Quickly. Not at all. I know what it is—the result of night work.
Richard	Sits on the lounge. Must you?
Robert	Sighs. Eh, yes. I must see part of the paper through every night. And then my leading articles. We are approaching a difficult moment. And not only here.
Richard	After a slight pause. Have you any news?
Robert	In a different voice. Yes. I want to speak to you seriously. Today may be an important day for you—or rather, tonight. I saw the vicechancellor this morning. He has the highest opinion of you, Richard. He has read your book, he said.
Richard	Did he buy it or borrow it?
Robert	Bought it, I hope.
Richard	I shall smoke a cigarette. Thirtyseven copies have now been sold in Dublin.
	He takes a cigarette from the box on the table, and lights it.
Robert	Suavely, hopelessly. Well, the matter is closed for the present. You have your iron mask on today.
Richard	Smoking. Let me hear the rest.
Robert	Again seriously. Richard, you are too suspicious. It is a defect in you. He assured me he has the highest possible opinion of you, as everyone has. You are the man for the post, he says. In fact, he told me that, if your name goes forward, he will work might and main for you with the senate and I … will do my part, of course, in the press and privately. I regard it as a public duty. The chair of romance literature is yours by right, as a scholar, as a literary personality.
Richard	The conditions?
Robert	Conditions? You mean about the future?
Richard	I mean about the past.
Robert	Easily. That episode in your past is forgotten. An act of impulse. We are all impulsive.
Richard	Looks fixedly at him. You called it an act of folly, then—nine years ago. You told me I was hanging a weight about my neck.
Robert	I was wrong. Suavely. Here is how the matter stands, Richard. Everyone knows that you ran away years ago with a young girl … How shall I put it? … with a young girl not exactly your equal. Kindly. Excuse me, Richard, that is not my opinion nor my language. I am simply using the language of people whose opinions I don’t share.
Richard	Writing one of your leading articles, in fact.
Robert	Put it so. Well, it made a great sensation at the time. A mysterious disappearance. My name was involved too, as best man, let us say, on that famous occasion. Of course, they think I acted from a mistaken sense of friendship. Well, all that is known. With some hesitation. But what happened afterwards is not known.
Richard	No?
Robert	Of course, it is your affair, Richard. However, you are not so young now as you were then. The expression is quite in the style of my leading articles, isn’t it?
Richard	Do you, or do you not, want me to give the lie to my past life?
Robert	I am thinking of your future life—here. I understand your pride and your sense of liberty. I understand their point of view also. However, there is a way out; it is simply this. Refrain from contradicting any rumours you may hear concerning what happened … or did not happen after you went away. Leave the rest to me.
Richard	You will set these rumours afloat?
Robert	I will. God help me.
Richard	Observing him. For the sake of social conventions?
Robert	For the sake of something else too—our friendship, our lifelong friendship.
Richard	Thanks.
Robert	Slightly wounded. And I will tell you the whole truth.
Richard	Smiles and bows. Yes. Do, please.
Robert	Not only for your sake. Also for the sake of—your present partner in life.
Richard	I see.
	He crushes his cigarette softly on the ashtray and then leans forward, rubbing his hands slowly.
Richard	Why for her sake?
Robert	Also leans forward, quietly. Richard, have you been quite fair to her? It was her own free choice, you will say. But was she really free to choose? She was a mere girl. She accepted all that you proposed.
Richard	Smiles. That is your way of saying that she proposed what I would not accept.
Robert	Nods. I remember. And she went away with you. But was it of her own free choice? Answer me frankly.
Richard	Turns to him, calmly. I played for her against all that you say or can say; and I won.
Robert	Nodding again. Yes, you won.
Richard	Rises. Excuse me for forgetting. Will you have some whisky?
Robert	All things come to those who wait.
	Richard goes to the sideboard and brings a small tray with the decanter and glasses to the table where he sets it down.
Richard	Sits down again, leaning back on the lounge. Will you please help yourself?
Robert	Does so. And you? Steadfast? Richard shakes his head. Lord, when I think of our wild nights long ago—talks by the hour, plans, carouses, revelry …
Richard	In our house.
Robert	It is mine now. I have kept it ever since though I don’t go there often. Whenever you like to come let me know. You must come some night. It will be old times again. He lifts his glass and drinks. Prosit!
Richard	It was not only a house of revelry; it was to be the hearth of a new life. Musing. And in that name all our sins were committed.
Robert	Sins! Drinking and blasphemy he points by me. And drinking and heresy, much worse he points again by you—are those the sins you mean?
Richard	And some others.
Robert	Lightly, uneasily. You mean the women. I have no remorse of conscience. Maybe you have. We had two keys on those occasions. Maliciously. Have you?
Richard	Irritated. For you it was all quite natural?
Robert	For me it is quite natural to kiss a woman whom I like. Why not? She is beautiful for me.
Richard	Toying with the lounge cushion. Do you kiss everything that is beautiful for you?
Robert	Everything—if it can be kissed. He takes up a flat stone which lies on the table. This stone, for instance. It is so cool, so polished, so delicate, like a woman’s temple. It is silent, it suffers our passion; and it is beautiful. He places it against his lips. And so I kiss it because it is beautiful. And what is a woman? A work of nature, too, like a stone or a flower or a bird. A kiss is an act of homage.
Richard	It is an act of union between man and woman. Even if we are often led to desire through the sense of beauty can you say that the beautiful is what we desire?
Robert	Pressing the stone to his forehead. You will give me a headache if you make me think today. I cannot think today. I feel too natural, too common. After all, what is most attractive in even the most beautiful woman?
Richard	What?
Robert	Not those qualities which she has and other women have not but the qualities which she has in common with them. I mean … the commonest. Turning over the stone, he presses the other side to his forehead. I mean how her body develops heat when it is pressed, the movement of her blood, how quickly she changes by digestion what she eats into—what shall be nameless. Laughing. I am very common today. Perhaps that idea never struck you?
Richard	Drily. Many ideas strike a man who has lived nine years with a woman.
Robert	Yes. I suppose they do. … This beautiful cool stone does me good. Is it a paperweight or a cure for headache?
Richard	Bertha brought it home one day from the strand. She, too, says that it is beautiful.
Robert	Lays down the stone quietly. She is right.
	He raises his glass and drinks. A pause.
Richard	Is that all you wanted to say to me?
Robert	Quickly. There is something else. The vicechancellor sends you, through me, an invitation for tonight—to dinner at his house. You know where he lives? Richard nods. I thought you might have forgotten. Strictly private, of course. He wants to meet you again and sends you a very warm invitation.
Richard	For what hour?
Robert	Eight. But, like yourself, he is free and easy about time. Now, Richard, you must go there. That is all. I feel tonight will be the turningpoint in your life. You will live here and work here and think here and be honoured here—among our people.
Richard	Smiling. I can almost see two envoys starting for the United States to collect funds for my statue a hundred years hence.
Robert	Agreeably. Once I made a little epigram about statues. All statues are of two kinds. He folds his arms across his chest. The statue which says: How shall I get down? and the other kind he unfolds his arms and extends his right arm, averting his head the statue which says: In my time the dunghill was so high.
Richard	The second one for me, please.
Robert	Lazily. Will you give me one of those long cigars of yours?
	Richard selects a Virginia cigar from the box on the table and hands it to him with the straw drawn out.
Robert	Lighting it. These cigars Europeanize me. If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European. And that is what you are here for, Richard. Some day we shall have to choose between England and Europe. I am a descendant of the dark foreigners: that is why I like to be here. I may be childish. But where else in Dublin can I get a bandit cigar like this or a cup of black coffee? The man who drinks black coffee is going to conquer Ireland. And now I will take just a half measure of that whisky, Richard, to show you there is no ill feeling.
Richard	Points. Help yourself.
Robert	Does so. Thanks. He drinks and goes on as before. Then you yourself, the way you loll on that lounge: then your boy’s voice and also—Bertha herself. Do you allow me to call her that, Richard? I mean as an old friend of both of you.
Richard	O why not?
Robert	With animation. You have that fierce indignation which lacerated the heart of Swift. You have fallen from a higher world, Richard, and you are filled with fierce indignation, when you find that life is cowardly and ignoble. While I … shall I tell you?
Richard	By all means.
Robert	Archly. I have come up from a lower world and I am filled with astonishment when I find that people have any redeeming virtue at all.
Richard	Sits up suddenly and leans his elbows on the table. You are my friend, then?
Robert	Gravely. I fought for you all the time you were away. I fought to bring you back. I fought to keep your place for you here. I will fight for you still because I have faith in you, the faith of a disciple in his master. I cannot say more than that. It may seem strange to you … Give me a match.
Richard	Lights and offers him a match. There is a faith still stranger than the faith of the disciple in his master.
Robert	And that is?
Richard	The faith of a master in the disciple who will betray him.
Robert	The church lost a theologian in you, Richard. But I think you look too deeply into life. He rises, pressing Richard’s* arm slightly.* Be gay. Life is not worth it.
Richard	Without rising. Are you going?
Robert	Must. He turns and says in a friendly tone. Then it is all arranged. We meet tonight at the vicechancellor’s. I shall look in at about ten. So you can have an hour or so to yourselves first. You will wait till I come?
Richard	Good.
Robert	One more match and I am happy.
	Richard strikes another match, hands it to him and rises also. Archie comes in by the door on the left, followed by Beatrice.
Robert	Congratulate me, Beatty. I have won over Richard.
Archie	Crossing to the door on the right, calls. Mamma, Miss Justice is going.
Beatrice	On what are you to be congratulated?
Robert	On a victory, of course. Laying his hand lightly on Richard’s* shoulder.* The descendant of Archibald Hamilton Rowan has come home.
Richard	I am not a descendant of Hamilton Rowan.
Robert	What matter?
	Bertha comes in from the right with a bowl of roses.
Beatrice	Has Mr. Rowan … ?
Robert	Turning towards Bertha. Richard is coming tonight to the vicechancellor’s dinner. The fatted calf will be eaten: roast, I hope. And next session will see the descendant of a namesake of etcetera, etcetera in a chair of the university. He offers his hand. Good afternoon, Richard. We shall meet tonight.
Richard	Touches his hand. At Philippi.
Beatrice	Shakes hands also. Accept my best wishes, Mr. Rowan.
Richard	Thanks. But do not believe him.
Robert	Vivaciously. Believe me, believe me. To Bertha. Good afternoon, Mrs. Rowan.
Bertha	Shaking hands, candidly. I thank you, too. To Beatrice. You won’t stay to tea, Miss Justice?
Beatrice	No, thank you. Takes leave of her. I must go. Good afternoon. Goodbye, Archie going.
Robert	Addio, Archibald.
Archie	Addio.
Robert	Wait, Beatty. I shall accompany you.
Beatrice	Going out on the right with Bertha. O, don’t trouble.
Robert	Following her. But I insist—as a cousin.
	Bertha, Beatrice and Robert go out by the door on the left. Richard stands irresolutely near the table. Archie closes the door leading to the hall and, coming over to him, plucks him by the sleeve.
Archie	I say, pappie!
Richard	Absently. What is it?
Archie	I want to ask you a thing.
Richard	Sitting on the end of the lounge, stares in front of him. What is it?
Archie	Will you ask mamma to let me go out in the morning with the milkman?
Richard	With the milkman?
Archie	Yes. In the milkcar. He says he will let me drive when we get on to the roads where there are no people. The horse is a very good beast. Can I go?
Richard	Yes.
Archie	Ask mamma now can I go. Will you?
Richard	Glances towards the door. I will.
Archie	He said he will show me the cows he has in the field. Do you know how many cows he has?
Richard	How many?
Archie	Eleven. Eight red and three white. But one is sick now. No, not sick. But it fell.
Richard	Cows?
Archie	With a gesture. Eh! Not bulls. Because bulls give no milk. Eleven cows. They must give a lot of milk. What makes a cow give milk?
Richard	Takes his hand. Who knows? Do you understand what it is to give a thing?
Archie	To give? Yes.
Richard	While you have a thing it can be taken from you.
Archie	By robbers? No?
Richard	But when you give it, you have given it. No robber can take it from you. He bends his head and presses his son’s hand against his cheek. It is yours then forever when you have given it. It will be yours always. That is to give.
Archie	But, pappie?
Richard	Yes?
Archie	How could a robber rob a cow? Everyone would see him. In the night, perhaps.
Richard	In the night, yes.
Archie	Are there robbers here like in Rome?
Richard	There are poor people everywhere.
Archie	Have they revolvers?
Richard	No.
Archie	Knives? Have they knives?
Richard	Sternly. Yes, yes. Knives and revolvers.
Archie	Disengages himself. Ask mamma now. She is coming.
Richard	Makes a movement to rise. I will.
Archie	No, sit there, pappie. You wait and ask her when she comes back. I won’t be here. I’ll be in the garden.
Richard	Sinking back again. Yes. Go.
Archie	Kisses him swiftly. Thanks.
	He runs out quickly by the door at the back leading into the garden. Bertha enters by the door on the left. She approaches the table and stands beside it, fingering the petals of the roses, looking at Richard.
Richard	Watching her. Well?
Bertha	Absently. Well. He says he likes me.
Richard	Leans his chin in his hand. You showed him his note?
Bertha	Yes. I asked him what it meant.
Richard	What did he say it meant?
Bertha	He said I must know. I said I had an idea. Then he told me he liked me very much. That I was beautiful—and all that.
Richard	Since when!
Bertha	Again absently. Since when—what?
Richard	Since when did he say he liked you?
Bertha	Always, he said. But more since we came back. He said I was like the moon in this lavender dress. Looking at him. Had you any words with him—about me?
Richard	Blandly. The usual thing. Not about you.
Bertha	He was very nervous. You saw that?
Richard	Yes. I saw it. What else went on?
Bertha	He asked me to give him my hand.
Richard	Smiling. In marriage?
Bertha	Smiling. No, only to hold.
Richard	Did you?
Bertha	Yes. Tearing off a few petals. Then he caressed my hand and asked would I let him kiss it. I let him.
Richard	Well?
Bertha	Then he asked could he embrace me—even once? … And then …
Richard	And then?
Bertha	He put his arm round me.
Richard	Stares at the floor for a moment, then looks at her again. And then?
Bertha	He said I had beautiful eyes. And asked could he kiss them. With a gesture. I said: Do so.
Richard	And he did?
Bertha	Yes. First one and then the other. She breaks off suddenly. Tell me, Dick, does all this disturb you? Because I told you I don’t want that. I think you are only pretending you don’t mind. I don’t mind.
Richard	Quietly. I know, dear. But I want to find out what he means or feels just as you do.
Bertha	Points at him. Remember, you allowed me to go on. I told you the whole thing from the beginning.
Richard	As before. I know, dear … And then?
Bertha	He asked for a kiss. I said: Take it.
Richard	And then?
Bertha	Crumpling a handful of petals. He kissed me.
Richard	Your mouth?
Bertha	Once or twice.
Richard	Long kisses?
Bertha	Fairly long. Reflects. Yes, the last time.
Richard	Rubs his hands slowly; then. With his lips? Or … the other way?
Bertha	Yes, the last time.
Richard	Did he ask you to kiss him?
Bertha	He did.
Richard	Did you?
Bertha	Hesitates, then looking straight at him. I did. I kissed him.
Richard	What way?
Bertha	With a shrug. O simply.
Richard	Were you excited?
Bertha	Well, you can imagine. Frowning suddenly. Not much. He has not nice lips … Still I was excited, of course. But not like with you, Dick.
Richard	Was he?
Bertha	Excited? Yes, I think he was. He sighed. He was dreadfully nervous.
Richard	Resting his forehead on his hand. I see.
Bertha	Crosses towards the lounge and stands near him. Are you jealous?
Richard	As before. No.
Bertha	Quietly. You are, Dick.
Richard	I am not. Jealous of what?
Bertha	Because he kissed me.
Richard	Looks up. Is that all?
Bertha	Yes, that’s all. Except that he asked me would I meet him.
Richard	Out somewhere?
Bertha	No. In his house.
Richard	Surprised. Over there with his mother, is it?
Bertha	No, a house he has. He wrote the address for me.
	She goes to the desk, takes the key from the flower vase, unlocks the drawer and returns to him with the slip of paper.
Richard	Half to himself. Our cottage.
Bertha	Hands him the slip. Here.
Richard	Reads it. Yes. Our cottage.
Bertha	Your … ?
Richard	No, his. I call it ours. Looking at her. The cottage I told you about so often—that we had the two keys for, he and I. It is his now. Where we used to hold our wild nights, talking, drinking, planning—at that time. Wild nights; yes. He and I together. He throws the slip on the couch and rises suddenly. And sometimes I alone. Stares at her. But not quite alone. I told you. You remember?
Bertha	Shocked. That place?
Richard	Walks away from her a few paces and stands still, thinking, holding his chin. Yes.
Bertha	Taking up the slip again. Where is it?
Richard	Do you not know?
Bertha	He told me to take the tram at Lansdowne Road and to ask the man to let me down there. Is it … is it a bad place?
Richard	O no, cottages. He returns to the lounge and sits down. What answer did you give?
Bertha	No answer. He said he would wait.
Richard	Tonight?
Bertha	Every night, he said. Between eight and nine.
Richard	And so I am to go tonight to interview—the professor. About the appointment I am to beg for. Looking at her. The interview is arranged for tonight by him—between eight and nine. Curious, isn’t it? The same hour.
Bertha	Very.
Richard	Did he ask you had I any suspicion?
Bertha	No.
Richard	Did he mention my name?
Bertha	No.
Richard	Not once?
Bertha	Not that I remember.
Richard	Bounding to his feet. O yes! Quite clear!
Bertha	What?
Richard	Striding to and fro. A liar, a thief, and a fool! Quite clear! A common thief! What else? With a harsh laugh. My great friend! A patriot too! A thief—nothing else! He halts, thrusting his hands into his pockets. But a fool also!
Bertha	Looking at him. What are you going to do?
Richard	Shortly. Follow him. Find him. Tell him. Calmly. A few words will do. Thief and fool.
Bertha	Flings the slip on the couch. I see it all!
Richard	Turning. Eh!
Bertha	Hotly. The work of a devil.
Richard	He?
Bertha	Turning on him. No, you! The work of a devil to turn him against me as you tried to turn my own child against me. Only you did not succeed.
Richard	How? In God’s name, how?
Bertha	Excitedly. Yes, yes. What I say. Everyone saw it. Whenever I tried to correct him for the least thing you went on with your folly, speaking to him as if he were a grown-up man. Ruining the poor child, or trying to. Then, of course, I was the cruel mother and only you loved him. With growing excitement. But you did not turn him against me—against his own mother. Because why? Because the child has too much nature in him.
Richard	I never tried to do such a thing, Bertha. You know I cannot be severe with a child.
Bertha	Because you never loved your own mother. A mother is always a mother, no matter what. I never heard of any human being that did not love the mother that brought him into the world, except you.
Richard	Approaching her quietly. Bertha, do not say things you will be sorry for. Are you not glad my son is fond of me?
Bertha	Who taught him to be? Who taught him to run to meet you? Who told him you would bring him home toys when you were out on your rambles in the rain, forgetting all about him—and me? I did. I taught him to love you.
Richard	Yes, dear. I know it was you.
Bertha	Almost crying. And then you try to turn everyone against me. All is to be for you. I am to appear false and cruel to everyone except to you. Because you take advantage of my simplicity as you did—the first time.
Richard	Violently. And you have the courage to say that to me?
Bertha	Facing him. Yes, I have! Both then and now. Because I am simple you think you can do what you like with me. Gesticulating. Follow him now. Call him names. Make him be humble before you and make him despise me. Follow him!
Richard	Controlling himself. You forget that I have allowed you complete liberty—and allow you it still.
Bertha	Scornfully. Liberty!
Richard	Yes, complete. But he must know that I know. More calmly. I will speak to him quietly. Appealing. Bertha, believe me, dear! It is not jealousy. You have complete liberty to do as you wish—you and he. But not in this way. He will not despise you. You don’t wish to deceive me or to pretend to deceive me—with him, do you?
Bertha	No, I do not. Looking full at him. Which of us two is the deceiver?
Richard	Of us? You and me?
Bertha	In a calm decided tone. I know why you have allowed me what you call complete liberty.
Richard	Why?
Bertha	To have complete liberty with—that girl.
Richard	Irritated. But, good God, you knew about that this long time. I never hid it.
Bertha	You did. I thought it was a kind of friendship between you—till we came back, and then I saw.
Richard	So it is, Bertha.
Bertha	Shakes her head. No, no. It is much more; and that is why you give me complete liberty. All those things you sit up at night to write about pointing to the study in there—about her. You call that friendship?
Richard	Believe me, Bertha dear. Believe me as I believe you.
Bertha	With an impulsive gesture. My God, I feel it! I know it! What else is between you but love?
Richard	Calmly. You are trying to put that idea into my head but I warn you that I don’t take my ideas from other people.
Bertha	Hotly. It is, it is! And that is why you allow him to go on. Of course! It doesn’t affect you. You love her.
Richard	Love! Throws out his hands with a sigh and moves away from her. I cannot argue with you.
Bertha	You can’t because I am right. Following him a few steps. What would anyone say?
Richard	Turns to her. Do you think I care?
Bertha	But I care. What would he say if he knew? You, who talk so much of the high kind of feeling you have for me, expressing yourself in that way to another woman. If he did it, or other men, I could understand because they are false pretenders. But you, Dick! Why do you not tell him then?
Richard	You can if you like.
Bertha	I will. Certainly I will.
Richard	Coolly. He will explain it to you.
Bertha	He doesn’t say one thing and do another. He is honest in his own way.
Richard	Plucks one of the roses and throws it at her feet. He is, indeed! The soul of honour!
Bertha	You may make fun of him as much as you like. I understand more than you think about that business. And so will he. Writing those long letters to her for years, and she to you. For years. But since I came back I understand it—well.
Richard	You do not. Nor would he.
Bertha	Laughs scornfully. Of course. Neither he nor I can understand it. Only she can. Because it is such a deep thing!
Richard	Angrily. Neither he nor you—nor she either! Not one of you!
Bertha	With great bitterness. She will! She will understand it! The diseased woman!
	She turns away and walks over to the little table on the right. Richard* restrains a sudden gesture. A short pause.*
Richard	Gravely. Bertha, take care of uttering words like that!
Bertha	Turning, excitedly. I don’t mean any harm! I feel for her more than you can because I am a woman. I do, sincerely. But what I say is true.
Richard	Is it generous? Think.
Bertha	Pointing towards the garden. It is she who is not generous. Remember now what I say.
Richard	What?
Bertha	Comes nearer; in a calmer tone. You have given that woman very much, Dick. And she may be worthy of it. And she may understand it all, too. I know she is that kind.
Richard	Do you believe that?
Bertha	I do. But I believe you will get very little from her in return—or from any of her clan. Remember my words, Dick. Because she is not generous and they are not generous. Is it all wrong what I am saying? Is it?
Richard	Darkly. No. Not all.
	She stoops and, picking up the rose from the floor, places it in the vase again. He watches her. Brigid* appears at the folding doors on the right.*
Brigid	The tea is on the table, ma’am.
Bertha	Very well.
Brigid	Is Master Archie in the garden?
Bertha	Yes. Call him in.
	Brigid crosses the room and goes out into the garden. Bertha goes towards the doors on the right. At the lounge she stops and takes up the slip.
Brigid	In the garden. Master Archie! You are to come in to your tea.
Bertha	Am I to go to this place?
Richard	Do you want to go?
Bertha	I want to find out what he means. Am I to go?
Richard	Why do you ask me? Decide yourself.
Bertha	Do you tell me to go?
Richard	No.
Bertha	Do you forbid me to go?
Richard	No.
Brigid	From the garden. Come quickly, Master Archie! Your tea is waiting on you.
	Brigid crosses the room and goes out through the folding doors. Bertha folds the slip into the waist of her dress and goes slowly towards the right. Near the door she turns and halts.
Bertha	Tell me not to go and I will not.
Richard	Without looking at her. Decide yourself.
Bertha	Will you blame me then?
Richard	Excitedly. No, no! I will not blame you. You are free. I cannot blame you.
	Archie appears at the garden door.
Bertha	I did not deceive you.
	She goes out through the folding doors. Richard* remains standing at the table. Archie, when his mother has gone, runs down to Richard.*
Archie	Quickly. Well, did you ask her?
Richard	Starting. What?
Archie	Can I go?
Richard	Yes.
Archie	In the morning? She said yes?
Richard	Yes. In the morning.
	He puts his arm round his son’s shoulders and looks down at him fondly.

Second Act

A room in Robert Hand’s cottage at Ranelagh. On the right, forward, a small black piano, on the rest of which is an open piece of music. Farther back a door leading to the street door. In the wall, at the back, folding doors, draped with dark curtains, leading to a bedroom. Near the piano a large table, on which is a tall oil lamp with a wide yellow shade. Chairs, upholstered, near this table. A small cardtable more forward. Against the back wall a bookcase. In the left wall, back, a window looking out into the garden, and, forward, a door and porch, also leading to the garden. Easychairs here and there. Plants in the porch and near the draped folding doors. On the walls are many framed black and white designs. In the right corner, back, a sideboard; and in the centre of the room, left of the table, a group consisting of a standing Turkish pipe, a low oil stove, which is not lit, and a rocking-chair. It is the evening of the same day.

