 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by William Coon, October 2006. The First and the Last, A Drama in Three Scenes by John Galsworthy Persons of the Play Keith Derrant, KC Larry Derrant, his brother Wanda, Scene 1 It is six o'clock of a November evening in Keith Derrant's study. A large dark curtained room where the light from a single reading lamp falling on a turkey carpet on books beside a large armchair on the deep blue and gold coffee service makes a sort of oasis before a log fire. In red Turkish slippers and an old brown velvet coat, Keith Derrant sits asleep. He has a dark, clean cut, clean shaven face, dark, grizzling hair, dark, twisting eyebrows. The curtain door, a way out in the dim part of the room behind him, is open so softly that he does not awake. Larry Derrant enters and stands half lost in the curtain over the door. A thin figure with a worn, high cheek-boned face, deep, sunk blue eyes, and wavy hair all ruffled. A face which still has a certain beauty. He moves inwards along the wall, stands still again, and utters a gasping sigh. Keith stirs in his chair. Keith. Who's there? Larry, in a stifled voice. Only I, Larry. Keith, half-waked. Come in. I was asleep. He does not turn his head, staring sleepily at the fire. The sound of Larry's breathing can be heard. Turning his head a little. Well, Larry, what is it? Larry comes skirting along the wall as if craving its support outside the radius of the light. Staring. Are you ill? Larry stands still again and heaves a deep sigh. Keith, rising with his back to the fire and staring at his brother. What is it, man? Then with a brutality born of nerves suddenly ruffled. Have you committed a murder that you stand there like a fish? Larry, in a whisper. Yes, Keith. Keith, with vigorous disgust. By Jove, drunk again. In a voice changed by sudden apprehension. What do you mean by coming here in this state? I told you, if you weren't my brother, come here while I can see you. What's the matter with you, Larry? With a lurch, Larry leaves the shelter of the wall and sinks into a chair in the circle of light. Larry. It's true. Keith steps quickly forward and stares down into his brother's eyes where is a horrified wonder as if they would never again get on terms with his face. Keith, angry, bewildered in a low voice. What in God's name is this nonsense? He goes quickly over to the door and draws the curtain aside to see that it is shut, then comes back to Larry who is huddling over the fire. Come, Larry, pull yourself together and drop exaggeration. What on earth do you mean? Larry, in a shrill outburst. It's true, I tell you, I've killed a man. Keith, bracing himself coldly. Be quiet. Larry lifts his hands and rings them, utterly taken aback. Why come here and tell me this? Larry. Whom should I tell, Keith? I came to ask what I'm to do. Give myself up or what? Keith. When. When. What? Larry. Last night. Keith, good God, how? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from the beginning. Here, drink this coffee. It'll clear your head. He pours out and hands him a cup of coffee. Larry drinks it off. Larry. My head. Yes, it's like this, Keith. There's a girl. Keith. Women, always women with you. Well? Larry. A Polish girl. She, her father died over here when she was sixteen and left her all alone. There was a Mongrel living in the same house who married her or pretended to. She's very pretty, Keith. He left her with a baby coming. She lost it and nearly starved. Then another fellow took her on and she lived with him two years till that brute turned up again and made her go back to him. He used to beat her black and blue. He left her again when I met her. She was taking anybody, then? He stops, passes his hand over his lips, looks up at Keith and goes on defiantly. I never met a sweeter woman or a truer that I swear. Woman, she's only twenty now. When I went to her last night that devil had found her out again. He came for me, a bullying, great, hulking brute. Look! He touches a dark mark on his forehead. I took his ugly throat and when I let go... He stops and his hands drop. Keith. Yes? Larry, in a smothered voice. Dead, Keith. I never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him to help me. Again, he rings his hands. Keith, in a hard, dry voice. What did you do then? Larry. We, we sat by at a long time. Keith. Well... Larry. Then I carried it on my back down the street, round the corner, to an archway. Keith. How far, Larry? About fifty yards. Keith. Was... Did anyone see? Larry. No. Keith. What time? Larry. Three in the morning. Keith. And then... Larry. Went back to her. Keith. Why, in heaven's name? Larry. She was lonely and afraid. So was I, Keith. Keith. Where is this place? Larry. Forty-two, Barrow Square, Soho. Keith. And the archway? Larry. Corner of Glove Lane. Keith. Good God! Why, I saw it in the paper this morning. They were talking of it in the courts. He snatches the evening paper from his armchair and runs it over and reads. Here it is again. Body of a man was found this morning under an archway in Glove Lane. From marks about the throat, grave suspicion of foul play are entertained. The body had apparently been robbed. My God! Suddenly he turns. You saw this in the paper and dreamed it. Do you understand, Larry? You dreamed it. Larry, wistfully. If only I had, Keith. Keith makes a movement of his hands almost like his brother's. Keith. Did you take anything from the body? Larry, drawing an envelope from his pocket. This dropped out while we were struggling. Keith snatching and reading it. Patrick Wellen. Was this his name? Simon's Hotel, Fairia Street, London. Stooping he puts it in the fire. No, that makes me. He bends to pluck it out, stays his hand, and stamps it suddenly further in with his foot. What in God's name made you come here and tell me? Don't you know I'm—I'm within an ace of a judgeship? Larry, simply. Yes, you must know what I ought to do. I didn't mean to kill him, Keith. I love the girl. I love her. What shall I do? Keith. Love. Larry, in a flash. Love. That swinish, brute, a million creatures die every day and not one of them deserves death as he did. But—but I feel it here. Touching his heart. Such an awful clutch, Keith. Help me if you can, old man. I may be no good, but I've never heard to fly if I could help it. He buries his face in his hands. Keith. Steady, Larry. Let's think it out. You weren't seeing you say? Larry. It's a dark place in dead night. Keith. When did you leave the girl again? Larry. About seven. Keith. Where did you go? Larry. To my rooms. Keith. To Fitzroy Street. Larry. Yes. Keith. What have you done since? Larry. Is that their thinking? Keith. Not been out? Larry. No. Keith. Not seen the girl? Larry shakes his head. Will she give you away? Larry. Never. Keith. Or herself hysteria? Larry. No. Keith. Who knows of your relations with her? Larry. No one. Keith. No one. Larry. I don't know who should Keith. Keith. Did anyone see you go in last night when you first went to her? Larry. No. She lives on the ground floor. I've got keys. Keith. Give them to me. Larry takes two keys from his pocket and hands them to his brother. Larry. Rising. I can't be cut off from her. Keith. What? A girl like that? Larry. With a flash. Yes. A girl like that? Keith. Moving his hand to put down old emotion. What else have you that connects you with her? Larry. Nothing. Keith. In your rooms. Larry shakes his head. Photographs. Letters. Larry. No. Keith. Sure. Larry. Nothing. Keith. No one saw you going back to her? Larry shakes his head. Nor leaving in the morning. You can't be certain. Larry. I am. Keith. You were fortunate. Sit down again, man. I must think. He turns to the fire and leans his elbows on the mantelpiece in his head on his hands. Larry sits down again immediately. Keith. It's all too unlikely. It's monstrous. Larry. Sighing it out. Yes. Keith. This wallon. Was it his first reappearance after an absence? Larry. Yes. Keith. Larry. How did he find out where she was? Larry. I don't know. Keith. Brutally. How drunk were you? Larry. I was not drunk. Keith. How much had you drunk then? Larry. A little clarit. Nothing. Keith. You say you didn't mean to kill him? Larry. God knows. Keith. That's something. Larry. He hit me. He holds up his hands. I didn't know I was so strong. Keith. She was hanging on to him, you say? That's ugly. Larry. She was scared for me. Keith. Do you mean she loves you? Larry. Simply. Yes, Keith. Keith. Brutally. Can a woman like that love? Larry. Flashing out. By God, you are a stony devil. Why not? Keith. Brutally. I'm trying to get to truth. If you want me to help, I must know everything. What makes you think she's fond of you? Larry. With a crazy laugh. Oh, you