ACT I
Horace Parker’s house, London, W. A living room
with doors R. and L. Large window C. with curtains
to draw. A sofa in front of window. A
coat rack, or closet with curtain, containing three
overcoats of Horace’s and golf caps and sticks,
L. Table L. on which are whiskey bottle, syphons,
glasses, and jar of biscuits. On R. is a fireplace
with fire burning. Up of fire is small stand.
Below is a chair. A table in front of fire with
armchair between it and fire. Another chair L.
of table. A large standing oil lamp near table
R. with red shade. This should have a greenish
figure on a classical style, represented as holding
or steadying the lamp standard. This figure is
supposed to become the Messenger from Mars
in the dream, only enlarged. The figure can,
however, be omitted.
At Rise: Enter Bella R. Lights lamp or turns it
up. Draws curtains. Attends to fire, and exits
L. Enter Minnie Templar, dressed for a ball,
followed by Aunt Martha R.
Minnie. (Looking about her) He’s not here!
Aunt. Not here?
Minnie. No. Where can he be?
Aunt. (At fire) Extraordinary!
Minnie. Auntie, we shall be late. Do you hear?
We shall be late.
Aunt. Yes, dear, I think you will.
Minnie. He promised to go, didn’t he?
Aunt. Yes, dear, he certainly did.
Minnie. I do call it a shame. Horace is the
meanest, most selfish——
Aunt. Quite right, dear, he is.
Minnie. He thinks of nothing but his books, and
his papers, and his horrid little stars.
Aunt. Quite true, dear, he does.
Minnie. Then why do you let him do it?
Aunt. I?
Minnie. Yes, you. You know he is engaged to
me, and yet you allow him to treat me as if we had
been married for years. (Up to window.)
Aunt. My dear Minnie—(Sits L. of table)—if
Horace is a little thoughtless, surely it isn’t my fault.
I suppose he has forgotten all about the dance——
Minnie. Forgotten! (Comes C.) I’ll tell you
what it is. Aunt Martha, you will have to go instead.
(Goes to fire.)
Aunt. Minnie, I can’t. You know, dear, it is
quite impossible.
Minnie. Impossible? Why?
Aunt. Well, dear, you know that horrid Louise
hasn’t sent home my dress.
Minnie. Nonsense, Aunt Martha. You’ve lots
of dresses.
Aunt. Not one fit to be seen. You know that
perfectly well.
Minnie. There’s your plum-colored silk——
Aunt. My dear child. I wore that all last winter.
Minnie. Only about three times. Then there’s
your yellow satin.
Aunt. You know I look a perfect fright in that.
Yellow doesn’t suit me.
Minnie. Nothing suits you to-night. I declare
you are as bad as Horace! I suppose I shall have
to give up the dance. It is a shame!
Aunt. My dear, I would have gone with pleasure
if that odious Louise hadn’t disappointed me.
But you wouldn’t have me make an exhibition of
myself. One must have some pride.
Minnie. Pride? You’re all pride. I do believe
if the house were on fire, and you cut off in a top
room, you’d decline the fire-escape unless you were
dressed in the latest Paris fashion. (Goes up to
window.)
Aunt. Well, upon my word, dear, you are not
very polite. I must say that I am very sorry that
you should be disappointed about your dance, but I
don’t believe you’d have cared so very much if you
hadn’t known you were wearing a particularly
pretty frock.
Minnie. It isn’t that at all.
Aunt. But it is—a very pretty frock. And it
suits you quite wonderfully.
Minnie. Does it, Auntie? (Coming to Aunt.)
What I meant was I go for the dancing—principally.
I do love dancing. Auntie, don’t you think
you could manage? (Kisses her. Front door
heard to slam.) Ah, that must be Horace.
(Enter Horace R. in fur coat. Minnie runs to
him and kisses him. Horace puts copy of
“The Astronomer” on table.)
Minnie. Oh, Horace!
Horace. Beastly cold. (Goes to fire.)
Minnie. Horace, I’m so glad you’re here.
We’ve been waiting such a time.
Horace. Waiting? What for?
Minnie. Why, for you.
Aunt. Have you got a cab?
Horace. Cab? What for?
Aunt. Well, you know the horses are coughing.
Horace. Coughing. No wonder—everybody’s
coughing, this beastly weather. I’m coughing—— (Coughs.)
Minnie. (At top of table) Poor dear. How
good of you to go out. When will it be here?
Horace. What?
Minnie. The cab.
Horace. I don’t know what you are talking
about.
Aunt. That odious Louise hasn’t sent home my
dress. But there, you two will be all right without
me.
Horace. Without you? Oh, yes, we’ll manage.
(Taking off coat—puts it down on chair R. below
fireplace.)
Minnie. Oh, Auntie, he isn’t dressed yet.
Aunt. Horace, you’ll be late. You’ll miss ever
so many dances.
Horace. What on earth are you talking about?
Aunt. Aren’t you going to the Clarences’ dance?
Horace. Certainly not.
Minnie. Oh, Horace!
Aunt. But you are not going to disappoint
Minnie!
Minnie. Horace, please.
Aunt. Mrs. Clarence will be offended if none
of us go.
Horace. Well, then, go, by all means. There’s
nothing to prevent you.
Aunt. But Minnie can’t go without you.
Horace. Why not?
Minnie. Auntie’s dress hasn’t come from
Louise’s, so she can’t go.
Aunt. You promised to take her.
Horace. I’m not going out again to-night.
Minnie. Oh, Horace, how unkind!
Aunt. I call it perfectly mean.
Horace. It is much too cold. Besides, I want
to read.
Aunt. I never knew anyone as selfish as you,
Horace.
Horace. Well, what keeps you? Why don’t
you go?
Aunt. You know I can’t. I haven’t got a dress.
Horace. Well, go without it.
Aunt. Horace!
Horace. I mean, you can easily find one that
will do.
Aunt. I think men are perfect fools. One that
will do, indeed. Now don’t speak to me any more.
Horace. Kindly listen to me. In spite of my
frightful cough—(Slight cough)—I’ve been out in
the bitter snow to get this copy of the “Astronomer.”
It contains an article on life on the planet
Mars, in which you know I am much interested.
And you ask me to put on thin dress clothes and
go out again, and run tremendous risks with my
delicate throat and supersensitive lungs, and all for
what? To see a lot of fools capering about and
making idiots of themselves until four or five in
the morning. I think you are most inconsiderate—
Aunt. Horace——
Horace.—and unreasonable, and selfish.
Aunt. The impertinence of the man.
Minnie. Oh, never mind. I didn’t understand
that you had anything in particular to do.
Horace. Now, there’s a sensible little girl.
Minnie. Sit down here—(Armchair)—and
make yourself thoroughly comfortable.
Horace. (Sitting down, but feeling in all his
pockets) One who realizes that one cannot always
be running about from place to place, neglecting
the serious interests of life.
Minnie. What is it? What are you looking
for?
Horace. My cigar case. I fancy I must have
left it in my room. (Minnie runs L. to get it.)
Wait a minute. Did I put it down as I came
through the hall? (Minnie runs R.) Wait, wait,
I’m not certain I took it out with me at all this
morning, in which case it surely will be in my
study. (Minnie runs L.) Now, don’t run about.
You make me giddy. Do not run about. Have a
thorough search. (Exit Minnie L.)
Aunt. Horace, you are going too far.
Horace. Not I. I am stopping at home.
Aunt. You know what I mean. With Minnie.
Horace. Ah, she’s a dear little girl.
Aunt. She’s one in a thousand.
Horace. She is.
Aunt. She’s much too good for you.
Horace. I don’t know about that. She’s quite
good enough.
Aunt. You are perfectly detestable.
Horace. Think so?
Aunt. Yes, and you’re growing worse every
day. (Goes L.) You are simply wrapped up in
selfishness, and egotism, and conceit.
Horace. Merely because I prefer a quiet evening
to myself and my books? Because I prefer
scientific discovery to heartless frivolity? Absurd.
Aunt. You are forgetting your duty to the girl
you are going to make your wife. You seem to
think because she was adopted by your mother you
have the right to order her about as if she were a
servant.
Horace. You know you are talking absolute
rot.
Aunt. You make her feel her dependent position,
and I think that very unfair.
Horace. But, hang it all, she is not dependent.
My mother provided for her sufficiently.
Aunt. Yes, I know, but everything comes from
our family, and you never allow her to forget the
fact. She considers she owes you a debt of gratitude.
Horace. If it comes to that—well, she does.
Aunt. You ought never to let her feel that.
You should try to win her heart.
Horace. Oh, bother. I have won her heart.
We are engaged.
Aunt. Then try to deserve it.
Horace. But I do deserve it.
Aunt. Indeed! And pray, when are you going
to marry her?
Horace. Oh, that’s all right. There’s no hurry
about that.
Aunt. No hurry? Horace, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself.
