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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Mr. Godly Beside Himself _Date of first publication:_ 1926 _Author:_ Gerald Bullett (1894-1958) _Date first posted:_ Dec. 23, 2014 _Date last updated:_ Dec. 23, 2014 Faded Page eBook #20141252 This ebook was produced by: Barbara Watson, Mark Akrigg, Alex White & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net _Contemporary British Dramatists, Volume XXXIX:_ MR. GODLY BESIDE HIMSELF _CONTEMPORARY BRITISH_ _DRAMATISTS_ _THE MULLIGATAWNY MEDALLION and other short plays. By_ BARRINGTON GATES _THE PELICAN. By_ H. M. HARWOOD & TENNYSON JESSE _PLEASE HELP EMILY. By_ H. M. HARWOOD _THE GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED. By_ H. M. HARWOOD _SUPPLANTERS. By_ H. M. HARWOOD _THE SPORT OF GODS. By_ JOHN COURNOS _THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY. By_ =Mrs. Cecil Chesterton & Ralph Neale= _THE OFFENCE. By_ MORDAUNT SHAIRP _“A great play? . . . something very near.”—B.M.H. in the “Daily Express.”_ _PLAYS OF INNOCENCE. By_ GWEN JOHN _“Miss John . . . has Hardy’s gift of expressing universal realities through the lips of simple folk.” “Sheffield Daily Telegraph.”_ _THE STOLEN HORSE. By_ CHARLES FORREST _“A work of quality.”—A. N. M. in the “Manchester Guardian.”_ _“Shows unusual dramatic talent.”—“Daily Telegraph.”_ _SONS AND FATHERS. By_ ALLAN MONKHOUSE _“A great theme, nobly handled.”—“Manchester Guardian.”_ _CHURCHILL. By_ H. F. RUBINSTEIN & A. J. TALBOT _“Brilliantly written.”—“Sunday Times.”_ _“Here at last is authentic historical drama of the first order.”—“Leeds Weekly Post.”_ _HAY FEVER. By_ NOEL COWARD. (_2nd Impression._) _FALLEN ANGELS. By_ NOEL COWARD. (_2nd Impression._) _THE VORTEX. By_ NOEL COWARD. (_3rd Impression._) _THREE PLAYS. By_ NOEL COWARD: (_The Rat Trap._ _The Vortex._ _Fallen Angels_). _With the Author’s reply to his Critics._ _“It is well that such plays should be published . . . for they catch the colour and movement of to-day with surprising accuracy.”—“Morning Post.”_ _CONFLICT. By_ MILES MALLESON _“Cries out of its own quality to be put on the stage.”—“T.P’s & Cassell’s Weekly.”_ _THIS WOMAN BUSINESS. By_ B. W. LEVY _“Brilliant.”—“Daily News.”_ _“A pure delight.”—“Morning Post.”_ (_Continued on pages 86, 87, and 88_) MR. GODLY BESIDE HIMSELF A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS BY GERALD BULLETT LONDON: ERNEST BENN LIMITED _8 Bouverie Street, E.C. 4_ 1926 MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN _Applications to perform this play must be addressed to A. D. Peters, 20/21 Essex Street, Strand, London, W.C. 2._ _No performance may take place unless a licence has been obtained._ _Copyright 1926 by Gerald Bullett._ _All rights reserved._ _With acknowledgments to Messrs. John Lane The Bodley Head Ltd. publishers of the novel of the same name on which this play is founded._ CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY JOHN GODLY FLORENCE GODLY _His wife_ MILLY REESLIP _A domestic servant_ HORACE MOTT _A junior clerk_ MAIA M’GREE M’GREE MRS. FRY M’GREE’S _housekeeper_ HARRY LE POON FLAME UNCLE APPLEYARD MRS. MURGATROYD FRANK MURGATROYD GODELIK MR. DATCHET _General Manager of the Mercantile Hope Corporation_ ACTS ACT I: _Monday morning_. SCENE 1: _A room in_ MR. GODLY’S _house at Brockley_. SCENE 2: MR. GODLY’S _office in the city_. ACT II: _Monday evening_. SCENE 1: _The house at Wimbledon_. SCENE 2: _A hilltop on Wimbledon Common_. ACT III: _The Twelfth Hour_. SCENE 1: _A forest in Fairyland_. SCENE 2: _A room in_ MR. GODLY’S _house at Brockley_. ACT IV: _Tuesday_. SCENE: MR. GODLY’S _office in the city_. ACT I ACT I SCENE 1 _A room in_ MR. GODLY’S _house at Brockley. Ordinary middle-class suburban interior. Fire in fireplace on our right. Door, left wall. Windows opposite us, overlooking the front garden. A few bookshelves containing unused classics. On mantelpiece, family photographs, a vase containing spills, and a clock that never works. A picture, “The Laughing Cavalier,” over the fireplace (right.) A portrait of Mr. Gladstone on the opposite wall (left)._ JOHN GODLY _and his wife_ FLORENCE _are seated at breakfast on opposite sides of the table, left and right respectively_. MR. GODLY, _who is feeling Mondayish, keeps his eyes fixed on the newspaper which he has propped up against the toast-rack, not, we suspect, because he is very interested in its contents, but because he is determined to avoid any sentimental exchanges with his wife, who glances at him from time to time with anxious affection_. MR. GODLY _is smallish, forty-five, plump; normally his face looks rather innocent and wistful, but at the moment he is scowling_. MRS. GODLY _is forty-two and looks her age. She is dowdy and ordinary, but if we possess any discrimination we shall recognise her possibilities. If only she were loved as ardently and uncritically as she herself loves_ MR. GODLY, _she would be a beautiful woman_. MR. GODLY _munches his eggs and bacon, at which, however, he scarcely glances_. FLORENCE _toys with her breakfast. She strikes a match and lights the spirit-burner under the copper coffee-percolator. So soon as the coffee begins to bubble she leans forward a little and fixes a yearning glance upon her husband._ FLORENCE: John, dear. (_No answer._) John, dear. MR. GODLY (_rather impatient, looking up from the newspaper_): What is it? FLORENCE: Are you ready for some more coffee? MR. GODLY (_disconcerted, looks into his cup, drinks what is left in it, and places the cup in_ FLORENCE’S _outstretched hand_): Thanks, yes. The coffee’s very good this morning. FLORENCE: I’m glad you like it, dear. (_She fills his cup._) You’re always so appreciative. [_She hands him the re-filled cup. He resumes his scrutiny of the paper after a curt “Thanks.”_ It makes all the difference to a woman. It makes everything worth while. [_Does_ MR. GODLY _suspect irony? Anyhow, he merely grunts without looking up._ Don’t you think so, dear? MR. GODLY: I beg your pardon? FLORENCE: Don’t you agree with me that a little appreciation—— MR. GODLY (_testily_): Yes, yes. Quite so. FLORENCE: Mrs. Murgatroyd was saying the very same thing only the other day, John. “I never realised before, Mrs. Godly,” she said, “I never realised before the power of a kind word. Some people would say,” she said, “that I have a hard life, what with looking after baby and doing all the cooking and no help in the house worth _calling_ help,” she said, “servants being what they are nowadays. Some people would think I was to be pitied. And yet, Mrs. Godly,” she said, “there’s not a happier woman in Brockley than I am.” And I believe her, John. Such a pretty little baby, John. When I see all his darling little things hanging out on the clothes-line next door, well, _I_ don’t pity Mrs. Murgatroyd. I only think what a lucky woman she is. [_While she talks her eyes rove from_ MR. GODLY _to the table and from the table to_ MR. GODLY. _She sees that the milk-jug is nearly empty, and rings a hand-bell that stands within reach of her hand. This interrupts her monologue for three seconds only._ “And when Mr. Murgatroyd comes home in the evening, Mrs. Godly,” she said, “all my weariness drops off me like a garment—it drops off me like a dressing-gown,” she said. She’s rather a poetical woman, Mrs. Murgatroyd is. Don’t you think so, dear? (_No answer._) Don’t you agree with me, dear? MR. GODLY (_who hasn’t listened to a word of it_): Quite! Quite! (_Feeling himself called upon to make a little conversation, he adds._) Seen anything of our charming neighbours lately? FLORENCE: Which neighbours, John? MR. GODLY: The Murgatroyds. They’re not very sociable, I must say. FLORENCE: But I was just telling you, dear, about what Mrs. Murgatroyd—— [_She is interrupted by the entry of_ MILLY REESLIP. MILLY _is a fresh-faced, plump little Cockney, about seventeen years old_. MILLY (_aggressively friendly_): Did you ring, ’um? FLORENCE: Yes, Milly. Bring me some more hot milk, please. [_Milly comes forward and takes the jug._ MILLY: Yessum. (_Pause._) FLORENCE: Well, Milly? What are you waiting for? MILLY: Please, I’ve ’ad a letterum. It was from Muvverum. She says Gordy-boy’s got the frush. FLORENCE: The what, Milly? MILLY: The frush, mum. All over ’is lil chest ’e ’as. FLORENCE (_anxious, fearing an outburst from_ MR. GODLY): I’m sorry to hear that, Milly. But tell your mother not to worry. Thrush isn’t a serious disease. Lots of babies have it. MR. GODLY: A very pleasant breakfast-table topic, I must say. MILLY: Yessum. Yessir. Reverend Plenty, ’e says, troubles are sent to try us. Muvver’s been reading a pamphlet which the man says unbaptised babies ain’t properly saved, not for certain. But Reverend Plenty, ’e says, every one’s got to be saved except the Roaming Carflicks. FLORENCE: That will do, Milly. Bring me the hot milk. MILLY: Yessum. (_Turns to_ MR. GODLY.) Yessir. (_Goes out._) MR. GODLY: It’s a pity you can’t keep that child in her place, Florence. Your mistaken notions of democracy are positively, are positively . . . (_but inspiration fails him_) mistaken. FLORENCE (_soothingly_): Yes, dear. She’s very tiresome. Quite irrepressible. But when I’m alone all day I haven’t the heart to stop her chatter. Even Milly’s nonsense is better than that dreadful emptiness, that silence. (_She suddenly stops short and half rises in alarm._) Oh, John, have you cut yourself again? MR. GODLY (_very irritated_): Cut myself? FLORENCE: Your poor chin, dear. MR. GODLY (_moodily wrathful_): Very likely. Pity it wasn’t my throat. FLORENCE: Oh, John! (_But she doesn’t take him quite seriously._) I wish you’d get a safety razor. MR. GODLY: Rubbish. I don’t believe in these newfangled gimcrack things. I’ve got the best razor in London. [_At every opportunity he turns back to that engrossing newspaper._ MILLY _enters with the hot milk_. MILLY: The milk, ’um. FLORENCE: Thank you, Milly. [_The jug is set down._ MILLY: Please, ’um, muvver says—— FLORENCE (_firmly_): Another time, Milly. You may go now. MILLY: Yessum. (_Turns to_ MR. GODLY, _who ignores her_.) Yessir. (_Goes out with_ FLORENCE’S _dirty plate_.) FLORENCE (_helps herself to bread and marmalade, cuts the bread up thoughtfully into dice. She is evidently planning a desperate attack on_ MR. GODLY’S _silence_): John, dear. (_No answer._) John, dear. I want to ask you something. MR. GODLY: No thanks. No more coffee. FLORENCE: No, it’s not coffee, John. MR. GODLY: What do you mean—it’s not coffee? It’s very good coffee. FLORENCE: I mean it’s not coffee I wanted to talk to you about. MR. GODLY: There’s nothing better. . . . Well, what is it you want to talk to me about? FLORENCE (_with a searching and sentimental glance_): Happiness. MR. GODLY (_sourly_): What’s that? I’ve never come across it. FLORENCE: Never, John? [_He does not answer._ Didn’t you sleep well last night, dear? MR. GODLY: I slept. FLORENCE: You’re not angry with me, darling, for being such a lazy thing and lying in bed so late? MR. GODLY: Of course not. Don’t be absurd. (_The tone of his voice does nothing to allay her fears._) FLORENCE (_timidly_): You’re worried, John. I’m sure you are. Won’t you tell me about it? MR. GODLY: Worried. Of course, I’m worried. FLORENCE: But why, dear? MR. GODLY: Because I’m alive. FLORENCE (_shocked_): Do you mean you’d rather be dead? Oh, John! MR. GODLY (_crudely sarcastic_): Your inference is brilliant in its accuracy. FLORENCE (_maternally_): But, dear, you know as well as I do that it’s very naughty to wish yourself dead. It’s even—it’s even _wicked_, John. (_She hesitates to utter this treasonable word._) MR. GODLY (_laughs shortly_): Wicked, is it? Well, I’m a bit sick of this everlasting goodness. A little wickedness might liven things up. FLORENCE (_after a pause_): John—John. Is your—can it be that your liver’s out of order? MR. GODLY (_almost snorts_): Don’t be indelicate, Florence. FLORENCE (_sighs_): I do wish you’d confide in me, John. I do wish you’d tell me what you are worried about. MR. GODLY: Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, Florence. I’m worried (_with rising impatience_) about hundreds of things. Nothing in particular. Nothing you’d understand. All sorts of things. You women don’t seem to realise that the life of an insurance official, holding a responsible position and damned ill-paid for it, is a life burdened with cares and responsibilities. Life is not so simple for us men. We have all manner of needs that you’ve no conception of, Florence. Needs and dreams. (_Briskly._) However, that’s neither here nor there. FLORENCE: Dreams? Did you say _dreams_, John? MR. GODLY: I said dreams, Florence. Pass the marmalade, please. I said dreams. It may surprise you to learn that I sometimes yearn for a fuller life than Brockley can give us. I am sick of having to look twice at every shilling I spend. I want space—travel—free adventure. FLORENCE: Yes, of course. I understand that. If only we could go to Paris for a few weeks! Wouldn’t that be nice! [_He shrugs his shoulders, disappointed by the complete success of his endeavour to throw dust in her eyes._ But if it’s only money, and office troubles—_is_ it office troubles, John? MR. GODLY: Yes, merely office troubles. (_Lightly._) Of no consequence. FLORENCE: Well, what do silly old things like that matter? Nothing matters, John, does it, so long as we’ve got each other? MR. GODLY (_gapes at her, taken aback; then recovers himself and says loudly, evading her loving look_): Quite! Quite! FLORENCE (_chilled_): Do you know, John, I’ve had the feeling just lately that I’ve quite lost touch with you. You seem to have shut yourself up. You’re keeping me at a distance. You haven’t—you haven’t stopped loving me, have you, John? MR. GODLY (_dissembling his alarm_): My dear Florence, what a question to put to a man at breakfast on a Monday morning, of all times! FLORENCE: That doesn’t answer my question. Do you love me? MR. GODLY (_angrily_): Love you? Of course I love you. You’re my wife, and in decent society it’s taken for granted that a man loves his wife. (_Testily._) I love you (_raising his voice_) devotedly. Devotedly, I say. But one can’t always be saying so. There’s a time for everything, and this is breakfast-time. FLORENCE: The time for reading the newspaper. MR. GODLY: Exactly. (_But after a few moments his pretence of reading breaks down._) You don’t understand me, Florence. You think that because I’m not demonstrative I have no feeling. Which is the reverse of the truth, quite the reverse. But love on an empty stomach is an