	Robert Hand, in evening dress, is seated at the piano. The candles are not lit but the lamp on the table is lit. He plays softly in the bass the first bars of Wolfram’s song in the last act of Tannhäuser. Then he breaks off and, resting an elbow on the ledge of the keyboard, meditates. Then he rises and, pulling out a pump from behind the piano, walks here and there in the room ejecting from it into the air sprays of perfume. He inhales the air slowly and then puts the pump back behind the piano. He sits down on a chair near the table and, smoothing his hair carefully, sighs once or twice. Then, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he leans back, stretches out his legs, and waits. A knock is heard at the street door. He rises quickly.
Robert	Exclaims. Bertha!
	He hurries out by the door on the right. There is a noise of confused greeting. After a few moments Robert enters, followed by Richard Rowan, who is in grey tweeds as before but holds in one hand a dark felt hat and in the other an umbrella.
Robert	First of all let me put these outside.
	He takes the hat and umbrella, leaves them in the hall and returns.
Robert	Pulling round a chair. Here you are. You are lucky to find me in. Why didn’t you tell me today? You were always a devil for surprises. I suppose my evocation of the past was too much for your wild blood. See how artistic I have become. He points to the walls. The piano is an addition since your time. I was just strumming out Wagner when you came. Killing time. You see I am ready for the fray. Laughs. I was just wondering how you and the vicechancellor were getting on together. With exaggerated alarm. But are you going in that suit? O well, it doesn’t make much odds, I suppose. But how goes the time? He takes out his watch. Twenty past eight already, I declare!
Richard	Have you an appointment?
Robert	Laughs nervously. Suspicious to the last!
Richard	Then I may sit down?
Robert	Of course, of course. They both sit down. For a few minutes, anyhow. Then we can both go on together. We are not bound for time. Between eight and nine, he said, didn’t he? What time is it, I wonder? Is about to look again at his watch; then stops. Twenty past eight, yes.
Richard	Wearily, sadly. Your appointment also was for the same hour. Here.
Robert	What appointment?
Richard	With Bertha.
Robert	Stares at him. Are you mad?
Richard	Are you?
Robert	After a long pause. Who told you?
Richard	She.
	A short silence.
Robert	In a low voice. Yes. I must have been mad. Rapidly. Listen to me, Richard. It is a great relief to me that you have come—the greatest relief. I assure you that ever since this afternoon I have thought and thought how I could break it off without seeming a fool. A great relief! I even intended to send word … a letter, a few lines. Suddenly. But then it was too late … Passes his hand over his forehead. Let me speak frankly with you; let me tell you everything.
Richard	I know everything. I have known for some time.
Robert	Since when?
Richard	Since it began between you and her.
Robert	Again rapidly. Yes, I was mad. But it was merely lightheadedness. I admit that to have asked her here this evening was a mistake. I can explain everything to you. And I will. Truly.
Richard	Explain to me what is the word you longed and never dared to say to her. If you can or will.
Robert	Looks down, then raises his head. Yes. I will. I admire very much the personality of your … of … your wife. That is the word. I can say it. It is no secret.
Richard	Then why did you wish to keep secret your wooing?
Robert	Wooing?
Richard	Your advances to her, little by little, day after day, looks, whispers. With a nervous movement of the hands. Insomma, wooing.
Robert	Bewildered. But how do you know all this?
Richard	She told me.
Robert	This afternoon?
Richard	No. Time after time, as it happened.
Robert	You knew? From her? Richard nods. You were watching us all the time?
Richard	Very coldly. I was watching you.
Robert	Quickly. I mean, watching me. And you never spoke! You had only to speak a word—to save me from myself. You were trying me. Passes his hand again over his forehead. It was a terrible trial: now also. Desperately. Well, it is past. It will be a lesson to me for all my life. You hate me now for what I have done and for …
Richard	Quietly, looking at him. Have I said that I hate you?
Robert	Do you not? You must.
Richard	Even if Bertha had not told me I should have known. Did you not see that when I came in this afternoon I went into my study suddenly for a moment?
Robert	You did. I remember.
Richard	To give you time to recover yourself. It made me sad to see your eyes. And the roses too. I cannot say why. A great mass of overblown roses.
Robert	I thought I had to give them. Was that strange? Looks at Richard* with a tortured expression.* Too many, perhaps? Or too old or common?
Richard	That was why I did not hate you. The whole thing made me sad all at once.
Robert	To himself. And this is real. It is happening—to us.
	He stares before him for some moments in silence, as if dazed; then, without turning his head, continues.
Robert	And she, too, was trying me; making an experiment with me for your sake!
Richard	You know women better than I do. She says she felt pity for you.
Robert	Brooding. Pitied me, because I am no longer … an ideal lover. Like my roses. Common, old.
Richard	Like all men you have a foolish wandering heart.
Robert	Slowly. Well, you spoke at last. You chose the right moment.
Richard	Leans forward. Robert, not like this. For us two, no. Years, a whole life, of friendship. Think a moment. Since childhood, boyhood … No, no. Not in such a way—like thieves—at night. Glancing about him. And in such a place. No, Robert, that is not for people like us.
Robert	What a lesson! Richard, I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me that you have spoken—that the danger is passed. Yes, yes. Somewhat diffidently. Because … there was some danger for you, too, if you think. Was there not?
Richard	What danger?
Robert	In the same tone. I don’t know. I mean if you had not spoken. If you had watched and waited on until …
Richard	Until?
Robert	Bravely. Until I had come to like her more and more (because I can assure you it is only a lightheaded idea of mine), to like her deeply, to love her. Would you have spoken to me then as you have just now? Richard is silent. Robert goes on more boldly. It would have been different, would it not? For then it might have been too late while it is not too late now. What could I have said then? I could have said only: You are my friend, my dear good friend. I am very sorry but I love her. With a sudden fervent gesture. I love her and I will take her from you, however I can, because I love her.
	They look at each other for some moments in silence.
Richard	Calmly. That is the language I have heard often and never believed in. Do you mean by stealth or by violence? Steal you could not in my house because the doors were open; nor take by violence if there were no resistance.
Robert	You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
Richard	Smiling. Go on.
Robert	Diffidently, but bravely. Do you think you have rights over her—over her heart?
Richard	None.
Robert	For what you have done for her? So much! You claim nothing?
Richard	Nothing.
Robert	After a pause strikes his forehead with his hand. What am I saying? Or what am I thinking? I wish you would upbraid me, curse me, hate me as I deserve. You love this woman. I remember all you told me long ago. She is yours, your work. Suddenly. And that is why I, too, was drawn to her. You are so strong that you attract me even through her.
Richard	I am weak.
Robert	With enthusiasm. You, Richard! You are the incarnation of strength.
Richard	Holds out his hands. Feel those hands.
Robert	Taking his hands. Yes. Mine are stronger. But I meant strength of another kind.
Richard	Gloomily. I think you would try to take her by violence.
	He withdraws his hands slowly.
Robert	Rapidly. Those are moments of sheer madness when we feel an intense passion for a woman. We see nothing. We think of nothing. Only to possess her. Call it brutal, bestial, what you will.
Richard	A little timidly. I am afraid that that longing to possess a woman is not love.
Robert	Impatiently. No man ever yet lived on this earth who did not long to possess—I mean to possess in the flesh—the woman whom he loves. It is nature’s law.
Richard	Contemptuously. What is that to me? Did I vote it?
Robert	But if you love … What else is it?
Richard	Hesitatingly. To wish her well.
Robert	Warmly. But the passion which burns us night and day to possess her. You feel it as I do. And it is not what you said now.
Richard	Have you … ? He stops for an instance. Have you the luminous certitude that yours is the brain in contact with which she must think and understand and that yours is the body in contact with which her body must feel? Have you this certitude in yourself?
Robert	Have you?
Richard	Moved. Once I had it, Robert: a certitude as luminous as that of my own existence—or an illusion as luminous.
Robert	Cautiously. And now?
Richard	If you had it and I could feel that you had it—even now …
Robert	What would you do?
Richard	Quietly. Go away. You, and not I, would be necessary to her. Alone as I was before I met her.
Robert	Rubs his hands nervously. A nice little load on my conscience!
Richard	Abstractedly. You met my son when you came to my house this afternoon. He told me. What did you feel?
Robert	Promptly. Pleasure.
Richard	Nothing else?
Robert	Nothing else. Unless I thought of two things at the same time. I am like that. If my best friend lay in his coffin and his face had a comic expression I should smile. With a little gesture of despair. I am like that. But I should suffer too, deeply.
Richard	You spoke of conscience … Did he seem to you a child only—or an angel?
Robert	Shakes his head. No. Neither an angel nor an Anglo-Saxon. Two things, by the way, for which I have very little sympathy.
Richard	Never then? Never even … with her? Tell me. I wish to know.
Robert	I feel in my heart something different. I believe that on the last day (if it ever comes), when we are all assembled together, that the Almighty will speak to us like this. We will say that we lived chastely with one other creature …
Richard	Bitterly. Lie to Him?
Robert	Or that we tried to. And He will say to us: Fools! Who told you that you were to give yourselves to one being only? You were made to give yourselves to many freely. I wrote that law with My finger on your hearts.
Richard	On woman’s heart, too?
Robert	Yes. Can we close our heart against an affection which we feel deeply? Should we close it? Should she?
Richard	We are speaking of bodily union.
Robert	Affection between man and woman must come to that. We think too much of it because our minds are warped. For us today it is of no more consequence than any other form of contact—than a kiss.
Richard	If it is of no consequence why are you dissatisfied till you reach that end? Why were you waiting here tonight?
Robert	Passion tends to go as far as it can; but, you may believe me or not, I had not that in my mind—to reach that end.
Richard	Reach it if you can. I will use no arm against you that the world puts in my hand. If the law which God’s finger has written on our hearts is the law you say I too am God’s creature.
	He rises and paces to and fro some moments in silence. Then he goes towards the porch and leans against the jamb. Robert* watches him.*
Robert	I always felt it. In myself and in others.
Richard	Absently. Yes?
Robert	With a vague gesture. For all. That a woman, too, has the right to try with many men until she finds love. An immoral idea, is it not? I wanted to write a book about it. I began it …
Richard	As before. Yes?
Robert	Because I knew a woman who seemed to me to be doing that—carrying out that idea in her own life. She interested me very much.
Richard	When was this?
Robert	O, not lately. When you were away.
	Richard leaves his place rather abruptly and again paces to and fro.
Robert	You see, I am more honest than you thought.
Richard	I wish you had not thought of her now—whoever she was, or is.
Robert	Easily. She was and is the wife of a stockbroker.
Richard	Turning. You know him?
Robert	Intimately.
	Richard sits down again in the same place and leans forward, his head on his hands.
Robert	Moving his chair a little closer. May I ask you a question?
Richard	You may.
Robert	With some hesitation. Has it never happened to you in these years—I mean when you were away from her, perhaps, or travelling—to … betray her with another. Betray her, I mean, not in love. Carnally, I mean … Has that never happened?
Richard	It has.
Robert	And what did you do?
Richard	As before. I remember the first time. I came home. It was night. My house was silent. My little son was sleeping in his cot. She, too, was asleep. I wakened her from sleep and told her. I cried beside her bed; and I pierced her heart.
Robert	O, Richard, why did you do that?
Richard	Betray her?
Robert	No. But tell her, waken her from sleep to tell her. It was piercing her heart.
Richard	She must know me as I am.
Robert	But that is not you as you are. A moment of weakness.
Richard	Lost in thought. And I was feeding the flame of her innocence with my guilt.
Robert	Brusquely. O, don’t talk of guilt and innocence. You have made her all that she is. A strange and wonderful personality—in my eyes, at least.
Richard	Darkly. Or I have killed her.
Robert	Killed her?
Richard	The virginity of her soul.
Robert	Impatiently. Well lost! What would she be without you?
Richard	I tried to give her a new life.
Robert	And you have. A new and rich life.
Richard	Is it worth what I have taken from her—her girlhood, her laughter, her young beauty, the hopes in her young heart?
Robert	Firmly. Yes. Well worth it. He looks at Richard* for some moments in silence.* If you had neglected her, lived wildly, brought her away so far only to make her suffer …
	He stops. Richard* raises his head and looks at him.*
Richard	If I had?
Robert	Slightly confused. You know there were rumours here of your life abroad—a wild life. Some persons who knew you or met you or heard of you in Rome. Lying rumours.
Richard	Coldly. Continue.
Robert	Laughs a little harshly. Even I at times thought of her as a victim. Smoothly. And of course, Richard, I felt and knew all the time that you were a man of great talent—of something more than talent. And that was your excuse—a valid one in my eyes.
Richard	Have you thought that it is perhaps now—at this moment—that I am neglecting her? He clasps his hands nervously and leans across toward Robert. I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last—wholly and many times.
Robert	Draws back at once. My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer.
Richard	Continuing. You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit.
Robert	Eagerly. A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proceeds, the eternal law of nature herself.
Richard	And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious?
Robert	That will never be. Never.
Richard	And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both?
Robert	Gravely. It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that.
Richard	Contemptuously. I care very little whether it is or not because there is something I fear much more.
Robert	Shakes his head. You fear? I disbelieve you, Richard. Since we were boys together I have followed your mind. You do not know what moral fear is.
Richard	Lays his hand on his arm. Listen. She is dead. She lies on my bed. I look at her body which I betrayed—grossly and many times. And loved, too, and wept over. And I know that her body was always my loyal slave. To me, to me only she gave … He breaks off and turns aside, unable to speak.
Robert	Softly. Do not suffer, Richard. There is no need. She is loyal to you, body and soul. Why do you fear?
Richard	Turns towards him, almost fiercely. Not that fear. But that I will reproach myself then for having taken all for myself because I would not suffer her to give to another what was hers and not mine to give, because I accepted from her her loyalty and made her life poorer in love. That is my fear. That I stand between her and any moments of life that should be hers, between her and you, between her and anyone, between her and anything. I will not do it. I cannot and I will not. I dare not.
	He leans back in his chair breathless, with shining eyes. Robert* rises quietly, and stands behind his chair.*
Robert	Look here, Richard. We have said all there is to be said. Let the past be past.
Richard	Quickly and harshly. Wait. One thing more. For you, too, must know me as I am—now.
Robert	More? Is there more?
Richard	I told you that when I saw your eyes this afternoon I felt sad. Your humility and confusion, I felt, united you to me in brotherhood. He turns half round towards him. At that moment I felt our whole life together in the past, and I longed to put my arm around your neck.
Robert	Deeply and suddenly touched. It is noble of you, Richard, to forgive me like this.
Richard	Struggling with himself. I told you that I wished you not to do anything false and secret against me—against our friendship, against her; not to steal her from me craftily, secretly, meanly—in the dark, in the night—you, Robert, my friend.
Robert	I know. And it was noble of you.
Richard	Looks up at him with a steady gaze. No. Not noble. Ignoble.
Robert	Makes an involuntary gesture. How? Why?
Richard	Looks away again: in a lower voice. That is what I must tell you too. Because in the very core of my ignoble heart I longed to be betrayed by you and by her—in the dark, in the night—secretly, meanly, craftily. By you, my best friend, and by her. I longed for that passionately and ignobly, to be dishonoured forever in love and in lust, to be …
Robert	Bending down, places his hands over Richard’s* mouth.* Enough. Enough. He takes his hands away. But no. Go on.
Richard	To be forever a shameful creature and to build up my soul again out of the ruins of its shame.
Robert	And that is why you wished that she …
Richard	With calm. She has spoken always of her innocence, as I have spoken always of my guilt, humbling me.
Robert	From pride, then?
Richard	From pride and from ignoble longing. And from a motive deeper still.
Robert	With decision. I understand you.
	He returns to his place and begins to speak at once, drawing his chair closer.
Robert	May it not be that we are here and now in the presence of a moment which will free us both—me as well as you—from the last bonds of what is called morality. My friendship for you has laid bonds on me.
Richard	Light bonds, apparently.
Robert	I acted in the dark, secretly. I will do so no longer. Have you the courage to allow me to act freely?
Richard	A duel—between us?
Robert	With growing excitement. A battle of both our souls, different as they are, against all that is false in them and in the world. A battle of your soul against the spectre of fidelity, of mine against the spectre of friendship. All life is a conquest, the victory of human passion over the commandments of cowardice. Will you, Richard? Have you the courage? Even if it shatters to atoms the friendship between us, even if it breaks up forever the last illusion in your own life? There was an eternity before we were born: another will come after we are dead. The blinding instant of passion alone—passion, free, unashamed, irresistible—that is the only gate by which we can escape from the misery of what slaves call life. Is not this the language of your own youth that I heard so often from you in this very place where we are sitting now? Have you changed?
Richard	Passes his hand across his brow. Yes. It is the language of my youth.
Robert	Eagerly, intensely. Richard, you have driven me up to this point. She and I have only obeyed your will. You yourself have roused these words in my brain. Your own words. Shall we? Freely? Together?
Richard	Mastering his emotion. Together no. Fight your part alone. I will not free you. Leave me to fight mine.
Robert	Rises, decided. You allow me, then?
Richard	Rises also, calmly. Free yourself.
	A knock is heard at the hall door.
Robert	In alarm. What does this mean?
Richard	Calmly. Bertha, evidently. Did you not ask her to come?
Robert	Yes, but … Looking about him. Then I am going, Richard.
Richard	No. I am going.
Robert	Desperately. Richard, I appeal to you. Let me go. It is over. She is yours. Keep her and forgive me, both of you.
Richard	Because you are generous enough to allow me?
Robert	Hotly. Richard, you will make me angry with you if you say that.
Richard	Angry or not, I will not live on your generosity. You have asked her to meet you here tonight and alone. Solve the question between you.
Robert	Promptly. Open the door. I shall wait in the garden. He goes towards the porch. Explain to her, Richard, as best you can. I cannot see her now.
Richard	I shall go. I tell you. Wait out there if you wish.
	He goes out by the door on the right. Robert* goes out hastily through the porch but comes back the same instant.*
Robert	An umbrella! With a sudden gesture. O!
	He goes out again through the porch. The hall door is heard to open and close. Richard enters, followed by Bertha, who is dressed in a darkbrown costume and wears a small dark red hat. She has neither umbrella nor waterproof.
Richard	Gaily. Welcome back to old Ireland!
Bertha	Nervously, seriously. Is this the place?
Richard	Yes, it is. How did you find it?
Bertha	I told the cabman. I didn’t like to ask my way. Looking about her curiously. Was he not waiting? Has he gone away?
Richard	Points towards the garden. He is waiting. Out there. He was waiting when I came.
Bertha	Selfpossessed again. You see, you came after all.
Richard	Did you think I would not?
Bertha	I knew you could not remain away. You see, after all you are like all other men. You had to come. You are jealous like the others.
Richard	You seem annoyed to find me here.
Bertha	What happened between you?
Richard	I told him I knew everything, that I had known for a long time. He asked how. I said from you.
Bertha	Does he hate me?
Richard	I cannot read in his heart.
Bertha	Sits down helplessly. Yes. He hates me. He believes I made a fool of him—betrayed him. I knew he would.
Richard	I told him you were sincere with him.
Bertha	He does not believe it. Nobody would believe it. I should have told him first—not you.
Richard	I thought he was a common robber, prepared to use even violence against you. I had to protect you from that.
Bertha	That I could have done myself.
Richard	Are you sure?
Bertha	It would have been enough to have told him that you knew I was here. Now I can find out nothing. He hates me. He is right to hate me. I have treated him badly, shamefully.
Richard	Takes her hand. Bertha, look at me.
Bertha	Turns to him. Well?
Richard	Gazes into her eyes and then lets her hand fall. I cannot read in your heart either.
Bertha	Still looking at him. You could not remain away. Do you not trust me? You can see I am quite calm. I could have hidden it all from you.
Richard	I doubt that.
Bertha	With a slight toss of her head. O, easily if I had wanted to.
Richard	Darkly. Perhaps you are sorry now that you did not.
Bertha	Perhaps I am.
Richard	Unpleasantly. What a fool you were to tell me! It would have been so nice if you had kept it secret.
Bertha	As you do, no?
Richard	As I do, yes. He turns to go. Goodbye for a while.
Bertha	Alarmed, rises. Are you going?
Richard	Naturally. My part is ended here.
Bertha	To her, I suppose?
Richard	Astonished. Who?
Bertha	Her ladyship. I suppose it is all planned so that you may have a good opportunity. To meet her and have an intellectual conversation!
Richard	With an outburst of rude anger. To meet the devil’s father!
Bertha	Unpins her hat and sits down. Very well. You can go. Now I know what to do.
Richard	Returns, approaches her. You don’t believe a word of what you say.
Bertha	Calmly. You can go. Why don’t you?
Richard	Then you have come here and led him on in this way on account of me. Is that how it is?
Bertha	There is one person in all this who is not a fool. And that is you. I am though. And he is.
Richard	Continuing. If so you have indeed treated him badly and shamefully.
Bertha	Points at him. Yes. But it was your fault. And I will end it now. I am simply a tool for you. You have no respect for me. You never had because I did what I did.
Richard	And has he respect?
Bertha	He has. Of all the persons I met since I came back he is the only one who has. And he knows what they only suspect. And that is why I liked him from the first and like him still. Great respect for me she has! Why did you not ask her to come away with you nine years ago?
Richard	You know why, Bertha. Ask yourself.
Bertha	Yes, I know why. You knew the answer you would get. That is why.
Richard	That is not why. I did not even ask you.
Bertha	Yes. You knew I would go, asked or not. I do things. But if I do one thing I can do two things. As I have the name I can have the gains.
Richard	With increasing excitement. Bertha, I accept what is to be. I have trusted you. I will trust you still.
Bertha	To have that against me. To leave me then. Almost passionately. Why do you not defend me then against him? Why do you go away from me now without a word? Dick, my God, tell me what you wish me to do?
Richard	I cannot, dear. Struggling with himself. Your own heart will tell you. He seizes both her hands. I have a wild delight in my soul, Bertha, as I look at you. I see you as you are yourself. That I came first in your life or before him then—that may be nothing to you. You may be his more than mine.
Bertha	I am not. Only I feel for him, too.
Richard	And I do too. You may be his and mine. I will trust you, Bertha, and him too. I must. I cannot hate him since his arms have been around you. You have drawn us near together. There is something wiser than wisdom in your heart. Who am I that I should call myself master of your heart or of any woman’s? Bertha, love him, be his, give yourself to him if you desire—or if you can.
Bertha	Dreamily. I will remain.
Richard	Goodbye.
	He lets her hand fall and goes out rapidly on the right. Bertha remains sitting. Then she rises and goes timidly towards the porch. She stops near it and, after a little hesitation, calls into the garden.
Bertha	Is anyone out there?
	At the same time she retreats towards the middle of the room. Then she calls again in the same way.
Bertha	Is anyone there?
	Robert appears in the open doorway that leads in from the garden. His coat is buttoned and the collar is turned up. He holds the doorposts with his hands lightly and waits for Bertha to see him.
Bertha	Catching sight of him, starts back: then, quickly. Robert!
Robert	Are you alone?
Bertha	Yes.
Robert	Looking towards the door on the right. Where is he?
Bertha	Gone. Nervously. You startled me. Where did you come from?
Robert	With a movement of his head. Out there. Did he not tell you I was out there—waiting?
Bertha	Quickly. Yes, he told me. But I was afraid here alone. With the door open, waiting. She comes to the table and rests her hand on the corner. Why do you stand like that in the doorway?
Robert	Why? I am afraid too.
Bertha	Of what?
Robert	Of you.
Bertha	Looks down. Do you hate me now?
Robert	I fear you. Clasping his hands at his back, quietly but a little defiantly. I fear a new torture—a new trap.
Bertha	As before. For what do you blame me?
Robert	Comes forward a few steps, halts: then impulsively: Why did you lead me on? Day after day, more and more. Why did you not stop me? You could have—with a word. But not even a word! I forgot myself and him. You saw it. That I was ruining myself in his eyes, losing his friendship. Did you want me to?
Bertha	Looking up. You never asked me.
Robert	Asked you what?
Bertha	If he suspected—or knew.
Robert	And would you have told me?
Bertha	Yes.
Robert	Hesitatingly. Did you tell him—everything?
Bertha	I did.
Robert	I mean—details.
Bertha	Everything.
Robert	With a forced smile. I see. You were making an experiment for his sake. On me. Well, why not? It seems I was a good subject. Still, it was a little cruel of you.
Bertha	Try to understand me, Robert. You must try.
Robert	With a polite gesture. Well, I will try.
Bertha	Why do you stand like that near the door? It makes me nervous to look at you.
Robert	I am trying to understand. And then I am afraid.
Bertha	Holds out her hand. You need not be afraid.
	Robert comes towards her quickly and takes her hand.
Robert	Diffidently. Used you to laugh over me—together? Drawing his hand away. But now I must be good or you may laugh over me again—tonight.
Bertha	Distressed, lays her hand on his arm. Please listen to me, Robert … But you are all wet, drenched! She passes her hands over his coat. O, you poor fellow! Out there in the rain all that time! I forgot that.
Robert	Laughs. Yes, you forgot the climate.
Bertha	But you are really drenched. You must change your coat.
Robert	Takes her hands. Tell me, it is pity then that you feel for me, as he—as Richard—says?
Bertha	Please change your coat, Robert, when I ask you. You might get a very bad cold from that. Do, please.
Robert	What would it matter now?
Bertha	Looking round her. Where do you keep your clothes here?
Robert	Points to the door at the back. In there. I fancy I have a jacket here. Maliciously. In my bedroom.
Bertha	Well, go in and take that off.
Robert	And you?
Bertha	I will wait here for you.
Robert	Do you command me to?
Bertha	Laughing. Yes, I command you.
Robert	Promptly. Then I will. He goes quickly towards the bedroom door; then turns round. You won’t go away?
Bertha	No, I will wait. But don’t be long.
Robert	Only a moment.
	He goes into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Bertha* looks curiously about her and then glances in indecision towards the door at the back.*
Robert	From the bedroom. You have not gone?
Bertha	No.
Robert	I am in the dark here. I must light the lamp.
	He is heard striking a match, and putting a glass shade on a lamp. A pink light comes in through the doorway. Bertha* glances at her watch at her wristlet and then sits at the table.*
Robert	As before. Do you like the effect of the light?
Bertha	O, yes.
Robert	Can you admire it from where you are?
Bertha	Yes, quite well.
Robert	It was for you.
Bertha	Confused. I am not worthy even of that.
Robert	Clearly, harshly. Love’s labour lost.
Bertha	Rising nervously. Robert!
Robert	Yes?
Bertha	Come here, quickly! Quickly, I say!
Robert	I am ready.
	He appears in the doorway, wearing a darkgreen velvet jacket. Seeing her agitation, he comes quickly towards her.
Robert	What is it, Bertha?
Bertha	Trembling. I was afraid.
Robert	Of being alone?
Bertha	Catches his hands. You know what I mean. My nerves are all upset.
Robert	That I … ?
Bertha	Promise me, Robert, not to think of such a thing. Never. If you like me at all. I thought that moment …
Robert	What an idea?
Bertha	But promise me if you like me.
Robert	If I like you, Bertha! I promise. Of course, I promise. You are trembling all over.
Bertha	Let me sit down somewhere. It will pass in a moment.
Robert	My poor Bertha! Sit down. Come.
	He leads her towards a chair near the table. She sits down. He stands beside her.
Robert	After a short pause. Has it passed?
Bertha	Yes. It was only for a moment. I was very silly. I was afraid that … I wanted to see you near me.
Robert	That … that you made me promise not to think of?
Bertha	Yes.
Robert	Keenly. Or something else?
Bertha	Helplessly. Robert, I feared something. I am not sure what.
Robert	And now?
Bertha	Now you are here. I can see you. Now it has passed.
Robert	With resignation. Passed. Yes. Love’s labour lost.
Bertha	Looks up at him. Listen, Robert. I want to explain to you about that. I could not deceive Dick. Never. In nothing. I told him everything—from the first. Then it went on and on; and still you never spoke or asked me. I wanted you to.
Robert	Is that the truth, Bertha?
Bertha	Yes, because it annoyed me that you could think I was like … like the other women I suppose you knew that way. I think that Dick is right too. Why should there be secrets?
Robert	Softly. Still, secrets can be very sweet. Can they not?
Bertha	Smiles. Yes, I know they can. But, you see, I could not keep things secret from Dick. Besides, what is the good? They always come out in the end. Is it not better for people to know?
Robert	Softly and a little shyly. How could you, Bertha, tell him everything? Did you? Every single thing that passed between us?
Bertha	Yes. Everything he asked me.
Robert	Did he ask you—much?
Bertha	You know the kind he is. He asks about everything. The ins and outs.
Robert	About our kissing, too?
Bertha	Of course. I told him all.
Robert	Shakes his head slowly. Extraordinary little person! Were you not ashamed?
Bertha	No.
Robert	Not a bit?
Bertha	No. Why? Is that terrible?
Robert	And how did he take it? Tell me. I want to know everything, too.
Bertha	Laughs. It excited him. More than usual.
Robert	Why? Is he excitable—still?
Bertha	Archly. Yes, very. When he is not lost in his philosophy.
Robert	More than I?
Bertha	More than you? Reflecting. How could I answer that? You both are, I suppose?
	Robert turns aside and gazes towards the porch, passing his hand once or twice thoughtfully over his hair.
Bertha	Gently. Are you angry with me again?
Robert	Moodily. You are with me.
Bertha	No, Robert. Why should I be?
Robert	Because I asked you to come to this place. I tried to prepare it for you. He points vaguely here and there. A sense of quietness.
Bertha	Touching his jacket with her fingers. And this, too. Your nice velvet coat.
Robert	Also. I will keep no secrets from you.
Bertha	You remind me of someone in a picture. I like you in it … But you are not angry, are you?
Robert	Darkly. Yes. That was my mistake. To ask you to come here. I felt it when I looked at you from the garden and saw you—you, Bertha—standing here. Hopelessly. But what else could I have done?
Bertha	Quietly. You mean because others have been here?
Robert	Yes.
	He walks away from her a few paces. A gust of wind makes the lamp on the table flicker. He lowers the wick slightly.
Bertha	Following him with her eyes. But I knew that before I came. I am not angry with you for it.
Robert	Shrugs his shoulders. Why should you be angry with me after all? You are not even angry with him—for the same thing—or worse.
Bertha	Did he tell you that about himself?
Robert	Yes. He told me. We all confess to one another here. Turn about.
Bertha	I try to forget it.
Robert	It does not trouble you?
Bertha	Not now. Only I dislike to think of it.
Robert	It is merely something brutal, you think? Of little importance?
Bertha	It does not trouble me—now.
Robert	Looking at her over his shoulder. But there is something that would trouble you very much and that you would not try to forget?
Bertha	What?
Robert	Turning towards her. If it were not only something brutal with this person or that—for a few moments. If it were something fine and spiritual—with one person only—with one woman. Smiles. And perhaps brutal too. It usually comes to that sooner or later. Would you try to forget and forgive that?
Bertha	Toying with her wristlet. In whom?
Robert	In anyone. In me.
Bertha	Calmly. You mean in Dick.
Robert	I said in myself. But would you?
Bertha	You think I would revenge myself? Is Dick not to be free too?
Robert	Points at her. That is not from your heart, Bertha.
Bertha	Proudly. Yes, it is; let him be free too. He leaves me free also.
Robert	Insistently. And you know why? And understand? And you like it? And you want to be? And it makes you happy? And has made you happy? Always? This gift of freedom which he gave you—nine years ago?
Bertha	Gazing at him with wide open eyes. But why do you ask me such a lot of questions, Robert?
Robert	Stretches out both hands to her. Because I had another gift to offer you then—a common simple gift—like myself. If you want to know it I will tell you.
Bertha	Looking at her watch. Past is past, Robert. And I think I ought to go now. It is nine almost.
Robert	Impetuously. No, no. Not yet. There is one confession more and we have the right to speak.
	He crosses before the table rapidly and sits down beside her.
Bertha	Turning towards him, places her left hand on his shoulder. Yes, Robert. I know that you like me. You need not tell me. Kindly. You need not confess any more tonight.
	A gust of wind enters through the porch, with a sound of moving leaves. The lamp flickers quickly.
Bertha	Pointing over his shoulder. Look! It is too high.
	Without rising, he bends towards the table, and turns down the wick more. The room is half dark. The light comes in more strongly through the doorway of the bedroom.
Robert	The wind is rising. I will close that door.
Bertha	Listening. No, it is raining still. It was only a gust of wind.
Robert	Touches her shoulder. Tell me if the air is too cold for you. Half rising. I will close it.
Bertha	Detaining him. No. I am not cold. Besides, I am going now, Robert. I must.
Robert	Firmly. No, no. There is no must now. We were left here for this. And you are wrong, Bertha. The past is not past. It is present here now. My feeling for you is the same now as it was then, because then—you slighted it.
Bertha	No, Robert. I did not.
Robert	Continuing. You did. And I have felt it all these years without knowing it—till now. Even while I lived—the kind of life you know and dislike to think of—the kind of life to which you condemned me.
Bertha	I?
Robert	Yes, when you slighted the common simple gift I had to offer you—and took his gift instead.
Bertha	Looking at him. But you never …
Robert	No. Because you had chosen him. I saw that. I saw it on the first night we met, we three together. Why did you choose him?
Bertha	Bends her head. Is that not love?
Robert	Continuing. And every night when we two—he and I—came to that corner to meet you I saw it and felt it. You remember the corner, Bertha?
Bertha	As before. Yes.
Robert	And when you and he went away for your walk and I went along the street alone I felt it. And when he spoke to me about you and told me he was going away—then most of all.
Bertha	Why then most of all?
Robert	Because it was then that I was guilty of my first treason towards him.
Bertha	Robert, what are you saying? Your first treason against Dick?
Robert	Nods. And not my last. He spoke of you and himself. Of how your life would be together—free and all that. Free, yes! He would not even ask you to go with him. Bitterly. He did not. And you went all the same.
Bertha	I wanted to be with him. You know … Raising her head and looking at him. You know how we were then—Dick and I.
Robert	Unheeding. I advised him to go alone—not to take you with him—to live alone in order to see if what he felt for you was a passing thing which might ruin your happiness and his career.
Bertha	Well, Robert. It was unkind of you towards me. But I forgive you because you were thinking of his happiness and mine.
Robert	Bending closer to her. No, Bertha. I was not. And that was my treason. I was thinking of myself—that you might turn from him when he had gone and he from you. Then I would have offered you my gift. You know what it was now. The simple common gift that men offer to women. Not the best perhaps. Best or worst—it would have been yours.
Bertha	Turning away from him. He did not take your advice.
Robert	As before. No. And the night you ran away together—O, how happy I was!
Bertha	Pressing his hands. Keep calm, Robert. I know you liked me always. Why did you not forget me?
Robert	Smiles bitterly. How happy I felt as I came back along the quays and saw in the distance the boat lit up going down the black river, taking you away from me! In a calmer tone. But why did you choose him? Did you not like me at all?
Bertha	Yes. I liked you because you were his friend. We often spoke about you. Often and often. Every time you wrote or sent papers or books to Dick. And I like you still, Robert. Looking into his eyes. I never forgot you.
Robert	Nor I you. I knew I would see you again. I knew it the night you went away—that you would come back. And that was why I wrote and worked to see you again—here.
Bertha	And here I am. You were right.
Robert	Slowly. Nine years. Nine times more beautiful!
Bertha	Smiling. But am I? What do you see in me?
Robert	Gazing at her. A strange and beautiful lady.
Bertha	Almost disgusted. O, please don’t call me such a thing!
Robert	Earnestly. You are more. A young and beautiful queen.
Bertha	With a sudden laugh. O, Robert!
Robert	Lowering his voice and bending nearer to her. But do you not know that you are a beautiful human being? Do you not know that you have a beautiful body? Beautiful and young?
Bertha	Gravely. Some day I will be old.
Robert	Shakes his head. I cannot imagine it. Tonight you are young and beautiful. Tonight you have come back to me. With passion. Who knows what will be tomorrow? I may never see you again or never see you as I do now.
Bertha	Would you suffer?
Robert	Looks round the room, without answering. This room and this hour were made for your coming. When you have gone—all is gone.
Bertha	Anxiously. But you will see me again, Robert … as before.
Robert	Looks full at her. To make him—Richard—suffer.
Bertha	He does not suffer.
Robert	Bowing his head. Yes, yes. He does.
Bertha	He knows we like each other. Is there any harm, then?
Robert	Raising his head. No there is no harm. Why should we not? He does not know yet what I feel. He has left us alone here at night, at this hour, because he longs to know it—he longs to be delivered.
Bertha	From what?
Robert	Moves closer to her and presses her arm as he speaks. From every law, Bertha, from every bond. All his life he has sought to deliver himself. Every chain but one he has broken and that one we are to break, Bertha—you and I.
Bertha	Almost inaudibly. Are you sure?
Robert	Still more warmly. I am sure that no law made by man is sacred before the impulse of passion. Almost fiercely. Who made us for one only? It is a crime against our own being if we are so. There is no law before impulse. Laws are for slaves. Bertha, say my name! Let me hear your voice say it. Softly!
Bertha	Softly. Robert!
Robert	Puts his arm about her shoulder. Only the impulse towards youth and beauty does not die. He points towards the porch. Listen!
Bertha	In alarm. What?
Robert	The rain falling. Summer rain on the earth. Night rain. The darkness and warmth and flood of passion. Tonight the earth is loved—loved and possessed. Her lover’s arms around her; and she is silent. Speak, dearest!
Bertha	Suddenly leans forward and listens intently. Hush!
Robert	Listening, smiles. Nothing. Nobody. We are alone.
	A gust of wind blows in through the porch, with a sound of shaken leaves. The flame of the lamp leaps.
Bertha	Pointing to the lamp. Look!
Robert	Only the wind. We have light enough from the other room.
	He stretches his hand across the table and puts out the lamp. The light from the doorway of the bedroom crosses the place where they sit. The room is quite dark.
Robert	Are you happy? Tell me.
Bertha	I am going now, Robert. It is very late. Be satisfied.
Robert	Caressing her hair. Not yet, not yet. Tell me, do you love me a little?
Bertha	I like you, Robert. I think you are good. Half rising. Are you satisfied?
Robert	Detaining her, kisses her hair. Do not go, Bertha! There is time still. Do you love me too? I have waited a long time. Do you love us both—him and also me? Do you, Bertha? The truth! Tell me. Tell me with your eyes. Or speak!
	She does not answer. In the silence the rain is heard falling.