Horace. (Aunt goes L.) Now, my dear Aunt,
don’t you think you are very unwise to try and
precipitate matters? You have heard that people
who marry in haste very often——
Aunt. (Returning to table) You’ll have plenty
of leisure for repentance shortly, but it will be
for quite a different reason. Minnie will wake up
presently and see you as you really are. She is a
most attractive girl. You’ll feel pretty miserable
when you have lost her.
Horace. Ridiculous. Minnie knows when she
is well off. Hullo. I could have sworn I felt in
that pocket! (Finds cigar case.)
Aunt. What is it? (Sees case. Aside) Hopeless,
hopeless.
Horace. That’s a bit of bad luck, isn’t it?
Aunt. Bad luck?
Horace. I might have been smoking all this
time. (Lights up.) There’s nothing like a good
cigar, after all.
Aunt. There’s nothing like a good wife.
Horace. Well, of course I don’t know anything
about that.
Aunt. I believe you prefer the cigar.
Horace. To women? In some respects I think
I do.
Aunt. Oh, do you?
Horace. For one thing, a cigar doesn’t talk.
And when you have finished with one, you can
begin another.
(Enter Minnie L.)
Minnie. I can’t find your cigar case anywhere.
You’ve found it!
Horace. In my pocket all the time.
Minnie. (Goes to him and places cushions in
chair) There, now. Are you nice and comfortable?
Horace. No. Not at all.
Aunt. Don’t speak to him, dear. He isn’t
worth it.
Minnie. Now, Auntie dear, I must make my
boy cosy, and then I think I shall go to bed.
Aunt. What? Give up the dance?
Minnie. Oh, never mind about that.
Aunt. Horace, I ask you, have you the heart
to let Minnie sacrifice her pleasure for you in this
way?
Minnie. But, Auntie, it doesn’t matter, really
it doesn’t.
Aunt. I’m very angry with him.
Horace. I am not sacrificing her pleasure, it’s
you. Why don’t you go?
Aunt. You know I can’t.
Horace. There’s nothing to prevent you, except
your absurd vanity.
Minnie. For shame, Horace!
Aunt. Vanity indeed! How dare you?
Horace. It’s perfectly true. It’s just your nonsense
about a dress.
Aunt. Very well, then, you shall see. I will
go. I don’t care how I look.
Horace. And I am sure I don’t, either.
Aunt. Minnie shan’t be deprived of her evening.
I’ll put on my yellow satin and look a perfect
fright.
Horace. I’ll believe you when I see you.
Minnie. I have quite given up the idea,
Auntie.
Aunt. But I haven’t. You shall see, Horace, I
keep my word.
Horace. Oh, devil doubt you!
Aunt. Whatever it costs me, I’ll do my duty.
Minnie. I don’t want to inflict this on you,
Auntie dear. I’m quite content to go to bed.
Aunt. Content. Oh, yes, I understand your
content. But you shall go, my dear, to as many
balls and parties as possible. You shall go to Ascot
and Henley and Goodwood and Cowes. We’ll find
escorts easily enough. You shall see plenty of new
faces. I’ll take care of that. Vanity, indeed! I’ll
teach him to call me vain! (Starts to exit L. when
Bella enters R. with box.)
Bella. From Madame Louise, ma’m.
Aunt. The dress?
Bella. Yes, ma’m.
Aunt. What a relief!
Horace. What a relief!
Minnie. Auntie, isn’t that splendid luck?
Bella. Madame Louise hopes it will be in time.
Aunt. Just in time. Take it up to my room at
once. (Exit Bella L.) I won’t keep you waiting
any longer than I can help. You’ll find Horace
such a delightful companion, so witty and entertaining.
Oh, don’t speak to him, then you won’t
get any uncivil answers. (Exit L.)
Horace. (After a pause, looks up from his
paper) Got the jumps.
Minnie. You must have said something to upset
her. She isn’t often like that.
Horace. I should hope not.
Minnie. She’ll be all right to-morrow.
Horace. That’s the worst of women, they’re so
illogical, aren’t they?
Minnie. I suppose they are.
Horace. You know, she thinks I ought to have
gone with you to-night. That’s because she only
looks at it from her own standpoint. Can’t take a
broad view of the case.
Minnie. Is yours the broad view?
Horace. Naturally.
Minnie. How did you acquire this breadth of
mind?
Horace. Can hardly say that. Just seems to
belong to the masculine intellect. Men see all
round a subject. Women don’t. They’re circumscribed.
Can’t see over the hedge.
Minnie. Could you teach me to see over the
hedge?
Horace. I might be able to a certain extent.
Minnie. Will you begin by explaining your
broad view to-night?
Horace. That was quite simple. Aunt Martha
wanted me to go because she didn’t want to go
herself. The only view she could take.
Minnie. And you?
Horace. Of course my viewpoint was very different.
I had already been out in the snow once to
get this month’s “Astronomer,” and there wasn’t
any reason why I should go out again. There is a
discussion about life on Mars this month, which I
am following closely. It wouldn’t have done Aunt
Martha any good to stop at home and read the
article, because, being practically devoid of brains,
she wouldn’t have understood a word about it.
Then again, women ought to go to dances, which
are got up entirely for their benefit. Whereas
men hate that kind of frivolity. So it was obviously
her duty to go.
Minnie. I see.
Horace. You see, Aunt Martha couldn’t take
in all these points because her mind isn’t broad
enough to grasp them. The consequence was her
view was very narrow and rather selfish.
Minnie. You certainly put it very clearly.
Horace. I am glad you can appreciate my reasoning.
Minnie. Oh, I can. But one thing I see very
plainly, and that is that you both are putting yourselves
to inconvenience on my account.
Horace. No, dear, I assure you I am not.
Minnie. That’s true. Thank you for reminding
me. But I hate to think I should be so much
trouble to you both. Of course I know I have no
real claim upon you. It isn’t as if I were your
very own sister.
Horace. I should think not, indeed. You’re
going to be my wife. Just think of that.
(Minnie goes to him above table L.)
Minnie. Horace, tell me. Do you love me?
Really, really love me? Or are you going to marry
me because it was your mother’s wish? (Horace
kisses her hand.) You mustn’t be angry with me.
Perhaps I expect too much, but I think I should be
happier if you were just a little bit more—ah, more
loving in your manner. Oh, Horace, Horace, I
don’t want you to marry me out of pity!
Horace. My dear child, don’t be silly! (Takes
her hand.) I do love you! I love you most awfully,
but I am not what is called a demonstrative
man. Few scientific men are, I fancy.
Minnie. Do you know, I’m almost sorry you
are such a scientific man.
Horace. (Minnie takes his left hand) Minnie!
Minnie. Love and science don’t seem to agree.
Horace. Oh, yes, they do. But you don’t understand.
I love you in a scientific way.
Minnie. I think I like the old way best. But
I suppose I am silly and narrow minded like Aunt
Martha. (Kisses him.) There, we won’t say any
more about it. Are you comfortable?
Horace. No, not at all. You might get another
pillow.
Minnie. (Does so.) Shall I put you out the
whiskey?
Horace. Um—yes—you may as well. (Minnie
gets whiskey from table L. and two syphons
and jar of biscuits. Aside) Dear little girl. How
she does love me! I must get her a ring, or a pin,
or a thimble to-morrow. That will make her perfectly
happy.
Minnie. I’ll pour you out a glass. Say when.
Horace. Upon my word, you are a perfect
treasure!
Minnie. Oh, Horace, do you really mean it?
(Pauses in pouring.)
Horace. Of course I mean it—but go on pouring,
don’t stop. Now.
Minnie. Don’t sit up too late, dear. You
mustn’t work too hard. You’ll strain your eyes.
Horace. No danger, but I shall want some more
oil in the lamp. Will you please tell Bella.
Minnie. Certainly. Now promise me you
won’t tire yourself. (Kisses him.) Promise.
Horace. All right, dear, I promise.
Minnie. For my sake.
(Horace kisses her with a touch of finality.)
Minnie. Now I’ll see how Auntie is getting on.
(Goes to door L.)
Horace. Minnie.
Minnie. (Returning, expecting a caress) Yes?
Horace. I was going to say——
Minnie. Yes, darling?
Horace. (Changing his mind) You won’t forget
about the oil?
(Enter Aunt in new dress, followed by Bella
with wraps, which are put on sofa up stage.
Exit Bella R.)
Aunt. Here I am, dear. Quite ready. Haven’t
I been quick?
Minnie. Oh, Auntie, you are a picture! You
ought to be framed.
Horace. (Aside) And hung.
Aunt. You little flatterer. I think it is rather
nice myself. Put on your cloak, dear. Is the cab
ready?
Minnie. I don’t know—I don’t think that——
Aunt. What? Do you mean to say he hasn’t
ordered a cab? Horace! Horace!
Minnie. Don’t disturb him. He is reading the
“Astronomer.”
Aunt. The “Astronomer,” indeed! I’ll make
him see stars! Horace! Horace! (At table.
Minnie L.)
Horace. Oh, what is it? What is it?
Aunt. Have you ordered a cab?
Horace. I’ve ordered nothing but a little peace
and quiet which doesn’t come at my call.