enterprise that has never attracted me. FLORENCE (_rings the bell again_): I’ll get some more eggs and bacon, dear. MR. GODLY: No, no. I’m eating marmalade. What should I want with more eggs and bacon! [MILLY _responds to the bell so quickly that we suspect her of having listened at the keyhole_. MILLY: Did you ring, ’um? MR. GODLY: Your mistress rang for you in mistake. We don’t want you. You can go. MILLY: Yessir. (_Goes to the door._) MR. GODLY (_continuing, to_ MILLY): And to the kitchen, not the keyhole. Understand? MILLY (_bobbing_): Yessir. (_She escapes quickly._) FLORENCE: Why, your coffee must be cold, John. Let me pour it away and give you some fresh. MR. GODLY: Well, yes. Thanks. [_He yields his cup. While she is emptying and filling it she goes on speaking._ FLORENCE (_conversationally_): It was soon after your secretary left that I first noticed the change in you, John. MR. GODLY: My secretary? What secretary? FLORENCE: Your office secretary. Miss Gibbs, wasn’t her name? She was always so polite and nice when I called on you in Leadenhall Street. Not what one could call a handsome woman, and of course no longer young. But so sensible. She seemed to me to have an indefinable something in her face. Perhaps one might call it character. You know what I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever taken to anyone so quickly as I took to dear Miss Gibbs. I expect she was a great loss to you? MR. GODLY: She was efficient enough. FLORENCE: Not exactly what you’d call a charming woman. MR. GODLY (_decidedly_): No. FLORENCE: What is her successor like? MR. GODLY: Irish, or something of the sort. Name of M’Gree. FLORENCE: And is she as good at her work as Miss Gibbs was? MR. GODLY: Good enough. Less experienced, of course. FLORENCE: Younger, I suppose. MR. GODLY (_unsuspecting_): About nineteen or twenty, I should think. (_Adds, no longer unsuspecting:_) A mere child. FLORENCE: Ah, yes. Quite a beginner. But beginners generally have enthusiasm—that’s one thing in their favour. MR. GODLY (_vaguely_): Quite! Quite! (_He turns back to his paper and finds there a pretext for changing the subject._) What next, I wonder? Here’s a fellow starting a home for lost spooks. FLORENCE: For what, dear? MR. GODLY: Lost spooks. [_She fails to grasp his meaning._) Spooks, my dear, spooks. Spooks, ghosts, spirits, spectres, phantoms, the dear departed. FLORENCE: But how preposterous, John! Irreverent, too. MR. GODLY: Not at all. Home for lost spooks, earthbound, you know, can’t soar away into the ineffable inane and all that kind of thing. It’s a simple act of kindness to provide a home for them—a club, don’t you see? All you have to do is to sit in a dark room and hold hands round a table. The spooks love it! (_Pause for mastication._) Do _you_ believe in personal survival, Florence? FLORENCE: You know I do. Why? MR. GODLY: Well, I don’t. That’s all. FLORENCE (_for the third time_): Oh, John! MR. GODLY: Why, the very idea is desolating. Our last hope gone. FLORENCE: Our last hope? What do you mean? MR. GODLY: Oh, nothing. FLORENCE: John, you know, don’t you, that if anything were to happen to you I’d follow you—— MR. GODLY (_startled_): Would you, by George? FLORENCE (_solemnly_): Even beyond the grave, dear. MR. GODLY: The last hope gone. . . . However, I don’t believe in this survival of yours. It’s no use looking soulful, my dear girl. I don’t believe, and I won’t. FLORENCE: There’s no need to be cross about it. MR. GODLY: Cross! Nothing of the kind. A beautiful day outside, a beautiful breakfast inside, a charming home, an overpaid job in the city, everything that the heart of man can desire—why should I be cross? And every day alike. Every blasted day alike. So neat and tidy. So orderly. Such fascinating monotony. No dangerous shocks to the nerves. No unhealthy excitement. What cause have I for complaint? [FLORENCE _rises and moves timidly towards him_. FLORENCE: John! Tell me, dear! What’s happened to make you so unhappy? MR. GODLY: First cross, then unhappy. What’s come over you Florence? Please don’t fuss me. (_He takes a watch from his waistcoat pocket._) I’m not at all cross or unhappy. (_Rises, pushing back his chair, watch in hand._) I’m perfectly calm and collected. I’m perfectly good-tempered. (_He puts the watch to his ear and listens. Then, ominously calm, he replaces it in his pocket._) What’s more, my dear Florence, I have missed my train. Missed my train. This watch (_accusingly as he snatches the watch out again_) has stopped. Good morning. FLORENCE (_holding out her arms to him as he moves away_): Don’t be angry, John. Don’t be unhappy. [_He ignores her, and goes out, slamming the door behind him. For a moment her arms remain outstretched towards that shut door. Sentimental or not, at this moment she contrives to be beautiful. Her arms fall droopingly; she stands listening. The front door slams loudly. She sinks into_ MR. GODLY’S _vacated chair and buries her face in her hands_. CURTAIN. SCENE 2 MR. GODLY’S _office in the city. An hour later._ MR. GODLY, _being the manager of a department in the Mercantile Hope Corporation, has a private office. Most of the wall facing us is covered by large maps. There is also a clock, which indicates 9.25, and a date calendar such as they have in offices. The door (facing us, back left) is panelled in smoked glass, upon which we can see this device in black:_ YLDOG .J .RM. _In the foreground (right) is_ MR. GODLY’S _office table, a large mahogany one: upon it are a blotter, pens, ink, paper, and various official documents neatly piled. Also a telephone. Back centre, under the clock, is a typist’s table (in light oak). In front of_ MR. GODLY’S _table is a comfortable swing chair for the accommodation of important clients who sometimes seek interviews with_ MR. GODLY. _There is a second door, at the back of the right wall._ _When our eyes have travelled once over this scene the door (back left) is opened and_ MR. HORACE MOTT, _a junior clerk, pokes his head in_. MOTT (_shouting, over his shoulder, to his fellow-clerks in the outer office. We hear the faint buzz of their talk whenever the door is open_): The Lord Godly hasn’t come yet. (_He is pleased and amused by_ MR. GODLY’S _lateness. He comes into the room, parodying_ MR. GODLY’S _walk and manner_.) Dear me! dear me! dear me! (_This is his chief’s favourite oath._) I missed my train this morning, Mott. It’s a thing that hadn’t occurred for years. Punctuality, Mott, is the politeness of princes. Would you be so good, Mr. Mott, as to convey this hat to a place of safety. (_Hands an imaginary hat to an imaginary_ MOTT.) _Thanks._ [_While_ MOTT _is posturing_, MR. GODLY _enters (back left), wearing a silk hat and a light raincoat_. MOTT _wheels round and assumes an attitude of respect_. Good morning, sir. MR. GODLY (_taking off his overcoat_): Morning. (_Hangs his coat on the peg at the side of the door._) This peg is insecure, Mott. I think I mentioned the matter yesterday. (_Indicates the hat peg._) MOTT: Yes, sir. I have put the work in hand. MR. GODLY: And by Christmas-time it will be finished, no doubt. MOTT: Yes, sir. MR. GODLY: Meanwhile perhaps you will be good enough to convey my hat (_hands his hat to_ MOTT) to a place of safety. (_Smiles._) MOTT (_acknowledging the jest with a smile_): Certainly. [MR. GODLY, _briskly rubbing his hands, strides across the room and takes his seat_. MR. GODLY: Is Miss M’Gree here? MOTT: I think so. MR. GODLY: Ask her to come in. [MOTT _taps at the door on_ MR. GODLY’S _right and opens it_. MOTT: Miss M’Gree. You’re wanted, please. [_Exit_ MOTT _by other door_. [_Enter_ MAIA M’GREE, _a young girl_. MR. GODLY _is obviously eager and nervous_. MAIA _is slim, lovely, ethereal, and dressed in such a way as to enhance these qualities. Her movements are light and airy. Very faintly, from a great distance, we hear a phrase of fairy-like music (played by strings). This is the_ MAIA _motif. We find it incredible that this unearthly creature is a mere shorthand-typist, though she brings with her a notebook and pencil in support of the imposture._ MAIA: Good morning, Mr. Godly. [_Her voice has a unique inflection, a haunting and tantalising melody, which_ MR. GODLY _mistakenly supposes to be Irish. It enchants him._ MR. GODLY (_looking up, pretending not to have noticed her entry_): Ah, good morning, Miss M’Gree. I haven’t anything to dictate just yet. But please sit down, if you can spare the time, while I glance through this little pile here. (_Toys with the documents._) [MAIA _murmurs a vague response and sits down at the typist’s table (back centre)_. [MR. GODLY, _after battling with indecision, during which he steals several agonised glances at her, speaks again_. I wonder . . . (_His voice trails away._) MAIA: Did you speak, Mr. Godly? MR. GODLY: No, no, no. No, no. [_Silence and indecision again. His pretence to be working is very palpable._ I wonder would you mind sitting here. (_He indicates the swing-chair opposite his own._) Something might occur to me that I wanted a note made of. . . . [MAIA _does as she is asked. She now occupies the centre of the stage, and she enchants us as well as_ MR. GODLY. _Her face is small, elfin, olive-tinted, framed in a forest of black hair. Her little mouth is a pouting bud. Her dark eyes are bright with innocence and shy humour. She sinks into a reverie, grave, unsmiling, but not unhappy._ Thank you. [_A tap at the door (left back), and_ MOTT _enters with a pile of letters. He is astonished to see_ MAIA _in that sacred chair_. MOTT (_at_ MR. GODLY’S _elbow_): The correspondence, sir. MR. GODLY (_disconcerted_): But I already have it . . . MOTT: Those are merely certain endorsed policies that require your signature, sir. Mr. Datchet wished them to be passed on to you. MR. GODLY (_ironically_): Very kind of Mr. Datchet, I’m sure. . . . Very well, Mott. [MOTT, _having placed the letters on_ MR. GODLY’S _table, returns to the outer office_. [MR. GODLY, _after more pretence, more indecision, and more stolen glances of adoration at the unwitting girl, plucks up his courage_. I was very late this morning, Miss M’Gree. MAIA (_waking from the dream that has given us so much delight_): Am I to take that down? (_For she still has her notebook and pencil, you must remember._) MR. GODLY (_caught out_): Ah, you’re laughing at me. Very good. Very good indeed. Ha, ha! But, really (_becoming confidential_), I _was_ very late this morning. MAIA (_maternally, humouring him_): So you were, then. MR. GODLY: It’s a thing, Miss M’Gree, that hadn’t occurred for years. MAIA: Clocks wrong, perhaps. MR. GODLY (_the liar_): Maybe. Quite possibly. But I didn’t notice the clocks. No, it wasn’t the clocks. It was domestic worry. MAIA (_her tone gentle with solicitude, but we suspect that she has not yet done laughing at him_): Not illness, surely? MR. GODLY: Not illness either, unless _I_’m ill. Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes I wish I were—ill or dying. I suppose, Miss M’Gree, that point of view is incomprehensible to a young lady like you standing, as you do, on the very threshold of life? MAIA (_mysteriously_): I’m not so young as I seem, Mr. Godly. MR. GODLY: You’re young enough, my dear, to be frank about your age. I ask no questions (_he laughs_), but I’m sure you’re not a day over twenty. MAIA: Twenty thousand moons, Mr. Godly. MR. GODLY: I beg your pardon? MAIA: Twenty thousand moons. MR. GODLY (_doing his best to see the joke_): Ha, ha! Twenty thousand moons. Very good. Very good indeed. What a blaze they’d make if they all rose together. There’d hardly be room for them in one sky. Not at Brockley, anyhow. (_But he returns to his theme, having need to talk about himself._) No, to a young girl like you the thought of suicide must be abhorrent. MAIA: Suicide. To me it’s impossible. MR. GODLY: Of course it is. I was the same at your age. Life, then, seemed a wonderful thing. Just to be alive was good, and to be young was very heaven, as some poet or other has said. I felt . . . immortal. Yes, immortal. And so do you, I’ll wager. MAIA: I _am_ immortal. MR. GODLY: Ah, I was discussing that very point only this morning with my . . . at my breakfast-table. So you, too, believe in a life after death, do you? MAIA: For me there is no death. MR. GODLY (_obtusely_): Well, that’s another way of putting it, certainly. Now I, Miss M’Gree, I don’t believe that. And, surprising as it may seem, I don’t want to believe it. Frankly, I’m tired of the common round and daily task. Routine, routine, nothing but routine. One day just like the next. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for. MAIA (_almost caressingly_): Nothing? MR. GODLY: Before you came, nothing. (_But he dares not pursue that theme further at the moment._) Suicide has sometimes seemed to me the only way out. That is why I hate all this talk of an after-life. MAIA: Why? MR. GODLY: Because, don’t you see, I might be followed by my . . . by my environment, so to speak, even into the next world. An eternity of it—why, it doesn’t bear thinking of. MAIA: Then don’t think of it. MR. GODLY: I’m a disappointed man, Miss M’Gree. Disappointed and discontented. Life has become empty for me. Empty, but full of false promises, even if you understand me. I appear to have everything that most men want. But I’m different. I’m different. MAIA (_leaning towards him, her eyes wide with interest_): Ah, you’re different? How exciting! MR. GODLY (_with a touch of vanity_): Yes, I’m afraid I am. I’m different from other men because, having everything, I want more. I want the impossible. MAIA (_innocently, like a child_): That’s not being different, is it? That’s being the same. Every one wants the impossible. MR. GODLY (_reluctantly seeing his one distinction wrested from him_): Perhaps you’re right. MAIA (_wisely_): Yes, every one wants the impossible. Or nearly every one. MR. GODLY (_eagerly_): _Nearly_ every one? Why do you correct yourself? Do you know of exceptions to the rule? MAIA: Perhaps a few. MR. GODLY (_with a meaning glance_): And possibly I could guess the name of one? MAIA (_meeting his glance candidly_): Yes, I’m one, Mr. Godly. MR. GODLY (_ecstatically_): Of course. Of course. You don’t crave the impossible because you possess it. You have youth. You have all that I desire—isn’t that so? MAIA: Yes. MR. GODLY: And it suffices you? MAIA: Not quite. There is still something lacking. MR. GODLY (_giddy with hope_): Ah! MAIA (_with innocent frankness_): Don’t you see, Mr. Godly (_looking at him intently_) that what I possess I can give? MR. GODLY (_stammering_): You can give! (_His heart is in a tumult; his breath comes fast. He rises._) You can give it . . . to me? You can renew my youth? You can fill my life with your beauty? MAIA (_simply_): Why not? [_She, too, rises._ MR. GODLY, _who is not a dishonourable man, is seized with a spasm of compunction. They face each other. She is calm and radiant. He is tragic._ MR. GODLY: What have I been saying? (_Clasps his head between his hands._) You realise, Miss M’Gree, that my respect for you is invincible, and my intentions . . . MAIA (_interrupting with a smile_): Don’t be tragic, Mr. Godly. (_She extends her hands to him with a gesture of intimate friendship._) Faint-hearted little man! I believe you’re afraid. MR. GODLY: Who wouldn’t be afraid of so much loveliness! [_He takes her outstretched hands, but the table still divides him from her._ But I won’t be afraid. You’ll help me? MAIA (_nods_): Yes, of course. You’re quite safe. Come home to dinner with me to-night and meet—and meet my father. MR. GODLY (_scared again_): What will they think of me? And my wife . . .? MAIA (_serenely_): It’s as you wish. [MOTT _enters, takes in the situation at a glance, and coughs discreetly_. MOTT: I beg your pardon. I didn’t know you were . . . engaged. [MAIA _has withdrawn her hands from_ MR. GODLY’S _and is now making play with notebook and pencil_. MR. GODLY (_to_ MAIA, _pretending to dictate_): “In the circumstances we regret that we are unable to accept this liability in view of the . . . er . . . the prevailing unrest among the dock labourers. We are, dear sir, yours faithfully . . .” [_The Curtain falls during the last words of this speech._ ACT II ACT II SCENE 1 _The house at Wimbledon. A long low-ceiled room; fire to the left, bellrope by fireplace. Glass lustres on mantelpiece. Large overmantel mirror. Window (right). Under window a bowl of goldfish on a small occasional table. Cabbage wallpaper. All the illumination is supplied by a cluster of tall candles set in an elaborate glass chandelier that hangs from the middle of the ceiling. A picture or two at back to relieve the walls. Door (back left)._ _As the curtain rises, door (back left) opens and_ MAIA _enters. She is in an unusual kind of evening dress. She looks excessively beautiful and not quite of this world._ MR. GODLY _is a pace or two behind her. They are exchanging remarks._ MR. GODLY (_ill at ease but trying to be cheerful_): I am sorry for your absent guest. MAIA: It is I you should be sorry for. MR. GODLY: He has missed a wonderful experience. I have never in all my life tasted such wine as that of your good father’s. [M’GREE _enters through the open doorway. He is a tall, stooping, elderly man, wearing loose, oddly-shaped flannel trousers, a mustard-coloured collar and shirt, and a velvet smoking jacket. A very large green skullcap is pressed close over his head. From its shape we suspect_ MR. M’GREE _of possessing horns. He is a sinister figure, with a glint of malice and mockery in his eyes. His movements are serpentine. We cannot help seeing that_ MR. GODLY _dislikes and distrusts his host_. M’GREE: Poor Le Poon! He has missed something far more important. MAIA: What is that, dad? M’GREE: He has missed meeting this gallant young gentleman. (_Bows satirically to_ MR. GODLY, _who forces a laugh of acknowledgment_.) [_The three gravitate naturally towards the fire._ MAIA _pulls the bellrope and we hear the distant peal of the bell_. M’GREE: Quite mid-Victorian down here, aren’t we, Mr. Godly. MR. GODLY (_still more ill at ease_): Ha, ha! Not at all. Not at all! M’GREE: Oh, yes; you must not try to excuse us. We are quite mid-Victorian; even to the bowl of goldfish over by the window. Have a cigarette? MR. GODLY: Thanks. [_They light their cigarettes._ M’GREE: Yes, quite mid-Victorian. Notice the cabbage wallpaper and the glass lustres on the mantelpiece. Notice and admire the tasselled bellrope. (_These remarks are accompanied by appropriate movements._) The overmantel, too, is worth attention. MR. GODLY: A very fine piece, Mr. M’Gree. I have been admiring it. M’GREE (_with scarcely veiled mockery_): Have you, indeed? That mirror, Mr. Godly, is a master of subtle distortion: true enough to deceive a man and false enough to reflect him with malicious inaccuracy. A salutary medicine for vanity, Mr. Godly. But, of course, you are not vain. [M’GREE’S _lips curl back in a smile that may or may not be derisive_. MR. GODLY _does his best to respond politely, but we can see that he feels foolish and embarrassed_. MR. GODLY: I am afraid I have no cause for vanity. (_Glances at_ MAIA, _who is listening intently, but not to this conversation_.) [MAIA _gives the bellrope another pull_. M’GREE: If you walk in front of this moral mirror, Mr. Godly, you will see your face assume in five seconds as many expressions as a cinema actor’s during the whole evening’s performance. You can watch your personality disintegrate. It is quite an entertainment. But perhaps you don’t care for moving pictures. (_Is the fellow sneering or is he not?_) MR. GODLY (_shortly_): I am a serious business man, Mr. M’Gree. I have no time for such fancies. M’GREE: Now that’s a pity, if I may say so. (_Stares into the mirror._) Dear, dear, dear, there it is again! MR. GODLY: What is the matter? Are you ill? MAIA (_intervening_): Take no notice of him, Mr. Godly. He is a little playful to-night. [M’GREE _turns to_ GODLY. M’GREE: It is like this, my dear young friend, sometimes when I look into this mirror I find I have a harelip. It makes me quite anxious, and nothing will content me but an impartial judgment from outside. Let me appeal to you. As one man to another, Mr. Godly, and setting aside all polite conventions, have I a harelip? MR. GODLY: You have no more a harelip than I have. (_Involuntarily strokes his mouth with his forefinger as if to reassure himself._) M’GREE (_with a little grating laugh_): Ah, no more than you have! Thank you, Mr. Godly, you comfort me exceedingly. [_Sarcasm this time is transparent._ GODLY _shrugs his shoulders_. M’GREE, _suddenly, in a savage tone, over his shoulder to_ MAIA. Why doesn’t the woman come? MAIA (_curtly_): I don’t know. Do you? (_Looks at_ M’GREE _accusingly. Listens intently. Air is tense with crisis. She rings bell a third time._) M’GREE (_with malicious pleasure at_ GODLY’S _discomfort_): You are not a loquacious man, are you, Mr. Godly? MAIA (_to the rescue_): Dad talks enough for two, Mr. Godly, when he is in the mood. A regular chatterbox. (_Pause._) Ah! here’s Mrs. Fry at last! [_Our attention is directed to the door at which everyone now stares. Door slowly opens. In the doorway, framed against a background of gloom, stands a stout, red-faced, comfortable woman of forty-five or less, wiping large red hands on a soiled apron. We surmise pleasant homeliness in a face that is, at the moment, dark with trouble, contorted with nervous dread._ MRS. FRY: Did you ring, Miss? M’GREE: Three times. MAIA (_gently_): Yes, Mrs. Fry. Will you please serve coffee in here. FRY: Yes, miss. MAIA: You can then clear the dinner things away. FRY: Yes, miss. Will the gentleman have black coffee or white, miss? M’GREE: Black, Mrs. Fry, black. MAIA: Now, dad, don’t be naughty. Which do you prefer, Mr. Godly? MR. GODLY: White, please. FRY: Yes, miss. (_Drops a curtsey to_ M’GREE, _from whom she has not once been able to remove her fear-haunted eyes_.) Yes, sir. [MRS. FRY _turns and begins to go out. A word from_ M’GREE _makes her halt suddenly. It is as if she has been waiting for the word and dreading it, hoping against hope that she could get herself the other side of the door before it was uttered._ M’GREE _is savouring every moment of the scene, exulting in the woman’s terrors and playing with her, cat and mouse fashion_. M’GREE: Mrs. Fry. [_The wretched woman drags herself back into the room like a dog._ M’GREE _moves a pace toward her. In spite of herself, she shrinks back._ M’GREE (_with suave cruelty_): DEAR Mrs. Fry. (_Pauses a moment to roll her terror on his tongue._) FRY: Yes, sir? M’GREE: Don’t you think that after our coffee we might have some more champagne to-night in honour of our distinguished visitor? FRY: Yes, sir. M’GREE: You do, do you? Well, in that event we WILL have some more champagne, Mrs. Fry. FRY: Very good, sir. [_At last_ M’GREE _allows the poor woman to go about her business_. MR. GODLY _is outraged by the scene. He is stung to a weak protest._ MR. GODLY: It is no business of mine, sir, perhaps, but why do you torment the woman in that way? M’GREE (_raising eyebrows in well-bred surprise_): Torment her? MR. GODLY (_sticking to his guns_): Yes, torment her. She was scared out of her wits. [_Diversion is created by tap at door._ MAIA: Come in!—Perhaps that is Harry. [HARRY LE POON _enters. He is a tall young man, with a long face that wobbles slightly on the tall stiff collar that apparently supports it. He looks as though a strong wind would decapitate him. He wears a monocle._ MAIA _steps forward to greet him_. MAIA: Hullo, Harry! Why didn’t you come to dinner? Dad, this is my friend, Harry Le Poon. [_The two men bow._ And this, Harry, is Mr. Godly. I want you to like each other. MR. GODLY: Good evening to you, sir. One of the Guernsey Le Poons, no doubt? LE POON: How are you, Mr. Godly? M’GREE: Our friend Godly is a little overwrought to-night. [M’GREE _claps his hands together sharply and a small child, wearing an Eton suit, emerges from the shadows of some corner in which he has been hiding. His little face is peaked and queer. He appears slightly hunchbacked. The wildness of his flamboyant hair makes the Eton suit seem incongruous._ M’GREE (_in a sneering tone_): And this little chap we call Flame. (_To_ FLAME.) Flame, this is Mr. Godly. [FLAME _stares wonderingly_. MR. GODLY: Well, my little man, and how are you? [MR. GODLY _extends a hand in avuncular fashion. The child, without movement, responds with a ripple of laughter._ MR. GODLY _is disconcerted_. LE POON _and_ MAIA _are speaking in undertones in another part of the room_. FLAME, GODLY _and_ M’GREE _hold the centre of the stage_. MAIA (_to_ LE POON): Excuse me a moment. [_Exit._ M’GREE: You may think Flame a somewhat fanciful name, now confess, Mr. Godly. MR. GODLY (_bluntly_): It is a ridiculous name. LE POON (_his interpolation and his high-pitched, almost childish voice startling us_): But how courageous of you! M’GREE (_mocking_): DEAR Mr. Godly! Full of youthful exuberance. You are not a day over fifty, Mr. Godly, I am sure. The name is fanciful, I admit it. But the creature is fanciful, too. What would you say if I told you that Flame was a fairy? MR. GODLY (_pertly_): I should say you were a liar. LE POON: But how old-world of you! I should never have thought of so quaint a phrase. [_Enter_ MRS. FRY _with coffee on tray. She places tray on side-table and waits._ M’GREE: Ah, Mr. Godly, I can see you don’t believe in fairies and magic. FRY: Black or white, sir? M’GREE (_wheeling round_): Black, Mrs. Fry, black. FRY: I was allooding to the gentleman’s coffee, sir. LE POON: I won’t take coffee, thanks. [MRS. FRY, _in absence of_ MAIA, _begins to pour the coffee_. M’GREE: Before we take our coffee, let me give you some music. (_Claps his hands twice._) [_Distant music begins—somewhere behind stage—which_ M’GREE, _with his back towards us, appears to conduct. The music is haunting and passionate. It rises to a frenzy of mad joy. It becomes more and more irresistible._ MR. GODLY: Now, where have I heard that before? [_No one takes any notice of him. He sinks into a seat, exhausted by emotion. The room fills with a luminous mist, through which slant shafts of green and of blue. Every adult person in the room except_ M’GREE _is paralysed with rapture. The effect on the child_ FLAME _is different; he struggles to get out of his preposterous clothes. The room darkens for an instant. When light returns_, FLAME _has broken free and is fluttering in mid-air. His tiny iridescent wings beat in an ecstasy of longing. The music still goes on. Finally he flies towards the window, against which, in a growing frenzy, he repeatedly dashes himself, madly, like an imprisoned bird._ MR. GODLY, _with a manifest effort, regains control of his legs, lurches across the room and thrusts an eager fist through the window-pane_. FLAME _flies out. The music ceases abruptly. The enchantment ends._ MR. GODLY, _his hand spattered with blood, walks back into the middle of the room with a dazed air_. M’GREE, _squatting on the floor, watches him with sardonic enjoyment_. MR. GODLY _turns to_ LE POON _with a helpless, appealing gesture_. LE POON, _too, is moved. Stirred by a common instinct, the two men clasp hands._ MR. GODLY: Am I drunk, sir? LE POON: Drugged, perhaps. Hypnotism. (_But his glance falls upon the scraps of torn clothing which scatter the carpet, the remains of the Eton suit._) But what is that? M’GREE (_laughs in his dry metallic fashion_): Mrs. Fry! FRY (_wakes out of her wretched trance_): Yes, sir? M’GREE: Fetch me that bowl of goldfish. LE POON (_sneering_): Another conjuring trick! MAIA (_appearing suddenly in the open doorway_): Behave yourself, Dad! [MRS. FRY _totters towards her master with the bowl of goldfish in her hands. She bends to present it to him._ M’GREE _looks round the room as if to make sure of his audience; then he plunges his right hand into the water, draws out a writhing fish and bites its head off with savage relish_. MR. GODLY (_with decision_): Maia, I am going to take you away from this evil place! M’GREE (_impishly grinning_): Are not you a little too young for such adventures, Mr. Godly. (_Nods towards the overmantel mirror._) Look at yourself! [MR. GODLY _turns to_ LE POON. MR. GODLY (_a trifle pompously_): We are allies in this matter, Mr. Le Poon. I shall take Miss M’Gree to a place of safety. Can we rely on you to prevent this man following us? LE POON (_affecting owlish admiration_): But how mediæval of you! MR. GODLY: Come! this is no joking matter. Do you consent? LE POON: I require notice of that question. (_Sways slightly, as if the task of balancing his head on a collar three inches high were a juggling trick demanding the utmost finesse._) MR. GODLY: Perhaps I have chosen the less dangerous part. Let me stay behind and you go with her, Le Poon. [LE POON’S _monocle drops suddenly on his face. He is offended._ LE POON: Danger does not alarm me. Be off with you, man; she is waiting! [MR. GODLY _joins_ MAIA _in the open doorway. He turns to say:_ MR. GODLY: It is only fair to tell you, Mr. Le Poon, that