ACT IV
It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of MORE's house. The windows are closed, but curtains are not drawn. STEEL is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from MORE's dictation.
STEEL. "No doubt we shall have trouble. But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open. Let bills be got out, and an audience will collect in any case."
MORE. They will.
STEEL. "Yours truly"; I've signed for you.
STEEL. You know the servants have all given notice—except Henry.
MORE. Poor Henry!
STEEL. It's partly nerves, of course—the windows have been broken twice—but it's partly–
MORE. Patriotism. Quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves. That reminds me—to-morrow you begin holiday, Steel.
STEEL. Oh, no!
MORE. My dear fellow—yes. Last night ended your sulphur cure. Truly sorry ever to have let you in for it.
STEEL. Some one must do the work. You're half dead as it is.
MORE. There's lots of kick in me.
STEEL. Give it up, sir. The odds are too great. It isn't worth it.
MORE. To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten—is anything better worth it?
STEEL. Well, then, I'm not going.
MORE. This is my private hell, Steel; you don't roast in it any longer. Believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but yourself.
STEEL. I can't leave you, sir.
MORE. My dear boy, you're a brick—but we've got off by a miracle so far, and I can't have the responsibility of you any longer. Hand me over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting.
STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them.
MORE. Come! Give them to me, Steel! Now, that ends it, d'you see?
They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset, turns and goes out of the room. MORE, who has watched him with a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case. As he is closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr. Mendip, sir." MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws. MORE turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand.
MENDIP. Give me credit for a little philosophy, my friend. Mrs. More told me you'd be back to-day. Have you heard?
MORE. What?
MENDIP. There's been a victory.
MORE. Thank God!
MENDIP. Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood.
MORE. Yes!
MENDIP. Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen. You're only flouting human nature.
MORE. So—even you defend the mob!
MENDIP. My dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common instinct in the world. What do you expect? That the man in the street should be a Quixote? That his love of country should express itself in philosophic altruism? What on earth do you expect? Men are very simple creatures; and Mob is just conglomerate essence of simple men.
MORE. Conglomerate excrescence. Mud of street and market-place gathered in a torrent—This blind howling "patriotism"—what each man feels in here? No!
MENDIP. You think men go beyond instinct—they don't. All they know is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call country. They just feel something big and religious, and go it blind.
MORE. This used to be the country of free speech. It used to be the country where a man was expected to hold to his faith.
MENDIP. There are limits to human nature, Stephen.
MORE. Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack. Still your advice, is it?
MENDIP. My advice is: Get out of town at once. The torrent you speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out. Come, my dear fellow, don't stay here!
MORE. Thanks! I'll see that Katherine and Olive go.
MENDIP. Go with them! If your cause is lost, that's no reason why you should be.
MORE. There's the comfort of not running away. And—I want comfort.
MENDIP. This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish—foolish. Well! I'm going to the House. This way?
MORE. Down the steps, and through the gate. Good-bye?
KATHERINE has come in followed by NURSE, hatted and cloaked, with a small bag in her hand. KATHERINE takes from the bureau a cheque which she hands to the NURSE. MORE comes in from the terrace.
MORE. You're wise to go, Nurse.
NURSE. You've treated my poor dear badly, sir. Where's your heart?
MORE. In full use.
NURSE. On those heathens. Don't your own hearth and home come first? Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country. A bitter thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by the boys in the street.
KATHERINE. Nurse!
NURSE. It's unnatural, sir—what you're doing! To think more of those savages than of your own wife! Look at her! Did you ever see her look like that? Take care, sir, before it's too late!
MORE. Enough, please!
NURSE stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at KATHERINE; then goes.
MORE. There has been a victory.
KATHERINE. At last! A victory!
SIR JOHN. Thank God!
KATHERINE. Oh, Dad!
KATHERINE. At last!
The distant hum in the street is rising steadily. But SIR JOHN, after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper, stares dumbly at the floor.
KATHERINE. Father!
SIR JOHN. There is other news.