Aunt. Well, why not? Horace, why have you
not ordered a cab?
Horace. Oh, bother! Don’t interrupt, for
goodness’ sake!
Aunt. (Snatches his paper away and throws it
over her shoulder) Why haven’t you ordered a
cab?
Horace. Why should I order a cab?
Aunt. It is the very least you could do. Go
and order one at once, please.
Horace. Where are the servants?
Aunt. Bella is not engaged to run errands outside
the house. I daren’t ask cook, and Jane has
company.
Horace. Well, give her company a bob and let
him go.
Aunt. Her company, as it happens, is not a he.
You must go.
Horace. Please, and clearly understand, I am
not going out in the cold again to-night. You
seem to forget that I am in a very delicate state of
health, and if I were to venture out on a night like
this the consequences might be most serious.
Minnie. Perhaps I could go.
Aunt. It’s abominable of him!
(Enter Bella with note.)
Bella. A note, ma’m.
Aunt. For me?
Bella. Yes, ma’m.
Aunt. (Reading note) “Dear Miss Parker.
May I have the pleasure of taking you and Miss
Templar to Mrs. Clarence’s dance this evening”—
Horace. Capital! There is your escort.
Aunt. “My car is quite at your disposal.”
Horace. And there’s your cab. Sublime Providence!
Aunt. Did the gentleman come himself?
Bella. Yes, ma’m. He is waiting in the hall.
(Minnie looks over letter.)
Aunt. Show him in at once here.
Horace. Don’t bring him in here. He can stay
in the hall.
Aunt. Certainly not. Show him in here, Bella.
(Exit Bella R.)
Horace. Well, who is my blessed preserver?
Aunt. Mr. Dicey.
Horace. What, Arthur Dicey? That Stock
Exchange fellow?
Aunt. A charming young man.
Horace. A brainless idiot!
Aunt. A perfect gentleman, and besides, I hear
he is enormously rich.
Minnie. How kind and thoughtful of him! He
always seems to be doing the right thing just at
the right moment.
Horace. Minnie, I don’t at all care that you
should go with this fellow to-night. He is not at
all the kind of man I wish you to be seen going
about with.
Minnie. He is always so attentive.
Horace. I dare say he is. I don’t choose that
you go with him.
Aunt. What dog-in-the-manger attitude is this?
You won’t take her yourself nor let anyone else.
Horace. I have expressed my wish on the matter
and I propose to have my way, so——
(Enter Bella, showing in Mr. Dicey R.)
Bella. Mr. Dicey.
Aunt. This is a most opportune kindness you
are showing us, Mr. Dicey. We gladly accept your
escort. (Shakes hands.)
Minnie. (Shaking hands) You can hardly
guess how much obliged we are to you. Thank
you for thinking of us.
Dicey. The pleasure is doubled if I am of real
service.
Minnie. Somehow or other, we had forgotten
to order a cab.
Aunt. Yes. We had forgotten!
Horace. I was just getting ready to run down
the street after one.
Aunt. So of course my nephew is very grateful
to you. Aren’t you, Horace? Now he will be
able to pursue his scientific studies without fear
of interruption.
Dicey. Aren’t you coming with us, Mr. Parker?
Horace. Well, I had not thought of doing so.
Minnie. If it had not been for you, Mr. Dicey,
I doubt whether any of us would have gone. We
were very nearly giving up going.
Dicey. Have I really saved the situation for
you? That is jolly good luck. May I claim an
extra number of dances on the strength of it?
Minnie. As many as you wish.
(Dicey helps Aunt with her cloak.)
Dicey. Thank you so much.
Minnie. Won’t you come, Horace? I hardly
care to go without you.
Horace. Your dances are all booked, it seems.
You have none left.
Minnie. Oh, yes, I have, for those who have
the grace to ask for them. Mr. Dicey will have
his fair share. He dances beautifully and our steps
suit each other to perfection.
Horace. By which you mean to say you dance
beautifully, too?
Minnie. No, I leave it to others to say that.
(Turns away L.)
Dicey. And I wish to be the first to say it.
Horace. My aunt is ready, I see. If you will
take her, we will follow a little later.
Dicey. I thought you were out of town, or I
should not have come. But there is plenty of room
in the car. Won’t you and your sister come with
us?
Horace. Miss Templar is not my sister.
Dicey. Your adopted sister, I should have said.
Horace. And my intended wife. (Aside)
That’s a nasty one for Master Dicey.
Dicey. Pardon me. That I did not know. May
I offer my congratulations?
Minnie. Thank you, Mr. Dicey, but it is a little
early for congratulations. We laugh it over between
ourselves sometimes in a brotherly-sisterly
sort of way without much serious consideration
what marriage means. There’s nothing settled yet.
Will you see Auntie to the car while I get my wrap?
Aunt. Good night, Horace.
Horace. Good night, Aunt.
Dicey. Good-night, Mr. Parker.
Horace. Good night, sir.
(Exeunt Aunt and Dicey R.)
Minnie. (Coming to L. of table and taking off
her engagement ring) I think you will understand
me when I say, “Here is your ring.” You have
given me a glimpse of such a love-cheapening life
that I have grown afraid. I believed in you, Horace,
though I was never blind to your faults. I
had hoped I might help you to conquer them, but
I realize now the task is beyond me. A stronger
spirit would have to be invoked. Without your
love I should fail, and I see now you have none to
offer me. The devotion of your life is for yourself
and yourself alone.
Horace. And all this fuss because I don’t want
you to go with a silly ass to a dance to-night.
Minnie. No. For your utter lack of consideration.
I might hurt my dear friend, Kitty Clarence,
by not going to her dance. Oh, that was nothing!
Disappoint Auntie—nothing—give up my own
pleasure—nothing—insult a visitor—nothing, nothing
at all. Here it is, Horace. (Puts ring on table.)
I cannot wear it. The gold seems to have gone
out of it. (Exit R.)
Horace. And that’s the girl I’ve been talking
to about broad views! (Working round table to
paper on the floor.) Well, I’ve met some narrow-minded
people in my life, but she is far and away
the most narrow-minded of the lot. (Picks up
paper.) It’s very disappointing, that’s what it is,
very disappointing. Women are all alike. No
liberality, no generosity. You think you have
found an exception, you pour out all the wealth
of your priceless love upon her, and the moment
the shoe pinches—there you are. I suppose she
will want to make it up to-morrow, then I shall
have to put down my foot and come to a thorough
understanding. Confound that fellow Dicey! It’s
all his fault. I never ought to have allowed him
to take her. I ought to have gone myself. Damn
Dicey! Now for this article. I suppose I’d better
read it. Don’t feel a bit like it. However, it may
act as a sedative. (Settles down to read.)
Bella. (Entering R.) Please, sir, there’s a man
wants to see you.
Horace. A what wants to what?
Bella. A man to see you, sir.
Horace. What does he want?
Bella. I don’t know, sir. He says he has a
letter for you, sir.
Horace. Why didn’t he give it to you?
Bella. He wouldn’t trust it out of his hand,
sir. He says he must give it to you himself.
Horace. What sort of a man?
Bella. Well, sir, he seems to think he is a respectable
sort of a man, but he’s what I should call
a tramp.
Horace. A tramp? Well, I can’t see him, then.
I can’t see him. Tell him to come again in the
morning.
Bella. I told him that, sir.
Horace. Well, what did he say?
Bella. Well, sir, he said he was a persevering
kind of man, but he’s what I should call obstinate.
Horace. What do you mean?
Bella. He said he wouldn’t go away till he had
seen you—and I don’t think he will.
Horace. It is too maddening. I can’t have one
moment to myself. Very well, show him in. Show
him in. (Exit Bella.) First of all Aunt Martha,
then that fool Dicey, then Minnie and now a
tramp.
(Enter Bella with Tramp. Exit Bella R.)
Horace. Well, what is it? What is it? What
do you want?
Tramp. Mr. Brampton told me to give you this.
(Hands letter.)
Horace. Mr. Brampton—of Coventry?
Tramp. Yes, sir.
Horace. (Reading) “—might be able to give
him some work.” I haven’t any work to give you.
“Clever workman—seen better days.”
Tramp. That’s true enough. I never see any
worse than what I’m getting now.
Horace. I’m afraid I cannot help you.
Tramp. Don’t be hard, Guv’ner. I’m cold and
tired. I’ve walked all the way from Coventry.
Horace. Walked? Why, Mr. Brampton says
here he has given you the money for your railway
fare.
Tramp. So he did, sir. I had a bit of bad luck
with that.
Horace. What? Lost it, I suppose. (Half
laughing.)
Tramp. Not exactly, sir.
Horace. What then?
Tramp. Spent it.
Horace. How? Drink?
Tramp. Yes, drink and meat. There’s no crime
in that, is there? Even a tramp must eat.
Horace. Yes, and drink. Well, and when the
money was gone——
Tramp. I had to walk. That’s all.
Horace. Well, that’s what you will have to do
now. I can’t help you.