lawyer! Were you never in a woman's arms? Keith. I'm talking of love. Larry. Fiercely. So am I. I tell you she's devoted. Did you ever pick up a lost dog? Well, she has the lost dog's love for me and I for her. We picked each other up. I've never felt for another woman what I feel for her. She's been the saving of me. Keith with a shrug. What made you choose that archway? Larry. It was the first dark place. Keith. Did his face look as if it had been strangled? Larry. Don't. Keith. Did it? Larry bows his head. Very disfigured. Larry. Yes. Keith. Did you look to see if his clothes were marked? Larry. No. Keith. Why not? Larry in an outburst. I'm not made of iron like you. Why not if you had done it? Keith holding up his hand. You say he was disfigured? Would he be recognizable? Larry. Larry. Weirdly. I don't know. Keith. When she lived with him last, where was that? Larry. In Pimlico, I think. Keith. Not Soho? Larry shakes his head. How long has she been at this Soho place? Larry. Nearly a year. Keith. Living this life? Larry. Till she met me. Keith. Till she met you. And you believe? Larry, starting up. Keith. Keith. Again, raising his hand. Always in the same rooms. Larry, subsiding. Yes. Keith. What was he? A professional bully? Larry nods. Spending most of his time abroad, I suppose. Larry. I think so. Keith. Can you say if he was known to the police? Larry. I've never heard. Keith turns away and walks up and down. Then, stopping at Larry's chair, he speaks. Keith. Now listen, Larry. When you leave here, go straight home and stay there till I give you leave to go out again. Promise. Larry. I promise. Keith. Is your promise worth anything? Larry, with one of his flashes. Unstabler's water. He shall not excel. Keith. Exactly. But if I'm to help you, you must do as I say. I must have time to think this out. Have you got money? Larry. Very little. Keith, grimly. Half-quarter day. Yes, your quarters always spent by then. If you're to get away, never mind. I can manage the money. Larry, humbly. You're very good, Keith. You've always been very good to me. I don't know why. Keith, sardonically. Privilege of a brother. As it happens, I'm thinking of myself and our family. You can't indulge yourself in killing without bringing ruin. My God, I suppose you realize that you've made me an accessory after the fact. Me, King's Council, sworn to the service of the law, who, in a year or two, will have the trying of cases like yours. By heaven, Larry, you've surpassed yourself. Larry, bringing out a little box. I'd better have done with it. Keith, you fool, give that to me. Larry, with a strange smile. No. He holds up a tablet between finger and thumb. White magic, Keith. Just one, and they may do what they like with you and you won't know it. Snap your fingers at all the tortures. It's great comfort. Have one to keep by you. Keith, come, Larry. Hand it over. Larry, replacing the box. Not quite. You've never killed a man, you see. He gives that crazy laugh. Do you remember that hammer when we were boys and you riled me up in the long room? I had luck then. I had luck in Naples once. I nearly killed the driver for beating his poor brood of a horse. But now, my God, he covers his face. Keith, touched, goes up and lays a hand on his shoulder. Keith, come, Larry. Courage. Larry looks up at him. Larry. All right, Keith, I'll try. Keith, don't go out. Don't drink. Don't talk. Pull yourself together. Larry, moving towards the door. Don't keep me longer than you can help, Keith. Keith. No, no. Courage. Larry reaches the door, turns as if to say something, finds no words, and goes to the fire. Courage, my God, I shall need it. Curtain. Scene two. At about eleven o'clock the following night at Wanda's room on the ground floor in Soho. In the light from one closed shaded electric bulb the room is but dimly visible. A dying fire burns on the left. A curtained window in the center of the black wall. A door on the right. The furniture is plush covered in commonplace with a kind of shabby smartness. A couch, without back or arms, stands a slant between window and fire. On this Wanda is sitting, her knees drawn up under her, staring at the embers. She has on only her nightgown and a wrapper over it. Her bare feet are thrust into slippers. Her hands are crossed and pressed over her breast. She starts and looks up, listening. Her eyes are candid and startled. Her face alabaster pale and its pale brown hair, short and square cut, curls toward her bare neck. The startled dark eyes and the faint rows of her lips are like colors staining on a white mask. Footsteps as of a policeman, very measured, pass on the pavement outside and die away. She gets up and steals to the window, draws one curtain aside so that a chink of the night is seen. She opens the curtain wider till the shape of a bare, witch-like tree becomes visible in the open space of the little square on the far side of the road. The footsteps are heard once more coming near. Wanda closes the curtains and cranes back. They pass and die again. She moves away and looking down at the floor between door and couch as though seeing something there, shutters. Covers her eyes. Goes back to the couch and down again just as before to stare at the embers. Again she is startled by noises of the outer door being opened. She springs up, runs and turns the light by a switch close to the door. By the glimmer of the fire she can just be seen standing by the dark window curtains, listening. There comes the sound of a subdued knocking on her door. She stands in breathless terror. The knocking is repeated. The sound of a latch key in the door is heard. Her terror leaves her. The door opens. A man enters in a dark fur overcoat. Wanda in a voice of breathless relief with a rather foreign accent. Oh, it's you, Larry. Why did you knock? I was so frightened. Come in. She crosses quickly and flinks her arms round his neck, recoiling in a terror-stricken whisper. Oh, who is it? Keith in a smothered voice. A friend of Larry's. Don't be frightened. She has recoiled again to the window, and when he finds the switch and turns the light up, she is seen standing there holding her dark wrapper up to her throat, so that her face has an uncanny look of being detached from the body. Gently. You needn't to be afraid. I haven't come to do you harm. Quite the contrary. Holding up the keys. Larry wouldn't have given me these, would he, if he hadn't trusted me. Wanda does not move. Staring like a spirit startled out of the flesh. After looking round him. I'm sorry to have startled you. Wanda in a whisper. Who are you, please? Keith. Larry's brother. Wanda, with a sigh of utter relief, steals forward to the couch and sinks down. Keith goes up to her. He told me. Wanda, clasping her hands round her knees. Yes? Keith. An awful business. Wanda. Yes. Oh yes. Awful. It is awful. Keith. Staring round him again. In this room. Wanda. Just where you are standing. I see him now. Always falling. Keith. Moved by the gentle despair in her voice. You. Look very young. What's your name? Wanda. Wanda. Keith. Are you fond of Larry? Wanda. I would die for him. A moment's silence. Keith. I. I've come to see what you can do to save him. Wanda, wistfully. You would not deceive me. You are really his brother. Keith. I swear it. Wanda, clasping her hands. If I can save him, won't you sit down? Keith. Drawing up a chair and sitting. This man. Your. Your husband. Before he came here the night before last. How long since you saw him? Wanda. Eighteen months. Keith. Does anyone about here know you are his wife? Wanda. No. I came here to live a bad life. Nobody know me. I am quite alone. Keith. They've discovered who he was. You know that? Wanda. No. I have not dared to go out. Keith. Well, they have, and they'll look for anyone connected with him, of course. Wanda. He never let people think I was married to him. I don't know if I was, really. He went to an office and signed our names, but he was a wicked man. He treated many, I think, like me. Keith. Did my brother ever see him before? Wanda. Never. And that man first went for him. Keith. Yes, I saw the mark. Have you a servant? Wanda. No. A woman comes at nine in the morning for an hour. Keith. Does she know Larry? Wanda. No. He is always gone. Keith. Friends? Acquaintances? Wanda. I am very quiet. Since I know your brother, I see no one, sir. Keith, sharply. Do you mean that? Wanda. Oh, yes. I love him. Nobody come here but him for a long time now. Keith. How long? Wanda. Five months. Keith. So you have not been out since? Wanda shakes her head. What have you been doing? Wanda. Simply. Crying. Pressing her hands to her breast. He is in danger because of me. I am so afraid for him. Keith. Checking her emotion. Look