Third Act

The drawingroom of Richard Rowan’s house at Merrion. The folding doors at the right are closed and also the double doors leading to the garden. The green plush curtains are drawn across the window on the left. The room is half dark. It is early in the morning of the next day. Bertha sits beside the window looking out between the curtains. She wears a loose saffron dressing gown. Her hair is combed loosely over the ears and knotted at the neck. Her hands are folded in her lap. Her face is pale and drawn.

	Brigid comes in through the folding doors on the right with a featherbroom and duster. She is about to cross but, seeing Bertha, she halts suddenly and blesses herself instinctively.
Brigid	Merciful hour, ma’am. You put the heart across me. Why did you get up so early?
Bertha	What time is it?
Brigid	After seven, ma’am. Are you long up?
Bertha	Some time.
Brigid	Approaching her. Had you a bad dream that woke you?
Bertha	I didn’t sleep all night. So I got up to see the sun rise.
Brigid	Opens the double doors. It’s a lovely morning now after all the rain we had. Turns round. But you must be dead tired, ma’am. What will the master say at your doing a thing like that? She goes to the door of the study and knocks. Master Richard!
Bertha	Looks round. He is not there. He went out an hour ago.
Brigid	Out there, on the strand, is it?
Bertha	Yes.
Brigid	Comes towards her and leans over the back of a chair. Are you fretting yourself, ma’am, about anything?
Bertha	No, Brigid.
Brigid	Don’t be. He was always like that, meandering off by himself somewhere. He is a curious bird, Master Richard, and always was. Sure there isn’t a turn in him I don’t know. Are you fretting now maybe because he does be in there pointing to the study half the night at his books? Leave him alone. He’ll come back to you again. Sure he thinks the sun shines out of your face, ma’am.
Bertha	Sadly. That time is gone.
Brigid	Confidentially. And good cause I have to remember it—that time when he was paying his addresses to you. She sits down beside Bertha. In a lower voice. Do you know that he used to tell me all about you and nothing to his mother, God rest her soul? Your letters and all.
Bertha	What? My letters to him?
Brigid	Delighted. Yes. I can see him sitting on the kitchen table, swinging his legs and spinning out of him yards of talk about you and him and Ireland and all kinds of devilment—to an ignorant old woman like me. But that was always his way. But if he had to meet a grand highup person he’d be twice as grand himself. Suddenly looks at Bertha. Is it crying you are now? Ah, sure, don’t cry. There’s good times coming still.
Bertha	No, Brigid, that time comes only once in a lifetime. The rest of life is good for nothing except to remember that time.
Brigid	Is silent for a moment: then says kindly. Would you like a cup of tea, ma’am? That would make you all right.
Bertha	Yes, I would. But the milkman has not come yet.
Brigid	No. Master Archie told me to wake him before he came. He’s going out for a jaunt in the car. But I’ve a cup left overnight. I’ll have the kettle boiling in a jiffy. Would you like a nice egg with it?
Bertha	No, thanks.
Brigid	Or a nice bit of toast?
Bertha	No, Brigid, thanks. Just a cup of tea.
Brigid	Crossing to the folding doors. I won’t be a moment. She stops, turns back and goes towards the door on the left. But first I must waken Master Archie or there’ll be ructions.
	She goes out by the door on the left. After a few moments Bertha rises and goes over to the study. She opens the door wide and looks in. One can see a small untidy room with many bookshelves and a large writingtable with papers and an extinguished lamp and before it a padded chair. She remains standing for some time in the doorway, then closes the door again without entering the room. She returns to her chair by the window and sits down. Archie, dressed as before, comes in by the door on the right, followed by Brigid.
Archie	Comes to her and, putting up his face to be kissed, says: Buon giorno, mamma!
Bertha	Kissing him. Buon giorno, Archie! To Brigid. Did you put another vest on him under that one?
Brigid	He wouldn’t let me, ma’am.
Archie	I’m not cold, mamma.
Bertha	I said you were to put it on, didn’t I?
Archie	But where is the cold?
Bertha	Takes a comb from her head and combs his hair back at both sides. And the sleep is in your eyes still.
Brigid	He went to bed immediately after you went out last night, ma’am.
Archie	You know he’s going to let me drive, mamma.
Bertha	Replacing the comb in her hair, embraces him suddenly. O, what a big man to drive a horse!
Brigid	Well, he’s daft on horses, anyhow.
Archie	Releasing himself. I’ll make him go quick. You will see from the window, mamma. With the whip. He makes the gesture of cracking a whip and shouts at the top of his voice. Avanti!
Brigid	Beat the poor horse, is it?
Bertha	Come here till I clean your mouth. She takes her handkerchief from the pocket of her gown, wets it with her tongue and cleans his mouth. You’re all smudges or something, dirty little creature you are.
Archie	Repeats, laughing. Smudges! What is smudges?
	The noise is heard of a milkcan rattled on the railings before the window.
Brigid	Draws aside the curtains and looks out. Here he is!
Archie	Rapidly. Wait. I’m ready. Goodbye, mamma! He kisses her hastily and turns to go. Is pappie up?
Brigid	Takes him by the arm. Come on with you now.
Bertha	Mind yourself, Archie, and don’t be long or I won’t let you go any more.
Archie	All right. Look out of the window and you’ll see me. Goodbye.
	Brigid and Archie go out by the door on the left. Bertha stands up and, drawing aside the curtains still more, stands in the embrasure of the window looking out. The hall door is heard opening: then a slight noise of voices and cans is heard. The door is closed. After a moment or two Bertha is seen waving her hand gaily in a salute. Brigid enters and stands behind her, looking over her shoulder.
Brigid	Look at the sit of him! As serious as you like.
Bertha	Suddenly withdrawing from her post. Stand out of the window. I don’t want to be seen.
Brigid	Why, ma’am, what is it?
Bertha	Crossing towards the folding doors. Say I’m not up, that I’m not well. I can’t see anyone.
Brigid	Follows her. Who is it, ma’am?
Bertha	Halting. Wait a moment.
	She listens. A knock is heard at the hall door.
Bertha	Stands a moment in doubt, then. No, say I’m in.
Brigid	In doubt. Here?
Bertha	Hurriedly. Yes. Say I have just got up.
	Brigid goes out on the left. Bertha goes towards the double doors and fingers the curtains nervously, as if settling them. The hall door is heard to open. Then Beatrice Justice enters and, as Bertha does not turn at once, stands in hesitation near the door on the left. She is dressed as before and has a newspaper in her hand.
Beatrice	Advances rapidly. Mrs. Rowan, excuse me for coming at such an hour.
Bertha	Turns. Good morning, Miss Justice. She comes towards her. Is anything the matter?
Beatrice	Nervously. I don’t know. That is what I wanted to ask you.
Bertha	Looks curiously at her. You are out of breath. Won’t you sit down?
Beatrice	Sitting down. Thank you.
Bertha	Sits opposite her, pointing to her paper. Is there something in the paper?
Beatrice	Laughs nervously: opens the paper. Yes.
Bertha	About Dick?
Beatrice	Yes. Here it is. A long article, a leading article, by my cousin. All his life is here. Do you wish to see it?
Bertha	Takes the paper, and opens it. Where is it?
Beatrice	In the middle. It is headed: A Distinguished Irishman.
Bertha	Is it … for Dick or against him?
Beatrice	Warmly. O, for him! You can read what he says about Mr. Rowan. And I know that Robert stayed in town very late last night to write it.
Bertha	Nervously. Yes. Are you sure?
Beatrice	Yes. Very late. I heard him come home. It was long after two.
Bertha	Watching her. It alarmed you? I mean to be awakened at that hour of the morning.
Beatrice	I am a light sleeper. But I knew he had come from the office and then … I suspected he had written an article about Mr. Rowan and that was why he came so late.
Bertha	How quick you were to think of that!
Beatrice	Well, after what took place here yesterday afternoon—I mean what Robert said, that Mr. Rowan had accepted this position. It was only natural I should think …
Bertha	Ah, yes. Naturally.
Beatrice	Hastily. But that is not what alarmed me. But immediately after I heard a noise in my cousin’s room.
Bertha	Crumples together the paper in her hands, breathlessly. My God! What is it? Tell me.
Beatrice	Observing her. Why does that upset you so much?
Bertha	Sinking back, with a forced laugh. Yes, of course, it is very foolish of me. My nerves are all upset. I slept very badly, too. That is why I got up so early. But tell me what was it then?
Beatrice	Only the noise of his valise being pulled along the floor. Then I heard him walking about his room, whistling softly. And then locking it and strapping it.
Bertha	He is going away!
Beatrice	That was what alarmed me. I feared he had had a quarrel with Mr. Rowan and that his article was an attack.
Bertha	But why should they quarrel? Have you noticed anything between them?
Beatrice	I thought I did. A coldness.
Bertha	Lately?
Beatrice	For some time past.
Bertha	Smoothing the paper out. Do you know the reason?
Beatrice	Hesitatingly. No.
Bertha	After a pause. Well, but if this article is for him, as you say, they have not quarrelled. She reflects a moment. And written last night, too.
Beatrice	Yes. I bought the paper at once to see. But why, then, is he going away so suddenly? I feel that there is something wrong. I feel that something has happened between them.
Bertha	Would you be sorry?
Beatrice	I would be very sorry. You see, Mrs. Rowan, Robert is my first cousin and it would grieve me very deeply if he were to treat Mr. Rowan badly, now that he has come back, or if they had a serious quarrel especially because …
Bertha	Toying with the paper. Because?
Beatrice	Because it was my cousin who urged Mr. Rowan always to come back. I have that on my conscience.
Bertha	It should be on Mr. Hand’s conscience, should it not?
Beatrice	Uncertainly. On mine, too. Because—I spoke to my cousin about Mr. Rowan when he was away and, to a certain extent, it was I …
Bertha	Nods slowly. I see. And that is on your conscience. Only that?
Beatrice	I think so.
Bertha	Almost cheerfully. It looks as if it was you, Miss Justice, who brought my husband back to Ireland.
Beatrice	I, Mrs. Rowan?
Bertha	Yes, you. By your letters to him and then by speaking to your cousin as you said just now. Do you not think that you are the person who brought him back?
Beatrice	Blushing suddenly. No. I could not think that.
Bertha	Watches her for a moment; then turning aside. You know that my husband is writing very much since he came back.
Beatrice	Is he?
Bertha	Did you not know? She points towards the study. He passes the greater part of the night in there writing. Night after night.
Beatrice	In his study?
Bertha	Study or bedroom. You may call it what you please. He sleeps there, too, on a sofa. He slept there last night. I can show you if you don’t believe me.
	She rises to go towards the study. Beatrice* half rises quickly and makes a gesture of refusal.*
Beatrice	I believe you, of course, Mrs. Rowan, when you tell me.
Bertha	Sitting down again. Yes. He is writing. And it must be about something which has come into his life lately—since we came back to Ireland. Some change. Do you know that any change has come into his life? She looks searchingly at her. Do you know it or feel it?
Beatrice	Answers her look steadily. Mrs. Rowan, that is not a question to ask me. If any change has come into his life since he came back you must know and feel it.
Bertha	You could know it just as well. You are very intimate in this house.
Beatrice	I am not the only person who is intimate here.
	They both look at each other coldly in silence for some moments. Bertha* lays aside the paper and sits down on a chair nearer to Beatrice.*
Bertha	Placing her hand on Beatrice’s* knee.* So you also hate me, Miss Justice?
Beatrice	With an effort. Hate you? I?
Bertha	Insistently but softly. Yes. You know what it means to hate a person?
Beatrice	Why should I hate you? I have never hated anyone.
Bertha	Have you ever loved anyone? She puts her hand on Beatrice’s* wrist.* Tell me. You have?
Beatrice	Also softly. Yes. In the past.
Bertha	Not now?
Beatrice	No.
Bertha	Can you say that to me—truly? Look at me.
Beatrice	Looks at her. Yes, I can.
	A short pause. Bertha* withdraws her hand, and turns away her head in some embarrassment.*
Bertha	You said just now that another person is intimate in this house. You meant your cousin … Was it he?
Beatrice	Yes.
Bertha	Have you not forgotten him?
Beatrice	Quietly. I have tried to.
Bertha	Clasping her hands. You hate me. You think I am happy. If you only knew how wrong you are!
Beatrice	Shakes her head. I do not.
Bertha	Happy! When I do not understand anything that he writes, when I cannot help him in any way, when I don’t even understand half of what he says to me sometimes! You could and you can. Excitedly. But I am afraid for him, afraid for both of them. She stands up suddenly and goes towards the davenport. He must not go away like that. She takes a writing pad from the drawer and writes a few lines in great haste. No, it is impossible! Is he mad to do such a thing? Turning to Beatrice. Is he still at home?
Beatrice	Watching her in wonder. Yes. Have you written to him to ask him to come here?
Bertha	Rises. I have. I will send Brigid across with it. Brigid!
	She goes out by the door on the left rapidly.
Beatrice	Gazing after her, instinctively. It is true, then!
	She glances toward the door of Richard’s study and catches her head in her hands. Then, recovering herself, she takes the paper from the little table, opens it, takes a spectacle case from her handbag and, putting on a pair of spectacles, bends down, reading it. Richard Rowan enters from the garden. He is dressed as before but wears a soft hat and carries a thin cane.
Richard	Stands in the doorway, observing her for some moments. There are demons he points out towards the strand out there. I heard them jabbering since dawn.
Beatrice	Starts to her feet. Mr. Rowan!
Richard	I assure you. The isle is full of voices. Yours also, Otherwise I could not see you, it said. And her voice. But, I assure you, they are all demons. I made the sign of the cross upside down and that silenced them.
Beatrice	Stammering. I came here, Mr. Rowan, so early because … to show you this … Robert wrote it … about you … last night.
Richard	Takes off his hat. My dear Miss Justice, you told me yesterday, I think, why you came here and I never forget anything. Advancing towards her, holding out his hand. Good morning.
Beatrice	Suddenly takes off her spectacles and places the paper in his hands. I came for this. It is an article about you. Robert wrote it last night. Will you read it?
Richard	Bows. Read it now? Certainly.
Beatrice	Looks at him in despair. O, Mr. Rowan, it makes me suffer to look at you.
Richard	Opens and reads the paper. Death of the Very Reverend Canon Mulhall. Is that it?
	Bertha appears at the door on the left and stands to listen.
Richard	Turns over a page. Yes, here we are! A Distinguished Irishman. He begins to read in a rather loud hard voice. Not the least vital of the problems which confront our country is the problem of her attitude towards those of her children who, having left her in her hour of need, have been called back to her now on the eve of her longawaited victory, to her whom in loneliness and exile they have at last learned to love. In exile, we have said, but here we must distinguish. There is an economic and there is a spiritual exile. There are those who left her to seek the bread by which men live and there are others, nay, her most favoured children, who left her to seek in other lands that food of the spirit by which a nation of human beings is sustained in life. Those who recall the intellectual life of Dublin of a decade since will have many memories of Mr. Rowan. Something of that fierce indignation which lacerated the heart …
	He raises his eyes from the paper and sees Bertha* standing in the doorway. Then he lays aside the paper and looks at her. A long silence.*
Beatrice	With an effort. You see, Mr. Rowan, your day has dawned at last. Even here. And you see that you have a warm friend in Robert, a friend who understands you.
Richard	Did you notice the little phrase at the beginning: those who left her in her hour of need?
	He looks searchingly at Bertha, turns and walks into his study, closing the door behind him.
Bertha	Speaking half to herself. I gave up everything for him, religion, family, my own peace.
	She sits down heavily in an armchair. Beatrice* comes towards her.*
Beatrice	Weakly. But do you not feel also that Mr. Rowan’s ideas …
Bertha	Bitterly. Ideas and ideas! But the people in this world have other ideas or pretend to. They have to put up with him in spite of his ideas because he is able to do something. Me, no. I am nothing.
Beatrice	You stand by his side.
Bertha	With increasing bitterness. Ah, nonsense, Miss Justice! I am only a thing he got entangled with and my son is—the nice name they give those children. Do you think I am a stone? Do you think I don’t see it in their eyes and in their manner when they have to meet me?
Beatrice	Do not let them humble you, Mrs. Rowan.
Bertha	Haughtily. Humble me! I am very proud of myself, if you want to know. What have they ever done for him? I made him a man. What are they all in his life? No more than the dirt under his boots! She stands up and walks excitedly to and fro. He can despise me, too, like the rest of them—now. And you can despise me. But you will never humble me, any of you.
Beatrice	Why do you accuse me?
Bertha	Going to her impulsively. I am in such suffering. Excuse me if I was rude. I want us to be friends. She holds out her hands. Will you?
Beatrice	Taking her hands. Gladly.
Bertha	Looking at her. What lovely long eyelashes you have! And your eyes have such a sad expression!
Beatrice	Smiling. I see very little with them. They are very weak.
Bertha	Warmly. But beautiful.
	She embraces her quietly and kisses her. Then withdraws from her a little shyly. Brigid* comes in from the left.*
Brigid	I gave it to himself, ma’am.
Bertha	Did he send a message?
Brigid	He was just going out, ma’am. He told me to say he’d be here after me.
Bertha	Thanks.
Brigid	Going. Would you like the tea and the toast now, ma’am?
Bertha	Not now, Brigid. After perhaps. When Mr. Hand comes show him in at once.
Brigid	Yes, ma’am.
	She goes out on the left.
Beatrice	I will go now, Mrs. Rowan, before he comes.
Bertha	Somewhat timidly. Then we are friends?
Beatrice	In the same tone. We will try to be. Turning. Do you allow me to go out through the garden? I don’t want to meet my cousin now.
Bertha	Of course. She takes her hand. It is so strange that we spoke like this now. But I always wanted to. Did you?
Beatrice	I think I did, too.
Bertha	Smiling. Even in Rome. When I went out for a walk with Archie I used to think about you, what you were like, because I knew about you from Dick. I used to look at different persons, coming out of churches or going by in carriages, and think that perhaps they were like you. Because Dick told me you were dark.
Beatrice	Again nervously. Really?
Bertha	Pressing her hand. Goodbye then—for the present.
Beatrice	Disengaging her hand. Good morning.
Bertha	I will see you to the gate.
	She accompanies her out through the double doors. They go down through the garden. Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He halts near the doors, looking down the garden. Then he turns away, comes to the little table, takes up the paper and reads. Bertha, after some moments, appears in the doorway and stands watching him till he has finished. He lays down the paper again and turns to go back to his study.
Bertha	Dick!
Richard	Stopping. Well?
Bertha	You have not spoken to me.
Richard	I have nothing to say. Have you?
Bertha	Do you not wish to know—about what happened last night?
Richard	That I will never know.
Bertha	I will tell you if you ask me.
Richard	You will tell me. But I will never know. Never in this world.
Bertha	Moving towards him. I will tell you the truth, Dick, as I always told you. I never lied to you.
Richard	Clenching his hands in the air, passionately. Yes, yes. The truth! But I will never know, I tell you.
Bertha	Why, then, did you leave me last night?
Richard	Bitterly. In your hour of need.
Bertha	Threateningly. You urged me to it. Not because you love me. If you loved me or if you knew what love was you would not have left me. For your own sake you urged me to it.
Richard	I did not make myself. I am what I am.
Bertha	To have it always to throw against me. To make me humble before you, as you always did. To be free yourself. Pointing towards the garden. With her! And that is your love! Every word you say is false.
Richard	Controlling himself. It is useless to ask you to listen to me.
Bertha	Listen to you! She is the person for listening. Why would you waste your time with me? Talk to her.
Richard	Nods his head. I see. You have driven her away from me now, as you drove everyone else from my side—every friend I ever had, every human being that ever tried to approach me. You hate her.
Bertha	Warmly. No such thing! I think you have made her unhappy as you have made me and as you made your dead mother unhappy and killed her. Womankiller! That is your name.
Richard	Turns to go. Arrivederci!
Bertha	Excitedly. She is a fine and high character. I like her. She is everything that I am not—in birth and education. You tried to ruin her but you could not. Because she is well able for you—what I am not. And you know it.
Richard	Almost shouting. What the devil are you talking about her for?
Bertha	Clasping her hands. O, how I wish I had never met you! How I curse that day!
Richard	Bitterly. I am in the way, is it? You would like to be free now. You have only to say the word.
Bertha	Proudly. Whenever you like I am ready.
Richard	So that you could meet your lover—freely?
Bertha	Yes.
Richard	Night after night?
Bertha	Gazing before her and speaking with intense passion. To meet my lover! Holding out her arms before her. My lover! Yes! My lover!
	She bursts suddenly into tears and sinks down on a chair, covering her face with her hands. Richard* approaches her slowly and touches her on the shoulder.*
Richard	Bertha! She does not answer. Bertha, you are free.
Bertha	Pushes his hand aside and starts to her feet. Don’t touch me! You are a stranger to me. You do not understand anything in me—not one thing in my heart or soul. A stranger! I am living with a stranger!
	A knock is heard at the hall door. Bertha dries her eyes quickly with her handkerchief and settles the front of her gown. Richard listens for a moment, looks at her keenly and, turning away, walks into his study. Robert Hand enters from the left. He is dressed in dark brown and carries in his hand a brown Alpine hat.
Robert	Closing the door quietly behind him. You sent for me.
Bertha	Rises. Yes. Are you mad to think of going away like that—without even coming here—without saying anything?
Robert	Advancing towards the table on which the paper lies, glances at it. What I have to say I said here.
Bertha	When did you write it? Last night—after I went away?
Robert	Gracefully. To be quite accurate, I wrote part of it—in my mind—before you went away. The rest—the worst part—I wrote after. Much later.
Bertha	And you could write last night!
Robert	Shrugs his shoulders. I am a welltrained animal. He comes closer to her. I passed a long wandering night after … in my office, at the vicechancellor’s house, in a nightclub, in the streets, in my room. Your image was always before my eyes, your hand in my hand. Bertha, I will never forget last night. He lays his hat on the table and takes her hand. Why do you not look at me? May I not touch you?
Bertha	Points to the study. Dick is in there.
Robert	Drops her hand. In that case children be good.
Bertha	Where are you going?
Robert	To foreign parts. That is, to my cousin Jack Justice, alias Doggy Justice, in Surrey. He has a nice country place there and the air is mild.
Bertha	Why are you going?
Robert	Looks at her in silence. Can you not guess one reason?
Bertha	On account of me?
Robert	Yes. It is not pleasant for me to remain here just now.
Bertha	Sits down helplessly. But this is cruel of you, Robert. Cruel to me and to him also.
Robert	Has he asked … what happened?
Bertha	Joining her hands in despair. No. He refuses to ask me anything. He says he will never know.
Robert	Nods gravely. Richard is right there. He is always right.
Bertha	But, Robert, you must speak to him.
Robert	What am I to say to him?
Bertha	The truth! Everything!
Robert	Reflects. No, Bertha. I am a man speaking to a man. I cannot tell him everything.
Bertha	He will believe that you are going away because you are afraid to face him after last night.
Robert	After a pause. Well, I am not a coward any more than he. I will see him.
Bertha	Rises. I will call him.
Robert	Catching her hands. Bertha! What happened last night? What is the truth that I am to tell? He gazes earnestly into her eyes. Were you mine in that sacred night of love? Or have I dreamed it?
Bertha	Smiles faintly. Remember your dream of me. You dreamed that I was yours last night.
Robert	And that is the truth—a dream? That is what I am to tell?
Bertha	Yes.
Robert	Kisses both her hands. Bertha! In a softer voice. In all my life only that dream is real. I forget the rest. He kisses her hands again. And now I can tell him the truth. Call him.
	Bertha goes to the door of Richard’s study and knocks. There is no answer. She knocks again.
Bertha	Dick! There is no answer. Mr. Hand is here. He wants to speak to you, to say goodbye. He is going away. There is no answer. She beats her hand loudly on the panel of the door and calls in an alarmed voice. Dick! Answer me!
	Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He comes at once to Robert but does not hold out his hand.
Richard	Calmly. I thank you for your kind article about me. Is it true that you have come to say goodbye?
Robert	There is nothing to thank me for, Richard. Now and always I am your friend. Now more than ever before. Do you believe me, Richard?
	Richard sits down on a chair and buries his face in his hands. Bertha and Robert gaze at each other in silence. Then she turns away and goes out quietly on the right. Robert goes towards Richard and stands near him, resting his hands on the back of a chair, looking down at him. There is a long silence. A Fishwoman is heard crying out as she passes along the road outside.
The Fishwoman	Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Dublin bay herrings!
Robert	Quietly. I will tell you the truth, Richard. Are you listening?
Richard	Raises his face and leans back to listen. Yes.
	Robert sits on the chair beside him. The Fishwoman is heard calling out farther away.
The Fishwoman	Fresh herrings! Dublin bay herrings!
Robert	I failed, Richard. That is the truth. Do you believe me?
Richard	I am listening.
Robert	I failed. She is yours, as she was nine years ago, when you met her first.
Richard	When we met her first, you mean.
Robert	Yes. He looks down for some moments. Shall I go on?
Richard	Yes.
Robert	She went away. I was left alone—for the second time. I went to the vicechancellor’s house and dined. I said you were ill and would come another night. I made epigrams new and old—that one about the statues also. I drank claret cup. I went to my office and wrote my article. Then …
Richard	Then?
Robert	Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there—and also women. At least, they looked like women. I danced with one of them. She asked me to see her home. Shall I go on?
Richard	Yes.
Robert	I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on?
Richard	Yes.
Robert	She wept. She told me she was the divorced wife of a barrister. I offered her a sovereign as she told me she was short of money. She would not take it and wept very much. Then she drank some melissa water from a little bottle which she had in her satchel. I saw her enter her house. Then I walked home. In my room I found that my coat was all stained with the melissa water. I had no luck even with my coats yesterday: that was the second one. The idea came to me then to change my suit and go away by the morning boat. I packed my valise and went to bed. I am going away by the next train to my cousin, Jack Justice, in Surrey. Perhaps for a fortnight. Perhaps longer. Are you disgusted?
Richard	Why did you not go by the boat?
Robert	I slept it out.
Richard	You intended to go without saying goodbye—without coming here?
Robert	Yes.
Richard	Why?
Robert	My story is not very nice, is it?
Richard	But you have come.
Robert	Bertha sent me a message to come.
Richard	But for that … ?
Robert	But for that I should not have come.
Richard	Did it strike you that if you had gone without coming here I should have understood it—in my own way?
Robert	Yes, it did.
Richard	What, then, do you wish me to believe?
Robert	I wish you to believe that I failed. That Bertha is yours now as she was nine years ago, when you—when we—met her first.
Richard	Do you want to know what I did?
Robert	No.
Richard	I came home at once.
Robert	Did you hear Bertha return?
Richard	No. I wrote all the night. And thought. Pointing to the study. In there. Before dawn I went out and walked the strand from end to end.
Robert	Shaking his head. Suffering. Torturing yourself.
Richard	Hearing voices about me. The voices of those who say they love me.
Robert	Points to the door on the right. One. And mine?
Richard	Another still.
Robert	Smiles and touches his forehead with his right forefinger. True. My interesting but somewhat melancholy cousin. And what did they tell you?
Richard	They told me to despair.
Robert	A queer way of showing their love, I must say! And will you despair?
Richard	Rising. No.
	A noise is heard at the window. Archie’s* face is seen flattened against one of the panes. He is heard calling.*
Archie	Open the window! Open the window!
Robert	Looks at Richard. Did you hear his voice, too, Richard, with the others—out there on the strand? Your son’s voice. Smiling. Listen! How full it is of despair!
Archie	Open the window, please, will you?
Robert	Perhaps, there, Richard, is the freedom we seek—you in one way, I in another. In him and not in us. Perhaps …
Richard	Perhaps … ?
Robert	I said perhaps. I would say almost surely if …
Richard	If what?
Robert	With a faint smile. If he were mine.
	He goes to the window and opens it. Archie* scrambles in.*
Robert	Like yesterday—eh?
Archie	Good morning, Mr. Hand. He runs to Richard* and kisses him:* Buon giorno, babbo.
Richard	Buon giorno, Archie.
Robert	And where were you, my young gentleman?
Archie	Out with the milkman. I drove the horse. We went to Booterstown. He takes off his cap and throws it on a chair. I am very hungry.
Robert	Takes his hat from the table. Richard, goodbye. Offering his hand. To our next meeting!
Richard	Rises, touches his hand. Goodbye.
	Bertha appears at the door on the right.
Robert	Catches sight of her: to Archie. Get your cap. Come on with me. I’ll buy you a cake and I’ll tell you a story.
Archie	To Bertha. May I, mamma?
Bertha	Yes.
Archie	Takes his cap. I am ready.
Robert	To Richard* and Bertha.* Goodbye to pappa and mamma. But not a big goodbye.
Archie	Will you tell me a fairy story, Mr. Hand?
Robert	A fairy story? Why not? I am your fairy godfather.
	They go out together through the double doors and down the garden. When they have gone Bertha* goes to Richard and puts her arm round his waist.*
Bertha	Dick, dear, do you believe now that I have been true to you? Last night and always?
Richard	Sadly. Do not ask me, Bertha.
Bertha	Pressing him more closely. I have been, dear. Surely you believe me. I gave you myself—all. I gave up all for you. You took me—and you left me.
Richard	When did I leave you?
Bertha	You left me: and I waited for you to come back to me. Dick, dear, come here to me. Sit down. How tired you must be!
	She draws him towards the lounge. He sits down, almost reclining, resting on his arm. She sits on the mat before the lounge, holding his hand.
Bertha	Yes, dear. I waited for you. Heavens, what I suffered then—when we lived in Rome! Do you remember the terrace of our house?
Richard	Yes.
Bertha	I used to sit there, waiting, with the poor child with his toys, waiting till he got sleepy. I could see all the roofs of the city and the river, the Tevere. What is its name?
Richard	The Tiber.
Bertha	Caressing her cheek with his hand. It was lovely, Dick, only I was so sad. I was alone, Dick, forgotten by you and by all. I felt my life was ended.
Richard	It had not begun.
Bertha	And I used to look at the sky, so beautiful, without a cloud and the city you said was so old: and then I used to think of Ireland and about ourselves.
Richard	Ourselves?
Bertha	Yes. Ourselves. Not a day passes that I do not see ourselves, you and me, as we were when we met first. Every day of my life I see that. Was I not true to you all that time?
Richard	Sighs deeply. Yes, Bertha. You were my bride in exile.
Bertha	Wherever you go, I will follow you. If you wish to go away now I will go with you.
Richard	I will remain. It is too soon yet to despair.
Bertha	Again caressing his hand. It is not true that I want to drive everyone from you. I wanted to bring you close together—you and him. Speak to me. Speak out all your heart to me. What you feel and what you suffer.
Richard	I am wounded, Bertha.
Bertha	How wounded, dear? Explain to me what you mean. I will try to understand everything you say. In what way are you wounded?
Richard	Releases his hand and, taking her head between his hands, bends it back and gazes long into her eyes. I have a deep, deep wound of doubt in my soul.
Bertha	Motionless. Doubt of me?
Richard	Yes.
Bertha	I am yours. In a whisper. If I died this moment, I am yours.
Richard	Still gazing at her and speaking as if to an absent person. I have wounded my soul for you—a deep wound of doubt which can never be healed. I can never know, never in this world. I do not wish to know or to believe. I do not care. It is not in the darkness of belief that I desire you. But in restless living wounding doubt. To hold you by no bonds, even of love, to be united with you in body and soul in utter nakedness—for this I longed. And now I am tired for a while, Bertha. My wound tires me.
	He stretches himself out wearily along the lounge. Bertha* holds his hand still, speaking very softly.*
Bertha	Forget me, Dick. Forget me and love me again as you did the first time. I want my lover. To meet him, to go to him, to give myself to him. You, Dick. O, my strange wild lover, come back to me again!
	She closes her eyes.