Tramp. Just my luck! (Going.) Beg pardon,
Guv’ner, do you feel like standing me a drink before
I go, just to keep out the cold?
Horace. (Shrugs his shoulders) Help yourself.
Tramp. (Drinks glass of whiskey Minnie had
poured out) Ah, that’s good! That brings back
old times. You wouldn’t think, Guv’ner, that I
was a prosperous man once. (Horace indicates
that whiskey is responsible.) No, it wasn’t drink
that ruined me. Drink may have kept me down,
but it didn’t throw me. I’m an engineer by trade—leastways,
I was, but I ain’t worked at it now these
five years. Thank you kindly for the whiskey.
Good night, sir.
Horace. Care to take another?
Tramp. Thank you, sir, I would. (Helps himself.)
Your health, Guv’ner! You wouldn’t think
there was much of the inventor about me? Would
you? But I’ve got some ideas, good uns too, only
I ain’t got the capital, see?
Horace. I see.
Tramp. I’ll let you into one of my ideas, Guv’ner,
if you’ll take it up. It’ll make your fortune.
Horace. Thanks. I have all the money I require.
Tramp. Have you, now? I haven’t, that’s the
difference. Feels pretty comfortable, doesn’t it? I
was doing very well once, over there in the States.
Horace. America?
Tramp. Yes. They’re pretty smart there, but
I showed them I was as good as they. I made a
steam valve that’s on most boilers to-day. Yes, I
did. Just me. I got ten thousand dollars down
before I got my papers out. But my partner got
ahead of me. I never saw another cent. I fought
him as long as the money lasted. But it didn’t go
far in the Courts of Justice. It was the Law as
downed me, Guv’ner. Drink?—only damned me.
Horace. Too bad. You must try again.
Tramp. Not much chance of that. One can’t
do anything without a little capital, and who’s going
to trust me? No, I’ll pick up a living how I
can.
Horace. How do you pick up a living?
Tramp. Anyhow. Running after cabs.
Horace. Surely to goodness, nobody pays you
for doing that?
Tramp. If I’m lucky I gets the job of lifting
down the luggage.
Horace. Oh, that’s it.
Tramp. There’s a lovely fall of snow to-night.
Horace. Cold comfort for you, I should have
thought.
Tramp. I may get a job shovelling it in the
morning—if I am in luck.
Horace. Why don’t you go back to your old
trade?
Tramp. Why don’t I go back to my old trade?
Why don’t I? Who’s going to take me on? Who’ll
give me a job? Will you?
Horace. I told you I can’t do anything for
you.
Tramp. Then what’s the good of asking? But
it don’t matter. I’ve got nothing to live for now.
Nothing to save for. The Law broke me up, killed
the missus.
Horace. You were married, then?
Tramp. Yes.
Horace. Any children?
Tramp. One. God forgive me. (Affected.)
Horace. Care to take another? Some biscuits
if you like.
Tramp. I ain’t proud. Thank you, Guv’ner.
You’re a good un. I worked my way back to England
only to find my missus dead and the little un
gone.
Horace. Gone? How gone?
Tramp. The people she had been with had left,
and I never could find out what had become of her.
Poor little Minnie!
Horace. Minnie!
Tramp. That was her name, sir.
Horace. Minnie? (Rising and his manner
hardening.)
Tramp. Everything gone. Why should I care?
Care! I beg pardon, sir. The whiskey set me
talking. My story can’t interest you. Good night,
sir. Perhaps if I come back in a day or two you
might know of a job.
Horace. No. Quite useless. I can do nothing
for you. Get along, now.
Tramp. Good night, sir. (Exit Tramp R.)
Horace. Minnie! Minnie! How dare he mention
her name? Of course she couldn’t possibly
have anything to do with him. But it did give me
a turn. Poor devil, I suppose I was rather rough
on him. Never mind, serves him right. I dare
say he deserved it. Anyhow, it will prevent him
coming back again to-morrow. (About to drink.)
Confound him, he has used my glass! (Fetches
another from table L.) It seems to me I am curiously
unlucky. I can’t think why people are so
unfair to me. I’m such a good sort. I don’t know
anyone who has a better temper or a more generous,
open disposition. I expect that is the secret
of it. (Puts whiskey, glasses and biscuits on small
table above fireplace.) Other people are so mean,
and selfish, and unfair. (Sits in armchair.) Now
let me get on with it. (Reads “Astronomer.”)
Where was I? Ah, yes, here we are. (Reads.)
“Latest observations have revealed strange lights
which some astronomers believe to be signals put
out in the hope of an answer from Earth.” I don’t
believe a word of it. It may be possible, though.
If Mars is inhabited, I wonder what they are like.
Are they savages, or are they ahead of us? (Lamp
flickers a little.) Confound it! The lamp’s going
out. Minnie never told her. Forgets all about a
poor fellow left alone in the dark. Most selfish of
her. (Turns over page and reads by firelight as
lamp fails more and more.) Ah, just the end.
(Reads.) “The advent of a messenger or an army
from Mars should not seem to us of the twentieth
century a greater marvel than did the shining sails
of Columbus to the aborigines of America. What
an unfolding of wisdom would their coming yield.
What problems could they solve, what new ones
set us. The mind fails in contemplation. Too
vast—vast.” (Lamp goes out. Horace falls
asleep. Enter A Messenger from Mars.)
(N.B. If the lamp has the classical figure suggested,
this will now be removed while the
stage is dark and a proportionately larger one
substituted in which an actor takes the place of
the small figure. The lamp-shade will now be
approximately four feet in diameter. If the
figure does not form a part of the lamp ornamentation
in the first instance it will remain
simply as a lamp, and the actor takes up a
position about C. while stage is dark, and the
lights growing bring him slowly into view. A
good effect is obtained by blacking out all the
stage except the small part R. showing Horace
asleep in his chair, with the firelight playing
upon him. A gentle roll of thunder should announce
the arrival of the Messenger. The
following is Horace’s dream.)
Messenger. Man! Man of Earth! Give heed
for the good of your kind.
Horace. Hullo. Who are you? (Drowsily.)
Messenger. I am a Messenger from Mars.
Horace. Don’t believe a word of it.
Messenger. I am a Messenger from Mars.
(Sternly.)
Horace. Are you really? Won’t you sit down?
Messenger. No.
Horace. Have a drink, then?
Messenger. Worm!
Horace. Meaning me? I note that politeness
is at a discount in Mars.
Messenger. We are not upon that planet now.
Horace. I thank my stars.
Messenger. Know you why I am here?
Horace. No more than why the other tramp
bothered me. You have come rather farther—you
may stay a little longer. From the venturesome
spirit that prompted this visit I conclude you are
of the greatest of your race.
Messenger. I am the poorest gifted, most unhappy,
lowest fallen, and easiest spared. I am a
criminal, and therefore condemned to make this
journey.
Horace. What had you been up to? Do tell.
Messenger. I sinned in vanity. A dear companion
and myself had composed a hymn of praise.
He died, and I gave it forth as entirely my own.
Horace. (Gleefully) Did you make much out
of it?
Messenger. It was chanted by many.
Horace. Then it paid pretty well?
Messenger. In Mars we do not write for gain.
For five days I endured the bitterest remorse when
I confessed my crime, and was sentenced to make
this journey.
Horace. Doubtless you have learnt that I am
interested in your world and quite rightly expected
a sympathetic welcome from me?
Messenger. No. But of all countries yours
seemed the most promising field——
Horace. Bravo! Rule, Britannia!
Messenger. Of all cities, this London, the
greatest, and most intense——
Horace. Good old London!
Messenger. And of all its citizens yourself the
most striking example—(Horace bows)—of the
Greed and Egoism of the age.
Horace. (Staggering to his feet and about to
rush at Messenger) Hullo! I’ll not stand for
this! Get out of my——
(Messenger raises his arm and Horace receives
an electric shock which reels him back into his
chair. The furniture may be arranged to
shake and rock about as if under the same influence.
Messenger refrains and Horace
slowly recovers himself.)
Messenger. Are you properly impressed, or shall
I——?
Horace. No, no! Don’t do it again, please! It
hurts!
Messenger. Good! Now listen with heart and
mind. You have learnt that Mars has a planetary
lifetime brief compared with Earth, and yet we
Martians are to you as are you to the cattle that
you breed.
Horace. As bad as that?
Messenger. Triflers of Time, learn the cause.
Self—Self is the Miasm of the world you live in; a
soul plague blotching Earth’s body over with its
petty spites, outraged homes, labor riots, revolutions,
civil wars, carnivals of blood, marring the
Grand Purpose. No war has ever wasted Mars, nor
could it. There have been no rushings back, no
buried epochs, no sleeping centuries, for Self was
unmasked at the beginning.
Horace. Mask? What mask?
Messenger. Self wears a thousand, making a
counterfeit of every virtue. The soldier’s glory, the
painter’s touch, the statesman’s aim, the poet’s dream
hide something still of self behind them. Even your
children are becoming egoists—the saddest sign of
all.
Horace. Very sad and quite true, but why tell
me all this?
Messenger. You are the chosen subject.