Miss M’Gree has accepted me as . . . (_Hesitates._) LE POON (_with cool insolence_): Yes? She has accepted you as . . . as what, Mr. Godly? MAIA: As my escort, Harry. Come along, John. [GODLY _and_ MAIA _go out together, closing the door behind them_. M’GREE _jumps to his feet_. LE POON _moves towards him menacingly. The two glare at each other across the table._ CURTAIN. SCENE 2 _A hilltop. Large expanse of sky with a star or two. Moonlight is faint: moon has not yet fully risen. Lights twinkling in the distance. Impression of height, of being raised above the world, is essential._ _Two figures, dimly seen, are climbing the hill_—MAIA _and_ =Mr. Godly=. MAIA _is now dressed in some simple diaphanous garment that makes her more unreal than ever_. MAIA _leads the way_. GODLY _is panting with his exertion. Their backs are to us._ _On the crest of the hill_ MAIA _turns and stretches out her hand to_ GODLY _to help him_. MR. GODLY (_breathing hard_): Thank you, my dear, thank you. You . . . you . . . you are miraculous. The incarnation of Youth. You make me feel quite middle-aged, and yet . . . MAIA: And yet you are a mere child. MR. GODLY: Where are we, Maia, and where are we going? MAIA (_humorously reproachful_): Oh, John! Are you getting timid again? MR. GODLY: Of course not. I’m enjoying every moment of this walk. (_Sighs profoundly. Mops brow with large silk handkerchief._) But where is it going to end? MAIA: End? Do you want it to end so soon? MR. GODLY: Maia, you’re trying to flirt with me. I won’t be flirted with. You know I’m desperately in love with you. All I ask is to know where we are going. What, in plain terms, is our destination? MAIA: Our destination? Do you mean our destiny? MR. GODLY: No, it’s too dark up here, too immense, for that kind of talk. I mean our destination. I am here to save you, Maia, from that dreadful creature you call your father. But I’m getting confused. Am I saving you or are you saving me? MAIA (_with a mysterious little smile_): Neither, perhaps. Perhaps we’re losing ourselves together. MR. GODLY: Yes. (_Becomes very thoughtful._) My dear (_pleadingly_), have I any chance of winning you? MAIA (_turns her face away so that it is obscured by shadow_): You have a chance of trying. Do you want to read the future? Must you know the issue before the battle is begun? MR. GODLY: Yes, yes. (_Revitalised with eagerness._) I want to know the future. (_Breaks off with a laugh._) How absurd we are! What does a girl like you know about the future, miracle though you are? MAIA: What, indeed? But if I did know? Would you even then ask me to tell you? MR. GODLY: No. Yes. Yes, I would ask you to tell me everything, but especially one thing. MAIA (_laughs softly_): Little fool! You would throw away ignorance, your sole treasure! MR. GODLY: You are very unlike yourself to-night. You are strange, and rather terrible. You make me feel like a child, Maia. The idea of dictating letters to you . . . why, how did I ever dare! Do you know, your voice is incredibly beautiful. If you asked me to die here and now on this hill I should be proud and glad to obey you. MAIA (_laughing_): Die? And spoil the little holiday we planned this morning? That would be inconsiderate, Mr. Godly. MR. GODLY: Ah, yes, our holiday together. Let’s start at once. MAIA: We have started. MR. GODLY: But this isn’t the way to the station? MAIA: A holiday spent at the station doesn’t attract me. Come along. MR. GODLY: But where? MAIA (_lightly_): Oh, anywhere. Over the hills and far away to see what we can find! MR. GODLY (_in a tone of awe_): We are alone in the universe. (_Waves a fat hand towards the glittering darkness._) We are alone! LE POON (_out of sight, but approaching_): But how solitary of you! [_A shadow steps out of the shadows and is seen next moment to be a tall human figure in a black suit surmounted by a high collar to which is attached, not too securely, a long thin face supplied with two conspicuous ears, one thin nose, one mouth, one eye, one monocle._ MAIA: Why, it’s Harry Le Poon! MR. GODLY (_glaring at_ LE POON): Why, you’ve forgotten to put on your overcoat, Le Poon. Hadn’t you better run back for it? LE POON: No, I don’t think I’ll bother. I had thought of asking you to do me that trifling service, my dear Godly. [LE POON’S _change of position brings his face into strong moonlight. On the brow, just above the monocled eye, is a large bruise. The cheek is slightly cut. The eyelid, closed, sags ominously._ MR. GODLY: Good heavens, man, your face! LE POON (_sadly_): I know. But we all have our trials to bear, haven’t we? I try not to brood. MR. GODLY: Is this a time for fooling? Have you . . . have you _lost_ your eye? LE POON: No. The little fellow’s not lost. He’s gone into retirement, that’s all. But you asked if this was a time for fooling, a question that interests me far more than these physiological niceties. Yes, my dear Godly, it is a time for fooling. Have you any objection? (_In his enthusiasm_ LE POON’S _head wobbles so alarmingly that_ MR. GODLY _can scarcely resist the impulse to put out a steadying hand_.) MR. GODLY (_cordially_): Of course not. I admire your spirit. It’s no good pulling a long face about one’s troubles. . . . LE POON: As for pulling a long face, Nature has kindly saved me that trouble. Perhaps that is why I try to keep cheerful. One must redress the balance somehow. Now if I had had the good fortune to be endowed with a face such as yours, Godly—round, good-natured, chubby, and charming—I could have permitted myself to sound a melancholy note from time to time. MAIA: And what if you had had mine? LE POON (_suddenly serious_): I cannot speak of that, Maia. MAIA (_mimicking him_): But how ungallant! Is it so dreadful? LE POON (_solemnly ardent_): You are too wonderful to be spoken of. MAIA: But you haven’t told us how you came to hurt yourself. Were you attacked? LE POON: Mr. M’Gree—whom, by the way, it is a pleasure to know—spoke out of his turn. I ventured to correct him, but he could not bring himself to look at things from my point of view. This trifling abrasion is the brief epitome of his contributions to an agreeable discussion. MAIA: Oh, dear! We ought not to have left you alone with Dad. He is such an old tease. It was about me you quarrelled, I’m sure. But, Harry, you ought to have something on that eye. LE POON: That’s an idea. Do you happen to have half a pound of raw beef on you, Mr. Godly? GODLY (_stepping forward threateningly_): Look here, Mr. Poon, believe me when I say these tactics won’t succeed, sir. You have done Miss M’Gree a great service and for that I am grateful to you. I hope you will frequently visit us when we are married. Every second Wednesday, shall we say, Maia? Well, well, that can be decided later. But just at present, my dear chap, you’ll excuse us, I’m sure. The fact is . . . (_Turns to_ MAIA.) May I tell him, Maia? (_He takes her slight smile to signify consent._) The fact is, Maia and I are just off on a little holiday jaunt. I believe you to be a man of sense and a man of honour, and I needn’t say that we tell you this in strict confidence. LE POON (_adjusting his monocle and swaying like a sapling in the wind_): But how diverting of you! But the boot, don’t you see, is not only on the other foot: it is, so to speak, in another street. MR. GODLY: I don’t follow you. LE POON: Exactly. I hope you will continue not to follow us. MR. GODLY: I don’t understand you. LE POON: Don’t take it to heart. Such a mistake is very pardonable after the hilarious evening we’ve had. MR. GODLY: Can’t you speak plainly? LE POON: Moderately so, in the festive circumstances. My articulation is not at its best, but it will pass muster, I fancy. What I am trying to make clear to you, Mr. Godly, is that you are suffering from a momentary confusion of identities. In the higher sense, I concede, you and I are one. It is a theory peculiarly dear to the heart of my Uncle Appleyard. But, for practical purposes, for the ordinary conduct of this mortal life, you and I are two separate persons. In your rapt contemplation of the one, Mr. Godly, do not lose sight of the existence, equally indisputable, of the Many. We must try to be logical, don’t you think? even in our mysticism. Humiliating as it may seem to your proud and poetical spirit, we do live, for a while anyhow, in a state of individual differentiation. . . . MR. GODLY (_dancing in his exasperation_): What in thunder are you chattering about? LE POON (_blandly_): The One and the Many, with a passing reference to my Uncle Appleyard. MR. GODLY: Oh, damn your pedantic foolery. I’ve asked you, as politely as I could, to leave us. I’ve told you that we are on the point of setting out on a holiday together. If you like to betray us, do so. But get away, and be damned to you! LE POON (_kindly_): And I have spent ten minutes explaining to you that it is with me, not you, that Miss M’Gree is spending her holiday. MR. GODLY (_with misgiving_): I don’t believe you. (_His appealing eyes seek_ MAIA’S.) [MAIA _opens her mouth to break her long silence, but is interrupted by a series of strange half-animal grunts and groans coming from some struggling and as yet invisible creature a few yards distant_. ALL THREE _turn in the direction of the sound, in time to see a prodigiously fat old gentleman moving towards them over the brow of the hill_. LE POON (_in a low clear voice_): Very opportune! It is my Uncle Appleyard. [UNCLE APPLEYARD _seems very sure of his welcome. Also he seems very much out of breath. His large white moon face exhibits symptoms of physical distress and emotional delight. He is in evening dress and carries on his arm a heavy coat, the greater part of which is dragging along the ground as though it were an attenuated corpse. At sight of_ MAIA _standing in the foreground_, UNCLE APPLEYARD _removes an opera hat from his shining white pate and bows ceremoniously_. APPLEYARD: I was dressed for the opera, my dear, when your note came. Hence this—ah—costume. [GODLY _and_ LE POON _stand rigid as statues, guessing that the old gentleman has not observed them_. MAIA: Ah, yes, my note. UNCLE APPLEYARD (_immensely self-satisfied_): I’ve left my bag at the station. And I’ve taken our tickets and made all arrangements! MAIA: Tickets? What tickets, Mr. Appleyard? UNCLE APPLEYARD (_beaming on her rosily_): Ah, you little rogue, you may well ask! Two nice little first-class tickets, my dear, for our wonderful holiday together! LE POON (_shrilly_): But how matrimonial of you! [UNCLE APPLEYARD _slowly turns his huge bulk towards_ LE POON. _His large blue eyes bulge with indignation._ UNCLE APPLEYARD: My dear, who are these gentlemen? MR. GODLY: Your travelling companions, sir. We shall be quite a jolly little party! MAIA: This is your nephew Harry. Don’t you recognise him? And this is Mr. Godly. I want you all to be good friends. LE POON: My bosom is already bursting with goodwill. Never was there such a united gathering. Let us all go to Brighton, Uncle, and chant the chant of the Whole. MR. GODLY (_with studied irony_): If you will pardon my curiosity, Maia, may I ask how Mr. Appleyard knew where to find you? (_His composure breaks down._) Did you—did you _contrive_ this meeting? MAIA: Mr. Appleyard and I have met here before. MR. GODLY: Indeed! And Mr. Le Poon, had he an appointment? LE POON: An invitation, shall we say? An invitation general but cordial. I could not bear to lose sight of you, Mr. Godly, so I followed with all reasonable speed. MR. GODLY: And what of your promise? LE POON: I fulfilled it. Did you fancy I should settle down to an all-night seance with our friend M’Gree? No; the intellectual strain would have been too great. I promised to prevent his following you and I did so. In the heat of the moment it seemed to me that the quickest and kindest way of effecting my purpose was to tie him up in his own tablecloth; so that was the method I adopted. UNCLE APPLEYARD (_spreading out his hands in an attitude of benediction_): Come now, let us be reasonable. Let us be calm. Give and take, give and take. That must be the keynote. We are all notes, as it were, in the same chord. You see that, don’t you, Mr. Godly? Now what I mean to say is, you can’t hold dear Maia to the promise you speak of because it was given in a moment of forgetfulness. She already had a prior engagement. Her note to me must have been written some hours before. MR. GODLY: But her first promise to me was given this morning in my office. LE POON: Her promise to me was given yesterday. You two gentlemen, therefore, should see each other home without further delay. I’m sure your wives must be getting anxious about you. Cut and run, cut and run. That is the keynote. Shall we be moving now, Maia? MAIA: I’m glad you’ve remembered my existence at last. I’m getting colder every minute. LE POON: And in every sense? MAIA: Yes. LE POON: Well, good night, you fellows. Maia and I must be getting along. Thanks for the pleasant evening. MAIA: But, Harry! What are those two poor dears going to do? LE POON: Oh, never mind them. Do come along, Maia! MAIA (_innocently astonished_): But aren’t they coming too? LE POON: Maia, you promised me. MAIA: But I promised you all. Didn’t you hear them say so? UNCLE APPLEYARD: I appeal to you two boys: is she worth it? She’s making fools of all three of us. We must be firm with her; independent. We must show her that we are not men to be trifled with. Kind but firm: that is the keynote. (_Radiates benevolence from whose sphere_ MAIA _is pointedly excluded_.) LE POON: Uncle Appleyard, you are undoubtedly a tower of wisdom and strength. Perhaps your supernatural lucidity of mind is due to your having seven bodies. Did I mention, Godly, that my Uncle Appleyard believes himself to possess seven bodies—seven bodies in seven interpenetrating planes? He arrived at the number by counting his chins. MR. GODLY: Mr. Appleyard, I do not wish to know you. Mr. Le Poon, your presence is superfluous. To be frank with you, you are interrupting a private conversation. This lady and I have suffered enough already from your intrusions. LE POON: Which lady? Do you mean Maia? MR. GODLY: Who else should I mean? LE POON: But she’s no lady, my poor friend. She’s a fairy. UNCLE APPLEYARD: And I, being the only other fairy present, demand her hand in marriage. [_The three men, standing together, are so absorbed in their quarrel that they do not notice_ MAIA, _who now disappears_. LE POON (_suddenly flinging up his arms in despair_): Damnation! UNCLE APPLEYARD: Hush! my boy. You forget yourself. There’s