at me. She looks at him. If the worst comes and this man is traced to you, can you trust yourself not to give Larry away? Wanda, rising and pointing to the fire. Look, I have burned all the things he has given me, even his picture. I have nothing from him. Keith, who has risen too. Good. One more question. Do the police know you because of your life? She looks at him intently and shakes her head. You know where Larry lives? Wanda. Yes. Keith. You mustn't go there and he mustn't come to you. She bows her head, then suddenly comes close to him. Wanda. Please do not take him from me altogether. I will be so careful. I will not do anything to hurt him. But if I cannot see him sometimes, I shall die. Please do not take him from me. She catches his hand and presses it desperately between her own. Keith. Leave that to me. I am going to do all I can. Wanda, looking up into his face. But you will be kind. Suddenly she bends and kisses his hand. Keith draws his hand away and she recoils a little humbly. Looking up at him again, suddenly she stands, rigid, listening. In a whisper. Listen. Someone out there. She darts past him and turns out the light. There is a knock on the door. They are now close together between door and window. Whispering. Oh! Who is it? Keith, under his breath. You said no one comes here but Larry. Wanda. Yes. And you have his keys. Oh! If it is Larry, I must open. Keith shrinks back against the wall. Wanda goes to the door, opening the door an inch. Yes? Please? Who? A thin streak of light from a bullseye lantern outside plays over the wall. A policeman voice says, All right, miss. Your outer doors open. You ought to keep it shut after dark, you know. Wanda. Thank you, sir. The sound of recruiting footsteps of the outer door closing. Wanda shuts the door. A policeman. Keith moving from the wall. Curse! I must have left that door. Suddenly turning up the light. You told me they didn't know you. Wanda sighing. I did not think they did, sir. It is so long I was not out in the town, not since I had Larry. Keith gives her an intent look, then crosses to the fire. He stands there a moment looking down, then turns to the girl who has crept back to the couch. Keith, half to himself. After your life, who can believe? Look here. You drifted together and you'll drift apart, you know. Better for him to get away and make a clean cut of it. Wanda uttering a little moaning sound. Oh, sir, may I not love because I have been bad? I was only sixteen when that man spoiled me, if you knew. Keith, I'm thinking of Larry. With you his danger is much greater. There's a good chance as things are going. You may wreck it. And for what? For just a few months more of—well, you know. Wanda standing at the head of the couch and touching her eyes with her hand. Oh, sir, look. It is true he is my life. Don't take him away from me. Keith moved and restless. You must know what Larry is. He'll never stick to you. Wanda simply. He will, sir. Keith energetically. The last man on earth to stick to anything, but for the sake of a whim he'll risk his life in the honour of all his family. I know him. Wanda. No, no, you do not. It is I who know him. Keith. Now, now. At any moment they may find out your connection with that man. So long as Larry goes on with you he's tied to this murder, don't you see? Wanda coming close to him. But he loves me. Oh, sir, he loves me. Keith. Larry has loved dozens of women. Wanda. Yes, but... Her face quivers. Keith, brusquely. Don't cry. If I give you money will you disappear for his sake? Wanda with a moan. It will be in the water then. There will be no cruel man there. Keith. Ah! First Larry, then you. Come now. It's better for you both, a few months and you'll forget who ever met. Wanda, looking wildly up. I will go if very say I must, but not to live. No. Simply. I could not, sir. Keith, moved, is silent. I could not leave without Larry. But it's not for a girl like me when she wants love. It is finished. Keith. I don't want you to go back to that life. Wanda. No, you do not care what I do. Why should you? I tell you I will go if Larry say I must. Keith. That is not enough. You know that. You must take it out of his hands. He will never give up his present for the sake of his future. If you're as fond of him as you say, you'll help to save him. Wanda, below her breath. Yes, oh yes. But do not keep him long from me. I beg. She sinks to the floor and clasps his knees. Keith. Well, well, get up. There's a tap on the window pane. Listen. A faint, peculiar whistle. Wanda, springing up. Larry, oh thank God. She runs to the door, opens it, and goes out to bring him in. Keith stands, waiting, facing the open doorway. Larry, entering with Wanda, just behind him. Larry. Keith. Keith, grimly. So much for your promise not to go out. Larry. I've been waiting in for you all day. I couldn't stand it any longer. Keith. Exactly. Larry. Well, what's the sentence, brother? Transportation for life and then to be fined forty pounds. Keith. So you can joke, can you? Larry. Must. Keith. A boat leaves for the Argentine the day after tomorrow. You must go by it. Larry, putting his arms round Wanda, who is standing motionless with her eyes fixed on him. Together, Keith? Keith. You can't go together. I'll send him by the next boat. Larry. Swear? Keith. Yes. You're lucky they're on a false scent. Larry. What? Keith. You haven't seen it. Larry. I've seen nothing, not even a paper. Keith. They've taken up a vagabond who robbed the body. He pawned a snake-shaped ring and they identified this wall and by it. I've been down and seen him charge myself. Larry. With murder? Wanda. Faintly. Larry. Keith. He's in no danger. They always get the wrong man first. It'll do him no harm to be locked up a bit. Hyena like that. Better in prison anyway than sleeping out under archways in this weather. Larry. What was he like, Keith? Keith. A little yellow ragged lame unshaven scarecrow of a chap. They were fools to think he could have had the strength. Larry. What? In an odd voice. Why? I saw him after I left you last night. Keith. You? Where? Larry. By the archway. Keith. You went back there? Larry. It draws you, Keith. You're mad, I think. Larry. I talked to him and he said, Thank you for this little chat. It's worth more than money when you're down. Little gray man like a shaggy animal. And a newspaper boy came up and said, That's right, governors. It is where they found the body. Very spot. They ain't got him yet. He laughs and the terrified girl presses herself against him. An innocent man. Keith. He's in no danger, I tell you. He could never have strangled why he hadn't the strength of a kitten. Now, Larry, I'll take your birth tomorrow. Here's money. He brings out a pile of notes and puts them on the couch. You can make a new life of it out there together presently in the sun. Larry in a whisper. In the sun. A cup of wine and thou. Suddenly. How can I, Keith? I must see how it goes with that poor devil. Keith. Bosh. Dismiss it from your mind. There's not nearly enough evidence. Larry. Not, Keith. No. You've got your chance. Take it like a man. Larry with a strange smile to the girl. Shall we wander? Wander. Oh, Larry. Larry. Picking the notes up from the couch. Take them back, Keith. Keith. What? I tell you no jury would convict, and if they did no judge would hang. A ghoul who can rob a dead body ought to be in prison. He did worse than you. Larry. It won't do, Keith. I must see it out. Keith. Don't be a fool. Larry. I've still got some kind of honour. If I clear out before I know, I shall have none, nor peace. Take them, Keith, or I'll put them in the fire. Keith. Taking back the notes, bitterly. I suppose I may ask you not to be entirely oblivious of our name, or is that unworthy of your honour? Larry, hanging his head. I'm awfully sorry, Keith. Awfully sorry, old man. Keith, sternly. You owe it to me, to our name, to our dead mother, to do nothing anyway till we see what happens. Larry. I know. I'll do nothing without you, Keith. Keith. Taking up his hat. Can I trust you? He stares hard at his brother. Larry. You can trust me. Keith. Swear. Larry. I swear. Keith. Remember nothing. Good night, Larry. Good night. Keith goes. Larry sits down on the couch and stares at the fire. The girl steals up and slips her arms about him. Larry. An innocent man. Wanda. Oh, Larry, but so are you. What did we want to kill that man? Never. Oh, kiss me. Larry turns his face. She kisses his lips. I have suffered so, not seeing you. Don't leave me again. Don't. Stay here. Stay together. Oh, poor Larry. How tired you look. Stay with me. I am so frightened all the time. So frightened they will take you away from me. Larry. Poor child. Wanda. No, no. Don't look like