Horace. But why?
Messenger. Considering your opportunities, you
are the basest, the most selfish of men.
Horace. My opportunities?
Messenger. In your house is one whose impulses
are fully half unselfish, the maid Minnie. You
couldn’t spare one evening to make her happy.
Horace. She took such a narrow view.
Messenger. Shame on you! Shame! Then there
is your aunt——
Horace. Oh, she is awfully narrow, too.
Messenger. Silence!
Horace. If you’d lived in the house as long as I
have with Aunt——
Messenger. Silence! Too lazy to call a cab.
Horace. You don’t make any allowance.
Messenger. You deserve none. Again, there was
that poor unfortunate who in a weak moment confided
to you his life’s tragedy.
Horace. You can’t make me responsible for that
dirty tramp’s condition.
Messenger. You might have saved him. You
would have been blessed a thousandfold if you had.
Horace. How do you mean?
Messenger. In what a hideous Pretence you live.
There, before you, stood a man of genius. You
drove him out to die. An Inventor perishing in the
hey-day of Invention-Worship.
Horace. Do you really think that fellow’s ideas
are good for anything?
Messenger. You a man of science! You know
nothing at all. There is more in his little finger than
your whole body.
Horace. Look here. If you’ll guarantee him—and
with your inside knowledge of things generally—I
might hunt him up to-morrow and set him
going.
Messenger. You will?
Horace. Yes. Of course, you do guarantee him?
Messenger. For whose benefit would you do
this?
Horace. I should expect to come in, of course—
Messenger. Hypocrite! Beyond belief hypocrite!
You train your dogs with hunger and a whip.
It seems I must try that system upon you. Get up!
Horace. What are you going to do now?
Messenger. You must come with me.
Horace. Not out into the snow?
Messenger. Yes, into the snow and the night.
Horace. Do let me explain. The fact is I am in
rather a delicate state of health, and if I were to
venture out on a night like this, the consequences
might be most serious.
Messenger. You are wasting your breath.
Come.
Horace. You can’t really mean it?
Messenger. I do.
Horace. You will let me put on my coat and
hat?
Messenger. Put them on. We may find them
useful. Hurry!
Horace. (Putting on his coat and muffler slowly)
You don’t give me time.
Messenger. Make haste, I say.
Horace. I’m not starting out with any comfort
at all. I really don’t think I should be wise to venture
out to-night. It is so very sharp outside.
Messenger. Do you hear me? Come!
Horace. No. I’m damned if I do! (Messenger
raises his arm, and again Horace is electrified and
the furniture thrown into a commotion. Horace
sinks to his knees in front of Messenger in terror.)
I’ll come! I’ll come!
Messenger. On to your schooling! (Messenger
leading Horace away.)
CURTAIN
ACT II
(The Dream Continues.)
Scene: Outside of Mrs. Clarence’s house in a
fashionable London square. A front door is C.
Large windows to R. of door. An area with
practical steps descending below stage in front
of windows. Area railing. The road is up in
course of repairs, so that no vehicles can come
quite near. A watchman’s hut L. An ash barrel
near hut. Red lights hung about to show
road is up. Snow thick upon the ground and
steps and railings. Moonlight.
At Rise: Horace discovered down area steps peeping
along the pavement. Chuckles.
Horace. I’ve given him the slip. I’ve fooled
him! That’s one on Mars. (Comes up steps cautiously,
looking about him.) Deuce take his impudence!
I wish he were in—— Well, Mars would
be bad enough, from his description of it. If I
could get a cab I’d ride round till morning. (Enter
a policeman R.) Good evening, Policeman.
Policeman. Good evening, sir.
Horace. Any cabs about?
Policeman. No, sir. Very few out, sir. It’s a
bad night.
Horace. By Jove, you are right there. It is the
worst night I have ever had.
Policeman. There’s a cab stand in the Bouverie
Road. You might find one there, sir.
Horace. But you don’t think I will?
Policeman. It’s doubtful, sir.
Horace. Look here, I wish you would get me a
taxi or four-wheeler, anything. I don’t care what
it is. Here’s a half crown for you. If you bring
it back in ten minutes I’ll double it with pleasure.
Policeman. (Takes coin) Thank you, sir. Will
you wait here?
Horace. Here or hereabouts. Bring it as near
as the road will let you.
Policeman. All right, sir. (Exit Policeman
L.)
Horace. Splendid force, the police. I believe
this is the best hiding place I can find. (Descends
area steps and disappears from view. Enter Messenger
L.)
Messenger. My foolish rabbit! Come from your
hole.
Horace. (Much discomfited—comes up again)
Rabbit! Beastly personal! Oh, there you are.
Messenger. Trying to hide?
Horace. I’ve been looking for you everywhere—even
down in that area. Where have you been?
Messenger. The policeman will not find a cab.
I have taken care of that.
Horace. (Aside) He must have been listening.
Messenger. I have brought you here....
Horace. You brought me? (Dejected.) There
is no escape.
Messenger. None whatever. (Horace astounded
to find his thought read by Messenger.) Look
around. Do you know where you are?
Horace. (The front of the house is a transparency
and now lights up from within and shows a
ballroom. Ladies and gentlemen strolling about between
dances.) I declare, if it isn’t Mrs. Clarence’s!
In full swing.
Messenger. I have brought you here where you
refused to come to-night to give you your first lesson
in Otherdom.
Horace. What’s that? Otherdom, you say?
(Interior again dark.)
Messenger. You do not understand? It is characteristic
of your race that while all that is vile and
ignoble is well expressed by your word “Selfishness,”
your language does not supply its opposite. In Mars
we have a word which means the abandonment of
self and the striving for others. It is the great essential
virtue, Otherdom.
Horace. Thank you. I will bear it in mind.
Messenger. On your life show it in your acts.
Horace. Oh, I will. May I go home now; it’s
very chilly.
Messenger. Poor thing of Temperature! Your
scientists still leave you slaves of the weather.
What braggarts are you to dream as yet of civilization!
When you can weave water into clothing,
spin fire into ribbons, and wear them in the altitudes,
you shall speak of some advancement. Your mills
of Fashion sigh and hum, but not one of you can
outdress a butterfly. Yet the New Times would
rush upon you had Otherdom a place with you.
That is the substance of which Knowledge is but
the shadow playing about it—growing as it grows.
You seek to puff out the shadow—it will be shadow
merely while Time’s torch burns. Look yonder.
Who comes? Speak to her.
(Enter a Woman outcast.)
Horace. No, thank you. I’d rather not. I warn
you, if you are seen you will have an awful crowd
round you.
Messenger. I am visible to no eyes but yours.
Horace. That’s clever. How do you do it?
Messenger. She is turning back. I will bring
her to you.
Horace. I wish you wouldn’t. You can’t realize——
Messenger. I know more of your world than
you do. She is returning.
(The Woman has sauntered on, looked at Horace,
loitered, and gone off R. again. Now she re-enters
in similar style.)
Horace. And I’m off! (Going L.)
Messenger. Stay! (Horace is pulled up.)
Horace. I don’t care to be seen talking to her.
Messenger. Help her.
Horace. Look here, I’m not invisible, and if I
am seen by anybody in this house—— Oh, Lor’!
Messenger. She comes. Another kind of wreck
on the reefs of Self.
Outcast. You’ll catch cold, dear, if you don’t
come indoors. (Horace turns his back on her.)
Bah, you! Give me a tanner to get a drink with?
Horace. Good night! Good night!
Messenger. Help her.
Horace. I have no silver left.
Messenger. Give her gold. Give her gold.
Horace. Gold—there’s none in circulation. Do
you know what she is? A vile wanton, a plague of
the streets!
Messenger. No more! Dare man so speak of
women? Oh, are you not Joint Guardians of the
Future? Give, Horace, give.
(Horace gives a pound note. She looks at it and
becomes half hysterical.)
Outcast. It’s a pound, sir—a pound note. Did
you mean it?
Horace. I had to give you something.
Outcast. Bless your good heart! It’ll pay the
rent, sir. We won’t have to turn out. You don’t
know what a lift it is, sir. Thank you, thank you,
sir. Good night, sir. Good night, sir. Oh, bless
you! (Exit R.)
Messenger. Is it not blessed to give?
Horace. I dare say you find it quite funny. It
must be blessed to give away other people’s money.
It was you gave it, mind, not I.
Messenger. Then you cannot expect any blessing
from it.
Horace. It strikes me I am getting the worst
of it all round. How much longer is this foolery
to go on? You’ll never bring me to your way of
thinking.
Messenger. So they all said in Mars.
Horace. You are in for a long visit. Now where
will you put up? I can’t take you in myself, but
how about our Moon? I make you a present of the
Moon—and you can put a fence round it.
Messenger. The Moon is not yours to give.
Horace. That is why I make you a present of it.
I’m taking a leaf out of your book. You give away
my money, so I give you somebody else’s Moon.
That in practice appears to be your delightful
Otherdom.
Messenger. It is not.
Horace. Well, why are you trying to convert me?