Dramatis Personae

Richard Rowan, a writer

Bertha

Archie, their son, aged eight years

Robert Hand, journalist

Beatrice Justice, his cousin, music teacher

Brigid, an old servant of the Rowan family

A Fishwoman

At Merrion and Ranelagh, suburbs of Dublin.

Summer of the year 1912.

First Act

Brigid and Beatrice Justice come in by the door on the left. Brigid is an elderly woman, lowsized, with irongrey hair. Beatrice Justice is a slender dark young woman of 27 years. She wears a wellmade navyblue costume and an elegant simply trimmed black straw hat, and carries a small portfolioshaped handbag.

Brigid

The mistress and Master Archie is at the bath. They never expected you. Did you send word you were back, Miss Justice?

Beatrice

No. I arrived just now.

Brigid

Points to the easychair. Sit down and I’ll tell the master you are here. Were you long in the train?

Beatrice

Sitting down. Since morning.

Brigid

Master Archie got your postcard with the views of Youghal. You’re tired out, I’m sure.

Beatrice

O, no. She coughs rather nervously. Did he practise the piano while I was away?

Brigid

Laughs heartily. Practice, how are you! Is it Master Archie? He is mad after the milkman’s horse now. Had you nice weather down there, Miss Justice?

Beatrice

Rather wet, I think.

Brigid

Sympathetically. Look at that now. And there is rain overhead too. Moving towards the study. I’ll tell him you are here.

Beatrice

Is Mr. Rowan in?

Brigid

Points. He is in his study. He is wearing himself out about something he is writing. Up half the night he does be. Going. I’ll call him.

Beatrice

Don’t disturb him, Brigid. I can wait here till they come back if they are not long.

Brigid

And I saw something in the letterbox when I was letting you in. She crosses to the study door, opens it slightly and calls. Master Richard, Miss Justice is here for Master Archie’s lesson.

Richard Rowan comes in from the study and advances towards Beatrice, holding out his hand. He is a tall athletic young man of a rather lazy carriage. He has light brown hair and a moustache and wears glasses. He is dressed in loose lightgrey tweed.

Richard

Welcome.

Beatrice

Rises and shakes hands, blushing slightly. Good afternoon, Mr. Rowan. I did not want Brigid to disturb you.

Richard

Disturb me? My goodness!

Brigid

There is something in the letterbox, sir.

Richard

Takes a small bunch of keys from his pocket and hands them to her. Here.

Brigid goes out by the door at the left and is heard opening and closing the box. A short pause. She enters with two newspapers in her hands.

Richard

Letters?

Brigid

No, sir. Only them Italian newspapers.

Richard

Leave them on my desk, will you?

Brigid hands him back the keys, leaves the newspapers in the study, comes out again and goes out by the folding doors on the right.

Richard

Please, sit down. Bertha will be back in a moment.

Beatrice sits down again in the easychair. Richard sits beside the table.

Richard

I had begun to think you would never come back. It is twelve days since you were here.

Beatrice

I thought of that too. But I have come.

Richard

Have you thought over what I told you when you were here last?

Beatrice

Very much.

Richard

You must have known it before. Did you? She does not answer. Do you blame me?

Beatrice

No.

Richard

Do you think I have acted towards you—badly? No? Or towards anyone?

Beatrice

Looks at him with a sad puzzled expression. I have asked myself that question.

Richard

And the answer?

Beatrice

I could not answer it.

Richard

If I were a painter and told you I had a book of sketches of you you would not think it so strange, would you?

Beatrice

It is not quite the same case, is it?

Richard

Smiles slightly. Not quite. I told you also that I would not show you what I had written unless you asked to see it. Well?

Beatrice

I will not ask you.

Richard

Leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands joined. Would you like to see it?

Beatrice

Very much.

Richard

Because it is about yourself?

Beatrice

Yes. But not only that.

Richard

Because it is written by me? Yes? Even if what you would find there is sometimes cruel?

Beatrice

Shyly. That is part of your mind, too.

Richard

Then it is my mind that attracts you? Is that it?

Beatrice

Hesitating, glances at him for an instant. Why do you think I come here?

Richard

Why? Many reasons. To give Archie lessons. We have known one another so many years, from childhood, Robert, you and I—haven’t we? You have always been interested in me, before I went away and while I was away. Then our letters to each other about my book. Now it is published. I am here again. Perhaps you feel that some new thing is gathering in my brain; perhaps you feel that you should know it. Is that the reason?

Beatrice

No.

Richard

Why, then?

Beatrice

Otherwise I could not see you.

She looks at him for a moment and then turns aside quickly.

Richard

After a pause repeats uncertainly. Otherwise you could not see me?

Beatrice

Suddenly confused. I had better go. They are not coming back. Rising. Mr. Rowan, I must go.

Richard

Extending his arms. But you are running away. Remain. Tell me what your words mean. Are you afraid of me?

Beatrice

Sinks back again. Afraid? No.

Richard

Have you confidence in me? Do you feel that you know me?

Beatrice

Again shyly. It is hard to know anyone but oneself.

Richard

Hard to know me? I sent you from Rome the chapters of my book as I wrote them; and letters for nine long years. Well, eight years.

Beatrice

Yes, it was nearly a year before your first letter came.

Richard

It was answered at once by you. And from that on you have watched me in my struggle. Joins his hands earnestly. Tell me, Miss Justice, did you feel that what you read was written for your eyes? Or that you inspired me?

Beatrice

Shakes her head. I need not answer that question.

Richard

What then?

Beatrice

Is silent for a moment. I cannot say it. You yourself must ask me, Mr. Rowan.

Richard

With some vehemence. Then that I expressed in those chapters and letters, and in my character and life as well, something in your soul which you could not—pride or scorn?

Beatrice

Could not?

Richard

Leans towards her. Could not because you dared not. Is that why?

Beatrice

Bends her head. Yes.

Richard

On account of others or for want of courage—which?

Beatrice

Softly. Courage.

Richard

Slowly. And so you have followed me with pride and scorn also in your heart?

Beatrice

And loneliness.

She leans her head on her hand, averting her face. Richard rises and walks slowly to the window on the left. He looks out for some moments and then returns towards her, crosses to the lounge and sits down near her.

Richard

Do you love him still?

Beatrice

I do not even know.

Richard

It was that that made me so reserved with you—then—even though I felt your interest in me, even though I felt that I too was something in your life.

Beatrice

You were.

Richard

Yet that separated me from you. I was a third person, I felt. Your names were always spoken together, Robert and Beatrice, as long as I can remember. It seemed to me, to everyone …

Beatrice

We are first cousins. It is not strange that we were often together.

Richard

He told me of your secret engagement with him. He had no secrets from me; I suppose you know that.

Beatrice

Uneasily. What happened—between us—is so long ago. I was a child.

Richard

Smiles maliciously. A child? Are you sure? It was in the garden of his mother’s house. No? He points towards the garden. Over there. You plighted your troth, as they say, with a kiss. And you gave him your garter. Is it allowed to mention that?

Beatrice

With some reserve. If you think it worthy of mention.

Richard

I think you have not forgotten it. Clasping his hands quietly. I do not understand it. I thought, too, that after I had gone … Did my going make you suffer?

Beatrice

I always knew you would go some day. I did not suffer; only I was changed.

Richard

Towards him?

Beatrice

Everything was changed. His life, his mind, even, seemed to change after that.

Richard

Musing. Yes. I saw that you had changed when I received your first letter after a year; after your illness, too. You even said so in your letter.

Beatrice

It brought me near to death. It made me see things differently.

Richard

And so a coldness began between you, little by little. Is that it?

Beatrice

Half closing her eyes. No. Not at once. I saw in him a pale reflection of you: then that too faded. Of what good is it to talk now?

Richard

With a repressed energy. But what is this that seems to hang over you? It cannot be so tragic.

Beatrice

Calmly. O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. I am given life and health again—when I cannot use them. Calmly and bitterly. I am convalescent.

Richard

Gently. Does nothing then in life give you peace? Surely it exists for you somewhere.

Beatrice

If there were convents in our religion perhaps there. At least, I think so at times.

Richard

Shakes his head. No, Miss Justice, not even there. You could not give yourself freely and wholly.

Beatrice

Looking at him. I would try.

Richard

You would try, yes. You were drawn to him as your mind was drawn towards mine. You held back from him. From me, too, in a different way. You cannot give yourself freely and wholly.

Beatrice

Joins her hands softly. It is a terribly hard thing to do, Mr. Rowan—to give oneself freely and wholly—and be happy.

Richard

But do you feel that happiness is the best, the highest that we can know?

Beatrice

With fervour. I wish I could feel it.

Richard

Leans back, his hands locked together behind his head. O, if you knew how I am suffering at this moment! For your case, too. But suffering most of all for my own. With bitter force. And how I pray that I may be granted again my dead mother’s hardness of heart! For some help, within me or without, I must find. And find it I will.

Beatrice rises, looks at him intently, and walks away toward the garden door. She turns with indecision, looks again at him and, coming back, leans over the easychair.

Beatrice

Quietly. Did she send for you before she died, Mr. Rowan?

Richard

Lost in thought. Who?

Beatrice

Your mother.

Richard

Recovering himself, looks keenly at her for a moment. So that, too, was said of me here by my friends—that she sent for me before she died and that I did not go?

Beatrice

Yes.

Richard

Coldly. She did not. She died alone, not having forgiven me, and fortified by the rites of holy church.

Beatrice

Mr. Rowan, why did you speak to me in such a way?

Richard

Rises and walks nervously to and fro. And what I suffer at this moment you will say is my punishment.

Beatrice

Did she write to you? I mean before …

Richard

Halting. Yes. A letter of warning, bidding me break with the past, and remember her last words to me.

Beatrice

Softly. And does death not move you, Mr. Rowan? It is an end. Everything else is so uncertain.

Richard

While she lived she turned aside from me and from mine. That is certain.

Beatrice

From you and from … ?

Richard

From Bertha and from me and from our child. And so I waited for the end as you say; and it came.

Beatrice

Covers her face with her hands. O, no. Surely no.

Richard

Fiercely. How can my words hurt her poor body that rots in the grave? Do you think I do not pity her cold blighted love for me? I fought against her spirit while she lived to the bitter end. He presses his hand to his forehead. It fights against me still—in here.

Beatrice

As before. O, do not speak like that.

Richard

She drove me away. On account of her I lived years in exile and poverty too, or near it. I never accepted the doles she sent me through the bank. I waited, too, not for her death but for some understanding of me, her own son, her own flesh and blood; that never came.

Beatrice

Not even after Archie … ?

Richard

Rudely. My son, you think? A child of sin and shame! Are you serious? She raises her face and looks at him. There were tongues here ready to tell her all, to embitter her withering mind still more against me and Bertha and our godless nameless child. Holding out his hands to her. Can you not hear her mocking me while I speak? You must know the voice, surely, the voice that called you the black protestant, the pervert’s daughter. With sudden selfcontrol. In any case a remarkable woman.

Beatrice

Weakly. At least you are free now.

Richard

Nods. Yes, she could not alter the terms of my father’s will nor live forever.

Beatrice

With joined hands. They are both gone now, Mr. Rowan. They both loved you, believe me. Their last thoughts were of you.

Richard

Approaching, touches her lightly on the shoulder, and points to the crayon drawing on the wall. Do you see him there, smiling and handsome? His last thoughts! I remember the night he died. He pauses for an instant and then goes on calmly. I was a boy of fourteen. He called me to his bedside. He knew I wanted to go to the theatre to hear Carmen. He told my mother to give me a shilling. I kissed him and went. When I came home he was dead. Those were his last thoughts as far as I know.

Beatrice

The hardness of heart you prayed for … She breaks off.

Richard

Unheeding. That is my last memory of him. Is there not something sweet and noble in it?

Beatrice

Mr. Rowan, something is on your mind to make you speak like this. Something has changed you since you came back three months ago.

Richard

Gazing again at the drawing, calmly, almost gaily. He will help me, perhaps, my smiling handsome father.

A knock is heard at the hall door on the left.

Richard

Suddenly. No, no. Not the smiler, Miss Justice. The old mother. It is her spirit I need. I am going.

Beatrice

Someone knocked. They have come back.

Richard

No, Bertha has a key. It is he. At least, I am going, whoever it is.

He goes out quickly on the left and comes back at once with his straw hat in his hand.

Beatrice

He? Who?

Richard

O, probably Robert. I am going out through the garden. I cannot see him now. Say I have gone to the post. Goodbye.

Beatrice

With growing alarm. It is Robert you do not wish to see?

Richard

Quietly. For the moment, yes. This talk has upset me. Ask him to wait.

Beatrice

You will come back?

Richard

Please God.

He goes out quickly through the garden. Beatrice makes as if to follow him and then stops after a few paces. Brigid enters by the folding doors on the right and goes out on the left. The hall door is heard opening. A few seconds after Brigid enters with Robert Hand. Robert Hand is a middlesized, rather stout man between thirty and forty. He is cleanshaven, with mobile features. His hair and eyes are dark and his complexion sallow. His gait and speech are rather slow. He wears a dark blue morning suit and carries in his hand a large bunch of red roses wrapped in tissue paper.

Robert

Coming towards her with outstretched hand which she takes. My dearest coz! Brigid told me you were here. I had no notion. Did you send mother a telegram?

Beatrice

Gazing at the roses. No.

Robert

Following her gaze. You are admiring my roses. I brought them to the mistress of the house. Critically. I am afraid they are not nice.

Brigid

O, they are lovely, sir. The mistress will be delighted with them.