that. Larry. You're shivering. Wanda. I will make up the fire. Love me, Larry. I want to forget. Larry. The poorest little wretch on God's earth locked up for me. A little wild animal locked up. There he goes, up and down, up and down in his cage. Don't you see him looking for a place to gnaw his way through? Little gray rat. He gets up and roams about. Wanda. No, no. I can't bear it. Don't frighten me more. He comes back and takes her in his arms. Larry. There, there. He kisses her closed eyes. Wanda, without moving. If we could sleep a little, wouldn't it be nice? Larry. Sleep. Wanda. Raising herself. Promise to stay with me. To stay here for good, Larry. I will cook for you. I will make you so comfortable. They will find him innocent, and then, oh, Larry, in the sun, right away, far from this horrible country. How lovely. Trying to get him to look at her. Larry. Larry, with a movement to free himself. To the edge of the world. And over. Wanda. No, no. No, no. You don't want me to die, Larry, do you? I shall, if you leave me. Let us be happy. Love me. Larry, with a laugh. Ah, let's be happy and shut out the sight of him. Who cares? Millions suffer for no mortal reason. Let's be strong like Keith. No, I won't leave you, Wanda. Let's forget everything except ourselves. Suddenly. There he goes, up and down. Wanda moaning. No, no. See, I've been prayed to the Virgin. She will pity us. She falls on her knees and clasps her hands, praying. Her lips move. Larry stands motionless with arms crossed. And on his face are yearning and mockery. Love and despair. Larry, whispering. Pray for us. Bravo. Pray away. Suddenly the girl stretches out her arms and lets her face with a look of ecstasy. What? Wanda. She is smiling. We will be happy soon. Larry bending down to her. Poor child. When we die, Wanda, let's go together. We should keep each other warm out in the dark. Wanda raising her hand to his face. Yes. Oh yes. I could die. I could not. I could not go on living. Curtain. Scene three. Two months later. Wanda's room. Daylight is just beginning to fail of a January afternoon. The table is laid for a supper with the canters of wine. Wanda is sitting at the window looking out at the wintry trees of the square beyond the pavement. A newspaper boy's voice is heard coming nearer. Voice. Paper. Glove line murder. Trial and verdict. Receding. Verdict. Paper. Wanda throws up the window as if to call to him, checks herself, closes it, and runs to the door. She opens it but recoils into the room. Keith is standing there. He comes in. Keith. Where's Larry? Wanda. He went to the trial. I could not keep him from it. The trial. Oh, what has happened, sir? Savagely. Guilty. Sentence of death. Fools. Idiots. Wanda. Of death. For a moment she seems about to swoon. Keith. Girl. Girl, it may all depend on you. Larry's still living here? Wanda. Yes. Keith. I must wait for him. Wanda. Will you sit down, please? Keith. Shaking his head. Are you ready to go away at any time? Wanda. Yes, yes, all this I am ready. Keith. And he? Wanda. Yes, but now what will he do, that poor man? Keith. A graveyard thief. A ghoul. Wanda. Perhaps he was hungry. I have been hungry. You'll do things then that you would not. Larry has thought of him in prison so much all these weeks. Oh, what shall we do now? Keith. Listen, help me. Don't let Larry out of your sight. I must see how things go. They'll never hang this wretch. He grips her arms. Now we must stop Larry from giving himself up. He's fool enough. Do you understand? Wanda. Yes, but why has he not come in? Oh, if he have already. Keith, letting go her arms. My God, if the police come, find me here. He moves to the door. No, he wouldn't without seeing you first. He's sure to come. Watch him like a lynx. Don't let him go without you. Wanda, clasping her hands on her breast. I will try, sir. Keith. Listen. A key is heard in the lock. It's he. Larry enters. He is holding a great bunch of pink lilies and white narcissists. His face tells nothing. Keith looks from him to the girl who stands motionless. Larry. Keith. So you've seen. Keith. The thing can't stand. I'll stop it somehow, but you must give me time, Larry. Larry, calmly. Still looking after your honor, Keith. Keith, grimly. Think my reasons what you like. Wanda, softly. Larry. Larry puts his arm round her. Larry. Sorry, old man. Keith. This man can and shall get off. I want your solemn promise that you won't give yourself up, not even go out till I've seen you again. Larry, I give it. Keith, looking from one to the other. By the memory of our mother, swear that. Larry with a smile. I swear. Keith. I have your oath, both of you. Both of you. I'm going at once to see what can be done. Larry, softly. Good luck, brother. Keith goes out. Wanda putting her hands on Larry's breast. What does it mean? Larry. Sup, a child. I've had nothing all day. Put these lilies in water. She takes the lilies and immediately puts them into a vase. Larry pours wine into a deep colored glass and drinks it off. We've had a good time, Wanda. Best time I've ever had these last two months and nothing but the bill to pay. Wanda, clasping him desperately. Oh, Larry. Larry. Larry, holding her away to look at her. Take off those things and put on a bridal garment. Wanda. Promise me, wherever you go, I go too. Promise. Larry, you think I haven't seen all these weeks? But I have seen everything. All in your heart, always. You cannot hide from me. I knew, I knew. Oh, if we might go away into the sun. Oh, Larry, couldn't we? She searches his eyes with hers, then shattering. Well, if it must be dark, I don't care if I may go in your arms. In prison we could not be together. I am ready. Only love me first. That's where I go. Oh, Larry, with that be much pain. Larry, in a choked voice. No pain, my pretty. Wanda, with a little sigh. It is a pity. Larry, if you had seen him as I have all day being tortured, Wanda, we shall be out of it. The wine mounting to his head. We shall be free in the dark, free of their cursed inhumanities. I hate this world. I loathe it. I hate its godforsaken savagery, its pride and smugness. Keith's world. All righteous will, power and success. We're no good here, you and I. We were cast out at birth. Soft, will-less, better dead. No fear, Keith, I'm staying indoors. He pours wine into two glasses. Drink it up. Obediently Wanda drinks, and he also. Now go and make yourself beautiful. Wanda, seizing him in her arms. Oh, naughty! Larry, touching her face and hair. Hanged by the neck until he's dead, for what I did. Wanda takes a long look at his face, slips her arms from him, and goes out through the curtains below the fireplace. Larry feels in his pocket, brings out the little box, opens it, fingers the white tablets. Larry, to each, after food. He laughs and puts back the box. Oh, my girl! The sound of a piano playing a faint festive tune is heard afar off. He mutters, staring at the fire. Flames flame, and flicker ashes. No more, no more, the moon is dead, and all the people in it. He sits on the couch with a piece of paper on his knees, adding a few words with a stylo pen to what is already written. The girl, in a silk wrapper, coming back through the curtains, watches him. Larry, looking up. It's all here, I have confessed, reading. Please bury us together, Lawrence Daren't. January 28th, about 6 p.m. They'll find us in the morning. Come and have supper, my dear love. The girl creeps forward. He rises, puts his arm round her, and with her arm twined around him, smiling into each other's faces, they go to the table and sit down. The curtain falls for a few seconds to indicate the passage of three hours. When it rises again the lovers are lying on the couch in each other's arms, the lilies strewn about them. The girl's bare arm is round Larry's neck. Her eyes are closed. His are open and sightless. There is no light but firelight. A knocking on the door and the sound of a key turned in the lock. Keith enters. He stands a moment bewildered by the half-white, then calls sharply. Larry, and turns up the light. Seeing the forms on the couch, he recoils a moment. Then, glancing at the table and empty decanters, goes up to the couch. Keith, muttering. Asleep. Drunk. Ugh! Suddenly he bends, touches Larry, and springs back. What? He bends again, shakes him, and calls Larry, Larry! Then motionless, he stares down at his brother's open, sightless eyes. Suddenly he wets his finger and holds it to the girl's lip. Then to Larry's. He bends and listens at their hearts, catch a sight of the little box lying between them, and takes it up. My God! Then, raising himself, he closes his brother's eyes. And as he does so, catch a sight of a paper pinned to the couch, detaches it, and reads. I, Lawrence