Messenger. Your conversion is a condition of
my return.
Horace. (Exultingly) Self! Self! Who’s selfish
now, Marsy?
Messenger. I shall rejoice in saving you no less
that the task is imposed upon me.
Horace. You are doomed to failure. Give it
up—and please let me go home. I’m nearly always
in bed by half-past eleven.
Messenger. No. Your lesson is only just beginning.
Have you forgotten Minnie?
Horace. Forgotten her? Rather not! Dear
little girl! She is awfully gone on me.
Messenger. Hush, hush! She is one whom it
pains to see a fault in you. Love, the elementary
Otherdom, possesses her. A divine gift of madness
set in opposition to the cold logic of Self. She did
love you——
Horace. Did? She does, and don’t you make
any mistake about it!
Messenger. Listen a while. (Waves his hand
and the interior of house lights up and discovers
Minnie and Dicey chatting.)
Dicey. This is our dance, I think.
Minnie. Isn’t it a lovely dance? I’m so glad
we came, and it was all thanks to you.
Dicey. Oh, you mustn’t thank me any more. I’m
over-rewarded. But is Mr. Parker often like that?
Minnie. He is rather peculiar at times.
Horace. (Indignant) I—peculiar?
Dicey. Peculiar? That seems a mild epithet to
apply to him.
Minnie. I’m almost inclined to agree with you.
Dicey. He is a selfish beast.
Horace. I—selfish?
Minnie. He refused to come to-night after he
had promised—promised faithfully.
Dicey. Pearls before swine.
Horace. I’ll swine him when I get hold of him!
Minnie. And he wouldn’t even fetch us a cab.
Dicey. But he said he was just going out to get
one?
Minnie. That was an awful fib because you were
there and he was ashamed.
Dicey. Ashamed? He might well be. He must
be going off his head.
Horace. This doesn’t interest me in the least.
Messenger. No? Hear a little more.
Dicey. He gave me a fright, though—one terrible
fright.
Minnie. Did he? How?
Dicey. He spoke a word and all the beauty of
life seemed to shrivel up and die away. And then
somebody not far away contradicted him. In a moment
the cloud was gone and the whole world seemed
even brighter and happier than it had been before.
Horace. Lor’, the fellow thinks he is making
love! Makes me sick to hear him. I’d like to kick
him!
Messenger. What right have you to stand in
the way of this young man who gives love for love?
You don’t love her.
Horace. I think I do.
Messenger. He knows he does.
Horace. Minnie knows I do, but she doesn’t want
to be reminded of it every minute or two.
Messenger. A great mistake. Women don’t like
to be taken for granted. Listen!
Dicey. What could he ever be to you? Certainly
no companion for life. He? He is only fit
to be a bit of furniture in a library, while you are
all life and sunshine. Minnie, you know I love you.
Minnie. Hush! You mustn’t say that.
Dicey. I know I’m not worthy of you.
Horace. That’s the first sensible thing he has
said yet.
Messenger. Have you ever said it?
Horace. Of course not. I have been worthy of
her all the time.
Dicey. Your happiness would be everything to
me.
Minnie. I think you mean what you say.
Horace. He doesn’t! The beast!
Dicey. Now for a small confession. Ever so
long ago I bought a ring, in hope, or, perhaps, in
despair. Whenever my chances seemed most faint,
fortune most forbidding, I used to take it out of
my pocket and look at it.
Horace. Silly ass! Can you imagine a more
deplorable waste of time? Whenever a man is down
on his luck to take out a ring and look at it? Oh,
dear, oh, dear!
Dicey. Am I forgiven?
Minnie. You are silly.
Horace. There! See? She agrees with me!
Dicey. May I put it on?
Minnie. (Bus. with ring) Oh, Arthur, how
lovely! Oh, what a beauty! Oh, it is ever so much
prettier than——
Horace. Of course. Of course. How like a
woman! The diamonds are bigger and that settles
the whole thing! (Lights down within house, only
the exterior now shown.)
Messenger. Never mind, you said you were going
to buy her a thimble to-morrow. What’s a diamond
ring to a thimble?
Horace. I meant a present. I didn’t particularize
so, I simply called it a thimble. But I’ll buy her
a star to-morrow—an enormous star of diamonds.
I’ll make Mr. Dicey sit up!
Messenger. So like a man. He thinks if the
diamonds are bigger that will settle the whole thing.
Horace. Of course it is unnecessary. Minnie
would not marry a brainless idiot like Dicey. Aunt
Martha would see to that. After all, Aunt Martha
is a sensible woman.
Messenger. Though somewhat narrow-minded.
Horace. She can’t help that, poor thing. Aunt
Martha would never sit still and see Minnie sacrificed.
Messenger. Quite true. Let us hear her wishes.
(Waves his hand and interior is again illuminated.
Aunt and Mrs. Clarence are discovered seated.)
Mrs. Clarence. I am so sorry Horace was not
able to come with you.
Horace. That is Mrs. Clarence.
Aunt. So am I, for his sake.
Mrs. Clarence. What did you say was the matter
with him? Influenza?
Aunt. Did I say that? Well, I suppose influenza
is as good a name for it as any other.
Mrs. Clarence. It sounds as if Master Horace
had been naughty.
Aunt. Julia, dear, I am much worried about
him—I am indeed.
Horace. Good old Aunt Martha! She’s not such
a bad sort.
Mrs. Clarence. What is the matter with him?
Aunt. My dear, he has taken a turn for the
worse.
Mrs. Clarence. Have you sent for a doctor?
Aunt. No, I haven’t. It is more of a moral complaint
than physical. He thinks of nothing and nobody
but himself. He quite neglects Minnie.
Mrs. Clarence. What a shame!
Aunt. And I can’t sit still and see Minnie sacrificed.
Mrs. Clarence. I should think not, indeed. How
pretty she looks to-night. Horace is engaged to her,
isn’t he?
Aunt. I’m glad to say it is broken off. He has
nobody to blame but himself. She plucked up courage
this evening and gave him his congé.
Mrs. Clarence. So that’s it. Influenza has a
lot to answer for. Excuse me a moment, dear.
(Exit Mrs. Clarence.)
Horace. Must I listen to all this twaddle?
Messenger. Your intimates don’t appear to think
very highly of you.
Horace. I don’t care two straws for their opinion.
Messenger. Don’t you value the praise of your
fellow men?
Horace. My fellow men—oh, yes. But not such
creatures as these. Men of the world, men of business,
hard-headed men of science. Take their opinions.
I venture to say they will speak of me with
respect and very possibly with admiration.
(Dicey has brought Minnie back and left her with
Aunt Martha, he retiring. He shows elation
as he bows.)
Aunt. Are you tired, dear?
Minnie. Quite the reverse.
Aunt. Then why are you not dancing?
Minnie. I have something to tell you. Something
particular. Oh, Auntie, I hope you won’t be vexed!
Aunt. Vexed? Surely not.
Minnie. I’ll whisper it. (Whispers.)
Aunt. (Smiling) Really? I’m very glad! He’s
charming.
Horace. Me! Me!
Minnie. You know I never really cared for
Horace like this.
Horace. What? What did she say?
Aunt. He certainly never cared for you.
Horace. Oh, you wicked old woman!
Aunt. There was only one person he was ever
in love with, and that was himself.
Minnie. I know it now. I was giving everything,
he nothing.
Aunt. Men are like that, my dear. They are all
alike.
Minnie. Not all, Auntie. There’s Arthur.
Aunt. Arthur is the exception, at least I hope so.
Minnie. Oh, he is very different from Horace.
Horace. I should hope he was, and you’ll find
it out, my young lady.
Aunt. You have had a very narrow escape. Arthur
is a good man. I feel that. As for Horace, he
is a pig!
Minnie. Oh, Auntie, don’t say that!
Aunt. Pig! I do say it! I will say it! It describes
him exactly. Horace is a pig!
(Lights and interior dark.)
Messenger. As you observed, Aunt Martha is a
sensible woman.
Horace. She’s a perfect fool! Women are all
alike. Mean and selfish, and sly and narrow-minded—oh,
fearfully narrow-minded! I’m jolly well out
of it, and I’m jolly glad to be so jolly well out of it!
One thing I know—I’ll never speak to another
woman again as long as I live.
(The Waits are heard singing a carol.)
Messenger. You are still devoted to self in spite
of the poor opinion of your friends. Have you no
suspicion of yourself?
Horace. It strikes me that there is a lot of guess-work
about you, and what’s more, you are making
some uncommonly bad shots. You’ve pitched on me
as an example of selfishness. Now, I’m not selfish.
It’s the other people who are selfish. Not I.
Messenger. Sublime conceit!
Horace. Oh, my goodness, there are the Waits!
Where’s a policeman? I’ll have them moved on.
Messenger. Why?
Horace. Why, listen to them! That’s why.
Messenger. They are singing for charity. What
they receive they give away.
Horace. Nonsense! They are singing because
they like it.
Messenger. They are singing to help others.
Horace. Well, they’re making a jolly row about
it!