Robert

Lays the roses carelessly on a chair out of sight. Is nobody in?

Brigid

Yes, sir. Sit down, sir. They’ll be here now any moment. The master was here.

She looks about her and with a half curtsey goes out on the right.

Robert

After a short silence. How are you, Beatty? And how are all down in Youghal? As dull as ever?

Beatrice

They were well when I left.

Robert

Politely. O, but I’m sorry I did not know you were coming. I would have met you at the train. Why did you do it? You have some queer ways about you, Beatty, haven’t you?

Beatrice

In the same tone. Thank you, Robert. I am quite used to getting about alone.

Robert

Yes, but I mean to say … O, well, you have arrived in your own characteristic way.

A noise is heard at the window and a boy’s voice is heard calling, “Mr. Hand!” Robert turns.

By Jove, Archie, too, is arriving in a characteristic way!

Archie scrambles into the room through the open window on the left and then rises to his feet, flushed and panting. Archie is a boy of eight years, dressed in white breeches, jersey and cap. He wears spectacles, has a lively manner and speaks with the slight trace of a foreign accent.

Beatrice

Going towards him. Goodness gracious, Archie! What is the matter?

Archie

Rising, out of breath. Eh! I ran all the avenue.

Robert

Smiles and holds out his hand. Good evening, Archie. Why did you run?

Archie

Shakes hands. Good evening. We saw you on the top of the tram, and I shouted Mr. Hand! But you did not see me. But we saw you, mamma and I. She will be here in a minute. I ran.

Beatrice

Holding out her hand. And poor me!

Archie

Shakes hands somewhat shyly. Good evening, Miss Justice.

Beatrice

Were you disappointed that I did not come last Friday for the lesson?

Archie

Glancing at her, smiles. No.

Beatrice

Glad?

Archie

Suddenly. But today it is too late.

Beatrice

A very short lesson?

Archie

Pleased. Yes.

Beatrice

But now you must study, Archie.

Robert

Were you at the bath?

Archie

Yes.

Robert

Are you a good swimmer now?

Archie

Leans against the davenport. No. Mamma won’t let me into the deep place. Can you swim well, Mr. Hand?

Robert

Splendidly. Like a stone.

Archie

Laughs. Like a stone! Pointing down. Down that way?

Robert

Pointing. Yes, down; straight down. How do you say that over in Italy?

Archie

That? Giù. Pointing down and up. That is giù and this is sù. Do you want to speak to my pappie?

Robert

Yes. I came to see him.

Archie

Going towards the study. I will tell him. He is in there, writing.

Beatrice

Calmly, looking at Robert. No; he is out. He is gone to the post with some letters.

Robert

Lightly. O, never mind. I will wait if he is only gone to the post.

Archie

But mamma is coming. He glances towards the window. Here she is!

Archie runs out by the door on the left. Beatrice walks slowly towards the davenport. Robert remains standing. A short silence. Archie and Bertha come in through the door on the left. Bertha is a young woman of graceful build. She has dark grey eyes, patient in expression, and soft features. Her manner is cordial and selfpossessed. She wears a lavender dress and carries her cream gloves knotted round the handle of her sunshade.

Bertha

Shaking hands. Good evening, Miss Justice. We thought you were still down in Youghal.

Beatrice

Shaking hands. Good evening, Mrs. Rowan.

Bertha

Bows. Good evening, Mr. Hand.

Robert

Bowing. Good evening, signora! Just imagine, I didn’t know either she was back till I found her here.

Bertha

To both. Did you not come together?

Beatrice

No. I came first. Mr. Rowan was going out. He said you would be back any moment.

Bertha

I’m sorry. If you had written or sent over word by the girl this morning …

Beatrice

Laughs nervously. I arrived only an hour and a half ago. I thought of sending a telegram but it seemed too tragic.

Bertha

Ah? Only now you arrived?

Robert

Extending his arms, blandly. I retire from public and private life. Her first cousin and a journalist, I know nothing of her movements.

Beatrice

Not directly to him. My movements are not very interesting.

Robert

In the same tone. A lady’s movements are always interesting.

Bertha

But sit down, won’t you? You must be very tired.

Beatrice

Quickly. No, not at all. I just came for Archie’s lesson.

Bertha

I wouldn’t hear of such a thing, Miss Justice, after your long journey.

Archie

Suddenly to Beatrice. And, besides, you didn’t bring the music.

Beatrice

A little confused. That I forgot. But we have the old piece.

Robert

Pinching Archie’s ear. You little scamp. You want to get off the lesson.

Bertha

O, never mind the lesson. You must sit down and have a cup of tea now. Going towards the door on the right. I’ll tell Brigid.

Archie

I will, mamma. He makes a movement to go.

Beatrice

No, please Mrs. Rowan. Archie! I would really prefer …

Robert

Quietly. I suggest a compromise. Let it be a half-lesson.

Bertha

But she must be exhausted.

Beatrice

Quickly. Not in the least. I was thinking of the lesson in the train.

Robert

To Bertha. You see what it is to have a conscience, Mrs. Rowan.

Archie

Of my lesson, Miss Justice?

Beatrice

Simply. It is ten days since I heard the sound of a piano.

Bertha

O, very well. If that is it …

Robert

Nervously, gaily. Let us have the piano by all means. I know what is in Beatty’s ears at this moment. To Beatrice. Shall I tell?

Beatrice

If you know.

Robert

The buzz of the harmonium in her father’s parlour. To Beatrice. Confess.

Beatrice

Smiling. Yes. I can hear it.

Robert

Grimly. So can I. The asthmatic voice of protestantism.

Bertha

Did you not enjoy yourself down there, Miss Justice?

Robert

Intervenes. She did not, Mrs. Rowan. She goes there on retreat, when the protestant strain in her prevails—gloom, seriousness, righteousness.

Beatrice

I go to see my father.

Robert

Continuing. But she comes back here to my mother, you see. The piano influence is from our side of the house.

Bertha

Hesitating. Well, Miss Justice, if you would like to play something … But please don’t fatigue yourself with Archie.

Robert

Suavely. Do, Beatty. That is what you want.

Beatrice

If Archie will come?

Archie

With a shrug. To listen.

Beatrice

Takes his hand. And a little lesson, too. Very short.

Bertha

Well, afterwards you must stay to tea.

Beatrice

To Archie. Come.

Beatrice and Archie go out together by the door on the left. Bertha goes towards the davenport, takes off her hat and lays it with her sunshade on the desk. Then taking a key from a little flowervase, she opens a drawer of the davenport, takes out a slip of paper and closes the drawer again. Robert stands watching her.

Bertha

Coming towards him with the paper in her hand. You put this into my hand last night. What does it mean?

Robert

Do you not know?

Bertha

Reads. There is one word which I have never dared to say to you. What is the word?

Robert

That I have a deep liking for you.

A short pause. The piano is heard faintly from the upper room.

Robert

Takes the bunch of roses from the chair. I brought these for you. Will you take them from me?

Bertha

Taking them. Thank you. She lays them on the table and unfolds the paper again. Why did you not dare to say it last night?

Robert

I could not speak to you or follow you. There were too many people on the lawn. I wanted you to think over it and so I put it into your hand when you were going away.

Bertha

Now you have dared to say it.

Robert

Moves his hand slowly past his eyes. You passed. The avenue was dim with dusky light. I could see the dark green masses of the trees. And you passed beyond them. You were like the moon.

Bertha

Laughs. Why like the moon?

Robert

In that dress, with your slim body, walking with little even steps. I saw the moon passing in the dusk till you passed and left my sight.

Bertha

Did you think of me last night?

Robert

Comes nearer. I think of you always—as something beautiful and distant—the moon or some deep music.

Bertha

Smiling. And last night which was I?

Robert

I was awake half the night. I could hear your voice. I could see your face in the dark. Your eyes … I want to speak to you. Will you listen to me? May I speak?

Bertha

Sitting down. You may.

Robert

Sitting beside her. Are you annoyed with me?

Bertha

No.

Robert

I thought you were. You put away my poor flowers so quickly.

Bertha

Takes them from the table and holds them close to her face. Is this what you wish me to do with them?

Robert

Watching her. Your face is a flower too—but more beautiful. A wild flower blowing in a hedge. Moving his chair closer to her. Why are you smiling? At my words?

Bertha

Laying the flowers in her lap. I am wondering if that is what you say—to the others.

Robert

Surprised. What others?

Bertha

The other women. I hear you have so many admirers.

Robert

Involuntarily. And that is why you too … ?

Bertha

But you have, haven’t you?

Robert

Friends, yes.

Bertha

Do you speak to them in the same way?

Robert

In an offended tone. How can you ask me such a question? What kind of person do you think I am? Or why do you listen to me? Did you not like me to speak to you in that way?

Bertha

What you said was very kind. She looks at him for a moment. Thank you for saying it—and thinking it.

Robert

Leaning forward. Bertha!

Bertha

Yes?

Robert

I have the right to call you by your name. From old times—nine years ago. We were Bertha—and Robert—then. Can we not be so now, too?

Bertha

Readily. O yes. Why should we not?

Robert

Bertha, you knew. From the very night you landed on Kingstown pier. It all came back to me then. And you knew it. You saw it.

Bertha

No. Not that night.

Robert

When?

Bertha

The night we landed I felt very tired and dirty. Shaking her head. I did not see it in you that night.

Robert

Smiling. Tell me what did you see that night—your very first impression.

Bertha

Knitting her brows. You were standing with your back to the gangway, talking to two ladies.

Robert

To two plain middleaged ladies, yes.

Bertha

I recognized you at once. And I saw that you had got fat.

Robert

Takes her hand. And this poor fat Robert—do you dislike him then so much? Do you disbelieve all he says?

Bertha

I think men speak like that to all women whom they like or admire. What do you want me to believe?

Robert

All men, Bertha?

Bertha

With sudden sadness. I think so.

Robert

I too?

Bertha

Yes, Robert. I think you too.

Robert

All then—without exception? Or with one exception? In a lower tone. Or is he too—Richard too—like us all—in that at least? Or different?

Bertha

Looks into his eyes. Different.

Robert

Are you quite sure, Bertha?

Bertha

A little confused, tries to withdraw her hand. I have answered you.

Robert

Suddenly. Bertha, may I kiss your hand? Let me. May I?

Bertha

If you wish.

He lifts her hand to his lips slowly. She rises suddenly and listens.

Bertha

Did you hear the garden gate?

Robert

Rising also. No.

A short pause. The piano can be heard faintly from the upper room.

Robert

Pleading. Do not go away. You must never go away now. Your life is here. I came for that too today—to speak to him—to urge him to accept this position. He must. And you must persuade him to. You have a great influence over him.

Bertha

You want him to remain here.

Robert

Yes.

Bertha

Why?

Robert

For your sake because you are unhappy so far away. For his sake too because he should think of his future.

Bertha

Laughing. Do you remember what he said when you spoke to him last night?

Robert

About … ? Reflecting. Yes. He quoted the Our Father about our daily bread. He said that to take care for the future is to destroy hope and love in the world.

Bertha

Do you not think he is strange?

Robert

In that, yes.

Bertha

A little—mad?

Robert

Comes closer. No. He is not. Perhaps we are. Why, do you … ?

Bertha

Laughs. I ask you because you are intelligent.

Robert

You must not go away. I will not let you.

Bertha

Looks full at him. You?

Robert

Those eyes must not go away. He takes her hands. May I kiss your eyes?

Bertha

Do so.

He kisses her eyes and then passes his hand over her hair.

Robert

Little Bertha!

Bertha

Smiling. But I am not so little. Why do you call me little?

Robert

Little Bertha! One embrace? He puts his arm around her. Look into my eyes again.

Bertha

Looks. I can see the little gold spots. So many you have.

Robert

Delighted. Your voice! Give me a kiss, a kiss with your mouth.

Bertha

Take it.

Robert

I am afraid. He kisses her mouth and passes his hand many times over her hair. At last I hold you in my arms!

Bertha

And are you satisfied?

Robert

Let me feel your lips touch mine.

Bertha

And then you will be satisfied?

Robert

Murmurs. Your lips, Bertha!

Bertha

Closes her eyes and kisses him quickly. There. Puts her hands on his shoulders. Why don’t you say: thanks?

Robert

Sighs. My life is finished—over.

Bertha

O, don’t speak like that now, Robert.

Robert

Over, over. I want to end it and have done with it.

Bertha

Concerned but lightly. You silly fellow!

Robert

Presses her to him. To end it all—death. To fall from a great high cliff, down, right down into the sea.

Bertha

Please, Robert …

Robert

Listening to music and in the arms of the woman I love—the sea, music and death.

Bertha

Looks at him for a moment. The woman you love?

Robert

Hurriedly. I want to speak to you, Bertha—alone—not here. Will you come?

Bertha

With downcast eyes. I too want to speak to you.

Robert

Tenderly. Yes, dear, I know. He kisses her again. I will speak to you; tell you all; then. I will kiss you, then, long long kisses—when you come to me—long long sweet kisses.

Bertha

Where?

Robert

In the tone of passion. Your eyes. Your lips. All your divine body.

Bertha

Repelling his embrace, confused. I meant where do you wish me to come.

Robert

To my house. Not my mother’s over there. I will write the address for you. Will you come?

Bertha

When?

Robert

Tonight. Between eight and nine. Come. I will wait for you tonight. And every night. You will?

He kisses her with passion, holding her head between his hands. After a few instants she breaks from him. He sits down.

Bertha

Listening. The gate opened.

Robert

Intensely. I will wait for you.

He takes the slip from the table. Bertha moves away from him slowly. Richard comes in from the garden.

Richard

Advancing, takes off his hat. Good afternoon.

Robert

Rises, with nervous friendliness. Good afternoon, Richard.

Bertha

At the table, taking the roses. Look what lovely roses Mr. Hand brought me.

Robert

I am afraid they are overblown.

Richard

Suddenly. Excuse me for a moment, will you?

He turns and goes into his study quickly. Robert takes a pencil from his pocket and writes a few words on the slip; then hands it quickly to Bertha.

Robert

Rapidly. The address. Take the tram at Lansdowne Road and ask to be let down near there.

Bertha

Takes it. I promise nothing.

Robert

I will wait.

Richard comes back from the study.

Bertha

Going. I must put these roses in water.

Richard

Handing her his hat. Yes, do. And please put my hat on the rack.

Bertha

Takes it. So I will leave you to yourselves for your talk. Looking round. Do you want anything? Cigarettes?

Richard

Thanks. We have them here.

Bertha

Then I can go?

She goes out on the left with Richard’s hat, which she leaves in the hall, and returns at once; she stops for a moment at the davenport, replaces the slip in the drawer, locks it, and replaces the key, and, taking the roses, goes towards the right. Robert precedes her to open the door for her. She bows and goes out.

Richard

Points to the chair near the little table on the right. Your place of honour.

Robert

Sits down. Thanks. Passing his hand over his brow. Good Lord, how warm it is today! The heat pains me here in the eye. The glare.

Richard

The room is rather dark, I think, with the blind down but if you wish …

Robert

Quickly. Not at all. I know what it is—the result of night work.

Richard

Sits on the lounge. Must you?

Robert

Sighs. Eh, yes. I must see part of the paper through every night. And then my leading articles. We are approaching a difficult moment. And not only here.

Richard

After a slight pause. Have you any news?

Robert

In a different voice. Yes. I want to speak to you seriously. Today may be an important day for you—or rather, tonight. I saw the vicechancellor this morning. He has the highest opinion of you, Richard. He has read your book, he said.

Richard

Did he buy it or borrow it?

Robert

Bought it, I hope.

Richard

I shall smoke a cigarette. Thirtyseven copies have now been sold in Dublin.

He takes a cigarette from the box on the table, and lights it.

Robert

Suavely, hopelessly. Well, the matter is closed for the present. You have your iron mask on today.

Richard

Smoking. Let me hear the rest.

Robert

Again seriously. Richard, you are too suspicious. It is a defect in you. He assured me he has the highest possible opinion of you, as everyone has. You are the man for the post, he says. In fact, he told me that, if your name goes forward, he will work might and main for you with the senate and I … will do my part, of course, in the press and privately. I regard it as a public duty. The chair of romance literature is yours by right, as a scholar, as a literary personality.

Richard

The conditions?

Robert

Conditions? You mean about the future?

Richard

I mean about the past.

Robert

Easily. That episode in your past is forgotten. An act of impulse. We are all impulsive.

Richard

Looks fixedly at him. You called it an act of folly, then—nine years ago. You told me I was hanging a weight about my neck.

Robert

I was wrong. Suavely. Here is how the matter stands, Richard. Everyone knows that you ran away years ago with a young girl … How shall I put it? … with a young girl not exactly your equal. Kindly. Excuse me, Richard, that is not my opinion nor my language. I am simply using the language of people whose opinions I don’t share.

Richard

Writing one of your leading articles, in fact.

Robert

Put it so. Well, it made a great sensation at the time. A mysterious disappearance. My name was involved too, as best man, let us say, on that famous occasion. Of course, they think I acted from a mistaken sense of friendship. Well, all that is known. With some hesitation. But what happened afterwards is not known.

Richard

No?

Robert

Of course, it is your affair, Richard. However, you are not so young now as you were then. The expression is quite in the style of my leading articles, isn’t it?

Richard

Do you, or do you not, want me to give the lie to my past life?

Robert

I am thinking of your future life—here. I understand your pride and your sense of liberty. I understand their point of view also. However, there is a way out; it is simply this. Refrain from contradicting any rumours you may hear concerning what happened … or did not happen after you went away. Leave the rest to me.

Richard

You will set these rumours afloat?

Robert

I will. God help me.

Richard

Observing him. For the sake of social conventions?

Robert

For the sake of something else too—our friendship, our lifelong friendship.

Richard

Thanks.

Robert

Slightly wounded. And I will tell you the whole truth.

Richard

Smiles and bows. Yes. Do, please.

Robert

Not only for your sake. Also for the sake of—your present partner in life.

Richard

I see.

He crushes his cigarette softly on the ashtray and then leans forward, rubbing his hands slowly.

Richard

Why for her sake?

Robert

Also leans forward, quietly. Richard, have you been quite fair to her? It was her own free choice, you will say. But was she really free to choose? She was a mere girl. She accepted all that you proposed.

Richard

Smiles. That is your way of saying that she proposed what I would not accept.

Robert

Nods. I remember. And she went away with you. But was it of her own free choice? Answer me frankly.

Richard

Turns to him, calmly. I played for her against all that you say or can say; and I won.

Robert

Nodding again. Yes, you won.

Richard

Rises. Excuse me for forgetting. Will you have some whisky?

Robert

All things come to those who wait.

Richard goes to the sideboard and brings a small tray with the decanter and glasses to the table where he sets it down.

Richard

Sits down again, leaning back on the lounge. Will you please help yourself?

Robert

Does so. And you? Steadfast? Richard shakes his head. Lord, when I think of our wild nights long ago—talks by the hour, plans, carouses, revelry …

Richard

In our house.

Robert

It is mine now. I have kept it ever since though I don’t go there often. Whenever you like to come let me know. You must come some night. It will be old times again. He lifts his glass and drinks. Prosit!

Richard

It was not only a house of revelry; it was to be the hearth of a new life. Musing. And in that name all our sins were committed.

Robert

Sins! Drinking and blasphemy he points by me. And drinking and heresy, much worse he points again by you—are those the sins you mean?

Richard

And some others.

Robert

Lightly, uneasily. You mean the women. I have no remorse of conscience. Maybe you have. We had two keys on those occasions. Maliciously. Have you?

Richard

Irritated. For you it was all quite natural?

Robert

For me it is quite natural to kiss a woman whom I like. Why not? She is beautiful for me.

Richard

Toying with the lounge cushion. Do you kiss everything that is beautiful for you?

Robert

Everything—if it can be kissed. He takes up a flat stone which lies on the table. This stone, for instance. It is so cool, so polished, so delicate, like a woman’s temple. It is silent, it suffers our passion; and it is beautiful. He places it against his lips. And so I kiss it because it is beautiful. And what is a woman? A work of nature, too, like a stone or a flower or a bird. A kiss is an act of homage.

Richard

It is an act of union between man and woman. Even if we are often led to desire through the sense of beauty can you say that the beautiful is what we desire?

Robert

Pressing the stone to his forehead. You will give me a headache if you make me think today. I cannot think today. I feel too natural, too common. After all, what is most attractive in even the most beautiful woman?

Richard

What?

Robert

Not those qualities which she has and other women have not but the qualities which she has in common with them. I mean … the commonest. Turning over the stone, he presses the other side to his forehead. I mean how her body develops heat when it is pressed, the movement of her blood, how quickly she changes by digestion what she eats into—what shall be nameless. Laughing. I am very common today. Perhaps that idea never struck you?

Richard

Drily. Many ideas strike a man who has lived nine years with a woman.

Robert

Yes. I suppose they do. … This beautiful cool stone does me good. Is it a paperweight or a cure for headache?

Richard

Bertha brought it home one day from the strand. She, too, says that it is beautiful.

Robert

Lays down the stone quietly. She is right.

He raises his glass and drinks. A pause.

Richard

Is that all you wanted to say to me?

Robert

Quickly. There is something else. The vicechancellor sends you, through me, an invitation for tonight—to dinner at his house. You know where he lives? Richard nods. I thought you might have forgotten. Strictly private, of course. He wants to meet you again and sends you a very warm invitation.

Richard

For what hour?

Robert

Eight. But, like yourself, he is free and easy about time. Now, Richard, you must go there. That is all. I feel tonight will be the turningpoint in your life. You will live here and work here and think here and be honoured here—among our people.

Richard

Smiling. I can almost see two envoys starting for the United States to collect funds for my statue a hundred years hence.

Robert

Agreeably. Once I made a little epigram about statues. All statues are of two kinds. He folds his arms across his chest. The statue which says: How shall I get down? and the other kind he unfolds his arms and extends his right arm, averting his head the statue which says: In my time the dunghill was so high.

Richard

The second one for me, please.

Robert

Lazily. Will you give me one of those long cigars of yours?

Richard selects a Virginia cigar from the box on the table and hands it to him with the straw drawn out.

Robert

Lighting it. These cigars Europeanize me. If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European. And that is what you are here for, Richard. Some day we shall have to choose between England and Europe. I am a descendant of the dark foreigners: that is why I like to be here. I may be childish. But where else in Dublin can I get a bandit cigar like this or a cup of black coffee? The man who drinks black coffee is going to conquer Ireland. And now I will take just a half measure of that whisky, Richard, to show you there is no ill feeling.

Richard

Points. Help yourself.

Robert

Does so. Thanks. He drinks and goes on as before. Then you yourself, the way you loll on that lounge: then your boy’s voice and also—Bertha herself. Do you allow me to call her that, Richard? I mean as an old friend of both of you.

Richard

O why not?

Robert

With animation. You have that fierce indignation which lacerated the heart of Swift. You have fallen from a higher world, Richard, and you are filled with fierce indignation, when you find that life is cowardly and ignoble. While I … shall I tell you?

Richard

By all means.

Robert

Archly. I have come up from a lower world and I am filled with astonishment when I find that people have any redeeming virtue at all.

Richard

Sits up suddenly and leans his elbows on the table. You are my friend, then?

Robert

Gravely. I fought for you all the time you were away. I fought to bring you back. I fought to keep your place for you here. I will fight for you still because I have faith in you, the faith of a disciple in his master. I cannot say more than that. It may seem strange to you … Give me a match.

Richard

Lights and offers him a match. There is a faith still stranger than the faith of the disciple in his master.

Robert

And that is?

Richard

The faith of a master in the disciple who will betray him.

Robert

The church lost a theologian in you, Richard. But I think you look too deeply into life. He rises, pressing Richard’s arm slightly. Be gay. Life is not worth it.

Richard

Without rising. Are you going?

Robert

Must. He turns and says in a friendly tone. Then it is all arranged. We meet tonight at the vicechancellor’s. I shall look in at about ten. So you can have an hour or so to yourselves first. You will wait till I come?

Richard

Good.

Robert

One more match and I am happy.

Richard strikes another match, hands it to him and rises also. Archie comes in by the door on the left, followed by Beatrice.

Robert

Congratulate me, Beatty. I have won over Richard.

Archie

Crossing to the door on the right, calls. Mamma, Miss Justice is going.

Beatrice

On what are you to be congratulated?

Robert

On a victory, of course. Laying his hand lightly on Richard’s shoulder. The descendant of Archibald Hamilton Rowan has come home.

Richard

I am not a descendant of Hamilton Rowan.

Robert

What matter?

Bertha comes in from the right with a bowl of roses.

Beatrice

Has Mr. Rowan … ?

Robert

Turning towards Bertha. Richard is coming tonight to the vicechancellor’s dinner. The fatted calf will be eaten: roast, I hope. And next session will see the descendant of a namesake of etcetera, etcetera in a chair of the university. He offers his hand. Good afternoon, Richard. We shall meet tonight.

Richard

Touches his hand. At Philippi.

Beatrice

Shakes hands also. Accept my best wishes, Mr. Rowan.

Richard

Thanks. But do not believe him.

Robert

Vivaciously. Believe me, believe me. To Bertha. Good afternoon, Mrs. Rowan.

Bertha

Shaking hands, candidly. I thank you, too. To Beatrice. You won’t stay to tea, Miss Justice?

Beatrice

No, thank you. Takes leave of her. I must go. Good afternoon. Goodbye, Archie going.

Robert

Addio, Archibald.

Archie

Addio.

Robert

Wait, Beatty. I shall accompany you.

Beatrice

Going out on the right with Bertha. O, don’t trouble.

Robert

Following her. But I insist—as a cousin.

Bertha, Beatrice and Robert go out by the door on the left. Richard stands irresolutely near the table. Archie closes the door leading to the hall and, coming over to him, plucks him by the sleeve.

Archie

I say, pappie!

Richard

Absently. What is it?

Archie

I want to ask you a thing.

Richard

Sitting on the end of the lounge, stares in front of him. What is it?

Archie

Will you ask mamma to let me go out in the morning with the milkman?

Richard

With the milkman?

Archie

Yes. In the milkcar. He says he will let me drive when we get on to the roads where there are no people. The horse is a very good beast. Can I go?

Richard

Yes.

Archie

Ask mamma now can I go. Will you?

Richard

Glances towards the door. I will.

Archie

He said he will show me the cows he has in the field. Do you know how many cows he has?

Richard

How many?

Archie

Eleven. Eight red and three white. But one is sick now. No, not sick. But it fell.

Richard

Cows?

Archie

With a gesture. Eh! Not bulls. Because bulls give no milk. Eleven cows. They must give a lot of milk. What makes a cow give milk?

Richard

Takes his hand. Who knows? Do you understand what it is to give a thing?

Archie

To give? Yes.

Richard

While you have a thing it can be taken from you.

Archie

By robbers? No?

Richard

But when you give it, you have given it. No robber can take it from you. He bends his head and presses his son’s hand against his cheek. It is yours then forever when you have given it. It will be yours always. That is to give.

Archie

But, pappie?

Richard

Yes?

Archie

How could a robber rob a cow? Everyone would see him. In the night, perhaps.

Richard

In the night, yes.

Archie

Are there robbers here like in Rome?

Richard

There are poor people everywhere.

Archie

Have they revolvers?

Richard

No.

Archie

Knives? Have they knives?