Derrent, about to die by my own hand, confess that I— He reads on silently, in horror, finishes, letting the paper drop, and recoils from the couch onto a chair at the dishevelled supper-table. Aghast! He sits there. Suddenly he mutters. If I leave that there, my name, my whole future. He springs up, takes up the paper again, and again reads. My God! It's ruined! He makes his if to tear it across, stops, and looks down at those two, covers his eyes with his hand, drops the paper and rushes to the door. But he stops there and comes back, magnetized as it were by that paper. He takes it up once more, and thrusts it into his pocket. The footsteps of a policeman pass, slow and regular, outside. His face crisps and quivers. He stands, listening till they die away. Then he snatches the paper from his pocket and goes past the foot of the couch to the floor. All my— No, let him hang. He thrusts the paper into the fire, stamps it down with his foot, watches it writhe and blackened. Then suddenly clutching his head, he turns to the bodies on the couch. Panting, and like a man demented, he recoils past the head of the couch and rushing to the window, draws the curtains and throws the window up for air. Out in the darkness rises the witch-like skeleton tree, where a dark shape seems hanging. Keith starts back. What's that? What? He shuts the window and draws the dark curtains across it again. Fool! Nothing. Clenching his fists, he draws himself up, steadying himself with all his might. Then slowly he moves to the door, stands a second like a carved figure, his face hard as stone. Deliberately he turns out the light, opens the door, and goes. The still bodies lie there before the fire, which is looking at the last blackened wafer. Curtain. End of The First and the Last by John Galsworthy. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by William Coon, September 2006. A Marriage Has Been Arranged by Alfred Sutrow. The Persons of the Play Mr. Harrison Crockstead Lady Aileen DeVaux Seen, the Conservatory of No. 300 Grosvenor Square. Hour, close on midnight. A ball is in progress, and dreamy waltz music is heard in the distance. Lady Aileen DeVaux enters, leaning on the arm of Mr. Harrison Crockstead. Lady Aileen is a tall, exquisitely gowned girl of the conventional and much-admired type of beauty. Put her in any drawing-room in the world and she would at once be recognized as a high-born English woman. She has in her, in embryo, all those excellent qualities that go to make a great lady. The icy stare, the haughty movement of the shoulder, the disdainful arch of the lip. She has also, but only an experienced observer would notice it, something of wistfulness, something that speaks of a sore and wounded heart, though it is sufficiently evident that this organ is kept under admirable control. A girl who has been placed in a position of life where artificiality rules, who has been taught to be artificial and has thoroughly learned her lesson. Yet one who would unhesitatingly know the proper things to do did a camel-bolt with her in the desert, or an eastern potentate invite her to become his 257th wife. In a word, a lady of complete self-possession and magnificent control. Mr. Crockstead is a big burly man of forty or so, and of the kind to whom the ordinary West End butler would consider himself perfectly justified in declaring that her ladyship was not at home. And yet his evening clothes sit well on him, and there was a certain air of command about the man that would have made the butler uncomfortable. That functionary would have excused himself by declaring that Mr. Crockstead didn't look a gentleman. And perhaps he doesn't. His walk is rather a slouch. He has a way of keeping his hands in his pockets and of jerking out his sentences. A way, above all, of seeming perfectly indifferent to the comfort of the people he happens to be addressing. The impression he gives is one of power, not of refinement, and the massive face with its heavy lines and eyes that are usually veiled seems to give no clue whatever to the character of the man within. The couple break apart when they enter the room. Lady Aileen is the least bit nervous, though she shows no trace of it. Mr. Crockstead absolutely imperturbable and undisturbed. Crockstead looking around. Ah, this is the place, very quiet, retired, romantic, etc. Music in the distance, all very appropriate and sentimental. She leaves him and sits quietly fanning herself. He stands, looking at her. You seem perfectly calm, Lady Aileen. Aileen sitting. Conservatories are not unusual appendages to a ballroom, Mr. Crockstead. Nor is this conservatory unlike other conservatories. Crockstead turning to her. I wonder why women are always so evasive. Aileen. With your permission we will not discuss the sex. You and I are too old to be cynical and too young to be appreciative. And besides, it is a rule of mind whenever I sit out a dance that my partner shall avoid the subjects of women and golf. Crockstead. You limit the area of conversation, but then in this particular instance I take it we have not come here to talk. Aileen coldly. I beg your pardon. Crockstead sitting beside her. Lady Aileen, they are dancing a cattillion in there, so we have half an hour before us. We shall not be disturbed, for the Duchess, your aunt, has considerably stationed her aged companion in the corridor with instructions to ward off intruders. Aileen very surprised. Mr. Crockstead. Crockstead looking hard at her. Didn't you know? Aileen turns aside embarrassed. That's right, of course you did. Don't you know why I have brought you here? That's right, of course you do. The Duchess, your aunt, and the Marchioness, your mother, observe how fondly my tongue trips out the titles. Smiled sweetly on us as we left the ballroom. There will be a notice in the morning post-tomorrow. A marriage has been arranged between Aileen bewildered and offended. Mr. Crockstead. This—this is— Crockstead always in the same quiet tone. Because I have not yet proposed, you mean? Of course I intend to, Lady Aileen. Only as I know that you will accept me. Aileen in icy tones as she rises. Let us go back to the ballroom. Crockstead quite undisturbed. Oh, please, that won't help us, you know. Do sit down. I assure you I have never proposed before, so that naturally I am a trifle nervous. Of course I know that we are only supers, really, without much of a speaking part, but the spirit moves me to gag in the absence of the stage-manager, who is, let us say, the Duchess. Aileen. I have heard of the new humour, Mr. Crockstead, though I confess I have never understood it. This may be an exquisite example. Crockstead, by no means. I am merely trying to do the right thing, though perhaps not the conventional one, before making you the formal offer of my hand and fortune, which amounts to a little over three millions. Aileen fanning herself. How people exaggerate! Between six and seven I heard. Crockstead. Only three at present, but we must be patient. Before throwing myself at your feet, metaphorically, I am anxious that you should know something of the man whom you are about to marry. Aileen. That is really most considerate. Crockstead. I have the advantage of you, you see, in as much as you have many dear friends who have told me all about you. Aileen with growing exasperation, but keeping very cool. Indeed! Crockstead. I am aware, for instance, that this is your ninth season. Aileen snapping her fan. You are remarkably well informed. Crockstead. I have been told that again tonight, three times by charming young women who vowed that they loved you. Now as I have no dearest friends, it is unlikely that you will have heard anything equally definite concerning myself. I propose to enlighten you. Aileen satirically. The story of your life! How thrilling! Crockstead. I trust you may find it so. He sits and pauses for a moment, then begins very quietly. Lady Aileen, I am a self-made man, as the foolish phrase has it, a man whose early years were spent in savage and desolate places, where the devil had much to say, a man in whom whatever there once had been of natural kindness was very soon kicked out. I was poor and lonely for thirty-two years. I have been rich and lonely for ten. My millions have been made honestly enough, but poverty and wretchedness have left their mark on me, and you will find very few men with a good word to say for Harrison Crockstead. I have no polish or culture or tastes. Art wearies me. Literature sends me to sleep. Aileen. When you come to the chapter of your personal deficiencies, Mr. Crockstead, please remember that they are sufficiently evident for me to have already observed them. Crockstead, without a trace of annoyance. That