a lady present. LE POON: Is there, dear uncle? I can’t see her. [_All look about them in dismay._ UNCLE APPLEYARD (_sobbing and quivering with disappointment_): She’s gone! She’s gone! LE POON (_suddenly converted into a man of action_): I am going to find her. (_Breaks into a run and disappears from sight down the hill._) UNCLE APPLEYARD: So am I! (_Waddles off in pursuit._) MR. GODLY (_thinking himself alone_): All the beauty of the world. (_Calling._) Where are you, Maia? Where are you? [M’GREE _springs up from the shadows in the foreground, where he has been hiding until now. Already from time to time we shall have seen him squatting there. He is now recognisably a satyr._ M’GREE: Over the hills and far away, my dear young friend. _Mr. Godly_ (_shuddering_): How did you get here? (_Notices_ M’GREE’S _horns and starts back in disgust and alarm_.) Good God, what is this? M’GREE: A pleasant surprise, my little man. MR. GODLY: Who are you? What are you? M’GREE: Something you can forget, Mr. Godly, but never destroy. (_Chuckles maliciously._) CURTAIN. ACT III ACT III SCENE 1 _A forest in fairyland, lit brilliantly by the moon. Slim, delicate trees with satin-silver trunks and unnaturally bright green foliage. In the foreground a clearing with a bush or two—masses of colour. If we sit in the middle of the stalls we shall be looking straight down an avenue of tall trees. This avenue leads to the sea, whose blue expanse, silvered by moonlight, is visible. The sky is bright with large stars. Clouds are racing past from left to right. At the back of the stage, leaning against the furthermost tree to the right, stands_ MAIA. _She is shading her eyes with her right hand, and gazing out to sea. Evidently she is watching something as yet invisible to us._ _The forest is permeated with music, very faint and far away, which rises and falls as with the wind. Some phrases of this music, rendered on the clarinet or oboe, will become familiar to us later as “the Godelik theme.” Among the shadows of the trees, flitting in and out, are little grotesque human figures. They carry bows slung at their backs and a quiverful of arrows at their sides. They are quite naked, and their bodies shine in the moonlight like burnished gold. These little gilded men all enjoy a marvellous bodily perfection, but facially they exhibit great variety: moon faces, fiddle faces, noses of all shapes and sizes, some with little goatee grey beards, some quite hairless. They dance, skip, pirouette, hop, run, jump, even somersault; they play leapfrog. For the most part they keep in the shadows, but we see them as they pass, from tree to tree, under a shaft of moonlight. (This must be done with puppets.)_ MAIA _does not move. She does not observe the elves. She remains staring out to sea. Five minutes pass. The music grows fainter._ MAIA _waves a welcome to an approaching boat, and calls out. Instantly the elves scatter and vanish, with little chirruping cries of alarm._ MAIA: Come along, John. [_There approaches swiftly a little boat with a brown inverted-triangle sail. In it sits_ MR. GODLY, _looking boyishly delighted and bewildered_. What a long time you’ve been! [MR. GODLY _steps out of the boat, assisted by_ MAIA, _who, retaining his hand, leads him forward. He stares at her in wonder, speechless with admiration._ Haven’t you got anything to say, John? [_She releases his hand. Still he cannot find his tongue._ Don’t you remember me? [_She pouts, and gives a little jerk of the head that sets the black night of her hair in motion._ Oh, it doesn’t matter! MR. GODLY (_enchanted by this petulance, seizes both her hands_): But of course I remember. How could I forget! It’s only that you are so terribly beautiful. MAIA (_conscious that sulkiness becomes her_): But you were such a long time coming. MR. GODLY: I couldn’t find the way at first. Why did you run off like that, Maia? MAIA (_laughing_): We had to get rid of them somehow, didn’t we, my dear? MR. GODLY (_amazed with joy_): You mean . . . you mean . . . MAIA: And how did you find your way? MR. GODLY: Well, my dear, it was all very _unusual_, I must say. I ran down the hill after Le Poon and Appleyard. I ran at a tremendous pace—faster and faster—I didn’t seem able to stop. And suddenly I seemed to come upon the very edge of the world, if you know what I mean. MAIA: Perfectly. MR. GODLY: And then, do you know, I just plunged into the sky at my feet—put out my arms and took a header. (_A little shamefaced._) I’m afraid this sounds very fanciful and all that sort of thing. MAIA: Go on. What happened then? MR. GODLY: The most amazing thing of all—except this moment. It was as if the sky rushed up to meet me. I was alarmed—pardonably alarmed, if I may say so. I don’t want to excuse myself, but I do contend that I had some cause for alarm. MAIA: Poor dear John! What did you do? MR. GODLY: I struck out at the sky with both hands. And—would you believe me—I heard it crackle under my touch with the sound of a breaking egg-shell. It was for all the world as though I were being _hatched_. Ha! ha! ha! MAIA: Hatched? MR. GODLY: Yes, reborn, rehatched, whatever you like. Sent spinning into a new creation. For on the other side of the egg-shell was sunlight, my dear—strong white sunlight. I was back in the world of my childhood. I was young again. I wanted to shout and dance. As a matter of fact, Maia, I rather fancy I _did_ shout and dance—and play the fool generally. MAIA (_intently_): Yes. And then? MR. GODLY: And then I found myself on the riverside stepping into a little boat—that boat. (_Pointing back._) I’d never sailed a boat before, except on the Crystal Palace lake, but I wasn’t in the least nervous. Everything went beautifully. We sailed briskly along into open sea. There’s one thing, Maia (_with great satisfaction_), there’d be no chance for old Appleyard in a boat that size. MAIA: I wonder where they are now, those two. MR. GODLY: In bed and asleep, I hope. Really and truly, Maia, I enjoyed that trip more than anything I can remember. I really did. And I’m not a good sailor as a rule. MAIA: But tell me, John, didn’t you meet anybody on the water? MR. GODLY: Yes, by Jove! I was coming to that. But what do you know about it? MAIA: I saw him go. MR. GODLY: Was it from here he set sail? MAIA: Yes. MR. GODLY: Maia, what does it mean? There he was, in a boat just like mine and with a face just like mine. ’Pon my word, it startled me—it was like coming suddenly up against a mirror when you least expect it. MAIA: What did you do? MR. GODLY: We met in mid-ocean, so to speak. I called out to him, “Are you me, or am I you? And what are you doing in that get-up, anyhow?” He’d got an outlandish green suit on, Maia, and his hair wanted brushing. “Am I you or are you me?” I asked him. But he didn’t answer a word. He just smiled vaguely and sailed by. That’s not my idea of civility, whoever he was. [_He finds something significant in her rapt attention. It arouses his jealous suspicion._ Maia, who is the fellow? Do you know him? MAIA: I know him very well. MR. GODLY: But—forgive me, my dear—he’s nothing to you, is he? You don’t regret his going? It was for me, not for him, you were waiting? MAIA: How bright the moon is to-night! MR. GODLY (_in rising frenzy_): Maia, do you care for him? MAIA (_coolly_): And if I do? Why should that distress you? MR. GODLY: I love you. You know that. MAIA: Yes. I know that. But what has that to do with it? MR. GODLY: Everything. I want you. I can’t _share_ you. Good God, Maia, you must see that, without being told. You’re playing with me. I can’t _share_ you. MAIA: Why? MR. GODLY: I should be ashamed. MAIA: No. You’d be greedy—that’s all. Are you ashamed to be sharing warmth and daylight with the rest of the world? Would you like a sun and a moon to yourself, and flowers that blossom only when you look at them? MR. GODLY: That’s different. Oh . . . I begin to hate you. [_He looks into her disappointed eyes and his heart melts._ No, I love you. I don’t care about anything else. I love you. MAIA (_smiling radiantly_): I’m so glad. Then we shall part friends? MR. GODLY: Part! No, we must never part. [_He makes as if to take her in his arms. She eludes him._ MAIA: Not yet, John. Don’t go yet. MR. GODLY: Go! Of course I won’t go. But . . . may I not kiss you, Maia? Must I stand outside the gate of heaven for ever? MAIA: Ah, you don’t understand. If you kiss me—when you kiss me—that will mean farewell. MR. GODLY: How? MAIA: You will have to go back if you kiss me. MR. GODLY: But why? MAIA: Oh, not because I shall send you, my dear. But you will go back. I shall be powerless to save you. MR. GODLY (_fiercely_): I’ll never go back, I tell you. I’ll never go back, except to take you with me. MAIA: No. My home is here. MR. GODLY: But it’s preposterous. It’s unfair. I have your promise. MAIA: I’ve fulfilled all my promises. MR. GODLY: I want you, Maia. I want to kiss you. MAIA: Are you in such a hurry to go? Go, then, back to your home and your old life. MR. GODLY: And you? MAIA: I must be here. But you won’t be quite alone, John. I shall contrive a thousand ways to touch you. MR. GODLY (_bitterly_): To touch me? To taunt me! To torment me with longing. It’s not a sentimental memory I want. You know that. Why do you put me off with this poetical stuff? MAIA: Poor John! Isn’t it poetry you want? What is it then that you would have of me? MR. GODLY (_fierce with love_): What would I have of you? All of you—no more than that. What else does a man desire of the woman he adores? All of you—to have and to hold, to love and to cherish till—— MAIA: Till when, John? MR. GODLY: Till rivers run uphill, till the stars drop out of the sky, till a blue moon shines. [_The moonlight turns blue. Stars begin showering from the sky. The infatuated man is dazed by the new colours, but does not perceive their cause._ You are playing with me, Maia. MAIA (_wistfully_): Don’t you like being played with? MR. GODLY: No. MAIA: Don’t you, my dear? Are you sure? MR. GODLY: I’ll say I do if it will flatter you. Why do you keep me at a distance, Maia? MAIA: Because that is the only way I can keep you at all, John. I know what you want. You want to possess me, John, and die possessing. MR. GODLY (_holding out eager arms_): Yes. To die possessing you. That would be immortal life. MAIA (_yielding herself to his arms_): Yes, yes. I love you, John. It is you I love. But—you must not kiss me. Ah! [MR. GODLY _kisses her. They stand locked in a long embrace under the blue moon. A miniature pandemonium in the wood. The golden figures come back whispering and calling. A tiny bugle is blown._ MR. GODLY _releases_ MAIA _and stands dazed with rapture. She slips from his arms and vanishes. The stage darkens; the golden bowmen surround the enchanted man, bind him in threads of moonshine, and lead him, a prisoner, to where the boat waits. He steps into the boat, and it moves away. The dance of the elves begins again, with the same music as before. The Curtain falls._ SCENE 2 _A room in_ MR. GODLY’S _house (as in the first scene of the play). On the right a fireplace in which a fire is burning. Electric lighting. Heavy curtains over the windows, through which, earlier in the day, we caught a glimpse of the front garden. There is a table (centre), with a red plush table cover, upon which stands_ FLORENCE’S _workbox. The workbox is within reach of_ FLORENCE’S _left hand, for_ FLORENCE _is sitting beside the table, not at it; she faces the fire, presenting to its her right profile_. MRS. MURGATROYD, _cheerful and middle-aged, sits further back, nearer the fire, and facing us. She is wearing a hat, but has thrown off her cloak, which now hangs over the back of her chair. Both ladies are knitting, and for a few seconds after the curtain’s rising they continue to do so without speaking._ FLORENCE (_casting off her stitches_): Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. . . . You’d never guess what I’m knitting, Mrs. Murgatroyd. MRS. MURGATROYD: I daren’t try, my dear. You’re so adventurous, so daring. FLORENCE (_exhibiting her work_): Look. A little coat. You’d never guess who for. MRS. MURGATROYD (_facetious_): For Mr. Godly, perhaps? FLORENCE: A bad guess. It’s for a certain baby boy of my acquaintance. He is called Frankie. I love him to distraction. MRS. MURGATROYD: And he loves you, my dear, the little pet. He’s always talking about his Auntie Florence, though he can’t say any proper words yet. It _is_ kind of you, Mrs. Godly. FLORENCE: I’m glad he likes me. Unrequited love is so tiresome, isn’t it! If Frankie were only thirty-five years older, Mrs. Murgatroyd, he and I would make a match of it. Would you like me for a daughter-in-law? [MRS. MURGATROYD _laughs at this pleasantry_. FLORENCE, _whose heart is not in the conversation, adds in a different tone:_ I wonder what the time is now. [_They both glance at the clock on the mantelpiece._ Oh, it’s no good looking at that. It never goes. I’d have put it away long ago, but it was a wedding present. MRS. MURGATROYD (_consulting her wrist-watch_): It’s nearly half-past eleven. (_Severely._) The last time I looked it was twenty past. The time before it was five past. The time before that—— FLORENCE: Yes, I know. It’s silly of me. But it’s so unlike John to be out at this hour without warning me. Where can he have gone? MRS. MURGATROYD (_humorously_): Depend upon it, my dear, our two husbands have run off together. They’ve gone to the Stevensons’ fancy-dress ball at Wimbledon. My Frank has led Mr. Godly astray, and I’ll give him a good talking to when I get him home. FLORENCE: I dare say you will. But when _shall_ we get them home? That’s what’s worrying me. MRS. MURGATROYD: Frank said he wouldn’t be much after midnight. And he’s sure to bring Mr. Godly with him. FLORENCE (_piteously, like a child_): But why didn’t John send a message? A telegram, or a telephone call to your house. MRS. MURGATROYD (_shaking her head_): The scoundrel! Perhaps he forgot? FLORENCE (_wounded_): Forgot! MRS. MURGATROYD: Or perhaps he was in a great hurry and left it to some clerk to telephone. You know what these junior clerks are! FLORENCE (_whose ignorance of junior clerks is profound_): Yes. That’s possible. (_She speaks hopefully, but loses courage the next instant._) Oh, Mrs. Murgatroyd (_she rises and stands irresolute_), I feel I can’t sit still another instant. I want to be doing something. Something to help him. MRS. MURGATROYD: Help him? What help does he need? FLORENCE (_angrily_): Why, don’t you see, he may be ill, or he may have had some dreadful accident. To