Richard

Sternly. Yes, yes. Knives and revolvers.

Archie

Disengages himself. Ask mamma now. She is coming.

Richard

Makes a movement to rise. I will.

Archie

No, sit there, pappie. You wait and ask her when she comes back. I won’t be here. I’ll be in the garden.

Richard

Sinking back again. Yes. Go.

Archie

Kisses him swiftly. Thanks.

He runs out quickly by the door at the back leading into the garden. Bertha enters by the door on the left. She approaches the table and stands beside it, fingering the petals of the roses, looking at Richard.

Richard

Watching her. Well?

Bertha

Absently. Well. He says he likes me.

Richard

Leans his chin in his hand. You showed him his note?

Bertha

Yes. I asked him what it meant.

Richard

What did he say it meant?

Bertha

He said I must know. I said I had an idea. Then he told me he liked me very much. That I was beautiful—and all that.

Richard

Since when!

Bertha

Again absently. Since when—what?

Richard

Since when did he say he liked you?

Bertha

Always, he said. But more since we came back. He said I was like the moon in this lavender dress. Looking at him. Had you any words with him—about me?

Richard

Blandly. The usual thing. Not about you.

Bertha

He was very nervous. You saw that?

Richard

Yes. I saw it. What else went on?

Bertha

He asked me to give him my hand.

Richard

Smiling. In marriage?

Bertha

Smiling. No, only to hold.

Richard

Did you?

Bertha

Yes. Tearing off a few petals. Then he caressed my hand and asked would I let him kiss it. I let him.

Richard

Well?

Bertha

Then he asked could he embrace me—even once? … And then …

Richard

And then?

Bertha

He put his arm round me.

Richard

Stares at the floor for a moment, then looks at her again. And then?

Bertha

He said I had beautiful eyes. And asked could he kiss them. With a gesture. I said: Do so.

Richard

And he did?

Bertha

Yes. First one and then the other. She breaks off suddenly. Tell me, Dick, does all this disturb you? Because I told you I don’t want that. I think you are only pretending you don’t mind. I don’t mind.

Richard

Quietly. I know, dear. But I want to find out what he means or feels just as you do.

Bertha

Points at him. Remember, you allowed me to go on. I told you the whole thing from the beginning.

Richard

As before. I know, dear … And then?

Bertha

He asked for a kiss. I said: Take it.

Richard

And then?

Bertha

Crumpling a handful of petals. He kissed me.

Richard

Your mouth?

Bertha

Once or twice.

Richard

Long kisses?

Bertha

Fairly long. Reflects. Yes, the last time.

Richard

Rubs his hands slowly; then. With his lips? Or … the other way?

Bertha

Yes, the last time.

Richard

Did he ask you to kiss him?

Bertha

He did.

Richard

Did you?

Bertha

Hesitates, then looking straight at him. I did. I kissed him.

Richard

What way?

Bertha

With a shrug. O simply.

Richard

Were you excited?

Bertha

Well, you can imagine. Frowning suddenly. Not much. He has not nice lips … Still I was excited, of course. But not like with you, Dick.

Richard

Was he?

Bertha

Excited? Yes, I think he was. He sighed. He was dreadfully nervous.

Richard

Resting his forehead on his hand. I see.

Bertha

Crosses towards the lounge and stands near him. Are you jealous?

Richard

As before. No.

Bertha

Quietly. You are, Dick.

Richard

I am not. Jealous of what?

Bertha

Because he kissed me.

Richard

Looks up. Is that all?

Bertha

Yes, that’s all. Except that he asked me would I meet him.

Richard

Out somewhere?

Bertha

No. In his house.

Richard

Surprised. Over there with his mother, is it?

Bertha

No, a house he has. He wrote the address for me.

She goes to the desk, takes the key from the flower vase, unlocks the drawer and returns to him with the slip of paper.

Richard

Half to himself. Our cottage.

Bertha

Hands him the slip. Here.

Richard

Reads it. Yes. Our cottage.

Bertha

Your … ?

Richard

No, his. I call it ours. Looking at her. The cottage I told you about so often—that we had the two keys for, he and I. It is his now. Where we used to hold our wild nights, talking, drinking, planning—at that time. Wild nights; yes. He and I together. He throws the slip on the couch and rises suddenly. And sometimes I alone. Stares at her. But not quite alone. I told you. You remember?

Bertha

Shocked. That place?

Richard

Walks away from her a few paces and stands still, thinking, holding his chin. Yes.

Bertha

Taking up the slip again. Where is it?

Richard

Do you not know?

Bertha

He told me to take the tram at Lansdowne Road and to ask the man to let me down there. Is it … is it a bad place?

Richard

O no, cottages. He returns to the lounge and sits down. What answer did you give?

Bertha

No answer. He said he would wait.

Richard

Tonight?

Bertha

Every night, he said. Between eight and nine.

Richard

And so I am to go tonight to interview—the professor. About the appointment I am to beg for. Looking at her. The interview is arranged for tonight by him—between eight and nine. Curious, isn’t it? The same hour.

Bertha

Very.

Richard

Did he ask you had I any suspicion?

Bertha

No.

Richard

Did he mention my name?

Bertha

No.

Richard

Not once?

Bertha

Not that I remember.

Richard

Bounding to his feet. O yes! Quite clear!

Bertha

What?

Richard

Striding to and fro. A liar, a thief, and a fool! Quite clear! A common thief! What else? With a harsh laugh. My great friend! A patriot too! A thief—nothing else! He halts, thrusting his hands into his pockets. But a fool also!

Bertha

Looking at him. What are you going to do?

Richard

Shortly. Follow him. Find him. Tell him. Calmly. A few words will do. Thief and fool.

Bertha

Flings the slip on the couch. I see it all!

Richard

Turning. Eh!

Bertha

Hotly. The work of a devil.

Richard

He?

Bertha

Turning on him. No, you! The work of a devil to turn him against me as you tried to turn my own child against me. Only you did not succeed.

Richard

How? In God’s name, how?

Bertha

Excitedly. Yes, yes. What I say. Everyone saw it. Whenever I tried to correct him for the least thing you went on with your folly, speaking to him as if he were a grown-up man. Ruining the poor child, or trying to. Then, of course, I was the cruel mother and only you loved him. With growing excitement. But you did not turn him against me—against his own mother. Because why? Because the child has too much nature in him.

Richard

I never tried to do such a thing, Bertha. You know I cannot be severe with a child.

Bertha

Because you never loved your own mother. A mother is always a mother, no matter what. I never heard of any human being that did not love the mother that brought him into the world, except you.

Richard

Approaching her quietly. Bertha, do not say things you will be sorry for. Are you not glad my son is fond of me?

Bertha

Who taught him to be? Who taught him to run to meet you? Who told him you would bring him home toys when you were out on your rambles in the rain, forgetting all about him—and me? I did. I taught him to love you.

Richard

Yes, dear. I know it was you.

Bertha

Almost crying. And then you try to turn everyone against me. All is to be for you. I am to appear false and cruel to everyone except to you. Because you take advantage of my simplicity as you did—the first time.

Richard

Violently. And you have the courage to say that to me?

Bertha

Facing him. Yes, I have! Both then and now. Because I am simple you think you can do what you like with me. Gesticulating. Follow him now. Call him names. Make him be humble before you and make him despise me. Follow him!

Richard

Controlling himself. You forget that I have allowed you complete liberty—and allow you it still.

Bertha

Scornfully. Liberty!

Richard

Yes, complete. But he must know that I know. More calmly. I will speak to him quietly. Appealing. Bertha, believe me, dear! It is not jealousy. You have complete liberty to do as you wish—you and he. But not in this way. He will not despise you. You don’t wish to deceive me or to pretend to deceive me—with him, do you?

Bertha

No, I do not. Looking full at him. Which of us two is the deceiver?

Richard

Of us? You and me?

Bertha

In a calm decided tone. I know why you have allowed me what you call complete liberty.

Richard

Why?

Bertha

To have complete liberty with—that girl.

Richard

Irritated. But, good God, you knew about that this long time. I never hid it.

Bertha

You did. I thought it was a kind of friendship between you—till we came back, and then I saw.

Richard

So it is, Bertha.

Bertha

Shakes her head. No, no. It is much more; and that is why you give me complete liberty. All those things you sit up at night to write about pointing to the study in there—about her. You call that friendship?

Richard

Believe me, Bertha dear. Believe me as I believe you.

Bertha

With an impulsive gesture. My God, I feel it! I know it! What else is between you but love?

Richard

Calmly. You are trying to put that idea into my head but I warn you that I don’t take my ideas from other people.

Bertha

Hotly. It is, it is! And that is why you allow him to go on. Of course! It doesn’t affect you. You love her.

Richard

Love! Throws out his hands with a sigh and moves away from her. I cannot argue with you.

Bertha

You can’t because I am right. Following him a few steps. What would anyone say?

Richard

Turns to her. Do you think I care?

Bertha

But I care. What would he say if he knew? You, who talk so much of the high kind of feeling you have for me, expressing yourself in that way to another woman. If he did it, or other men, I could understand because they are false pretenders. But you, Dick! Why do you not tell him then?

Richard

You can if you like.

Bertha

I will. Certainly I will.

Richard

Coolly. He will explain it to you.

Bertha

He doesn’t say one thing and do another. He is honest in his own way.

Richard

Plucks one of the roses and throws it at her feet. He is, indeed! The soul of honour!

Bertha

You may make fun of him as much as you like. I understand more than you think about that business. And so will he. Writing those long letters to her for years, and she to you. For years. But since I came back I understand it—well.

Richard

You do not. Nor would he.

Bertha

Laughs scornfully. Of course. Neither he nor I can understand it. Only she can. Because it is such a deep thing!

Richard

Angrily. Neither he nor you—nor she either! Not one of you!

Bertha

With great bitterness. She will! She will understand it! The diseased woman!

She turns away and walks over to the little table on the right. Richard restrains a sudden gesture. A short pause.

Richard

Gravely. Bertha, take care of uttering words like that!

Bertha

Turning, excitedly. I don’t mean any harm! I feel for her more than you can because I am a woman. I do, sincerely. But what I say is true.

Richard

Is it generous? Think.

Bertha

Pointing towards the garden. It is she who is not generous. Remember now what I say.

Richard

What?

Bertha

Comes nearer; in a calmer tone. You have given that woman very much, Dick. And she may be worthy of it. And she may understand it all, too. I know she is that kind.

Richard

Do you believe that?

Bertha

I do. But I believe you will get very little from her in return—or from any of her clan. Remember my words, Dick. Because she is not generous and they are not generous. Is it all wrong what I am saying? Is it?

Richard

Darkly. No. Not all.

She stoops and, picking up the rose from the floor, places it in the vase again. He watches her. Brigid appears at the folding doors on the right.

Brigid

The tea is on the table, ma’am.

Bertha

Very well.

Brigid

Is Master Archie in the garden?

Bertha

Yes. Call him in.

Brigid crosses the room and goes out into the garden. Bertha goes towards the doors on the right. At the lounge she stops and takes up the slip.

Brigid

In the garden. Master Archie! You are to come in to your tea.

Bertha

Am I to go to this place?

Richard

Do you want to go?

Bertha

I want to find out what he means. Am I to go?

Richard

Why do you ask me? Decide yourself.

Bertha

Do you tell me to go?

Richard

No.

Bertha

Do you forbid me to go?

Richard

No.

Brigid

From the garden. Come quickly, Master Archie! Your tea is waiting on you.

Brigid crosses the room and goes out through the folding doors. Bertha folds the slip into the waist of her dress and goes slowly towards the right. Near the door she turns and halts.

Bertha

Tell me not to go and I will not.

Richard

Without looking at her. Decide yourself.

Bertha

Will you blame me then?

Richard

Excitedly. No, no! I will not blame you. You are free. I cannot blame you.

Archie appears at the garden door.

Bertha

I did not deceive you.

She goes out through the folding doors. Richard remains standing at the table. Archie, when his mother has gone, runs down to Richard.

Archie

Quickly. Well, did you ask her?

Richard

Starting. What?

Archie

Can I go?

Richard

Yes.

Archie

In the morning? She said yes?

Richard

Yes. In the morning.

He puts his arm round his son’s shoulders and looks down at him fondly.

Second Act

Robert Hand, in evening dress, is seated at the piano. The candles are not lit but the lamp on the table is lit. He plays softly in the bass the first bars of Wolfram’s song in the last act of Tannhäuser. Then he breaks off and, resting an elbow on the ledge of the keyboard, meditates. Then he rises and, pulling out a pump from behind the piano, walks here and there in the room ejecting from it into the air sprays of perfume. He inhales the air slowly and then puts the pump back behind the piano. He sits down on a chair near the table and, smoothing his hair carefully, sighs once or twice. Then, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he leans back, stretches out his legs, and waits. A knock is heard at the street door. He rises quickly.

Robert

Exclaims. Bertha!

He hurries out by the door on the right. There is a noise of confused greeting. After a few moments Robert enters, followed by Richard Rowan, who is in grey tweeds as before but holds in one hand a dark felt hat and in the other an umbrella.

Robert

First of all let me put these outside.

He takes the hat and umbrella, leaves them in the hall and returns.

Robert

Pulling round a chair. Here you are. You are lucky to find me in. Why didn’t you tell me today? You were always a devil for surprises. I suppose my evocation of the past was too much for your wild blood. See how artistic I have become. He points to the walls. The piano is an addition since your time. I was just strumming out Wagner when you came. Killing time. You see I am ready for the fray. Laughs. I was just wondering how you and the vicechancellor were getting on together. With exaggerated alarm. But are you going in that suit? O well, it doesn’t make much odds, I suppose. But how goes the time? He takes out his watch. Twenty past eight already, I declare!

Richard

Have you an appointment?

Robert

Laughs nervously. Suspicious to the last!

Richard

Then I may sit down?

Robert

Of course, of course. They both sit down. For a few minutes, anyhow. Then we can both go on together. We are not bound for time. Between eight and nine, he said, didn’t he? What time is it, I wonder? Is about to look again at his watch; then stops. Twenty past eight, yes.

Richard

Wearily, sadly. Your appointment also was for the same hour. Here.

Robert

What appointment?

Richard

With Bertha.

Robert

Stares at him. Are you mad?

Richard

Are you?

Robert

After a long pause. Who told you?

Richard

She.

A short silence.

Robert

In a low voice. Yes. I must have been mad. Rapidly. Listen to me, Richard. It is a great relief to me that you have come—the greatest relief. I assure you that ever since this afternoon I have thought and thought how I could break it off without seeming a fool. A great relief! I even intended to send word … a letter, a few lines. Suddenly. But then it was too late … Passes his hand over his forehead. Let me speak frankly with you; let me tell you everything.

Richard

I know everything. I have known for some time.

Robert

Since when?

Richard

Since it began between you and her.

Robert

Again rapidly. Yes, I was mad. But it was merely lightheadedness. I admit that to have asked her here this evening was a mistake. I can explain everything to you. And I will. Truly.

Richard

Explain to me what is the word you longed and never dared to say to her. If you can or will.

Robert

Looks down, then raises his head. Yes. I will. I admire very much the personality of your … of … your wife. That is the word. I can say it. It is no secret.

Richard

Then why did you wish to keep secret your wooing?

Robert

Wooing?

Richard

Your advances to her, little by little, day after day, looks, whispers. With a nervous movement of the hands. Insomma, wooing.

Robert

Bewildered. But how do you know all this?

Richard

She told me.

Robert

This afternoon?

Richard

No. Time after time, as it happened.

Robert

You knew? From her? Richard nods. You were watching us all the time?

Richard

Very coldly. I was watching you.

Robert

Quickly. I mean, watching me. And you never spoke! You had only to speak a word—to save me from myself. You were trying me. Passes his hand again over his forehead. It was a terrible trial: now also. Desperately. Well, it is past. It will be a lesson to me for all my life. You hate me now for what I have done and for …

Richard

Quietly, looking at him. Have I said that I hate you?

Robert

Do you not? You must.

Richard

Even if Bertha had not told me I should have known. Did you not see that when I came in this afternoon I went into my study suddenly for a moment?

Robert

You did. I remember.

Richard

To give you time to recover yourself. It made me sad to see your eyes. And the roses too. I cannot say why. A great mass of overblown roses.

Robert

I thought I had to give them. Was that strange? Looks at Richard with a tortured expression. Too many, perhaps? Or too old or common?

Richard

That was why I did not hate you. The whole thing made me sad all at once.

Robert

To himself. And this is real. It is happening—to us.

He stares before him for some moments in silence, as if dazed; then, without turning his head, continues.

Robert

And she, too, was trying me; making an experiment with me for your sake!

Richard

You know women better than I do. She says she felt pity for you.

Robert

Brooding. Pitied me, because I am no longer … an ideal lover. Like my roses. Common, old.

Richard

Like all men you have a foolish wandering heart.

Robert

Slowly. Well, you spoke at last. You chose the right moment.

Richard

Leans forward. Robert, not like this. For us two, no. Years, a whole life, of friendship. Think a moment. Since childhood, boyhood … No, no. Not in such a way—like thieves—at night. Glancing about him. And in such a place. No, Robert, that is not for people like us.

Robert

What a lesson! Richard, I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me that you have spoken—that the danger is passed. Yes, yes. Somewhat diffidently. Because … there was some danger for you, too, if you think. Was there not?

Richard

What danger?

Robert

In the same tone. I don’t know. I mean if you had not spoken. If you had watched and waited on until …

Richard

Until?

Robert

Bravely. Until I had come to like her more and more (because I can assure you it is only a lightheaded idea of mine), to like her deeply, to love her. Would you have spoken to me then as you have just now? Richard is silent. Robert goes on more boldly. It would have been different, would it not? For then it might have been too late while it is not too late now. What could I have said then? I could have said only: You are my friend, my dear good friend. I am very sorry but I love her. With a sudden fervent gesture. I love her and I will take her from you, however I can, because I love her.

They look at each other for some moments in silence.

Richard

Calmly. That is the language I have heard often and never believed in. Do you mean by stealth or by violence? Steal you could not in my house because the doors were open; nor take by violence if there were no resistance.

Robert

You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.

Richard

Smiling. Go on.

Robert

Diffidently, but bravely. Do you think you have rights over her—over her heart?

Richard

None.

Robert

For what you have done for her? So much! You claim nothing?

Richard

Nothing.

Robert

After a pause strikes his forehead with his hand. What am I saying? Or what am I thinking? I wish you would upbraid me, curse me, hate me as I deserve. You love this woman. I remember all you told me long ago. She is yours, your work. Suddenly. And that is why I, too, was drawn to her. You are so strong that you attract me even through her.

Richard

I am weak.

Robert

With enthusiasm. You, Richard! You are the incarnation of strength.

Richard

Holds out his hands. Feel those hands.

Robert

Taking his hands. Yes. Mine are stronger. But I meant strength of another kind.

Richard

Gloomily. I think you would try to take her by violence.

He withdraws his hands slowly.

Robert

Rapidly. Those are moments of sheer madness when we feel an intense passion for a woman. We see nothing. We think of nothing. Only to possess her. Call it brutal, bestial, what you will.

Richard

A little timidly. I am afraid that that longing to possess a woman is not love.

Robert

Impatiently. No man ever yet lived on this earth who did not long to possess—I mean to possess in the flesh—the woman whom he loves. It is nature’s law.

Richard

Contemptuously. What is that to me? Did I vote it?

Robert

But if you love … What else is it?

Richard

Hesitatingly. To wish her well.

Robert

Warmly. But the passion which burns us night and day to possess her. You feel it as I do. And it is not what you said now.

Richard

Have you … ? He stops for an instance. Have you the luminous certitude that yours is the brain in contact with which she must think and understand and that yours is the body in contact with which her body must feel? Have you this certitude in yourself?

Robert

Have you?

Richard

Moved. Once I had it, Robert: a certitude as luminous as that of my own existence—or an illusion as luminous.

Robert

Cautiously. And now?

Richard

If you had it and I could feel that you had it—even now …

Robert

What would you do?

Richard

Quietly. Go away. You, and not I, would be necessary to her. Alone as I was before I met her.

Robert

Rubs his hands nervously. A nice little load on my conscience!

Richard

Abstractedly. You met my son when you came to my house this afternoon. He told me. What did you feel?

Robert

Promptly. Pleasure.

Richard

Nothing else?

Robert

Nothing else. Unless I thought of two things at the same time. I am like that. If my best friend lay in his coffin and his face had a comic expression I should smile. With a little gesture of despair. I am like that. But I should suffer too, deeply.

Richard

You spoke of conscience … Did he seem to you a child only—or an angel?

Robert

Shakes his head. No. Neither an angel nor an Anglo-Saxon. Two things, by the way, for which I have very little sympathy.

Richard

Never then? Never even … with her? Tell me. I wish to know.

Robert

I feel in my heart something different. I believe that on the last day (if it ever comes), when we are all assembled together, that the Almighty will speak to us like this. We will say that we lived chastely with one other creature …

Richard

Bitterly. Lie to Him?

Robert

Or that we tried to. And He will say to us: Fools! Who told you that you were to give yourselves to one being only? You were made to give yourselves to many freely. I wrote that law with My finger on your hearts.

Richard

On woman’s heart, too?

Robert

Yes. Can we close our heart against an affection which we feel deeply? Should we close it? Should she?

Richard

We are speaking of bodily union.

Robert

Affection between man and woman must come to that. We think too much of it because our minds are warped. For us today it is of no more consequence than any other form of contact—than a kiss.

Richard

If it is of no consequence why are you dissatisfied till you reach that end? Why were you waiting here tonight?

Robert

Passion tends to go as far as it can; but, you may believe me or not, I had not that in my mind—to reach that end.

Richard

Reach it if you can. I will use no arm against you that the world puts in my hand. If the law which God’s finger has written on our hearts is the law you say I too am God’s creature.

He rises and paces to and fro some moments in silence. Then he goes towards the porch and leans against the jamb. Robert watches him.

Robert

I always felt it. In myself and in others.

Richard

Absently. Yes?

Robert

With a vague gesture. For all. That a woman, too, has the right to try with many men until she finds love. An immoral idea, is it not? I wanted to write a book about it. I began it …

Richard

As before. Yes?

Robert

Because I knew a woman who seemed to me to be doing that—carrying out that idea in her own life. She interested me very much.

Richard

When was this?

Robert

O, not lately. When you were away.

Richard leaves his place rather abruptly and again paces to and fro.

Robert

You see, I am more honest than you thought.

Richard

I wish you had not thought of her now—whoever she was, or is.

Robert

Easily. She was and is the wife of a stockbroker.

Richard

Turning. You know him?

Robert

Intimately.

Richard sits down again in the same place and leans forward, his head on his hands.

Robert

Moving his chair a little closer. May I ask you a question?

Richard

You may.

Robert

With some hesitation. Has it never happened to you in these years—I mean when you were away from her, perhaps, or travelling—to … betray her with another. Betray her, I mean, not in love. Carnally, I mean … Has that never happened?

Richard

It has.

Robert

And what did you do?

Richard

As before. I remember the first time. I came home. It was night. My house was silent. My little son was sleeping in his cot. She, too, was asleep. I wakened her from sleep and told her. I cried beside her bed; and I pierced her heart.

Robert

O, Richard, why did you do that?

Richard

Betray her?

Robert

No. But tell her, waken her from sleep to tell her. It was piercing her heart.

Richard

She must know me as I am.

Robert

But that is not you as you are. A moment of weakness.

Richard

Lost in thought. And I was feeding the flame of her innocence with my guilt.

Robert

Brusquely. O, don’t talk of guilt and innocence. You have made her all that she is. A strange and wonderful personality—in my eyes, at least.

Richard

Darkly. Or I have killed her.

Robert

Killed her?

Richard

The virginity of her soul.

Robert

Impatiently. Well lost! What would she be without you?

Richard

I tried to give her a new life.

Robert

And you have. A new and rich life.

Richard

Is it worth what I have taken from her—her girlhood, her laughter, her young beauty, the hopes in her young heart?

Robert

Firmly. Yes. Well worth it. He looks at Richard for some moments in silence. If you had neglected her, lived wildly, brought her away so far only to make her suffer …

He stops. Richard raises his head and looks at him.

Richard

If I had?

Robert

Slightly confused. You know there were rumours here of your life abroad—a wild life. Some persons who knew you or met you or heard of you in Rome. Lying rumours.

Richard

Coldly. Continue.

Robert

Laughs a little harshly. Even I at times thought of her as a victim. Smoothly. And of course, Richard, I felt and knew all the time that you were a man of great talent—of something more than talent. And that was your excuse—a valid one in my eyes.

Richard

Have you thought that it is perhaps now—at this moment—that I am neglecting her? He clasps his hands nervously and leans across toward Robert. I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last—wholly and many times.

Robert

Draws back at once. My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer.

Richard

Continuing. You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit.

Robert

Eagerly. A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proceeds, the eternal law of nature herself.

Richard

And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious?

Robert

That will never be. Never.

Richard

And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both?

Robert

Gravely. It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that.

Richard

Contemptuously. I care very little whether it is or not because there is something I fear much more.

Robert

Shakes his head. You fear? I disbelieve you, Richard. Since we were boys together I have followed your mind. You do not know what moral fear is.

Richard

Lays his hand on his arm. Listen. She is dead. She lies on my bed. I look at her body which I betrayed—grossly and many times. And loved, too, and wept over. And I know that her body was always my loyal slave. To me, to me only she gave … He breaks off and turns aside, unable to speak.

Robert

Softly. Do not suffer, Richard. There is no need. She is loyal to you, body and soul. Why do you fear?

Richard

Turns towards him, almost fiercely. Not that fear. But that I will reproach myself then for having taken all for myself because I would not suffer her to give to another what was hers and not mine to give, because I accepted from her her loyalty and made her life poorer in love. That is my fear. That I stand between her and any moments of life that should be hers, between her and you, between her and anyone, between her and anything. I will not do it. I cannot and I will not. I dare not.

He leans back in his chair breathless, with shining eyes. Robert rises quietly, and stands behind his chair.

Robert

Look here, Richard. We have said all there is to be said. Let the past be past.

Richard

Quickly and harshly. Wait. One thing more. For you, too, must know me as I am—now.

Robert

More? Is there more?

Richard

I told you that when I saw your eyes this afternoon I felt sad. Your humility and confusion, I felt, united you to me in brotherhood. He turns half round towards him. At that moment I felt our whole life together in the past, and I longed to put my arm around your neck.

Robert

Deeply and suddenly touched. It is noble of you, Richard, to forgive me like this.

Richard

Struggling with himself. I told you that I wished you not to do anything false and secret against me—against our friendship, against her; not to steal her from me craftily, secretly, meanly—in the dark, in the night—you, Robert, my friend.

Robert

I know. And it was noble of you.

Richard

Looks up at him with a steady gaze. No. Not noble. Ignoble.

Robert

Makes an involuntary gesture. How? Why?

Richard

Looks away again: in a lower voice. That is what I must tell you too. Because in the very core of my ignoble heart I longed to be betrayed by you and by her—in the dark, in the night—secretly, meanly, craftily. By you, my best friend, and by her. I longed for that passionately and ignobly, to be dishonoured forever in love and in lust, to be …

Robert

Bending down, places his hands over Richard’s mouth. Enough. Enough. He takes his hands away. But no. Go on.