is true. I will pass then to more intimate matters. In a little township in Australia, a horrible place where there was gold, I met a woman whom I loved. She was what is technically known as a bad woman. She ran away with another man. I tracked them to Texas and in a mining-camp there I shot the man. I wanted to take the woman back, but she refused. That has been my solitary love affair, and I shall never love any woman again as I loved her. I think that is all that I have to tell you. And now, will you marry me, Lady Aileen? Aileen, very steadily facing him. Not if you were the last man in this world, Mr. Crockstead. Crockstead, with a pleasant smile. At least that is emphatic. Aileen. See, I will give you confidence for confidence. This is, as you suggest, my ninth season, living in an absurd milieu where marriage with a wealthy man is regarded as the one aim in life. I have, during the past few weeks, done all that lay in my power to ring a proposal from you. Crockstead, I appreciate your sincerity. Aileen. Perhaps the knowledge that other women were doing the same led to little zest to the pursuit, which otherwise would have been very dreary, for I confess that your personality did not especially appeal to me. Crockstead, cheerfully. Thank you very much. Aileen. Not at all. Indeed, this room being the palace of truth, I will admit that it was only by thinking hard of your three millions that I have been able to conceal the weirdness I have felt in your society. And now, will you marry me, Mr. Crockstead? Crockstead, serenely. I fancy that's what we're here for, isn't it? Aileen, stamping her foot. I have, of course, been devoured from the disreputable walls of which you linger so fondly, but I loved a soldier cousin of mine and would have run away with him had my mother not pecked me often time. He went to India and I stayed here, but he is the only man I have loved or ever shall love. Further, let me tell you I am twenty-eight. I have always been poor. I hate poverty, and it has soured me no less than you. Dress is the thing in life I care for most, while guaranteeing my chief abomination. And to be frank, I consider you the most vulgar person I have ever met. Will you still marry me, Mr. Crockstead? Crockstead, with undiminished cheerfulness. Why not? Aileen. This is an outrage! Am I a horse, do you think, or a ballet dancer? Do you imagine I will sell myself to you for your three millions? Crockstead. Logic, my dear Lady Aileen, is evidently not one of your more special possessions. For, had it not been for my somewhat eccentric preliminaries, you would have accepted me, would you not? Aileen embarrassed. I—I—Crockstead. If I had said to you timidly, Lady Aileen, I love you. I am a simple, unsophisticated person. Will you marry me? You would have answered, yes, Harrison, I will. Aileen. It is a mercy to have escaped marrying a man with such a Christian name as Harrison. Crockstead. It has been in the family for generations, you know, but it is a strange thing that I am always called Harrison, that no one ever adopts the diminutive. Aileen. That does not surprise me. We have no pet name for the east wind. Crockstead. The possession of millions you see, Lady Aileen, puts you into eternal quarantine. It's a kind of yellow fever, with the difference that people are perpetually anxious to catch your complaint. But we digress. To return to the question of our marriage. Aileen. I beg your pardon. Crockstead. I presume that it is arranged. Aileen, haughtily. Mr. Crockstead, let me remind you that frankness has its limits. Exceeding these it is apt to degenerate into impertnence. Be good enough to conduct me to the ballroom. She moves to the door. Crockstead. You have five sisters, I believe, Lady Aileen. Aileen, stop short. All younger than yourself. All marriageable. And all unmarried. Aileen hangs her head and is silent. Crockstead. Your father... Aileen fiercely. Not a word of my father! Crockstead. Your father is a gentleman. The breed is rare and very fine when you get it. But he is exceedingly poor. People marry for money nowadays, and your mother will be very unhappy if this marriage of ours falls through. Aileen, moving a step towards him. Is it to oblige my mother, then, that you desire to marry me? Crockstead. Well, no. But you see I must marry someone in mere self-defense, and honestly I think you will do at least as well as anyone else. Aileen bursts out laughing. That strikes you as funny. Aileen. If you had the least grain of chivalrous feeling, you would realize that the man who could speak to a woman as you have spoken to me... She pauses. Crockstead. Yes. Aileen. I leave you to finish the sentence. Crockstead. Thank you. I will finish it my own way. I will say that when a woman deliberately tries to ring an offer of marriage from a man whom she does not love, she deserves to be spoken to as I have spoken to you, Lady Aileen. Aileen scornfully. Love! What is love to do with marriage? Crockstead. That remark rings hollow. You have been good enough to tell me of your cousin whom you did love. Aileen. Well... Crockstead. And with whom you would have eloped had your mother not prevented you. Aileen. I most certainly should. Crockstead. So you see that at one period of your life you thought differently. You were very fond of him? Aileen. I have told you. Crockstead. Meditatively. If I had been he, mother or no mother, money or no money, I would have carried you off. I fancy it must be pleasant to be loved by you, Lady Aileen. Aileen dropping a mock curtsy as she sits on the sofa. You do me too much honour. Crockstead, still thoughtful, moving about the room. Next to being king it is good to be maker of kings. Where is this cousin now? Aileen. In America, but might I suggest that we have exhausted the subject? Crockstead. Do you remember your Arabian nights, Lady Aileen? Aileen. Vaguely. Crockstead. You have at least not forgotten that sublime Caliph Harun al-Rashid? Aileen. Oh no! But why? Crockstead. We millionaires are the Caliphs today, and we command more faithful than ever bowed to them, and like that old scoundrel Harun, we may at times permit ourselves a respectable impulse. What is your cousin's address? Aileen. Again I ask, why? Crockstead. I will put him in a position to marry you. Aileen in extreme surprise. What? She rises. Crockstead. Oh, don't be alarmed. I'll manage it pleasantly. I'll give him tips, shares, speculate for him, make him a director of one or two of my companies. He shall have an income of four thousand a year. You can live on that. Aileen. You are not serious. Crockstead. Oh yes, and though men may not like me, they always trust my word. You may. Aileen. And why will you do this thing? Crockstead. Call it caprice. Call it a mere vulgar desire to let my magnificence dazzle you. Call it the less vulgar desire to know that my money has made you happy, with the man you love. Aileen. That is generous. Crockstead. I remember an old poem I learnt at school which told how Frederick the Great coveted a mill that adjoined a favorite estate of his. But the miller refused to sell. Frederick could have turned him out, of course. There was not very much public opinion in those days. But he respected the miller's firmness and left him in solid possession. And mark that at the very same time he annexed, in other words, Stoll, the province of Silesia. Aileen. Ah! Crockstead. Moving to the fireplace. C'est sans l'âge le prince, il respectante menier, ils voient l'un ou l'un province. The music stops. Aileen. You speak French? Crockstead. I am fond of it. It is the true and native language of insincerity. Aileen. And yet you seem sincere. Crockstead. I am permitting myself that luxury to-night. I am uncorking, let us say, the one bottle of forty-seven port left in my cellar. Aileen. You are not quite fair to yourself, perhaps. Crockstead. You not let this action of mine cause you too suddenly to alter your opinion. The verdict you pronounced before was, on the whole, just. Aileen. What verdict? Crockstead. I was the most unpleasant person you ever had met. Aileen. That was an exaggeration. Crockstead. The most repulsive. Aileen, quickly. I did not say that. Crockstead. And who prided himself on his repulsiveness? Very true in the main, and yet consider, my wealth dates back ten years. Till then I had known hunger and every kind of sorrow and despair. I had stretched out longing arms to the world, but not a heart open to me. And suddenly, when the taste of men's cruelty was bitter in my mouth, capricious fortune snatched me from abject poverty and gave me delirious wealth. I was plowing a barren field and flung up a nugget. In that moment gold dogged my footsteps. I enriched the few friends I