Messenger. Have you ever done anything for
others?
Horace. Permit me a word. You have advanced
not a single argument why my conduct should be
deemed reprehensible. We are quite well aware of
our duty to each other, but in our highly organized
society to-day we employ the important principle of
the Division of Labor. Some attend to Charities,
others to Science, others again to Production or
Distribution, and so on and so on.
Messenger. Continue your divisions,—some do
the fun-making and some do the grieving, some do
the feasting and some the fasting. You, Prince of
Duncedom, go gather rainbows, photograph a sunset,
make a dyke of sponge, a castle on quicksand, a
pillar of jelly. It were as wise as to build a Society
on Self. That is a cement of gunpowder which
dries in time and, gathering force, shatters a continent.
In all your heart-breaking history but one
order has been founded upon Love. It has been
growing slowly since the first Christmas. Tell this
to your politicians, your false judges, to the fringe
of corruption at the base of the Law, and to all
others panting and raging round the Golden Grab-bag.
Horace. Oh, I see how it is. You have been
reading our newspapers. They blackguard everything,
themselves included. But now, Marsy, you
must allow there has been a tremendous plunge
ahead in the last hundred years.
Messenger. None! A great hubbub of Invention
has been made, but what of Otherdom? A terrific
rush to the standard of Mammon. “Arm!
arm!” is the cry, “for the great Battle of Buy and
Sell.” Invention echoes, “here are swords for all
and any—good or bad, right or wrong, no question.”
False foods, false drinks, false houses, false public
service. Invent! Invent! Railways for War to
travel on, the grand science of Butchery, no question!
Telegraphs to swindle by, Advertisements of
any fraud, no question! And still your vaunted
Progress bellows, “More Swords! More Swords!”
Horace. Sir, you are a pessimist.
(Loud cries and shouts heard off L.)
Messenger. What is that?
Horace. Accident, I suppose. Yes, man run
over. Silly fool to get in the way.
Messenger. Can’t you help?
Horace. Oh, no, there’s a crowd around him already.
It’s all right. They’ll take him to the hospital.
Messenger. Surely you might give some assistance.
Horace. No. I should only be in the way. The
police will attend to it. It’s their business. Oh,
confound it! They are bringing him this way.
(Enter crowd of people, men and women, carrying
a wounded man. Murmurs of pity and sympathy
from all.)
Omnes. Poor feller! Lord help ’im! Why can’t
they look where they’re a driving to?
Wounded Man. Put me down, put me down,
Mates! I can’t stand it!
First Man. Lend a coat, somebody! We can’t
put him down in the snow.
Messenger. Lend yours.
Horace. Oh, no, I can’t! This coat cost fifty
pounds!
Messenger. Take it off!
(Horace about to obey, reluctantly.)
Second Man. Here’s mine, and welcome.
(Wounded man is lowered on to coat on ground.)
Wounded Man. Where’s Polly?
Polly. Here I am, Jim!
Wounded Man. Oh, Polly, what will become of
you and the children?
Polly. Never you mind about us, Jim. You’re
the one to worry about. Is a doctor coming?
First Man. He’s coming.
Messenger. Here is your opportunity. You can
help them.
Horace. I assure you I wouldn’t be justified.
This sort of thing is all properly provided for. It’s
all right.
First Man. Here’s the doctor. It’s Dr. Chapman.
(Enter Dr. Chapman L.)
Second Man. It was the driver’s fault. I see it
all, just how it ’appened. He wasn’t looking where
he was a-goin’.
Dr. Chapman. Poor fellow! I can do nothing
for him. It is a hospital case. You must find a
shutter.
First Man. The police called for an ambulance.
Horace. Splendid force the police.
Dr. Chapman. I’ll ease your pain a bit so they
can lift you.
Wounded Man. Oh, Polly, you’ll have a bad
time with the kiddies till I’m about again.
Polly. Don’t you take on, Jim. We’ll pull
through somehow, though I don’t know how.
(Cries.)
Messenger. Help her.
Horace. I can’t. I have only notes.
Messenger. Give them to her.
Horace. I’ve nothing less than a tenner.
Messenger. Give all that you have.
Horace. All that I have? Absurd! I can’t! I
won’t!
Messenger. How much have you?
(Horace counts his money.)
Horace. Fifty, twenty and ten.
Messenger. Give them to her.
Horace. I don’t mind giving her the tenner.
Messenger. Give them all. She will need them.
Horace. Suppose I give her the fifty?
Messenger. Give them all.
Horace. All? Mayn’t I keep the tenner? Just
the tenner in case you get thirsty.
Messenger. You stone! Give all, or lie mangled
beside him!
Horace. Don’t! Don’t do it! I will! I will!
(To Polly) Here, young woman, is a trifle, a mere
trifle to help you. (Gives all the notes, savagely
thrusting them into her hands, and turns away.)
Polly. (Dazed at the sight of the notes) Sir,
you are good to us. Oh, thank you, sir! Jim, the
gentleman has given us three pound notes—— Oh,
no, it isn’t! It says ten pounds—— Good lummie,
this says on it twenty pounds, and this fifty pounds,
and he calls it a trifle!
Second Man. Why, that’s eighty quid! Why
wasn’t I run over?
Polly. God bless you, sir! He’ll reward you!
Horace. Oh, don’t thank me.
Second Man. There’s some good in these stuck-up
swells, after all. Three cheers for the gentleman!
Dr. Chapman. Ah, here is the ambulance!
(Enter L. ambulance, doctor and policeman. They
put wounded man on a stretcher and carry him
off L. Cheering back at Horace, the crowd follows.)
Dr. Chapman. Let me shake you by the hand,
sir. You’ve done a noble action. Thank God we
have such men as you in England still! Good night,
sir, good night! You’re a brick! (Exit.)
Horace. Brick? It was a stone just now. It’s
all the same.
Messenger. That was the fairest sight I have
seen. Otherdom was thriving for a space. But
those, I notice, were of your poor.
Horace. Well, I’d like to know how long this
Otherdom lesson is to go on. You’re simply robbing
me of all I have. Eighty and one, and five
shillings for the policeman—eighty-one pounds five
shillings since I came out with you. It’s the most
expensive evening I have ever had in my life. I
have just one penny left, one solitary penny. I expect
you will have that before long.
Messenger. Oh, frozen nature, will nothing melt
you? Is there no Summer of Love to this Winter
of Self? I must be brief with you or my mission
fails. Your air, your gravitation, this pitiful, pitiless
spectacle—(Horace himself)—all distress me.
A woman’s cry, contempt of friends, a fellow creature’s
mortal agony all fail to stir you. Then you
shall learn pity as the poor learn it—by needing it.
Horace. What now? I should have thought you
had caused enough unpleasantness for one evening.
(Newsboy heard off L. calling “Special!” Enter
Newsboy L.)
Newsboy. Special! Extra special! Panic in the
city! Great bank failure! Special, sir?
Horace. Yes. I’ll have one. (Buys a paper.)
(Door of house opens, and Dicey looks out and
calls.)
Dicey. Hi, paper! (Buys a paper.)
Newsboy. Extra, extra, sir? (Dicey exits, and
Newsboy, R., calling as he goes.) Extra! Panic
in the city! Great bank failure! (Exit.)
Horace. Thank goodness I had that penny left!
That’s the only money I have spent to-night for
which I have received any value. I suppose this
is a swindle; they generally are. Here it is, anyway.
(In consternation as he reads.) What? What is
this? The United Bank closed! My bank broke!
I shall be ruined! The shares are only half paid up.
The calls will utterly swamp me! Do you hear, I
am ruined!
Messenger. Never mind, there are thousands of
people who are not.
Horace. You scoundrel! I suspect this is your
doing! It is awful! Awful!
Messenger. You can pity yourself. When anybody
else was in trouble, it didn’t matter, did it?
But for your own misfortunes you have quite a
tender heart. Doubtless your many admiring friends
will assist you.
Horace. They will be terribly distressed, I know.
Messenger. Let us observe their distress.
(Lights up in house and Dicey and Mrs. Clarence
discovered together reading the paper.)
Dicey. I know Parker is a very large shareholder,
if not the largest. He’ll be hit hard. Probably
ruined.
Mrs. Clarence. Ruined, is he? Ah, ha! quite
a new experience for him.
Horace. What a horrible woman! She’s simply
amused.
Mrs. Clarence. I hope it won’t affect Miss Parker
or Minnie.
Dicey. Here they come. How best can I break
it to them? I must learn whether they are caught,
too.
(Enter Aunt Martha and Minnie.)
Aunt. I hear something dreadful has happened
in the city. Does the paper say?
Dicey. Have you or Minnie anything in the
United Kingdom Bank?
Aunt. We had, but were advised to take it out,
and did so. Why?
Dicey. (Showing paper) It has gone smash.
Aunt. No! Oh, what luck for us, eh, Minnie!
Mrs. Clarence. And Mr. Parker?
Aunt. Oh, he pooh-poohed our friend. Horace
knew it all. He is so pig-headed! I shouldn’t wonder
if he was about cleared out.