Richard

To be forever a shameful creature and to build up my soul again out of the ruins of its shame.

Robert

And that is why you wished that she …

Richard

With calm. She has spoken always of her innocence, as I have spoken always of my guilt, humbling me.

Robert

From pride, then?

Richard

From pride and from ignoble longing. And from a motive deeper still.

Robert

With decision. I understand you.

He returns to his place and begins to speak at once, drawing his chair closer.

Robert

May it not be that we are here and now in the presence of a moment which will free us both—me as well as you—from the last bonds of what is called morality. My friendship for you has laid bonds on me.

Richard

Light bonds, apparently.

Robert

I acted in the dark, secretly. I will do so no longer. Have you the courage to allow me to act freely?

Richard

A duel—between us?

Robert

With growing excitement. A battle of both our souls, different as they are, against all that is false in them and in the world. A battle of your soul against the spectre of fidelity, of mine against the spectre of friendship. All life is a conquest, the victory of human passion over the commandments of cowardice. Will you, Richard? Have you the courage? Even if it shatters to atoms the friendship between us, even if it breaks up forever the last illusion in your own life? There was an eternity before we were born: another will come after we are dead. The blinding instant of passion alone—passion, free, unashamed, irresistible—that is the only gate by which we can escape from the misery of what slaves call life. Is not this the language of your own youth that I heard so often from you in this very place where we are sitting now? Have you changed?

Richard

Passes his hand across his brow. Yes. It is the language of my youth.

Robert

Eagerly, intensely. Richard, you have driven me up to this point. She and I have only obeyed your will. You yourself have roused these words in my brain. Your own words. Shall we? Freely? Together?

Richard

Mastering his emotion. Together no. Fight your part alone. I will not free you. Leave me to fight mine.

Robert

Rises, decided. You allow me, then?

Richard

Rises also, calmly. Free yourself.

A knock is heard at the hall door.

Robert

In alarm. What does this mean?

Richard

Calmly. Bertha, evidently. Did you not ask her to come?

Robert

Yes, but … Looking about him. Then I am going, Richard.

Richard

No. I am going.

Robert

Desperately. Richard, I appeal to you. Let me go. It is over. She is yours. Keep her and forgive me, both of you.

Richard

Because you are generous enough to allow me?

Robert

Hotly. Richard, you will make me angry with you if you say that.

Richard

Angry or not, I will not live on your generosity. You have asked her to meet you here tonight and alone. Solve the question between you.

Robert

Promptly. Open the door. I shall wait in the garden. He goes towards the porch. Explain to her, Richard, as best you can. I cannot see her now.

Richard

I shall go. I tell you. Wait out there if you wish.

He goes out by the door on the right. Robert goes out hastily through the porch but comes back the same instant.

Robert

An umbrella! With a sudden gesture. O!

He goes out again through the porch. The hall door is heard to open and close. Richard enters, followed by Bertha, who is dressed in a darkbrown costume and wears a small dark red hat. She has neither umbrella nor waterproof.

Richard

Gaily. Welcome back to old Ireland!

Bertha

Nervously, seriously. Is this the place?

Richard

Yes, it is. How did you find it?

Bertha

I told the cabman. I didn’t like to ask my way. Looking about her curiously. Was he not waiting? Has he gone away?

Richard

Points towards the garden. He is waiting. Out there. He was waiting when I came.

Bertha

Selfpossessed again. You see, you came after all.

Richard

Did you think I would not?

Bertha

I knew you could not remain away. You see, after all you are like all other men. You had to come. You are jealous like the others.

Richard

You seem annoyed to find me here.

Bertha

What happened between you?

Richard

I told him I knew everything, that I had known for a long time. He asked how. I said from you.

Bertha

Does he hate me?

Richard

I cannot read in his heart.

Bertha

Sits down helplessly. Yes. He hates me. He believes I made a fool of him—betrayed him. I knew he would.

Richard

I told him you were sincere with him.

Bertha

He does not believe it. Nobody would believe it. I should have told him first—not you.

Richard

I thought he was a common robber, prepared to use even violence against you. I had to protect you from that.

Bertha

That I could have done myself.

Richard

Are you sure?

Bertha

It would have been enough to have told him that you knew I was here. Now I can find out nothing. He hates me. He is right to hate me. I have treated him badly, shamefully.

Richard

Takes her hand. Bertha, look at me.

Bertha

Turns to him. Well?

Richard

Gazes into her eyes and then lets her hand fall. I cannot read in your heart either.

Bertha

Still looking at him. You could not remain away. Do you not trust me? You can see I am quite calm. I could have hidden it all from you.

Richard

I doubt that.

Bertha

With a slight toss of her head. O, easily if I had wanted to.

Richard

Darkly. Perhaps you are sorry now that you did not.

Bertha

Perhaps I am.

Richard

Unpleasantly. What a fool you were to tell me! It would have been so nice if you had kept it secret.

Bertha

As you do, no?

Richard

As I do, yes. He turns to go. Goodbye for a while.

Bertha

Alarmed, rises. Are you going?

Richard

Naturally. My part is ended here.

Bertha

To her, I suppose?

Richard

Astonished. Who?

Bertha

Her ladyship. I suppose it is all planned so that you may have a good opportunity. To meet her and have an intellectual conversation!

Richard

With an outburst of rude anger. To meet the devil’s father!

Bertha

Unpins her hat and sits down. Very well. You can go. Now I know what to do.

Richard

Returns, approaches her. You don’t believe a word of what you say.

Bertha

Calmly. You can go. Why don’t you?

Richard

Then you have come here and led him on in this way on account of me. Is that how it is?

Bertha

There is one person in all this who is not a fool. And that is you. I am though. And he is.

Richard

Continuing. If so you have indeed treated him badly and shamefully.

Bertha

Points at him. Yes. But it was your fault. And I will end it now. I am simply a tool for you. You have no respect for me. You never had because I did what I did.

Richard

And has he respect?

Bertha

He has. Of all the persons I met since I came back he is the only one who has. And he knows what they only suspect. And that is why I liked him from the first and like him still. Great respect for me she has! Why did you not ask her to come away with you nine years ago?

Richard

You know why, Bertha. Ask yourself.

Bertha

Yes, I know why. You knew the answer you would get. That is why.

Richard

That is not why. I did not even ask you.

Bertha

Yes. You knew I would go, asked or not. I do things. But if I do one thing I can do two things. As I have the name I can have the gains.

Richard

With increasing excitement. Bertha, I accept what is to be. I have trusted you. I will trust you still.

Bertha

To have that against me. To leave me then. Almost passionately. Why do you not defend me then against him? Why do you go away from me now without a word? Dick, my God, tell me what you wish me to do?

Richard

I cannot, dear. Struggling with himself. Your own heart will tell you. He seizes both her hands. I have a wild delight in my soul, Bertha, as I look at you. I see you as you are yourself. That I came first in your life or before him then—that may be nothing to you. You may be his more than mine.

Bertha

I am not. Only I feel for him, too.

Richard

And I do too. You may be his and mine. I will trust you, Bertha, and him too. I must. I cannot hate him since his arms have been around you. You have drawn us near together. There is something wiser than wisdom in your heart. Who am I that I should call myself master of your heart or of any woman’s? Bertha, love him, be his, give yourself to him if you desire—or if you can.

Bertha

Dreamily. I will remain.

Richard

Goodbye.

He lets her hand fall and goes out rapidly on the right. Bertha remains sitting. Then she rises and goes timidly towards the porch. She stops near it and, after a little hesitation, calls into the garden.

Bertha

Is anyone out there?

At the same time she retreats towards the middle of the room. Then she calls again in the same way.

Bertha

Is anyone there?

Robert appears in the open doorway that leads in from the garden. His coat is buttoned and the collar is turned up. He holds the doorposts with his hands lightly and waits for Bertha to see him.

Bertha

Catching sight of him, starts back: then, quickly. Robert!

Robert

Are you alone?

Bertha

Yes.

Robert

Looking towards the door on the right. Where is he?

Bertha

Gone. Nervously. You startled me. Where did you come from?

Robert

With a movement of his head. Out there. Did he not tell you I was out there—waiting?

Bertha

Quickly. Yes, he told me. But I was afraid here alone. With the door open, waiting. She comes to the table and rests her hand on the corner. Why do you stand like that in the doorway?

Robert

Why? I am afraid too.

Bertha

Of what?

Robert

Of you.

Bertha

Looks down. Do you hate me now?

Robert

I fear you. Clasping his hands at his back, quietly but a little defiantly. I fear a new torture—a new trap.

Bertha

As before. For what do you blame me?

Robert

Comes forward a few steps, halts: then impulsively: Why did you lead me on? Day after day, more and more. Why did you not stop me? You could have—with a word. But not even a word! I forgot myself and him. You saw it. That I was ruining myself in his eyes, losing his friendship. Did you want me to?

Bertha

Looking up. You never asked me.

Robert

Asked you what?

Bertha

If he suspected—or knew.

Robert

And would you have told me?

Bertha

Yes.

Robert

Hesitatingly. Did you tell him—everything?

Bertha

I did.

Robert

I mean—details.

Bertha

Everything.

Robert

With a forced smile. I see. You were making an experiment for his sake. On me. Well, why not? It seems I was a good subject. Still, it was a little cruel of you.

Bertha

Try to understand me, Robert. You must try.

Robert

With a polite gesture. Well, I will try.

Bertha

Why do you stand like that near the door? It makes me nervous to look at you.

Robert

I am trying to understand. And then I am afraid.

Bertha

Holds out her hand. You need not be afraid.

Robert comes towards her quickly and takes her hand.

Robert

Diffidently. Used you to laugh over me—together? Drawing his hand away. But now I must be good or you may laugh over me again—tonight.

Bertha

Distressed, lays her hand on his arm. Please listen to me, Robert … But you are all wet, drenched! She passes her hands over his coat. O, you poor fellow! Out there in the rain all that time! I forgot that.

Robert

Laughs. Yes, you forgot the climate.

Bertha

But you are really drenched. You must change your coat.

Robert

Takes her hands. Tell me, it is pity then that you feel for me, as he—as Richard—says?

Bertha

Please change your coat, Robert, when I ask you. You might get a very bad cold from that. Do, please.

Robert

What would it matter now?

Bertha

Looking round her. Where do you keep your clothes here?

Robert

Points to the door at the back. In there. I fancy I have a jacket here. Maliciously. In my bedroom.

Bertha

Well, go in and take that off.

Robert

And you?

Bertha

I will wait here for you.

Robert

Do you command me to?

Bertha

Laughing. Yes, I command you.

Robert

Promptly. Then I will. He goes quickly towards the bedroom door; then turns round. You won’t go away?

Bertha

No, I will wait. But don’t be long.

Robert

Only a moment.

He goes into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Bertha looks curiously about her and then glances in indecision towards the door at the back.

Robert

From the bedroom. You have not gone?

Bertha

No.

Robert

I am in the dark here. I must light the lamp.

He is heard striking a match, and putting a glass shade on a lamp. A pink light comes in through the doorway. Bertha glances at her watch at her wristlet and then sits at the table.

Robert

As before. Do you like the effect of the light?

Bertha

O, yes.

Robert

Can you admire it from where you are?

Bertha

Yes, quite well.

Robert

It was for you.

Bertha

Confused. I am not worthy even of that.

Robert

Clearly, harshly. Love’s labour lost.

Bertha

Rising nervously. Robert!

Robert

Yes?

Bertha

Come here, quickly! Quickly, I say!

Robert

I am ready.

He appears in the doorway, wearing a darkgreen velvet jacket. Seeing her agitation, he comes quickly towards her.

Robert

What is it, Bertha?

Bertha

Trembling. I was afraid.

Robert

Of being alone?

Bertha

Catches his hands. You know what I mean. My nerves are all upset.

Robert

That I … ?

Bertha

Promise me, Robert, not to think of such a thing. Never. If you like me at all. I thought that moment …

Robert

What an idea?

Bertha

But promise me if you like me.

Robert

If I like you, Bertha! I promise. Of course, I promise. You are trembling all over.

Bertha

Let me sit down somewhere. It will pass in a moment.

Robert

My poor Bertha! Sit down. Come.

He leads her towards a chair near the table. She sits down. He stands beside her.

Robert

After a short pause. Has it passed?

Bertha

Yes. It was only for a moment. I was very silly. I was afraid that … I wanted to see you near me.

Robert

That … that you made me promise not to think of?

Bertha

Yes.

Robert

Keenly. Or something else?

Bertha

Helplessly. Robert, I feared something. I am not sure what.

Robert

And now?

Bertha

Now you are here. I can see you. Now it has passed.

Robert

With resignation. Passed. Yes. Love’s labour lost.

Bertha

Looks up at him. Listen, Robert. I want to explain to you about that. I could not deceive Dick. Never. In nothing. I told him everything—from the first. Then it went on and on; and still you never spoke or asked me. I wanted you to.

Robert

Is that the truth, Bertha?

Bertha

Yes, because it annoyed me that you could think I was like … like the other women I suppose you knew that way. I think that Dick is right too. Why should there be secrets?

Robert

Softly. Still, secrets can be very sweet. Can they not?

Bertha

Smiles. Yes, I know they can. But, you see, I could not keep things secret from Dick. Besides, what is the good? They always come out in the end. Is it not better for people to know?

Robert

Softly and a little shyly. How could you, Bertha, tell him everything? Did you? Every single thing that passed between us?

Bertha

Yes. Everything he asked me.

Robert

Did he ask you—much?

Bertha

You know the kind he is. He asks about everything. The ins and outs.

Robert

About our kissing, too?

Bertha

Of course. I told him all.

Robert

Shakes his head slowly. Extraordinary little person! Were you not ashamed?

Bertha

No.

Robert

Not a bit?

Bertha

No. Why? Is that terrible?

Robert

And how did he take it? Tell me. I want to know everything, too.

Bertha

Laughs. It excited him. More than usual.

Robert

Why? Is he excitable—still?

Bertha

Archly. Yes, very. When he is not lost in his philosophy.

Robert

More than I?

Bertha

More than you? Reflecting. How could I answer that? You both are, I suppose?

Robert turns aside and gazes towards the porch, passing his hand once or twice thoughtfully over his hair.

Bertha

Gently. Are you angry with me again?

Robert

Moodily. You are with me.

Bertha

No, Robert. Why should I be?

Robert

Because I asked you to come to this place. I tried to prepare it for you. He points vaguely here and there. A sense of quietness.

Bertha

Touching his jacket with her fingers. And this, too. Your nice velvet coat.

Robert

Also. I will keep no secrets from you.

Bertha

You remind me of someone in a picture. I like you in it … But you are not angry, are you?

Robert

Darkly. Yes. That was my mistake. To ask you to come here. I felt it when I looked at you from the garden and saw you—you, Bertha—standing here. Hopelessly. But what else could I have done?

Bertha

Quietly. You mean because others have been here?

Robert

Yes.

He walks away from her a few paces. A gust of wind makes the lamp on the table flicker. He lowers the wick slightly.

Bertha

Following him with her eyes. But I knew that before I came. I am not angry with you for it.

Robert

Shrugs his shoulders. Why should you be angry with me after all? You are not even angry with him—for the same thing—or worse.

Bertha

Did he tell you that about himself?

Robert

Yes. He told me. We all confess to one another here. Turn about.

Bertha

I try to forget it.

Robert

It does not trouble you?

Bertha

Not now. Only I dislike to think of it.

Robert

It is merely something brutal, you think? Of little importance?

Bertha

It does not trouble me—now.

Robert

Looking at her over his shoulder. But there is something that would trouble you very much and that you would not try to forget?

Bertha

What?

Robert

Turning towards her. If it were not only something brutal with this person or that—for a few moments. If it were something fine and spiritual—with one person only—with one woman. Smiles. And perhaps brutal too. It usually comes to that sooner or later. Would you try to forget and forgive that?

Bertha

Toying with her wristlet. In whom?

Robert

In anyone. In me.

Bertha

Calmly. You mean in Dick.

Robert

I said in myself. But would you?

Bertha

You think I would revenge myself? Is Dick not to be free too?

Robert

Points at her. That is not from your heart, Bertha.

Bertha

Proudly. Yes, it is; let him be free too. He leaves me free also.

Robert

Insistently. And you know why? And understand? And you like it? And you want to be? And it makes you happy? And has made you happy? Always? This gift of freedom which he gave you—nine years ago?

Bertha

Gazing at him with wide open eyes. But why do you ask me such a lot of questions, Robert?

Robert

Stretches out both hands to her. Because I had another gift to offer you then—a common simple gift—like myself. If you want to know it I will tell you.

Bertha

Looking at her watch. Past is past, Robert. And I think I ought to go now. It is nine almost.

Robert

Impetuously. No, no. Not yet. There is one confession more and we have the right to speak.

He crosses before the table rapidly and sits down beside her.

Bertha

Turning towards him, places her left hand on his shoulder. Yes, Robert. I know that you like me. You need not tell me. Kindly. You need not confess any more tonight.

A gust of wind enters through the porch, with a sound of moving leaves. The lamp flickers quickly.

Bertha

Pointing over his shoulder. Look! It is too high.

Without rising, he bends towards the table, and turns down the wick more. The room is half dark. The light comes in more strongly through the doorway of the bedroom.

Robert

The wind is rising. I will close that door.

Bertha

Listening. No, it is raining still. It was only a gust of wind.

Robert

Touches her shoulder. Tell me if the air is too cold for you. Half rising. I will close it.

Bertha

Detaining him. No. I am not cold. Besides, I am going now, Robert. I must.

Robert

Firmly. No, no. There is no must now. We were left here for this. And you are wrong, Bertha. The past is not past. It is present here now. My feeling for you is the same now as it was then, because then—you slighted it.

Bertha

No, Robert. I did not.

Robert

Continuing. You did. And I have felt it all these years without knowing it—till now. Even while I lived—the kind of life you know and dislike to think of—the kind of life to which you condemned me.

Bertha

Robert

Yes, when you slighted the common simple gift I had to offer you—and took his gift instead.

Bertha

Looking at him. But you never …

Robert

No. Because you had chosen him. I saw that. I saw it on the first night we met, we three together. Why did you choose him?

Bertha

Bends her head. Is that not love?

Robert

Continuing. And every night when we two—he and I—came to that corner to meet you I saw it and felt it. You remember the corner, Bertha?

Bertha

As before. Yes.

Robert

And when you and he went away for your walk and I went along the street alone I felt it. And when he spoke to me about you and told me he was going away—then most of all.

Bertha

Why then most of all?

Robert

Because it was then that I was guilty of my first treason towards him.

Bertha

Robert, what are you saying? Your first treason against Dick?

Robert

Nods. And not my last. He spoke of you and himself. Of how your life would be together—free and all that. Free, yes! He would not even ask you to go with him. Bitterly. He did not. And you went all the same.

Bertha

I wanted to be with him. You know … Raising her head and looking at him. You know how we were then—Dick and I.

Robert

Unheeding. I advised him to go alone—not to take you with him—to live alone in order to see if what he felt for you was a passing thing which might ruin your happiness and his career.

Bertha

Well, Robert. It was unkind of you towards me. But I forgive you because you were thinking of his happiness and mine.

Robert

Bending closer to her. No, Bertha. I was not. And that was my treason. I was thinking of myself—that you might turn from him when he had gone and he from you. Then I would have offered you my gift. You know what it was now. The simple common gift that men offer to women. Not the best perhaps. Best or worst—it would have been yours.

Bertha

Turning away from him. He did not take your advice.

Robert

As before. No. And the night you ran away together—O, how happy I was!

Bertha

Pressing his hands. Keep calm, Robert. I know you liked me always. Why did you not forget me?

Robert

Smiles bitterly. How happy I felt as I came back along the quays and saw in the distance the boat lit up going down the black river, taking you away from me! In a calmer tone. But why did you choose him? Did you not like me at all?

Bertha

Yes. I liked you because you were his friend. We often spoke about you. Often and often. Every time you wrote or sent papers or books to Dick. And I like you still, Robert. Looking into his eyes. I never forgot you.

Robert

Nor I you. I knew I would see you again. I knew it the night you went away—that you would come back. And that was why I wrote and worked to see you again—here.

Bertha

And here I am. You were right.

Robert

Slowly. Nine years. Nine times more beautiful!

Bertha

Smiling. But am I? What do you see in me?

Robert

Gazing at her. A strange and beautiful lady.

Bertha

Almost disgusted. O, please don’t call me such a thing!

Robert

Earnestly. You are more. A young and beautiful queen.

Bertha

With a sudden laugh. O, Robert!

Robert

Lowering his voice and bending nearer to her. But do you not know that you are a beautiful human being? Do you not know that you have a beautiful body? Beautiful and young?

Bertha

Gravely. Some day I will be old.

Robert

Shakes his head. I cannot imagine it. Tonight you are young and beautiful. Tonight you have come back to me. With passion. Who knows what will be tomorrow? I may never see you again or never see you as I do now.

Bertha

Would you suffer?

Robert

Looks round the room, without answering. This room and this hour were made for your coming. When you have gone—all is gone.

Bertha

Anxiously. But you will see me again, Robert … as before.

Robert

Looks full at her. To make him—Richard—suffer.

Bertha

He does not suffer.

Robert

Bowing his head. Yes, yes. He does.

Bertha

He knows we like each other. Is there any harm, then?

Robert

Raising his head. No there is no harm. Why should we not? He does not know yet what I feel. He has left us alone here at night, at this hour, because he longs to know it—he longs to be delivered.

Bertha

From what?

Robert

Moves closer to her and presses her arm as he speaks. From every law, Bertha, from every bond. All his life he has sought to deliver himself. Every chain but one he has broken and that one we are to break, Bertha—you and I.

Bertha

Almost inaudibly. Are you sure?

Robert

Still more warmly. I am sure that no law made by man is sacred before the impulse of passion. Almost fiercely. Who made us for one only? It is a crime against our own being if we are so. There is no law before impulse. Laws are for slaves. Bertha, say my name! Let me hear your voice say it. Softly!

Bertha

Softly. Robert!

Robert

Puts his arm about her shoulder. Only the impulse towards youth and beauty does not die. He points towards the porch. Listen!

Bertha

In alarm. What?

Robert

The rain falling. Summer rain on the earth. Night rain. The darkness and warmth and flood of passion. Tonight the earth is loved—loved and possessed. Her lover’s arms around her; and she is silent. Speak, dearest!

Bertha

Suddenly leans forward and listens intently. Hush!

Robert

Listening, smiles. Nothing. Nobody. We are alone.

A gust of wind blows in through the porch, with a sound of shaken leaves. The flame of the lamp leaps.

Bertha

Pointing to the lamp. Look!

Robert

Only the wind. We have light enough from the other room.

He stretches his hand across the table and puts out the lamp. The light from the doorway of the bedroom crosses the place where they sit. The room is quite dark.

Robert

Are you happy? Tell me.

Bertha

I am going now, Robert. It is very late. Be satisfied.

Robert

Caressing her hair. Not yet, not yet. Tell me, do you love me a little?

Bertha

I like you, Robert. I think you are good. Half rising. Are you satisfied?

Robert

Detaining her, kisses her hair. Do not go, Bertha! There is time still. Do you love me too? I have waited a long time. Do you love us both—him and also me? Do you, Bertha? The truth! Tell me. Tell me with your eyes. Or speak!

She does not answer. In the silence the rain is heard falling.

Third Act

Brigid comes in through the folding doors on the right with a featherbroom and duster. She is about to cross but, seeing Bertha, she halts suddenly and blesses herself instinctively.

Brigid

Merciful hour, ma’am. You put the heart across me. Why did you get up so early?

Bertha

What time is it?

Brigid

After seven, ma’am. Are you long up?

Bertha

Some time.

Brigid

Approaching her. Had you a bad dream that woke you?

Bertha

I didn’t sleep all night. So I got up to see the sun rise.

Brigid

Opens the double doors. It’s a lovely morning now after all the rain we had. Turns round. But you must be dead tired, ma’am. What will the master say at your doing a thing like that? She goes to the door of the study and knocks. Master Richard!

Bertha

Looks round. He is not there. He went out an hour ago.

Brigid

Out there, on the strand, is it?

Bertha

Yes.

Brigid

Comes towards her and leans over the back of a chair. Are you fretting yourself, ma’am, about anything?

Bertha

No, Brigid.

Brigid

Don’t be. He was always like that, meandering off by himself somewhere. He is a curious bird, Master Richard, and always was. Sure there isn’t a turn in him I don’t know. Are you fretting now maybe because he does be in there pointing to the study half the night at his books? Leave him alone. He’ll come back to you again. Sure he thinks the sun shines out of your face, ma’am.

Bertha

Sadly. That time is gone.

Brigid

Confidentially. And good cause I have to remember it—that time when he was paying his addresses to you. She sits down beside Bertha. In a lower voice. Do you know that he used to tell me all about you and nothing to his mother, God rest her soul? Your letters and all.

Bertha

What? My letters to him?

Brigid

Delighted. Yes. I can see him sitting on the kitchen table, swinging his legs and spinning out of him yards of talk about you and him and Ireland and all kinds of devilment—to an ignorant old woman like me. But that was always his way. But if he had to meet a grand highup person he’d be twice as grand himself. Suddenly looks at Bertha. Is it crying you are now? Ah, sure, don’t cry. There’s good times coming still.

Bertha

No, Brigid, that time comes only once in a lifetime. The rest of life is good for nothing except to remember that time.

Brigid

Is silent for a moment: then says kindly. Would you like a cup of tea, ma’am? That would make you all right.

Bertha

Yes, I would. But the milkman has not come yet.

Brigid

No. Master Archie told me to wake him before he came. He’s going out for a jaunt in the car. But I’ve a cup left overnight. I’ll have the kettle boiling in a jiffy. Would you like a nice egg with it?

Bertha

No, thanks.

Brigid

Or a nice bit of toast?

Bertha

No, Brigid, thanks. Just a cup of tea.

Brigid

Crossing to the folding doors. I won’t be a moment. She stops, turns back and goes towards the door on the left. But first I must waken Master Archie or there’ll be ructions.

She goes out by the door on the left. After a few moments Bertha rises and goes over to the study. She opens the door wide and looks in. One can see a small untidy room with many bookshelves and a large writingtable with papers and an extinguished lamp and before it a padded chair. She remains standing for some time in the doorway, then closes the door again without entering the room. She returns to her chair by the window and sits down. Archie, dressed as before, comes in by the door on the right, followed by Brigid.

Archie

Comes to her and, putting up his face to be kissed, says: Buon giorno, mamma!

Bertha

Kissing him. Buon giorno, Archie! To Brigid. Did you put another vest on him under that one?

Brigid

He wouldn’t let me, ma’am.

Archie

I’m not cold, mamma.

Bertha

I said you were to put it on, didn’t I?

Archie

But where is the cold?

Bertha

Takes a comb from her head and combs his hair back at both sides. And the sleep is in your eyes still.

Brigid

He went to bed immediately after you went out last night, ma’am.

Archie

You know he’s going to let me drive, mamma.

Bertha

Replacing the comb in her hair, embraces him suddenly. O, what a big man to drive a horse!

Brigid

Well, he’s daft on horses, anyhow.

Archie

Releasing himself. I’ll make him go quick. You will see from the window, mamma. With the whip. He makes the gesture of cracking a whip and shouts at the top of his voice. Avanti!