had. They turned howlingly from me because I did not give them more. I showered money on whoever sought it of me. They cursed me because it was mine to give. In my poverty there had been the bond of common sorrow between me and my fellows. In my wealth I stand alone, a modern ishmael, with every man's hand against me. Aileen, gently. Why do you tell me this? Croxted. Because I am no longer asking you to marry me, because you are the first person in all these years who has been truthful and frank with me. And because perhaps in the happiness that will I trust be yours, I want you to think kindly of me. She puts out her hand. He takes it. And now shall we return to the ballroom? The music has stopped. They must be going to supper. Aileen. What shall I tell to the Marchioness, my mother, and the Duchess, my aunt? Croxted. You will acquaint those noble ladies with the fact of your having refused me. They have both risen and move up the room together. Aileen. I shall be a nine days wonder. And how do you propose to carry out your little scheme? Croxted. I will take Saturday's boat. You will give me a line to your cousin. I had better state the case plainly to him, perhaps. Aileen. That demands consideration. Croxted. And I will tell you what you shall do for me in return. Find me a wife. Aileen. I. Croxted. You. I beg it on my knees. I give you carte blanche. I undertake to propose with my eyes shut to the woman you shall select. Aileen. And will you treat her to the little preliminaries with which you have favored me? Croxted. No, I said those things to you because I liked you. Aileen. And you don't intend to like the other one? Croxted. I will marry her. I can trust you to find me a loyal and intelligent woman. Aileen. In society? Croxted. For preference. She will be better versed in spending money than a governess or country parson's daughter. Aileen. But why this voracity for marriage? Croxted. Lady Aileen, I am hunted, pestered, worried, persecuted. I have settled two breach of promise actions already, though heaven knows I did know more than remark it was a fine day or inquire after the lady's health. If you do not help me, some energetic woman will capture me, I feel it, and bully me for the rest of my days. I raise a despairing cry to you. Find me a wife. Aileen. Do you desire the lady to have any? The special qualifications? Croxted. No, the homegrown article will do. One thing, though, I should like her to be... Merciful. Aileen. I don't understand. Croxted. I have a vague desire to do something with my money. My wife might help me. I should like her to have pity. Aileen. Pity. Croxted. In the midst of her wealth I should wish her to be sorry for those who are poor. Aileen. Yes. And is regards the rest? Croxted. The rest I leave to you, with absolute confidence. You will help me. Aileen. I will try. My choice is to be final. Croxted. Absolutely. Aileen. I have an intimate friend. I wonder whether she would do. Croxted. Tell me about her. Aileen. As she and I made our debut the same season, like myself she has hitherto been her mother's despair. Croxted. As she has not yet. Aileen. Married? Yes. O, if men knew how hard the lot is of the portionless girl who has to sit and smile and wait with a very desolate heart, they would think less unkindly of her perhaps. She smiles. But I am digressing too. Croxted. Tell me more of your friend. Aileen. She is outwardly hard and a trifle bitter, but I fancy sunshine would thaw her that has not been much happiness in her life. Croxted. Would she marry a man she did not love? Aileen. If she did you would not respect her? Croxted. I don't say that. She will be your choice and therefore deserving of confidence. Is she handsome? Aileen. Well, no. Croxted with a quick glance at her. That's a pity, but we can't have everything. Aileen. No. There is one episode in her life that I feel she would like you to know. Croxted. If you are not betraying a confidence. Aileen looking down. No. She loved a man years ago, very daily. They were too poor to marry, but they vowed to wait. Within six months she learned that he was engaged. Croxted. Ah. Aileen. To a fat and wealthy widow. Croxted. The old story. Aileen. Who was touring through India and had been made loved to by every unmarried officer in the regiment. She chose him. Croxted. India? He moves toward her. Aileen. Yes. Croxted. I have an idea that I shall like your friend. He takes her hand in his. Aileen. I shall be careful to tell her all that you said to me at the beginning. Croxted. It is quite possible that my remarks may not apply after all. Aileen. But I believe myself from what I know of you that if she marries you, it will not be altogether for your money. Croxted. Listen, they're playing God Save the King. Will you be my wife, Aileen? Aileen. Yes. Harry. He takes her in his arms and kisses her. Curtin. End of A Marriage Has Been Arranged by Alfred Sutrow. Swan Song by Anton Chekhov. With Rosalind Wills as Svjetlovedov and Kirsten Ferreri as Ivanish. The scene is laid on the stage of a country theater at night after the play. To the right a row of rough unpainted doors leading into the dressing rooms. To the left and in the background the stage is encumbered with all sorts of rubbish. In the middle of the stage is an overturned stool. Svjetlovedov with a candle in his hand comes out of a dressing room and laughs. Well, well, well, this is funny. Here's a good joke. I fell asleep in my dressing room when the play was over and there I was calmly snoring after everybody else had left the theater. Ha! I'm a foolish old man, a poor old daughter. I've been drinking again. So I fell asleep in there, sitting up. That was clever. Good for you, old boy. Yegorka! Petruska! Where the devil are you? Petruska! Scoundrels must be asleep and an earthquake wouldn't wake them now. Yegorka! Not a sound, only echoes answer me. I gave Yegorka and Petruska each a tip today and now they have disappeared without leaving a trace behind them. The rascals have gone off. They've probably locked up the theater. I'm drunk. Ah! The play tonight was, for my benefit, disgusting to think how much beer and wine I poured down my throat in honor of the occasion. Gracious! My body is burning all over. I feel as if I had twenty tongues in my mouth. It's horrid, idiotic. This poor old sinner is drunk again and doesn't even know what he's been celebrating. Ah! My head is splitting. I'm shivering all over. I feel as dark and cold inside as a cellar. Even if I don't mind ruining my health, I ought at least to remember my age, old idiot that I am. Yes, my old age. It's no use. I can play the fool and brag and pretend to be young, but my life is really over now. I kiss my hand to the sixty-eight years that have gone by. I'll never see them again. I've drained the bottle. Only a few little drops are left at the bottom, nothing but the dregs. Yes, yes, that's the case for silly old boy. The time has come for you to rehearse the part of a mummy, whether you like it or not. Death is on its way to you. It is strange, though, that I've been on the stage now for forty-five years, and this is the first time I've seen a theatre at night after the lights have been put out. First time. How dark it is. I can't see a thing. Oh yes, I can just make out the prompter's box in his desk. The rest is in pitch darkness, a black, bottomless pit like a grave in which death itself might be hiding. How cold it is. The wind blows out of the empty theatre as though out of a stone flew. What a place for ghosts, the shivers are running up and down my back. Yegorka, Petruska! Where are you both? What on earth makes me think of such gruesome things here, I must give up drinking. I'm an old man, I shan't live much longer. At sixty-eight people go to church and prepare for death, but here I am, heavens, a profane old drunkard in this fool's dress. I'm simply not fit to look at. I must go and change it at once. This is a dreadful place, I should die of fright sitting here all night. Svyatlovadov goes toward his dressing room. At the same time, Ivanish in a long white coat comes out of the dressing room. Who are you? What? What do you want? Who are you? It is I, sir. The prompter. Nikita Ivanish. It is I, master. It is I. Heavens, who are you? It is you. You, Nikitushka. What are you doing here? I spend my nights here in the dressing rooms. Only please be good enough not to tell Alexey Fomitch, sir. I have nowhere else to spend the night. Indeed, I haven't. Ah, it is you, Nikitushka, is it? Just think the audience calls you. Ah, it is you, Nikitushka, is it? Just think the audience called me out sixteen times. They brought me three reeds and lots of other things too. They were all wild with enthusiasm. And yet