think that at this moment he may be lying in terrible pain, uncared for, perhaps . . . perhaps _dying_. Ought we to go and ring up a doctor, in case . . . MRS. MURGATROYD: Ring up Fiddlesticks! FLORENCE: Who? Is he a reliable man? I was thinking of Foster. We’ve always had him before. [_We hear the Grandfather clock in the hall strike once._ That’s half-past eleven. [_There is a knocking at the front door._ MRS. MURGATROYD: And that’s your erring husband. [FLORENCE _flies to the door, which she leaves open, so that we hear her unbolt the front door. We hear also a man’s voice._ MR. MURGATROYD (_off_): Good evening, Mrs. Godly. I’ve brought your husband home. FLORENCE (_half hysterical_): Oh, do come in. Your wife’s here. [_Enter_ MURGATROYD. MR. MURGATROYD (_bluff, but concealing uneasiness_): A wife for a husband—that’s a fair enough exchange. Well, Mary! MRS. MURGATROYD: Hullo! Frank. [_They salute each other._ [_At_ MR. MURGATROYD’S _heels comes_ GODELIK, _heralded by a few magical phrases (very faint and faraway) played by a clarinet or oboe_. MR. MURGATROYD _is in ordinary lounge clothes, overcoat, hat and gloves_. GODELIK _is precisely like_ =Mr. Godly= _in every respect except clothes and voice and manner. He is, to be frank_, MR. GODLY’S _fairy double. He is bewildered, wistful, like a lost child in a world of wonders, for this is his first visit to our world, which he finds strange and unreal. He is attired in a kind of green silken jerkin, long hosen, and an absurd stiff collar with long points. But he must not look ridiculous. He stares about him with pathetic and charming curiosity—a very winsome little figure._ FLORENCE _enters last and stares at_ GODELIK _in surprise_. FLORENCE: John! What _have_ you been doing? MRS. MURGATROYD: The fancy-dress ball, my dear. What did I tell you? MR. MURGATROYD: No, that is the queer thing. That is what puzzles me. I found my old friend wandering about in this costume near Wimbledon Common. But there was no sign of him at the ball. Now don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Godly. (_She begins at once to exhibit alarm._) Don’t be alarmed by this . . . this unusual circumstance. Your husband, I’m afraid, is not quite himself to-night. I fancy he must have had some shock that’s deprived him of his memory. But only for a while, you may be sure of that. FLORENCE (_accusingly_): Are _you_ sure? [_She runs to_ GODELIK _and takes him by the hands. He is surprised and pleased._) John, speak to me. Do you feel ill, dear? GODELIK: Ill? What is that, my quince? [_His intonation, so different from that of_ MR. GODLY, _startles every one. His gestures, too, are queer, almost bird-like in their daintiness._ FLORENCE _continues to look at him with yearning anxiety_. MR. MURGATROYD: A night’s rest, Mrs. Godly. A night’s rest will put everything right. Believe me. It was not far from Wimbledon Common that I met him. FLORENCE: So I understood you to say, Mr. Murgatroyd. MR. MURGATROYD: Didn’t know me. Didn’t seem to remember where he was or who he was. Quite a crowd following him, too. Very distressing. MRS. MURGATROYD: Come, Frank! We must be getting home. MR. MURGATROYD: So we must. (_To_ FLORENCE.) Don’t worry, dear lady. He’s safe enough in your hands. FLORENCE (_shortly_): I don’t need telling that. (_More graciously._) Thank you so much for your kindness to him, Mr. Murgatroyd. You’ll excuse my not coming to the door. MR. MURGATROYD (_vaguely_): Only too pleased. Any little thing. Command me. Only too delighted. MRS. MURGATROYD: I’ll run in to see you in the morning, my dear. Good night. FLORENCE: Good night. Thanks for keeping me company. MR. MURGATROYD: Good night. Good night. [_The door closes on the_ MURGATROYDS. FLORENCE, _still holding_ GODELIK’S _arm, looks at him once again_. FLORENCE: Oh, John, speak to me. [_He is puzzled._ Don’t you know me? (_With a catch in the voice._) GODELIK: No, my soul; who are you? They call me Godelik. (_Pronounced_ GO-DE-LIK.) FLORENCE (_indignantly_): How dare they! GODELIK: It is my name. Godelik. Godelik. FLORENCE: Godly, darling. John Godly is your name. GODELIK: Godelik, my soul. Who are you? I’m lorn and scattered. Tell me who you are. FLORENCE: Your wife, Florence. You _must_ know me, John! Your own wife! GODELIK: Ah, yes, I know you now. FLORENCE (_hope reviving_): You know! You know everything? Does it all come back, dear? Do you remember? GODELIK (_smiles without understanding her_): What is there to remember, my chery? [FLORENCE _steps away from him, wringing her hands_. FLORENCE: Oh, whatever shall I do! Something terrible has happened to you, John. GODELIK: What is it you call me, my sweet soul? John? John? What is that? [_She has not the heart to explain again._ Ah, you are angry with me. If I have offended, forgive me, for I am a stranger. FLORENCE (_firmly_): Nonsense. Now, John, listen to me. What time did you leave the office to-night? GODELIK: The office! The business, is it? The city affairs? When may I see it all, that wonder? FLORENCE: To-morrow, my dear, if you are well enough. GODELIK: Yes, my flower. The real thing at last. We shall go together, yes? FLORENCE: Yes, I will take you, if you are well enough. GODELIK: Ah, that will be the dream of my life fulfilled. In my own country (_vainly_) I am not without some renown as a student of your human customs. We fairies have heard of you; we have made poems and stories about you for the entertainment of our little ones. FLORENCE: You’re talking nonsense, John. [_He continues, disregarding her._ GODELIK: Our great playwright Berry wrote a pretty piece about one of you, full of gossamer fancy, bowler hats, and umbrellas. Yes, we have heard of you human beings; but never before has one of us seen you face to face. I, Godelik, am the first! What fun, what joy it is! And to-morrow you will take me to watch the City Affairs, the pretty habits, the innocent gaiety, and the august imaginative ritual of the Business Man. FLORENCE (_dreamily, under the spell of his voice_): How lovely your voice is to-night! It makes me think of all the beautiful things in the world: sunlight and moonlight and faraway bells and little leaves that rustle. It makes me hear running water; it makes me see a glowing wood, with a stretch of cool green grass, and little naked babies playing and laughing and dipping their pink toes in the stream. GODELIK: Yes, my quince. That I have seen often enough. But the Business Man—of him I have only heard sweet rumours. It was for this, this adventure you promise me, that I ventured into the unknown sea that divides my world from yours. There was a blue barque awaiting me. As in a dream I saw it. On my way to the shore I passed a creature, oddly clad, who had stolen my face, as I thought. It was as if I looked at my very self. (_He shudders at the memory._) FLORENCE (_mechanically_): It must have been a mirror that you saw, dear. [_But she is succumbing to his unconscious enchantment and does not really care to convince him now._ GODELIK: Into the barque I stepped; the wind filled her sails. We sped on, my barque and I, like a bridegroom and his bride cleaving together the deep waters of love. Ah, my quince, that was a wonderful voyage! The sky was blue and gold and the sea was blue and green, and the sail of my barque was a fluttering autumn leaf. [_His eyes sparkle; his voice rises and falls in a childish chant._ Then dusk came to fling a veil of gauze over these bright colours, and all I knew was the gliding ship I rode in and the beating heart in my breast. Dusk came, and darkness came, and night rose in a shower of tall stars. I stepped out of my ship on to turf whose green spears pierced my feet with sweetness. I stood on a great hill, and a thousand eyes of light sang in chorus about me. Down, down I plunged, towards the new dark world of my quest, into the arms of the adventure that beckoned. [_The Godelik theme is played once, very softly, by a distant oboe._ FLORENCE (_moved_): Oh, John, your voice is bewitching me. You are talking terrible nonsense, but you are very wonderful to-night. GODELIK (_naïvely pleased_): You like me, Florence? FLORENCE: My dear, I love you. [_She holds out her arms to him, and we see now that she is a lovely woman. They clasp each other and kiss. But it is not a conventional stage kiss. This kiss of_ GODELIK’S _is a triumph of instinct over ignorance. He kisses strangely but with ardour. He kisses more than once._ Oh, John, you are my dream come true. This is what I have longed for. To know that you really love me. [_He laughs happily, like a child._ What makes you so different to-night, so young, so beautiful? What has changed your voice and made your eyes shine? You were unhappy this morning, and now—this joy. I can see them again, John—little naked babies playing in a ring. They are pelting each other with flowers. They have little wings, like newly hatched chickens. And I can hear music. [_The Godelik theme again, once only._ Do you hear it, John? [GODELIK _gently disengages himself from the embrace_. GODELIK: It is nothing. But tell me, my flower, what now shall we play at? Teach me my part in the City Affairs. FLORENCE (_sobered a little_): Ah, yes, John. You will need teaching. But let us wait till the morning. Perhaps it will all have come back to you by then. I must get you to bed. In the morning, after a good sleep. . . . GODELIK: Ah, you have real beds here, too? You sleep in them, is it? You lie down and close your eyes, yes? FLORENCE (_soothingly_): Never mind, dear. You’ll soon feel better. Why, you must be hungry. (_In distress._) I ought to have got you some supper at once. But your voice, your wonderful voice, made me forget everything. GODELIK (_expectantly, rather like a dog who is expecting to be taken for a walk_): Then what must I do, my chery? FLORENCE: What would you like to eat, dear? GODELIK: To eat? What is it you eat, my flower? The ham, the buffalo, the pig, the dragon, the mutton-chop? The egg of the hen and the egg of the dok! Am I not right? (_He is proud of his erudition._) FLORENCE (_humouring him_): You don’t usually have meat, dear, so late at night. It interferes with your digestion and gives you bad dreams. GODELIK: And what then shall it be? A cake of moonshine, perhaps, or a butterfly’s frozen breath, or a handful of ripe pollen washed down with the tears of a green hornet gathered in moonlight. These are my meats at home, sweet soul, and this my wine. FLORENCE (_she is bemused again_): Why does your nonsense enchant me? When you speak, I can think of nothing. I float out on a dark tide of joy. Birds are singing in your voice, cool rain is falling, and flowers are bursting into blossom with peals of laughter. Peals . . . peals like bells. [_He gazes at her with a new grave joy. They look into each other’s eyes._ GODELIK (_his voice trembling_): My flower, you are the singing birds and the dewfall; you are the laughter that blossoms in the green grass. You are the fire in my veins, the pulse of my heart. My spirit is the breath you breathe; my eyes mirror your beauty. You are my moon, and I am the sheen of you. You are the flame that consumes me and the comfort that cools my fever. You have divided my light from my darkness; and you are the light. FLORENCE (_in swooning ecstasy_): My lovely one! GODELIK (_gravely_): Will you plight troth with me, Florence? FLORENCE: What do you mean? (_Then, uplifted again, she answers softly, exultantly._) Yes. If you wish. [_He rests his hands on her shoulders and kisses her brow three times, and with ceremony. She looks at him through tears._ GODELIK: And you, my flower. [_She, with equal gravity, returns this triple salutation. As though to crown the ritual with music, the deep-toned clock in the hall chimes, slowly, the hour of twelve._ FLORENCE: It’s Tuesday morning. A new day. A new life. CURTAIN. ACT IV ACT IV MR. GODLY’S _office again. The same as Act I, Scene 2, except that the clock indicates 9.45 and the date calendar Tuesday, March 3. As the curtain rises we hear_ MOTT, _the clerk, singing a chanty_: “_What shall we do with the drunken sailor_ _What shall we do with the drunken sailor_ _What shall we do with the drunken sailor_ _Early in the morning?_” _We now see that the ribald young man is leading_ GODELIK _across the office towards_ MR. GODLY’S _chair_. GODELIK _is dressed in a black lounge suit of_ MR. GODLY’S; _it is a trifle too big for him in the region of the waistcoat, and he wears it awkwardly. His gait and his eager, bird-like gestures leave no doubt in our minds that he is_ GODELIK. MOTT _has hold of him by the arm_. GODELIK _is restive under this restraint_. GODELIK (_piteously, frightened_): Why do you seize me? What crime have I done that you should seize me? MOTT: Feeling better, Mr. Godly? GODELIK: Gode_lik_, Gode_lik_. That is how I am called. (_He twists himself free._) Go-de-_lik_! MOTT (_sympathetically_): Hiccups, eh? _I_ know. _I_ know. That’s the worst of you quiet ones. Solemn as churchwardens for years and years. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouths. And then—when you _do_ break out—you beat the blessed band. (_With the pride of a seasoned drinker._) You youngsters, if you so much as smell a cork there’s no holding you. [GODELIK, _no longer afraid, is gazing round in rapture_. GODELIK (_enchanted by the scenery_): The Business! The City Affairs! MOTT (_staring in admiration_): I’d give five bob to know the name of the stuff that’s got you going like this. It must have the kick of an elephant. Now, Mr. Godly, it’s not my business. But if I might advise you. . . . GODELIK (_eagerly_): Yes, yes. Advise me, my parsley. MOTT (_grinning_): Same to you, my old nutmeg. With knobs on. GODELIK: Advise me, my pretty one. MOTT: Well, my first piece of advice is: Don’t talk to the general manager like that. GODELIK (_mystified_): The general manager? The High Priest of the City Affairs, is it? MOTT (_laughing indulgently_): Just so. By name Datchet. [GODELIK _wanders about, watched by_ MOTT. GODELIK _yawns and stretches out his arms_. GODELIK (_troubled_): It is strange; it is wonderful; but it is a prison. MOTT (_with feeling_): You’re right there, sir. GODELIK: I want the grass under my feet and the sky above me. I have stayed too long in your country. It begins to dismay me. (_With sudden decision._) I shall doff my breekies, dear heart—they are strangling me. [_He is already removing the borrowed trousers from his person. Underneath he wears still the long silk hosen—bright green or bright yellow—in which we saw him last night._ MOTT: Whoa! Whoa! You can’t do that, you know. GODELIK (_breathes deeply with satisfaction_): I am myself again. MOTT (_surrendering, with a shrug_): Well, it’s _your_ funeral. Shall I bring the letters in, sir? GODELIK (_radiant_): The letters! The Business! The City Affairs! Bring them in, my peppermint! [_Exit_ MOTT _in some haste. In his absence_ GODELIK _goes round the room, examining and even smelling every object that interests him. He comes finally to the typewriter that stands on the typist’s table, removes its waterproof cover, and exclaims with delight. He scrutinises the keys, but their hieroglyphics are foreign to him, and he can make nothing of them. He then lifts the instrument to his lips and blows upon it, as though it were a set of pan-pipes. Achieving no musical result, he replaces the typewriter on the table and begins vigorously poking at the keys with alternate forefingers. He continues to do this, cocking his head on one side, and listening judicially._ MOTT _re-enters with a bundle of papers_. Ah, my cherry blossom (_inviting_ MOTT’S _attention to his performance, which he repeats_), say what you will, that is not good music. You are marvellous creatures, you human beings, but you have at least something yet to learn from us fairies. MOTT (_who is beginning to feel nervous of this eccentric_): The letters, sir. [_He deposits the letters on_ MR. GODLY’S _desk and withdraws quickly_. GODELIK (_pouncing on them_): Ah, the letters. (_Undecided._) Now what must I do with them? [_He turns them round and round—looks at them from every angle. Then, with sudden inspiration, he begins tearing them into beautiful shapes. While he does so the music that we have learned to associate with_ GODELIK _and Fairyland begins to reach us from afar. Music continues until his artistic labours are finished. He has now a bunch of paper flowers. He is happy._ MOTT _re-enters suddenly_. MOTT (_giving a friendly, conspiratorial warning_): Mr. Datchet is coming, Mr. Godly. [_Exit_ MOTT. [_Enter_ MR. DATCHET, _a heavy-jowled, red-faced man, bald, with side whiskers. He wears a morning coat. He has an immense dignity. He is taken aback by the sight of the green hosen, but decides to say nothing._ DATCHET: Ah, Mr. Godly! Good morning. I’ve been glancing through my letters. . . . GODELIK: I, too! Isn’t it splendid fun! DATCHET (_raises his eyebrows but decides to ignore this impertinence_): There are one or two I’d like you to deal with. (_Adds sharply._) And, by the way, what’s happened to that girl, Miss M’Gree? [_This is_ MR. DATCHET’S _notion of finesse. This is the shrewd method of enquiry employed by the detectives in his favourite novels. He accompanies the question with a piercing glance._ GODELIK _advances reverently towards the great master, grasping in his outstretched hands his votive offering—a bunch of exquisitely wrought paper flowers. He pirouettes round_ DATCHET, _indulging in a genuflexion at every third step. When his back is directly towards us he pauses and bows his head devoutly._ DATCHET: What’s the matter with you, Godly? Are you feeling ill? (_He wavers between sympathy and anger._) Pain in the stomach, my dear fellow? Pain in the face, too, by the look of it. [GODELIK _begins bowing again_. Dammit, sir, this is not the place for physical exercises! Really, Mr. Godly, this is very _unusual_. (_To_ MR. DATCHET’S _way of thinking this word constitutes a cruel indictment_.) GODELIK (_in a clear, high voice_): Here are the letters, dear heart. DATCHET: What was that you said, sir? There must be some mistake. Have the goodness to repeat your remark, Mr. Godly. [GODELIK _is crushed by the anger of his High Priest_. It is not, if I may say so, the kind of remark one expects to hear from one’s own subordinates: even, Mr. Godly, from a man of your seniority. Such witticisms may be well enough on more private and personal occasions; but here, in the office, I must ask you not to presume on our friendship. [GODELIK _listens with bowed head_. Moreover, Mr. Godly, I have asked you a question. You may find the question an awkward one, but it has to be answered. These antics will do you no good. [DATCHET _begins pacing the room in anger_. GODELIK (_rising_): You are angry, my pretty one. I have done wrong. In some little detail, perhaps, my performance is lacking. But you must remember, good Datchet, that I am but newly come into your country, the least worthy but not the least zealous of disciples. [MR. DATCHET _tries to interrupt him, but_ GODELIK _sweeps on_. Among my own people I am not without honour. I am an investigator of your quaint human customs. But here, in the presence of the mighty, I am but a babe. Yet I have done my poor best. [MR. DATCHET _waves a bundle of letters; his gesture commands silence_. You have still more letters to give me? That is good. See, here, what I have made for you of the other letters. [GODELIK _thrusts under_ DATCHET’S _nose his bouquet, which is now, we see, composed of real blossoms, extraordinarily beautiful_. MR. DATCHET _can do nothing but stare and gape. His mouth opens and closes like that of a goldfish, but no sound emerges therefrom._ Do you not like my work, O Datchet! Come, they are beauteous blossoms. Smell them, sweet soul! [_Their fragrance is a breath from fairyland; their colours epitomise all the vital ecstasies of Nature; moonlight and apple blossom, the smell of wet woods, the ripple of clear water over living light._ MR. DATCHET, _in spite of himself, is dazzled and subdued by their beauty. We hear again that distant music._ MR. DATCHET _backs towards_ GODLY’S _desk and sinks into the chair. He bows his head over the table._ GODELIK’S _attention is, for the first time, arrested by this faraway music. He, too, falls into a kind of trance._ GODELIK: I must go back. [MR. DATCHET _looks up, dull-eyed_. I must go back. I heard before, but I did not heed. Three times, O Datchet, have I heard the horns of faery blowing and seen the pleading eyes. The adventure is over. I must go back to my own land and people. DATCHET (_pulling himself together_): Listen to me, Godly. GODELIK: Ah, no, I must not listen. I must go back. It is a marvellous experience among you that I have had. But it must end now. The sun rises above the rim of the sea. The great green hill moves to meet me, and the brown sail is impatient to be filled with the wind that shall blow us back. Ah, my Datchet, my Murgatroyd, my Florence—you above all, O flower of my night!—I grieve but I go. I go with my harvest of new knowledge (_he moves towards the door_) to gather the apples of an old delight. For in the midst of your wonders my heart has cried out for my own land and people. My feet have yearned for the solid streets of Fairy. My hands have hungered to break through the web of fantasy in which you live, so prettily, so gay. . . . Farewell, my Datchet! Farewell, my Murgatroyd! Farewell, Florence, O flower of my night! [_He goes out of the room, and out of the play._ DATCHET (_addressing_ GODELIK _as the door closes on him_): You will hear further of this matter, Mr. Godly. This . . . buffoonery! [_The telephone bell rings._ MR. DATCHET _picks up the receiver that stands on_ MR. GODLY’S _table_. Hullo! Yes, it is Mr. Datchet speaking. Ah, good morning, Mrs. Godly. What did you say, anxious about your husband? I’m afraid you have need to be. No, he is not here at the moment. You would like to speak to him? I’ll try and get hold of him for you. . . . Oh, are you? Splendid, splendid. But I must warn you, Mrs. Godly, you’ll find him changed. Yes, I said changed. CHANGED. C for Charlie, H for Herbert, A for Arthur . . . yes, changed. He has been behaving very queerly this morning. Seems unbalanced. Yes, do. Do. As soon as ever you can. [_With the receiver still at his ear_, MR. DATCHET _presses a bell-push on the table_. MOTT _answers the summons_. DATCHET _indicates that_ MOTT _is to wait his pleasure_. I see, Mrs. Godly, I see. In half an hour then. Splendid. Don’t be unduly anxious about him. Good-bye. (_To_ MOTT.) Mott, I want you to find Mr. Godly. He’s not quite himself this morning. MOTT (_helpfully_): I noticed something, sir. DATCHET: Then you had no business to. Find him, wherever he is and fetch him back here. Say I insist upon it. He went out a moment ago. His wife will be here in half an hour. She rang up from a call office. Tell Mr. Godly that. Tell him anything you like, but for God’s sake bring him back. Look sharp. MOTT: Yes, sir. [MOTT _goes out_. DATCHET _takes up the flowers and eyes them pensively_. MOTT _returns abruptly_. (_Excitedly._) Mr. Godly has come back, sir. I saw him go out, sir, and come in, at the same time. There were two of him, sir. DATCHET: Heaven help us! (_Sternly._) Now, Mott, enough of that. I won’t have you going mad as well. I’ve enough to put up with as it is. [MOTT _has left the door ajar, and now_ MR. GODLY _himself comes bustling in, wearing a silk hat and a raincoat. The contrast between his manner and_ GODELIK’S _is extreme; but the face is identical, except for its scowl and general dejection. This dejection is sometimes perceptible in spite of_ MR. GODLY’S _attempt to hide it under business-like bustle. He is disconcerted to find the great_ DATCHET _occupying his chair. It bodes ill for the interview which he has been rehearsing ever since his return from fairyland._ MR. GODLY (_removing his coat, and placing his hat on the typist’s table_): Good morning, Mr. Datchet. I owe you an apology. DATCHET (_with manifest relief, rising_): I am glad that you at last recognise the debt. MR. GODLY: A most unfortunate accident . . . DATCHET: Say no more about it. You were not yourself just now. Something had occurred to unbalance you. MR. GODLY: I don’t quite understand. DATCHET: Say no more. I only hope that you will take steps to safeguard yourself against any repetition of the affair, whatever it was. MR. GODLY (_sadly_): That won’t be necessary. Such things happen only once in a blue moon. DATCHET: I’m not asking questions. But I must say just this. Things of this kind not only disturb one personally, they interfere with the Routine of the Office. (_He pronounces this sacred phrase with reverence._) MR. GODLY (_warmly_): I perfectly agree, sir. Punctuality is the politeness of princes, as I sometimes tell my staff. I have set a bad example to the juniors. I admit it. But I think (_with dignity_) enough has been said on both sides. DATCHET: My dear Godly, it’s not your unpunctuality I’m complaining about. MR. GODLY: Then what is it? DATCHET: Come, come, let us not revive the subject. MR. GODLY: But I want to know what you’re talking about. I’m all at sea. DATCHET: What should I be talking about but your extraordinary conduct of this morning. MR. GODLY: What conduct, and where? DATCHET: Here, in this office, not twenty minutes ago. MR. GODLY: I fancy there’s some mistake. I’ve only just reached the office, Mr. Datchet. I was unpardonably late. DATCHET (_with heavy irony_): Indeed? You have only just arrived? MR. GODLY: That is so. DATCHET: You did not come until a moment ago. You did not, for example, present me with a bunch of flowers? You did not talk a powerful lot of minor poetry to me? MR. GODLY (_gently, as though to a child_): How could I have done so? I was not here, my dear sir. DATCHET: This is foolish, Godly. Why keep up the pretence any longer? MR. GODLY: The fact is, I had to leave town suddenly last night, and this morning, to my great annoyance, I found it impossible to get back until late. I can only hope my absence has not caused too much inconvenience. DATCHET: You can rest easy on that score. (_Heavy sarcasm._) I think I may say that your absence was quite unnoticed. MR. GODLY: I am glad. DATCHET: And might one enquire where you spent your little—ah—holiday? MR. GODLY (_with a charmingly ingenuous smile_): Now that, do you know, is a little difficult to answer. DATCHET: I fancied it might prove so. MR. GODLY: Yes, a little difficult. It was a place I’d never visited before. How can I describe it? It was amazingly lovely. It had an air of unreality. And yet I believed in it more firmly than I believe in this ridiculous city of London. Do I make my meaning clear? DATCHET: Clear as crystal. MR. GODLY: Ah, you’re laughing at me. But I wish I could make you understand. It would make such an immense difference to you. It would enlarge your outlook, Mr. Datchet. DATCHET: Would it indeed! MR. GODLY: Yes, it would give you a marvellous sense of space and freedom and power. DATCHET: I dare say. And whereabouts is it, this wonderful holiday resort? North, south, east or west? MR. GODLY: As to its direction I know nothing, except that I reached it by way of Wimbledon. DATCHET: Ah, yes. MR. GODLY: All I can tell you is this, it must be thousands of miles away, for over there they are twelve hours in advance of our time. Or so it seemed to me. That suggests the Antipodes, I suppose. DATCHET (_sneering_): Australia, possibly. MR. GODLY: And yet the place is inhabited by fairies. The few Australians I’ve met haven’t been quite like fairies. [MR. DATCHET _begins to be alarmed once again for_ GODLY’S _sanity_. I admit it wasn’t exactly what we usually understand by fairyland. But a fairyland of some sort it certainly was. DATCHET (_humouring him_): Quite so. Quite so. Think no more about it, old chap. Now tell me about Miss M’Gree. MR. GODLY (_his surprise is ill-feigned_): Miss M’Gree? DATCHET: Exactly. She lived at Wimbledon, I believe. The port from which you sailed for the Antipodes. And you were seen with her last night. MR. GODLY: I was seen with her! DATCHET: Certain members of the staff have friends who saw you and Miss M’Gree in the train together. This morning she fails to turn up. I wire for an explanation. The wire is returned undelivered. And you, Mr. Godly, were seen with the girl last night. MR. GODLY (_blushing furiously_): That may be. I was her father’s guest at dinner. But I refuse to be catechised further. DATCHET: Where is she now, do you suppose? Now keep calm and try to think clearly. We want her here, Mr. Godly, and she shows no sign of coming. The only intelligent typist we’ve got. If she doesn’t come to-morrow I shall dismiss her and get somebody else. [_This threat induces a sad smile in_ MR. GODLY’S _face. Tears stand in his eyes._ MR. GODLY (_mournfully_): Dismiss her or not, she will never come back to me. DATCHET (_shocked_): Do you mean she’s . . . dead? MR. GODLY: Dead! They know nothing of death over there. Don’t you understand, Datchet? She is a fairy. DATCHET: I beg your pardon? MR. GODLY: She is a fairy. DATCHET (_hastily_): Yes, yes, my poor fellow! No doubt she is! I understand. You’re a little lightheaded again, that’s all. [_He steps towards_ GODLY, _making compassionate, soothing noises_. There! There! MR. GODLY (_backing towards the door_): Oh, go to the devil. I’m perfectly serious. [_The door is flung open suddenly and_ FLORENCE _enters. She is more beautiful than we have ever seen her before. She is transfigured by her new strange love._ And perfectly sane . . . Hullo! Florence, I didn’t expect to see you here. (_Nor, perhaps, did he wish to._) FLORENCE: How do you feel now, John? Are you better, my dear? DATCHET: I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Godly. FLORENCE: Good morning, Mr. Datchet. Thank you. Are you better, John? MR. GODLY: I’ve never been ill, my dear girl. DATCHET (_tactfully_): Well, if you’ll excuse me . . . [_A grateful look from_ FLORENCE. MR. GODLY: No, no, Mr. Datchet. Please don’t leave us. DATCHET: I’m sure you’ll want to chat things over. Besides, I have work to attend to. FLORENCE: We mustn’t keep Mr. Datchet from his work, John. MR. GODLY (_at his wits’ end_): But don’t you see, Mr. Datchet . . . [FLORENCE _interrupts_. FLORENCE: Thank you so much, Mr. Datchet. DATCHET (_as he passes her_): And if I were you, Mrs. Godly, I’d take him home at once, _at once_, and get medical advice about him. [_She nods._ DATCHET _goes out of the room. Left alone_, GODLY _and his wife inevitably turn to each other, enquiry on both their faces_. FLORENCE: Are you all right, John? MR. GODLY: Perfectly. (_With surprise and pleasure._) You’re looking wonderfully well, my dear. FLORENCE (_smiling_): Am I? MR. GODLY: You look ten, fifteen, twenty years younger. What has happened to you? It’s . . . it’s wonderful. [_She makes a gesture of invitation, and he surprises himself by the alacrity of his response. This moment holds, not ecstasy, but the flavour and fragrance of old love. It is a kiss of custom, indeed, but it is enriched for him by this new beauty of hers. But in him_ FLORENCE _finds something lacking_. My dear, you are positively lovely to-day. (_Ardently._) I don’t think you have ever kissed me quite like that before. FLORENCE: I didn’t know how, John, until last night. MR. GODLY (_queerly_): Last night? FLORENCE: Your voice has changed, John. Changed _back_. And you _don’t_ look so well as you did. MR. GODLY: As well as I did? FLORENCE (_shyly_): At breakfast this morning you were glowing with health. [_He does not respond. She adds, rather coolly, for she is disappointed in him._ But I’m glad to see you’re remembering things better now. MR. GODLY (_mystified_): Breakfast. Did you say breakfast? FLORENCE: Yes, breakfast. What’s the matter with you, John? MR. GODLY: It seems to me I must be remembering things worse, my dear, instead of better. FLORENCE: What do you mean? MR. GODLY (_evasively_): It doesn’t matter. FLORENCE (_intently_): What do you mean? MR. GODLY: Well, the fact is, I can’t recollect eating any breakfast at all this morning. FLORENCE (_distressed_): Oh, dear! You’re ill again. Try to remember, John. Don’t you remember how late we got up this morning, and how we missed two trains? MR. GODLY: We? You and I? FLORENCE: Yes, dear. I came up to the city with you, to take care of you. MR. GODLY (_more and more at a loss_): Are you speaking of this morning? FLORENCE: This very morning. MR. GODLY: Strange! I remember nothing of all this. FLORENCE: Oh, John! (_She gazes at him in pained surprise._) And have you forgotten how we laughed and joked together on the way to the station? And have you forgotten how you wanted to skip, and I wouldn’t let you? [_He shakes his head._ And how we travelled first class, in a carriage to ourselves? [_He shakes his head again, and she becomes more and more insistent._ And how I jogged your poor memory about the sort of things you’d have to do at the office, and how . . . MR. GODLY (_fingers in ears_): Stop! I’ve forgotten every word of it. FLORENCE (_resolutely_): Think, John, do! At least you _must_ remember last night: how you were brought home—from Wimbledon, I think he said—by Mr. Murgatroyd dressed in a green silk tunic and green tights. MR. GODLY: Green tights! Did you say green tights? What on earth was Murgatroyd doing in green tights? FLORENCE: It was you, not Mr. Murgatroyd, who wore the fancy dress. MR. GODLY (_shortly_): It was certainly not me. You’re talking in a crazy fashion, Florence. [_A devastating suspicion assails him. It chills his heart and sets upon his face a sickly ironical grin._ Aha! Aha! A green silk tunic, did you say? A green tunic, and a collar with long points? FLORENCE: Yes, yes. That’s right. I’ve got them safe at home. You can see for yourself. MR. GODLY (_savagely_): That will be a great comfort. Pray continue your very interesting narrative. FLORENCE: There’s nothing much more to tell. When Mr. Murgatroyd . . . MR. GODLY: Kindly skip Mr. Murgatroyd! FLORENCE: When Mr. Murgatroyd had brought you home, and left us together—I’d been getting anxious about you, of course, and Mrs. Murgatroyd . . . MR. GODLY: Damn all Murgatroyds. Get on with the story. FLORENCE: Well, then we had a talk together. MR. GODLY: Who had a talk together? FLORENCE: You and I, dear. Fancy your forgetting even that! (_She is sad._) And you were wonderful. Your memory was all to pieces, but there was a magic about you, a glamour. Oh, John, I never loved you so much as I loved you last night. MR. GODLY (_sourly_): I am flattered. And what happened then? FLORENCE: Well, after our talk I helped you to bed and prepared some bread and milk for you. MR. GODLY: Did you indeed? Now that is very nice to know. You helped me to bed, and you prepared for me some bread and milk. And then? FLORENCE (_regarding him in pained surprise_): What makes you so queer about it, John? It’ll all come back to you presently. MR. GODLY: No doubt. No doubt. Meanwhile be good enough to tell me this: what time was it when you so considerately supplied me with bread and milk? FLORENCE: It must have been a little after midnight. I brought the supper upstairs, and we had it in bed together. I had some, too, to keep you company. MR. GODLY (_in a frenzy_): Woman! It wasn’t me. It was a damned impostor. I saw him last night in Fairyland. I met him and challenged him, but he wouldn’t answer a word. Green jerkin, yes, by God. And his face as like mine as two peas. FLORENCE: John! [GODLY _clutches at his throbbing temples and staggers towards the chair (the visitors’ chair.)_ MR. GODLY: Forgive me, my dear. It wasn’t your fault. I’m a little upset. FLORENCE: You’re all to pieces, John. I must take you home at once. I don’t know what puts such preposterous notions into your head. MR. GODLY: Florence, do you still think it was I who came home to you last night? FLORENCE: Of course. If it wasn’t you who was it? And, if it wasn’t you, where were you? MR. GODLY (_thoughtfully_): Yes, that’s a point. I’d overlooked that. Where was I, eh? No, Florence, you’re right. It must have been me. FLORENCE (_dull-eyed, weary, bitterly disappointed_): And you’ve forgotten it all. The most beautiful night of my life. And you’ve forgotten. MR. GODLY (_with real tenderness_): I’m sorry, Flo. FLORENCE: You’re changed to-day. Changed back into what you were before. Last night you were in love with me. You were the very incarnation of all that I had dreamed of and desired. You will never be like that again. I can see it. MR. GODLY: Never again, Flo. Last night we saw beauty face to face, you and I. That can never happen to us again. FLORENCE: Then you _do_ remember? MR. GODLY: I remember. FLORENCE: You remember the wonder and the magic? MR. GODLY: I remember. FLORENCE: You remember the music? You remember the visions that dazzled our eyes and the flame that consumed us? [GODLY _is tortured beyond endurance by his thoughts of_ MAIA, _who is now lost to him for ever_. MR. GODLY: Don’t. I can’t bear it. (_Overcome by grief._) The music falters. The flame is spent. [FLORENCE _catches sight of the flowers that_ GODELIK _made. She picks them up_. GODLY _raises his bowed head_. But we have one thing in common, Flo. FLORENCE: What is that? MR. GODLY: Our bereavement. FLORENCE: Look, John. What exquisite flowers! [_She buries her face in them, and then sighs ecstatically. She is profoundly moved. We hear, for the last time, the Godelik music._ Oh, how lovely! MR. GODLY (_rising and pulling himself together_): Well, well! We can’t have everything, can we, Flo? But we’ve got each other. FLORENCE (_radiant again, under the enchantment of the flowers_): For me, that is everything. MR. GODLY (_firmly_): No, my dear. Not everything. Let us face life together, honestly. There’s something else, something lacking. If we could get it—whatever it is—life would be perfect. Well, we’d better be getting some lunch, I suppose. [_He puts his hat on. They prepare to go out together._ Life, my dear, makes tremendous promises, but never, you know, quite fulfils them. . . . FLORENCE (_stops dead in the middle of the stage and looks vexed_): There now! MR. GODLY: What is it? FLORENCE: I’ve just remembered something. I left my cake in the oven. It’ll be burnt to a cinder. [_He stares disconsolately._ Never mind. . . . What were you saying, John? Something about life. CURTAIN. * * * * * _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth._ William Brendon & Son, Ltd. _CONTEMPORARY BRITISH DRAMATISTS_ (_Continued from page 2_) _THE MAN WITH A LOAD OF MISCHIEF. By_ ASHLEY DUKES. (_5th Impression—10th Thousand._) _“A very charming and elegant play.”—“Morning Post.”_ _EXODUS. By_ H. F. RUBINSTEIN & HALCOTT GLOVER. (_2nd Impression._) _“The action of the play is visible as you read . . . the sound of human voices is audible throughout.”—John Freeman in the “London Mercury.”_ _THE CONQUERING HERO. By_ ALLAN MONKHOUSE. (_3rd Impression._) _“I am often asked what I call a great play. This is one.”—James Agate._ _WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE DRAMA? By_ H. F. RUBINSTEIN. _“Exquisite fun.”—“English Review.”_ _MIDSUMMER MADNESS. By_ CLIFFORD BAX _“Mr. Bax has done what the commedia dell’ arte did—told a cynical modern story through old figures.”—“Times Literary Supplement.”_ _PETER AND PAUL. By_ HAROLD F. RUBINSTEIN _“A powerful essay in irony . . . touches the imagination.”—“Manchester Guardian.”_ _THE RAT TRAP. By_ NOEL COWARD _“Admirable unbetterable dialogue in his native vein.”—“New Statesman.”_ _FIRST BLOOD. By_ ALLAN MONKHOUSE _“Deals with a savagely embittered industrial dispute, at once more natural and more subtle than Galsworthy’s ‘Strife.’ ”—Ivor Brown in the “Manchester Guardian.”_ _THE THREE BARROWS. By_ CHARLES MCEVOY _“Strong dramatic scenes, would act well.”—E. A. Baughan._ _THE FANATICS. By_ MILES MALLESON _“A play that an audience will think about and talk about.”—Lennox Robinson._ _THE DANCE OF LIFE. By_ HERMON OULD _“Delightful.”—“English Review.”_ _THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. By_ HOWARD PEACEY _“There is colour and eloquence in it.”—“Times Literary Supplement.”_ _THE MASQUE OF VENICE. By_ G. D. GRIBBLE _“Mr. Gribble is master of his job and possessed of more wit and more reading than most living dramatists.”—“Times Literary Supplement.”_ _ATONEMENT. By_ EDWARD THOMPSON _“Mr. Thompson is among the playwrights born.”—“Times Literary Supplement.”_ _THE SCENE THAT WAS TO WRITE ITSELF. By_ G. D. GRIBBLE _NOCTURNE IN PALERMO. By_ CLIFFORD BAX _“A delightful miniature.”—“Daily Telegraph.”_ _THE RIGORDANS. By_ EDWARD PERCY _“A play to read.”—“Manchester Guardian.”_ _KRISHNA KUMARI. By_ EDWARD THOMPSON _“A play about India and a very fine one.”—Robert Graves._ MAGIC HOURS. BY HOWARD PEACEY _“Mr. Peacey has the stuff within him of which dramatists are made.”—“Observer.”_ _HIS MAJESTY’S PLEASURE. By_ CONAL O’RIORDAN _“An example of how the romantic play should be written.”—“Observer.”_ _THE TRANSLATION OF NATHANIEL BENDERSNAP. By_ G. D. GRIBBLE _“Frankly written for a select and sophisticated audience.”—“Curtain.”_ _New plays in preparation:_ _EASY VIRTUE. By_ NOEL COWARD _THE PIPER LAUGHS. By_ HERMON OULD _YESTERDAY. By_ MARGARET MACNAMARA _CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN DRAMATISTS_ _THE VERGE. By_ SUSAN GLASPELL. (_2nd Impression._) _“Fresh, curious, and dramatically alive.”—“Manchester Guardian.”_ _INHERITORS. By_ SUSAN GLASPELL (_2nd Impression._) _“Fine and ironic in its sarcasm, remorseless in its hatred, and lofty and exalted in its love.”—“Evening Standard.”_ _BERNICE. By_ SUSAN GLASPELL _“Remorselessly, every word striking home, this quiet tragedy works to an end.”—“Weekly Westminster.”_ NOTE.—_The three plays by Susan Glaspell are available in a collected edition._ _MOSES. A Play, a Protest, and a Proposal. By_ LAWRENCE LANGNER _“Entertaining and effective.”—“Manchester Guardian.”_ _THE SPRING. By_ GEORGE CRAM COOK _“A richly imaginative drama.”—“Weekly Westminster.”_ _TRIFLES and other plays. By_ SUSAN GLASPELL. _OTHER PLAYS PUBLISHED BY ERNEST BENN LTD_ _BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK. By_ =George S. Kaufman & Marc Connelly= _“A very distinguished piece of stage work, interesting from beginning to end, containing beauty, wit, satire and humour.”—“Daily Telegraph.”_ _DR. KNOCK. By_ JULES ROMAINS. _Translated by Harley Granville Barker._ _“If some manager does not produce this witty comedy in London our theatre and its public will be losing a very delightful thing.”—“Daily Telegraph.”_ _THE COLONNADE. By_ STARK YOUNG _“Mr. Stark Young makes his effects with a beautiful simplicity. . . . ‘The Colonnade’ is a remarkable play.”—Allan Monkhouse in the “Manchester Guardian.”_ _THE MACHINE WRECKERS. By_ ERNST TOLLER, _translated by Ashley Dukes_. _“It has power and passion and judgment and pity.”—St. John Ervine in the “Observer.”_ _SHAKESPEARE. By_ H. F. RUBINSTEIN & CLIFFORD BAX _“Their Shakespeare is by far the most lifelike, the most plausible—far excelling either Mr. Shaw’s or Mr. Frank Harris’s.”—“Weekly Westminster.”_ _JUST PUBLISHED_ _THE NEW SPIRIT IN THE EUROPEAN THEATRE. By_ =Huntly Carter= _A unique record of ten years’ first-hand study of the development of the theatre in England, France, Germany, Russia, Italy, Czecho-Slovakia and the Baltic States since 1914._ _“The most original and uncompromising theatre book of the year.”—“Liverpool Post.”_ _With 24 plates showing stage settings, costume designs, etc._ TRANSCRIBER NOTES Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed. [The end of _Mr. Godly Beside Himself_ by Gerald Bullett]