Brigid

Beat the poor horse, is it?

Bertha

Come here till I clean your mouth. She takes her handkerchief from the pocket of her gown, wets it with her tongue and cleans his mouth. You’re all smudges or something, dirty little creature you are.

Archie

Repeats, laughing. Smudges! What is smudges?

The noise is heard of a milkcan rattled on the railings before the window.

Brigid

Draws aside the curtains and looks out. Here he is!

Archie

Rapidly. Wait. I’m ready. Goodbye, mamma! He kisses her hastily and turns to go. Is pappie up?

Brigid

Takes him by the arm. Come on with you now.

Bertha

Mind yourself, Archie, and don’t be long or I won’t let you go any more.

Archie

All right. Look out of the window and you’ll see me. Goodbye.

Brigid and Archie go out by the door on the left. Bertha stands up and, drawing aside the curtains still more, stands in the embrasure of the window looking out. The hall door is heard opening: then a slight noise of voices and cans is heard. The door is closed. After a moment or two Bertha is seen waving her hand gaily in a salute. Brigid enters and stands behind her, looking over her shoulder.

Brigid

Look at the sit of him! As serious as you like.

Bertha

Suddenly withdrawing from her post. Stand out of the window. I don’t want to be seen.

Brigid

Why, ma’am, what is it?

Bertha

Crossing towards the folding doors. Say I’m not up, that I’m not well. I can’t see anyone.

Brigid

Follows her. Who is it, ma’am?

Bertha

Halting. Wait a moment.

She listens. A knock is heard at the hall door.

Bertha

Stands a moment in doubt, then. No, say I’m in.

Brigid

In doubt. Here?

Bertha

Hurriedly. Yes. Say I have just got up.

Brigid goes out on the left. Bertha goes towards the double doors and fingers the curtains nervously, as if settling them. The hall door is heard to open. Then Beatrice Justice enters and, as Bertha does not turn at once, stands in hesitation near the door on the left. She is dressed as before and has a newspaper in her hand.

Beatrice

Advances rapidly. Mrs. Rowan, excuse me for coming at such an hour.

Bertha

Turns. Good morning, Miss Justice. She comes towards her. Is anything the matter?

Beatrice

Nervously. I don’t know. That is what I wanted to ask you.

Bertha

Looks curiously at her. You are out of breath. Won’t you sit down?

Beatrice

Sitting down. Thank you.

Bertha

Sits opposite her, pointing to her paper. Is there something in the paper?

Beatrice

Laughs nervously: opens the paper. Yes.

Bertha

About Dick?

Beatrice

Yes. Here it is. A long article, a leading article, by my cousin. All his life is here. Do you wish to see it?

Bertha

Takes the paper, and opens it. Where is it?

Beatrice

In the middle. It is headed: A Distinguished Irishman.

Bertha

Is it … for Dick or against him?

Beatrice

Warmly. O, for him! You can read what he says about Mr. Rowan. And I know that Robert stayed in town very late last night to write it.

Bertha

Nervously. Yes. Are you sure?

Beatrice

Yes. Very late. I heard him come home. It was long after two.

Bertha

Watching her. It alarmed you? I mean to be awakened at that hour of the morning.

Beatrice

I am a light sleeper. But I knew he had come from the office and then … I suspected he had written an article about Mr. Rowan and that was why he came so late.

Bertha

How quick you were to think of that!

Beatrice

Well, after what took place here yesterday afternoon—I mean what Robert said, that Mr. Rowan had accepted this position. It was only natural I should think …

Bertha

Ah, yes. Naturally.

Beatrice

Hastily. But that is not what alarmed me. But immediately after I heard a noise in my cousin’s room.

Bertha

Crumples together the paper in her hands, breathlessly. My God! What is it? Tell me.

Beatrice

Observing her. Why does that upset you so much?

Bertha

Sinking back, with a forced laugh. Yes, of course, it is very foolish of me. My nerves are all upset. I slept very badly, too. That is why I got up so early. But tell me what was it then?

Beatrice

Only the noise of his valise being pulled along the floor. Then I heard him walking about his room, whistling softly. And then locking it and strapping it.

Bertha

He is going away!

Beatrice

That was what alarmed me. I feared he had had a quarrel with Mr. Rowan and that his article was an attack.

Bertha

But why should they quarrel? Have you noticed anything between them?

Beatrice

I thought I did. A coldness.

Bertha

Lately?

Beatrice

For some time past.

Bertha

Smoothing the paper out. Do you know the reason?

Beatrice

Hesitatingly. No.

Bertha

After a pause. Well, but if this article is for him, as you say, they have not quarrelled. She reflects a moment. And written last night, too.

Beatrice

Yes. I bought the paper at once to see. But why, then, is he going away so suddenly? I feel that there is something wrong. I feel that something has happened between them.

Bertha

Would you be sorry?

Beatrice

I would be very sorry. You see, Mrs. Rowan, Robert is my first cousin and it would grieve me very deeply if he were to treat Mr. Rowan badly, now that he has come back, or if they had a serious quarrel especially because …

Bertha

Toying with the paper. Because?

Beatrice

Because it was my cousin who urged Mr. Rowan always to come back. I have that on my conscience.

Bertha

It should be on Mr. Hand’s conscience, should it not?

Beatrice

Uncertainly. On mine, too. Because—I spoke to my cousin about Mr. Rowan when he was away and, to a certain extent, it was I …

Bertha

Nods slowly. I see. And that is on your conscience. Only that?

Beatrice

I think so.

Bertha

Almost cheerfully. It looks as if it was you, Miss Justice, who brought my husband back to Ireland.

Beatrice

I, Mrs. Rowan?

Bertha

Yes, you. By your letters to him and then by speaking to your cousin as you said just now. Do you not think that you are the person who brought him back?

Beatrice

Blushing suddenly. No. I could not think that.

Bertha

Watches her for a moment; then turning aside. You know that my husband is writing very much since he came back.

Beatrice

Is he?

Bertha

Did you not know? She points towards the study. He passes the greater part of the night in there writing. Night after night.

Beatrice

In his study?

Bertha

Study or bedroom. You may call it what you please. He sleeps there, too, on a sofa. He slept there last night. I can show you if you don’t believe me.

She rises to go towards the study. Beatrice half rises quickly and makes a gesture of refusal.

Beatrice

I believe you, of course, Mrs. Rowan, when you tell me.

Bertha

Sitting down again. Yes. He is writing. And it must be about something which has come into his life lately—since we came back to Ireland. Some change. Do you know that any change has come into his life? She looks searchingly at her. Do you know it or feel it?

Beatrice

Answers her look steadily. Mrs. Rowan, that is not a question to ask me. If any change has come into his life since he came back you must know and feel it.

Bertha

You could know it just as well. You are very intimate in this house.

Beatrice

I am not the only person who is intimate here.

They both look at each other coldly in silence for some moments. Bertha lays aside the paper and sits down on a chair nearer to Beatrice.

Bertha

Placing her hand on Beatrice’s knee. So you also hate me, Miss Justice?

Beatrice

With an effort. Hate you? I?

Bertha

Insistently but softly. Yes. You know what it means to hate a person?

Beatrice

Why should I hate you? I have never hated anyone.

Bertha

Have you ever loved anyone? She puts her hand on Beatrice’s wrist. Tell me. You have?

Beatrice

Also softly. Yes. In the past.

Bertha

Not now?

Beatrice

No.

Bertha

Can you say that to me—truly? Look at me.

Beatrice

Looks at her. Yes, I can.

A short pause. Bertha withdraws her hand, and turns away her head in some embarrassment.

Bertha

You said just now that another person is intimate in this house. You meant your cousin … Was it he?

Beatrice

Yes.

Bertha

Have you not forgotten him?

Beatrice

Quietly. I have tried to.

Bertha

Clasping her hands. You hate me. You think I am happy. If you only knew how wrong you are!

Beatrice

Shakes her head. I do not.

Bertha

Happy! When I do not understand anything that he writes, when I cannot help him in any way, when I don’t even understand half of what he says to me sometimes! You could and you can. Excitedly. But I am afraid for him, afraid for both of them. She stands up suddenly and goes towards the davenport. He must not go away like that. She takes a writing pad from the drawer and writes a few lines in great haste. No, it is impossible! Is he mad to do such a thing? Turning to Beatrice. Is he still at home?

Beatrice

Watching her in wonder. Yes. Have you written to him to ask him to come here?

Bertha

Rises. I have. I will send Brigid across with it. Brigid!

She goes out by the door on the left rapidly.

Beatrice

Gazing after her, instinctively. It is true, then!

She glances toward the door of Richard’s study and catches her head in her hands. Then, recovering herself, she takes the paper from the little table, opens it, takes a spectacle case from her handbag and, putting on a pair of spectacles, bends down, reading it. Richard Rowan enters from the garden. He is dressed as before but wears a soft hat and carries a thin cane.

Richard

Stands in the doorway, observing her for some moments. There are demons he points out towards the strand out there. I heard them jabbering since dawn.

Beatrice

Starts to her feet. Mr. Rowan!

Richard

I assure you. The isle is full of voices. Yours also, Otherwise I could not see you, it said. And her voice. But, I assure you, they are all demons. I made the sign of the cross upside down and that silenced them.

Beatrice

Stammering. I came here, Mr. Rowan, so early because … to show you this … Robert wrote it … about you … last night.

Richard

Takes off his hat. My dear Miss Justice, you told me yesterday, I think, why you came here and I never forget anything. Advancing towards her, holding out his hand. Good morning.

Beatrice

Suddenly takes off her spectacles and places the paper in his hands. I came for this. It is an article about you. Robert wrote it last night. Will you read it?

Richard

Bows. Read it now? Certainly.

Beatrice

Looks at him in despair. O, Mr. Rowan, it makes me suffer to look at you.

Richard

Opens and reads the paper. Death of the Very Reverend Canon Mulhall. Is that it?

Bertha appears at the door on the left and stands to listen.

Richard

Turns over a page. Yes, here we are! A Distinguished Irishman. He begins to read in a rather loud hard voice. Not the least vital of the problems which confront our country is the problem of her attitude towards those of her children who, having left her in her hour of need, have been called back to her now on the eve of her longawaited victory, to her whom in loneliness and exile they have at last learned to love. In exile, we have said, but here we must distinguish. There is an economic and there is a spiritual exile. There are those who left her to seek the bread by which men live and there are others, nay, her most favoured children, who left her to seek in other lands that food of the spirit by which a nation of human beings is sustained in life. Those who recall the intellectual life of Dublin of a decade since will have many memories of Mr. Rowan. Something of that fierce indignation which lacerated the heart …

He raises his eyes from the paper and sees Bertha standing in the doorway. Then he lays aside the paper and looks at her. A long silence.

Beatrice

With an effort. You see, Mr. Rowan, your day has dawned at last. Even here. And you see that you have a warm friend in Robert, a friend who understands you.

Richard

Did you notice the little phrase at the beginning: those who left her in her hour of need?

He looks searchingly at Bertha, turns and walks into his study, closing the door behind him.

Bertha

Speaking half to herself. I gave up everything for him, religion, family, my own peace.

She sits down heavily in an armchair. Beatrice comes towards her.

Beatrice

Weakly. But do you not feel also that Mr. Rowan’s ideas …

Bertha

Bitterly. Ideas and ideas! But the people in this world have other ideas or pretend to. They have to put up with him in spite of his ideas because he is able to do something. Me, no. I am nothing.

Beatrice

You stand by his side.

Bertha

With increasing bitterness. Ah, nonsense, Miss Justice! I am only a thing he got entangled with and my son is—the nice name they give those children. Do you think I am a stone? Do you think I don’t see it in their eyes and in their manner when they have to meet me?

Beatrice

Do not let them humble you, Mrs. Rowan.

Bertha

Haughtily. Humble me! I am very proud of myself, if you want to know. What have they ever done for him? I made him a man. What are they all in his life? No more than the dirt under his boots! She stands up and walks excitedly to and fro. He can despise me, too, like the rest of them—now. And you can despise me. But you will never humble me, any of you.

Beatrice

Why do you accuse me?

Bertha

Going to her impulsively. I am in such suffering. Excuse me if I was rude. I want us to be friends. She holds out her hands. Will you?

Beatrice

Taking her hands. Gladly.

Bertha

Looking at her. What lovely long eyelashes you have! And your eyes have such a sad expression!

Beatrice

Smiling. I see very little with them. They are very weak.

Bertha

Warmly. But beautiful.

She embraces her quietly and kisses her. Then withdraws from her a little shyly. Brigid comes in from the left.

Brigid

I gave it to himself, ma’am.

Bertha

Did he send a message?

Brigid

He was just going out, ma’am. He told me to say he’d be here after me.

Bertha

Thanks.

Brigid

Going. Would you like the tea and the toast now, ma’am?

Bertha

Not now, Brigid. After perhaps. When Mr. Hand comes show him in at once.

Brigid

Yes, ma’am.

She goes out on the left.

Beatrice

I will go now, Mrs. Rowan, before he comes.

Bertha

Somewhat timidly. Then we are friends?

Beatrice

In the same tone. We will try to be. Turning. Do you allow me to go out through the garden? I don’t want to meet my cousin now.

Bertha

Of course. She takes her hand. It is so strange that we spoke like this now. But I always wanted to. Did you?

Beatrice

I think I did, too.

Bertha

Smiling. Even in Rome. When I went out for a walk with Archie I used to think about you, what you were like, because I knew about you from Dick. I used to look at different persons, coming out of churches or going by in carriages, and think that perhaps they were like you. Because Dick told me you were dark.

Beatrice

Again nervously. Really?

Bertha

Pressing her hand. Goodbye then—for the present.

Beatrice

Disengaging her hand. Good morning.

Bertha

I will see you to the gate.

She accompanies her out through the double doors. They go down through the garden. Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He halts near the doors, looking down the garden. Then he turns away, comes to the little table, takes up the paper and reads. Bertha, after some moments, appears in the doorway and stands watching him till he has finished. He lays down the paper again and turns to go back to his study.

Bertha

Dick!

Richard

Stopping. Well?

Bertha

You have not spoken to me.

Richard

I have nothing to say. Have you?

Bertha

Do you not wish to know—about what happened last night?

Richard

That I will never know.

Bertha

I will tell you if you ask me.

Richard

You will tell me. But I will never know. Never in this world.

Bertha

Moving towards him. I will tell you the truth, Dick, as I always told you. I never lied to you.

Richard

Clenching his hands in the air, passionately. Yes, yes. The truth! But I will never know, I tell you.

Bertha

Why, then, did you leave me last night?

Richard

Bitterly. In your hour of need.

Bertha

Threateningly. You urged me to it. Not because you love me. If you loved me or if you knew what love was you would not have left me. For your own sake you urged me to it.

Richard

I did not make myself. I am what I am.

Bertha

To have it always to throw against me. To make me humble before you, as you always did. To be free yourself. Pointing towards the garden. With her! And that is your love! Every word you say is false.

Richard

Controlling himself. It is useless to ask you to listen to me.

Bertha

Listen to you! She is the person for listening. Why would you waste your time with me? Talk to her.

Richard

Nods his head. I see. You have driven her away from me now, as you drove everyone else from my side—every friend I ever had, every human being that ever tried to approach me. You hate her.

Bertha

Warmly. No such thing! I think you have made her unhappy as you have made me and as you made your dead mother unhappy and killed her. Womankiller! That is your name.

Richard

Turns to go. Arrivederci!

Bertha

Excitedly. She is a fine and high character. I like her. She is everything that I am not—in birth and education. You tried to ruin her but you could not. Because she is well able for you—what I am not. And you know it.

Richard

Almost shouting. What the devil are you talking about her for?

Bertha

Clasping her hands. O, how I wish I had never met you! How I curse that day!

Richard

Bitterly. I am in the way, is it? You would like to be free now. You have only to say the word.

Bertha

Proudly. Whenever you like I am ready.

Richard

So that you could meet your lover—freely?

Bertha

Yes.

Richard

Night after night?

Bertha

Gazing before her and speaking with intense passion. To meet my lover! Holding out her arms before her. My lover! Yes! My lover!

She bursts suddenly into tears and sinks down on a chair, covering her face with her hands. Richard approaches her slowly and touches her on the shoulder.

Richard

Bertha! She does not answer. Bertha, you are free.

Bertha

Pushes his hand aside and starts to her feet. Don’t touch me! You are a stranger to me. You do not understand anything in me—not one thing in my heart or soul. A stranger! I am living with a stranger!

A knock is heard at the hall door. Bertha dries her eyes quickly with her handkerchief and settles the front of her gown. Richard listens for a moment, looks at her keenly and, turning away, walks into his study. Robert Hand enters from the left. He is dressed in dark brown and carries in his hand a brown Alpine hat.

Robert

Closing the door quietly behind him. You sent for me.

Bertha

Rises. Yes. Are you mad to think of going away like that—without even coming here—without saying anything?

Robert

Advancing towards the table on which the paper lies, glances at it. What I have to say I said here.

Bertha

When did you write it? Last night—after I went away?

Robert

Gracefully. To be quite accurate, I wrote part of it—in my mind—before you went away. The rest—the worst part—I wrote after. Much later.

Bertha

And you could write last night!

Robert

Shrugs his shoulders. I am a welltrained animal. He comes closer to her. I passed a long wandering night after … in my office, at the vicechancellor’s house, in a nightclub, in the streets, in my room. Your image was always before my eyes, your hand in my hand. Bertha, I will never forget last night. He lays his hat on the table and takes her hand. Why do you not look at me? May I not touch you?

Bertha

Points to the study. Dick is in there.

Robert

Drops her hand. In that case children be good.

Bertha

Where are you going?

Robert

To foreign parts. That is, to my cousin Jack Justice, alias Doggy Justice, in Surrey. He has a nice country place there and the air is mild.

Bertha

Why are you going?

Robert

Looks at her in silence. Can you not guess one reason?

Bertha

On account of me?

Robert

Yes. It is not pleasant for me to remain here just now.

Bertha

Sits down helplessly. But this is cruel of you, Robert. Cruel to me and to him also.

Robert

Has he asked … what happened?

Bertha

Joining her hands in despair. No. He refuses to ask me anything. He says he will never know.

Robert

Nods gravely. Richard is right there. He is always right.

Bertha

But, Robert, you must speak to him.

Robert

What am I to say to him?

Bertha

The truth! Everything!

Robert

Reflects. No, Bertha. I am a man speaking to a man. I cannot tell him everything.

Bertha

He will believe that you are going away because you are afraid to face him after last night.

Robert

After a pause. Well, I am not a coward any more than he. I will see him.

Bertha

Rises. I will call him.

Robert

Catching her hands. Bertha! What happened last night? What is the truth that I am to tell? He gazes earnestly into her eyes. Were you mine in that sacred night of love? Or have I dreamed it?

Bertha

Smiles faintly. Remember your dream of me. You dreamed that I was yours last night.

Robert

And that is the truth—a dream? That is what I am to tell?

Bertha

Yes.

Robert

Kisses both her hands. Bertha! In a softer voice. In all my life only that dream is real. I forget the rest. He kisses her hands again. And now I can tell him the truth. Call him.

Bertha goes to the door of Richard’s study and knocks. There is no answer. She knocks again.

Bertha

Dick! There is no answer. Mr. Hand is here. He wants to speak to you, to say goodbye. He is going away. There is no answer. She beats her hand loudly on the panel of the door and calls in an alarmed voice. Dick! Answer me!

Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He comes at once to Robert but does not hold out his hand.

Richard

Calmly. I thank you for your kind article about me. Is it true that you have come to say goodbye?

Robert

There is nothing to thank me for, Richard. Now and always I am your friend. Now more than ever before. Do you believe me, Richard?

Richard sits down on a chair and buries his face in his hands. Bertha and Robert gaze at each other in silence. Then she turns away and goes out quietly on the right. Robert goes towards Richard and stands near him, resting his hands on the back of a chair, looking down at him. There is a long silence. A Fishwoman is heard crying out as she passes along the road outside.

The Fishwoman

Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Dublin bay herrings!

Robert

Quietly. I will tell you the truth, Richard. Are you listening?

Richard

Raises his face and leans back to listen. Yes.

Robert sits on the chair beside him. The Fishwoman is heard calling out farther away.

The Fishwoman

Fresh herrings! Dublin bay herrings!

Robert

I failed, Richard. That is the truth. Do you believe me?

Richard

I am listening.

Robert

I failed. She is yours, as she was nine years ago, when you met her first.

Richard

When we met her first, you mean.

Robert

Yes. He looks down for some moments. Shall I go on?

Richard

Yes.

Robert

She went away. I was left alone—for the second time. I went to the vicechancellor’s house and dined. I said you were ill and would come another night. I made epigrams new and old—that one about the statues also. I drank claret cup. I went to my office and wrote my article. Then …

Richard

Then?

Robert

Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there—and also women. At least, they looked like women. I danced with one of them. She asked me to see her home. Shall I go on?

Richard

Yes.

Robert

I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on?

Richard

Yes.

Robert

She wept. She told me she was the divorced wife of a barrister. I offered her a sovereign as she told me she was short of money. She would not take it and wept very much. Then she drank some melissa water from a little bottle which she had in her satchel. I saw her enter her house. Then I walked home. In my room I found that my coat was all stained with the melissa water. I had no luck even with my coats yesterday: that was the second one. The idea came to me then to change my suit and go away by the morning boat. I packed my valise and went to bed. I am going away by the next train to my cousin, Jack Justice, in Surrey. Perhaps for a fortnight. Perhaps longer. Are you disgusted?

Richard

Why did you not go by the boat?

Robert

I slept it out.

Richard

You intended to go without saying goodbye—without coming here?

Robert

Yes.

Richard

Why?

Robert

My story is not very nice, is it?

Richard

But you have come.

Robert

Bertha sent me a message to come.

Richard

But for that … ?

Robert

But for that I should not have come.

Richard

Did it strike you that if you had gone without coming here I should have understood it—in my own way?

Robert

Yes, it did.

Richard

What, then, do you wish me to believe?

Robert

I wish you to believe that I failed. That Bertha is yours now as she was nine years ago, when you—when we—met her first.

Richard

Do you want to know what I did?

Robert

No.

Richard

I came home at once.

Robert

Did you hear Bertha return?

Richard

No. I wrote all the night. And thought. Pointing to the study. In there. Before dawn I went out and walked the strand from end to end.

Robert

Shaking his head. Suffering. Torturing yourself.

Richard

Hearing voices about me. The voices of those who say they love me.

Robert

Points to the door on the right. One. And mine?

Richard

Another still.

Robert

Smiles and touches his forehead with his right forefinger. True. My interesting but somewhat melancholy cousin. And what did they tell you?

Richard

They told me to despair.

Robert

A queer way of showing their love, I must say! And will you despair?

Richard

Rising. No.

A noise is heard at the window. Archie’s face is seen flattened against one of the panes. He is heard calling.

Archie

Open the window! Open the window!

Robert

Looks at Richard. Did you hear his voice, too, Richard, with the others—out there on the strand? Your son’s voice. Smiling. Listen! How full it is of despair!

Archie

Open the window, please, will you?

Robert

Perhaps, there, Richard, is the freedom we seek—you in one way, I in another. In him and not in us. Perhaps …

Richard

Perhaps … ?

Robert

I said perhaps. I would say almost surely if …

Richard

If what?

Robert

With a faint smile. If he were mine.

He goes to the window and opens it. Archie scrambles in.

Robert

Like yesterday—eh?

Archie

Good morning, Mr. Hand. He runs to Richard and kisses him: Buon giorno, babbo.

Richard

Buon giorno, Archie.

Robert

And where were you, my young gentleman?

Archie

Out with the milkman. I drove the horse. We went to Booterstown. He takes off his cap and throws it on a chair. I am very hungry.

Robert

Takes his hat from the table. Richard, goodbye. Offering his hand. To our next meeting!

Richard

Rises, touches his hand. Goodbye.

Bertha appears at the door on the right.

Robert

Catches sight of her: to Archie. Get your cap. Come on with me. I’ll buy you a cake and I’ll tell you a story.

Archie

To Bertha. May I, mamma?

Bertha

Yes.

Archie

Takes his cap. I am ready.

Robert

To Richard and Bertha. Goodbye to pappa and mamma. But not a big goodbye.

Archie

Will you tell me a fairy story, Mr. Hand?

Robert

A fairy story? Why not? I am your fairy godfather.

They go out together through the double doors and down the garden. When they have gone Bertha goes to Richard and puts her arm round his waist.

Bertha

Dick, dear, do you believe now that I have been true to you? Last night and always?

Richard

Sadly. Do not ask me, Bertha.

Bertha

Pressing him more closely. I have been, dear. Surely you believe me. I gave you myself—all. I gave up all for you. You took me—and you left me.

Richard

When did I leave you?

Bertha

You left me: and I waited for you to come back to me. Dick, dear, come here to me. Sit down. How tired you must be!

She draws him towards the lounge. He sits down, almost reclining, resting on his arm. She sits on the mat before the lounge, holding his hand.

Bertha

Yes, dear. I waited for you. Heavens, what I suffered then—when we lived in Rome! Do you remember the terrace of our house?

Richard

Yes.

Bertha

I used to sit there, waiting, with the poor child with his toys, waiting till he got sleepy. I could see all the roofs of the city and the river, the Tevere. What is its name?

Richard

The Tiber.

Bertha

Caressing her cheek with his hand. It was lovely, Dick, only I was so sad. I was alone, Dick, forgotten by you and by all. I felt my life was ended.

Richard

It had not begun.

Bertha

And I used to look at the sky, so beautiful, without a cloud and the city you said was so old: and then I used to think of Ireland and about ourselves.

Richard

Ourselves?

Bertha

Yes. Ourselves. Not a day passes that I do not see ourselves, you and me, as we were when we met first. Every day of my life I see that. Was I not true to you all that time?

Richard

Sighs deeply. Yes, Bertha. You were my bride in exile.

Bertha

Wherever you go, I will follow you. If you wish to go away now I will go with you.

Richard

I will remain. It is too soon yet to despair.

Bertha

Again caressing his hand. It is not true that I want to drive everyone from you. I wanted to bring you close together—you and him. Speak to me. Speak out all your heart to me. What you feel and what you suffer.

Richard

I am wounded, Bertha.

Bertha

How wounded, dear? Explain to me what you mean. I will try to understand everything you say. In what way are you wounded?

Richard

Releases his hand and, taking her head between his hands, bends it back and gazes long into her eyes. I have a deep, deep wound of doubt in my soul.

Bertha

Motionless. Doubt of me?

Richard

Yes.

Bertha

I am yours. In a whisper. If I died this moment, I am yours.

Richard

Still gazing at her and speaking as if to an absent person. I have wounded my soul for you—a deep wound of doubt which can never be healed. I can never know, never in this world. I do not wish to know or to believe. I do not care. It is not in the darkness of belief that I desire you. But in restless living wounding doubt. To hold you by no bonds, even of love, to be united with you in body and soul in utter nakedness—for this I longed. And now I am tired for a while, Bertha. My wound tires me.

He stretches himself out wearily along the lounge. Bertha holds his hand still, speaking very softly.

Bertha

Forget me, Dick. Forget me and love me again as you did the first time. I want my lover. To meet him, to go to him, to give myself to him. You, Dick. O, my strange wild lover, come back to me again!

She closes her eyes.