not a soul came when it was all over to wake the poor drunken old man and take him home. And I am an old man, Nikitushka. I am sixty-eight years old and I am ill. I haven't the heart to have to go on. Don't go away, Nikitushka. I am old and helpless and I feel it is time for me to die. Oh, it's dreadful, dreadful. Dear master, it's time for you to go home, sir. I won't go home. I have no home. None, none, none. Oh dear, have you forgotten where you live? I won't go there. I won't. I'm all alone there. I have nobody, Nikitushka, no wife, no children. I am like the wind blowing across the lonely fields. I shall die and no one will remember me. It is awful to be alone. No one to cheer me, no one to caress me, no one to help me to bed when I'm drunk. Whom do I belong to? Who needs me? Who loves me? Not a soul, Nikitushka. Your audience loves you, master. My audience has gone home. They are all asleep and have forgotten their old clown. No, nobody needs me. Nobody loves me. I have no wife, no children. Oh dear, oh dear, don't be so unhappy about it. But I am a man. I am still alive. Warm red blood is tingling in my veins, the blood of noble ancestors. I am an aristocrat, Nikitushka. I served in the army, in the artillery, before I fell as low as this. And what a fine young chap I was, handsome, daring, eager. Where is it all gone? What has become of those old days? There's the pit that has swallowed them all. I remember it all now. Forty-five years of my life lie buried there. What a life, Nikitushka. I can see it as clearly as I see your face. The ecstasy of youth, faith, passion, the love of women. Women, Nikitushka. It's time you went to sleep, sir. When I first went on the stage in the first glow of passionate youth, I remember a woman loved me for my acting. She was beautiful, graceful as a poplar, young, innocent, pure, and radiant as a summer dawn. Her smile could charm away the darkest night. I remember I stood before her once, as I am now standing before you. She had never seemed so lovely to me as she did then. She spoke to me with her eyes such a look. I shall never forget it. No, not even in a grave. So tender, so soft, so deep, so bright and young, enraptured, intoxicated. I fell on my knees before her. I begged for my happiness, and she said, Give up the stage. Give up the stage. Do you understand? She could love an actor, but marry him never. I was acting that day. I remember I had a foolish clown's part. As I acted, I felt my eyes being opened. I saw that the worship of the art I had held so sacred was a delusion and an empty dream that I was a slave, a fool, the plaything of the idleness of strangers. I understood my audience at last, and since that day I have not believed in their applause, or in their wreaths, or in their enthusiasm. Yes, Neketushka, the people applaud me. They buy my photograph, but I am a stranger to them. They don't know me. I am as the dirt beneath their feet. They are willing enough to meet me, but allow a daughter or a sister to marry me, an outcast. Never. I have no faith in them. No faith in them. Oh, sir. You look so dreadfully pale. You're frightening me to death. Come. Go home. Have mercy on me. I saw through it all that day, and the knowledge was dearly bought. Neketushka. After that, when that girl... Well, I began to wander aimlessly about, living from day to day without looking ahead. I took the part of the phones and low comedians, letting my mind go to wreck. But I was a great artist once. Till little by little I threw away my talents, played the motley fool, lost my looks, lost the power of expressing myself, and became in the end of Mary Andrew instead of a man. I even swallowed up in that great black pit. I never felt it before, but tonight, when I woke up, I looked back, and there behind me lay sixty-eight years. I just found out what it is to be old. It's all over. All over. They're there, dear master. Be quiet. Gracious. Petrushka. Yagorka. But what a genius I was. Can't imagine what power I had, what eloquence, how graceful I was, how tender, how many strings quivered in this breast. It chokes me to think of it. Listen now, wait, let me catch my breath. Now listen to this. The shade of bloody Ivan now returning, fans through my lips, rebellion to a flame. I am the dead Dimitri, in the burning, borish shall perish on the throne I claim. Enough. The air of Tsar shall not be seen, appealing to yonder haughty Polish queen. Is that bad, eh? Wait now, here's something from King Lear. Sky's black, see rain is pouring down, thunder roars lightning. Choo-choo! Splits the whole sky, and then listen. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks. Rage, blow, you cataracts and hurricanes. Spout till you have drenched our steeples. Drown the cocks. You sulfurous and thought-executing fires. Vaunt couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts. Singe my white head. And thou, all shaking thunder, strike flat the thick rotundity of the world. Crack nature's moulds, all German spill at once that make ungrateful man. Now, the part of the fool. Come, take the fool's part. Be quick. I can't wait. Oh! Ah! Uncle! Court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out-a-door. Good, Uncle, in! Ask thy daughter's blessing. Here's a knight-pity's neither wise men nor fools. Rumble thy bellyful. Spit fire. Spout rain. Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom. Called you children. Ah! There is strength. There is talent for you. I'm a great artist. Now, then, here's something else of the same kind to bring back my youth to me. For instance, take this from Hamlet. I'll begin. Let me see. How does it go? Oh, yes. This is it. Oh, the recorders. Let me see one. To withdraw with you. Why do you go about to recover the wind of me as if you would drive me into a toil? Oh, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmanorly. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? My lord, I cannot. I pray you. Believe me. I cannot. I do beseech you. I know no touch of it, my lord. It is as easy as lying. Cover these vantages with your finger and thumb. Give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you. These are the stops. But these I cannot command to any utterance of harmony. I have not the skill. Why? Look you. How unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me. You would seem to know my stops. You would pluck out the heart of my mystery. You would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass, and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak? Is blood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. Bravo, bravo, encore, where the devil is there any old age in that. Not old? That's all nonsense. A torrent of strength rushes over me. This is life, freshness, youth, old age, and genius can't exist together. You seem to be struck dumb, Nicky Tushka. Wait a second, let me come to my senses again. Oh, good lord. Now then, listen. Did you ever hear such tenderness, such music? Ssh, softly. The moon had set. There was not any light save of the lonely legion watch-stars pale and outer air and what by fits made bright hot oleanders in a rosy veil, searched by the lamping fly whose little spark went in and out like passion's bashful hope. What's that? There are Tushka and Yagorka coming back. Yes, you have genius. A genius, my master. Come here to me, boys. Let us go get dressed. I'm not old. All that's foolishness. Nonsense. What are you crying for, you poor old granny? What's the matter now? This won't do. There, there. This won't do at all. Come, come, old man, don't stare. So what makes you stare like that? There. There. Don't cry. Where there is art and genius, there can never be such things as old age or loneliness or sickness and death itself is half. No, no, Nikita Tushka, it's all over for us now. What sort of a genius am I? I'm like a squeezed lemon, a cracked bottle, and you? You are the old rat of the theatre, a prompter. Come on. I'm no genius. I'm only fit to be in the suite of Fortenbras and even for that I am too old. Yes. Do you remember those lines from Othello, Nikita Tushka? Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content, farewell the plummeted troops and the big wars that make ambition virtue. Oh, farewell. Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal banner and all quality, pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war. Oh, you're a genius. A genius. And again this. Away, the moor is dark beneath the moon. Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even. Away, the gathering winds will call the darkness soon. And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. They go out together, the curtain falls slowly. End of Swan Song by Anton Chekhov.