KATHERINE. One of the boys? Hubert?
KATHERINE. Killed?
KATHERINE. The dream! Poor Helen!
They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek.
SIR JOHN. Whom the gods love–
KATHERINE. Hubert!
SIR JOHN. And hulks like me go on living!
KATHERINE. Dear Dad!
SIR JOHN. But we shall drive the ruffians now! We shall break them.
Stephen back?
KATHERINE. Last night.
SIR JOHN. Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last?
Not?
SIR JOHN. My dear! Death is in many houses!
KATHERINE. I must go to Helen. Tell Stephen, Father. I can't.
SIR JOHN. If you wish, child.
MORE. Yes, Sir John. You wanted me?
SIR JOHN. Hubert is killed.
MORE. Hubert!
SIR JOHN. By these—whom you uphold. Katherine asked me to let you know. She's gone to Helen. I understand you only came back last night from your–No word I can use would give what I feel about that. I don't know how things stand now between you and Katherine; but I tell you this, Stephen: you've tried her these last two months beyond what any woman ought to bear!
SIR JOHN. When you chose your course–
MORE. Chose!
SIR JOHN. You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her. You knew this might come. It may come again with another of my sons.
MORE. I would willingly change places with any one of them.
SIR JOHN. Yes—I can believe in your unhappiness. I cannot conceive of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country. If I could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price—no, nor all my sons. 'Pro patri mori'—My boy, at all events, is happy!
MORE. Yes!
SIR JOHN. Yet you can go on doing what you are! What devil of pride has got into you, Stephen?
MORE. Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private fighting out there? Not for a minute.
SIR JOHN. I don't understand you. I always thought you devoted to Katherine.
MORE. Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and child?
SIR JOHN. I do.
MORE. So do I.
SIR JOHN. Whatever my country does or leaves undone, I no more presume to judge her than I presume to judge my God. My country!
MORE. I would give all I have—for that creed.
SIR JOHN. Stephen, I've never looked on you as a crank; I always believed you sane and honest. But this is—visionary mania.
MORE. Vision of what might be.
SIR JOHN. Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation— the grandest men on earth—have found good enough for them? I've known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country.
MORE. Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me! To see people turn away in the street—old friends pass me as if I were a wall! To dread the post! To go to bed every night with the sound of hooting in my ears! To know that my name is never referred to without contempt–
SIR JOHN. You have your new friends. Plenty of them, I understand.
MORE. Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night? Your battles are fool's play to it.
The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder. SIR JOHN turns his head towards it.
SIR JOHN. You've heard there's been a victory. Do you carry your unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that? That's something! For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's gone past mending. Don't ruin your life with Katherine. Hubert was her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him. Think what that means to her! Drop this—mad Quixotism—idealism—whatever you call it. Take Katherine away. Leave the country till the thing's over—this country of yours that you're opposing, and—and— traducing. Take her away! Come! What good are you doing? What earthly good? Come, my boy! Before you're utterly undone.
MORE. Sir John! Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's in them! I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind—Am I to slink away? Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds who've thanked me for taking this stand. They look on me now as their leader. Am I to desert them? When you led your forlorn hope— did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come through alive? It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are following me; and not to help let die a fire—a fire that's sacred— not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time.
SIR JOHN. I give you credit for believing what you say. But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of—I'm too old-fashioned to grasp—one fire you are letting die—your wife's love. By God! This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love—of your career, of all those who used to like and respect you—so much the better for you. But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection— alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter ruin and destruction—as it must—I shall not pity—I cannot pity you. Good-night!
He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. MORE is left standing perfectly still. The stir and murmur of the street is growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his consciousness. He goes to the bay window and looks out; then rings the bell. It is not answered, and, after turning up the lights, he rings again. KATHERINE comes in. She is wearing a black hat, and black outdoor coat. She speaks coldly without looking up.
KATHERINE. You rang!
MORE. For them to shut this room up.
KATHERINE. The servants have gone out. They're afraid of the house being set on fire.
MORE. I see.
KATHERINE. They have not your ideals to sustain them. I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's.
MORE. Good! You prefer that to an hotel? Will you let me say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you—Hubert's–
KATHERINE. Don't. I ought to have made what I meant plainer. I am not coming back.
MORE. Not? Not while the house–
KATHERINE. Not—at all.
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. I warned you from the first. You've gone too far!
MORE. Do you understand what this means? After ten years—and all—our love!
KATHERINE. Was it love? How could you ever have loved one so unheroic as myself!
MORE. This is madness, Kit—Kit!
KATHERINE. Last night I was ready. You couldn't. If you couldn't then, you never can. You are very exalted, Stephen. I don't like living—I won't live, with one whose equal I am not. This has been coming ever since you made that speech. I told you that night what the end would be.
MORE. Don't be so terribly cruel!
KATHERINE. No! Let's have the truth! People so wide apart don't love! Let me go!
MORE. In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths?
KATHERINE. Last night you used the word—bargain. Quite right. I meant to buy you. I meant to kill your faith. You showed me what I was doing. I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains, Stephen.
MORE. God knows—I never meant–
KATHERINE. If I'm not yours in spirit—I don't choose to be your— mistress.
MORE, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an attitude of defence.
KATHERINE. Yes, that's cruel! It shows the heights you live on. I won't drag you down.
MORE. For God's sake, put your pride away, and see! I'm fighting for the faith that's in me. What else can a man do? What else? Ah! Kit! Do see!
KATHERINE. I'm strangled here! Doing nothing—sitting silent—when my brothers are fighting, and being killed. I shall try to go out nursing. Helen will come with me. I have my faith, too; my poor common love of country. I can't stay here with you. I spent last night on the floor—thinking—and I know!
MORE. And Olive?
KATHERINE. I shall leave her at Father's, with Nurse; unless you forbid me to take her. You can.
MORE. That I shall not do—you know very well. You are free to go, and to take her.
KATHERINE. Thank you! Stephen! Give it up! Come down to me!
The festive sounds from the street grow louder. There can be heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds of joy.
MORE. And drown in—that?
KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door. There she stands and again looks at him. Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents of her emotions.
MORE. So—you're going?
KATHERINE. Yes.
She bends her head, opens the door, and goes. MORE starts forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the doorway. She has on a straight little white coat and a round white cap.
OLIVE. Aren't you coming with us, Daddy?
OLIVE. Why not?
MORE. Never mind, my dicky bird.
OLIVE. The motor'll have to go very slow. There are such a lot of people in the street. Are you staying to stop them setting the house on fire? May I stay a little, too? Why?
MORE. Go along, my pretty!
OLIVE. Oh! love me up, Daddy!
OLIVE. Oo-o!
MORE. Trot, my soul!
MORE follows her to the door, but stops there. Then, as full realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window, craning his head to catch sight of the front door. There is the sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its horn as it makes its way among the crowd. He turns from the window.
MORE. Alone as the last man on earth!
VOICE. There 'e is! That's 'im! More! Traitor! More!
A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins to rattle against the glass of the window. Many voices take up the groaning: "More! Traitor! Black-leg! More!" And through the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos. The din of execration swells. MORE stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab. Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of the panes. It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a hearty groan. A second stone crashes through the glass. MORE turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his face. Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head droop. The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes through. MORE raises his head again, and, clasping his hands, looks straight before him. The footman, HENRY, entering, hastens to the French windows.
MORE. Ah! Henry, I thought you'd gone.
FOOTMAN. I came back, sir.
MORE. Good fellow!
FOOTMAN. They're trying to force the terrace gate, sir. They've no business coming on to private property—no matter what!
In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the terrace, and no more seen. The MOB is a mixed crowd of revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and girls, and a Boy Scout or two. Many have exchanged hats—Some wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles. Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside on the terrace. The medley of noises is very great. Such ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS, the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. When the first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To him, boys! Chair the hero!" THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round the room. When they have twice circled the table to the music of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obedien