Mrs. Clarence. I can’t say I am very sorry. He
has led a most selfish life, as everybody knows. He
has his desert.
Messenger. You are meeting with a lot of sympathy.
Horace. It is just what I told you. It’s the other
people who are selfish, not I. Why don’t you take
Mrs. Clarence in hand? She’s a beauty, if you like.
Messenger. Compared to you, she is an angel.
Minnie. Poor Horace, I am sorry for him! What
will he do?
Horace. There’s Minnie! She’s true—she’s true,
after all!
Aunt. What will he do? Well, I suppose he
will have to work, like anyone else.
Minnie. But he can’t, poor boy, he doesn’t know
anything.
Horace. Doesn’t know anything? What does
she mean?
Mrs. Clarence. There are plenty of fools who
manage to earn their own living. A little adversity
will be the making of him. It’s a terrible blow, all
the same, and you are brave to face it as you are
doing.
Horace. Damn it! it’s my trouble she is facing,
not hers. Brave?
Minnie. You’ll find something for Horace, won’t
you, dear?
Dicey. Well, I don’t know. Mr. Horace Parker
has not made himself particularly pleasant to me.
Horace. A good job, too.
Minnie. Oh, Arthur, for my sake! Please!
Dicey. That’s enough. Your slightest wish is
law to me. I’ll get him a berth with some friends
of mine in the city. They’ll take him on as clerk
to oblige me—but he’ll have to learn typewriting.
Horace. No! I’m damned if I do!
(Lights out in interior.)
Horace. You’d do credit to the Spanish Inquisition!
Haven’t you done with me?
Messenger. It is only your pride that is hurt.
Your heart is still as hard as ever.
Horace. Well, I am not beaten yet, if that is
what you mean. I may be ruined financially, but I’ve
got pages and pages of notes at home which I have
taken during the last twelve months.
Messenger. About what?
Horace. About the planets. And Mars in particular.
And with the information you have been
kind enough to give me to-night, I’ll write a book
that will fairly make them sit up. Of course, nobody
will believe it. But they will buy the book.
I’ll sell my house and publish it myself. You can’t
down an Englishman in one round, Marsy, my lad!
(Fire engine heard passing along off L.)
Messenger. What’s that?
Horace. Fire somewhere.
Messenger. Fire? Perhaps you could be of help
there.
Horace. How absurd you are! The firemen will
attend to it. That’s what they are paid for. You
can’t expect me to bother about it. It is not my
business.
Messenger. In Mars we do not mind our own
business.
Horace. I can quite believe it.
(Another fire engine.)
Messenger. It must be something serious. There’s
another engine, is it not? Won’t you go?
Horace. We shall see all about it in the papers
to-morrow. I tell you I should only be in the way.
Now, please may I go home?
Messenger. Not yet.
(Lights up within the house, and discovered are
Mrs. Clarence and Sir Edward Vivian.)
Messenger. Who is that with your friend Mrs.
Clarence?
Horace. He at the dance? Why, that is Sir
Edward Vivian, the great astronomer.
Messenger. You know him?
Horace. I know of him, and he knows me. He
has a very high opinion of me. He told a friend of
mine last year that I was the coming man.
Messenger. Most interesting. Listen!
Sir Edward. Parker? Horace Parker? Oh,
yes, a very wealthy man, I think.
Mrs. Clarence. He was, but I hear he has lost
everything in this bank smash.
Sir Edward. Indeed! I am very sorry to hear
it. He was a useful subscriber. Very sad! Dear,
dear!
Horace. That is a tribute from him.
Mrs. Clarence. I suppose he will be able to turn
his scientific abilities to use and make a living that
way?
Sir Edward. I’m afraid not.
Mrs. Clarence. Why not?
Sir Edward. Because he hasn’t any scientific
abilities.
Horace. Has none?
Mrs. Clarence. You surprise me. I understood
that——
Sir Edward. My dear Madame, his science is all
fudge. Very praiseworthy in a wealthy man, of
course. That sort of thing has to be encouraged
among the rich. We need funds always. But as to
any practical value—why, the thing is absurd to a
degree.
Mrs. Clarence. And all the time he has been
posing before us poor innocents as a veritable leader
of thought.
Sir Edward. I may give you one instance. He
has some fantastical ideas about life on the planet
Mars. Now, all scientific men of any standing are
quite agreed on this point. There is no such thing
as life on the planet Mars.
Horace. We know better than that, don’t we,
Marsy?
Messenger. And this is your science!
Horace. No. It’s not mine. It is his.
(Lights out in interior. Enter Bella L. hastily.
She rings bell at front door.)
Messenger. Who comes now? Your servant, is
it not?
Horace. Bella! What can she want? Has she
missed me?
(Footman opens front door.)
Bella. Is Mr. Parker here, please? (Footman
shakes his head.) Or Miss Parker, then? Quick,
please! The house is on fire. (Footman admits
her and the door is closed.)
Horace. The house on fire? My house on fire?
Messenger. Be calm. The firemen will attend
to it. You’ll see all about it in the papers to-morrow.
Horace. My house is on fire! Let me go! (He
starts to go, but is hypnotically held back.)
Messenger. Stay where you are. You would
only be in the way. It is insured, of course.
Horace. Curse you, no! All my papers will be
destroyed. I’m done! I’m beaten! It’s your doing!
Well, kill me at once! It would be a kindness!
(Sobs, thoroughly crushed.)
Messenger. Poor child of the times, crying over
your alphabet.
Horace. What will become of me? What will
I do?
Messenger. Where are your divisions of labor
now? Yours will be to tramp the streets. Stand
forth, poor shivering wretch! You are a beggar in
rags!
(Horace’s coat, scarf and hat are torn from him,
and he appears as a ragged loafer.)
Horace. (Looking down at himself in despair) I
am! I am!
Messenger. And hungry.
Horace. Ravenous!
(Horace leans back against the railings of the house,
a most forlorn object. After a pause, enter
slowly from R. the Tramp. Tramp spies Horace
and sidles up to him, and takes up a similar
pose by his side. Nothing said for a little, but
they examine each other.)
Tramp. Know anything?
Horace. Nothing. I’m hungry. Are you?
(Tramp brings out a biscuit from his pocket.)
Tramp. Here’s a biscuit I’ve got left. It was
given to me by a swell to-night. A real tip-topper.
That sort of chap don’t know what hunger is.
Horace. (Eating ravenously) Doesn’t he?
Tramp. Don’t know a place to doss in, do you?
Horace. No.
Tramp. Tough, ain’t it?
Horace. Very.
Tramp. Know where you can get a job in the
morning?
Horace. Wish I did.
Tramp. There’s a lot of snow to shovel.
Horace. Lots.
Tramp. But we ain’t got no shovels.
Horace. Worse luck!
Tramp. What are you?
Horace. Nothing. Just a tramp.
Tramp. Same as me. Seen better days?
Horace. Yes.
Tramp. Same as me again. Well, I like the looks
of you. You seem a good sort, anyhow.
Horace. Do I? You are the first to say so to-night.
I’ve heard nothing but the contrary opinion
of late.
Tramp. Got a wife that nags, maybe?
Horace. Not exactly a wife. I’ve got no wife.
Tramp. Same as me again. I had a wife once,
though. But she’s dead and gone. I had a little
daughter, but I don’t know what become of her.
What’s on here? A party?
Horace. Yes.
(Footman opens door and Aunt and Bella come
out, followed by Dicey and Minnie.)
Tramp. Going away. Come on, let’s call a cab.
Horace. No good, they’ve got their own car.
Aunt. Oh, how thick the snow is.
Dicey. Don’t slip, Minnie.
Tramp. Minnie! Look! There’s my Minnie!
My darling little Minnie!
Horace. Where?
Tramp. There in the doorway, with that swell!
It’s my Minnie! I’ll swear to it! The living image
of her mother! I’m going to speak to her.
Horace. (Holding him back) No, no, man.
Think how you will disgrace her.
Tramp. Disgrace her? Why, she will be proud
of her father.
Horace. See, she has someone to care for her.
Why break in upon her life? You have forfeited
your claim.
Tramp. Not much I haven’t. She could give me
a fine lift up, and then I’d help you.
Horace. Not if I die in the gutter! It may be
your right. But don’t drag her down to your level
and mine. Stop him, Marsy! You can.
Messenger. (Waves his hand to Tramp, who
seems to give up his purpose.) A thought for another.
The fire is catching.
Tramp. Well, you’re a rum ’un! No wonder
you are down on your luck. A man must think of
himself in this world a little bit. But you’re a good
sort. I won’t speak to the girl, though she is my
daughter. See here now, I’ve got an idea.
Horace. I know you have. Lots of them.
Tramp. How did you know that?
Horace. I guessed it. (Aside) I hope he won’t
recognize me.
Tramp. The people will be going home presently.
Let’s get to work and clear the snow for
them to get to their cars. We might pick up a bit
that way.
Horace. Capital, but we have no shovels.
Tramp. Can’t get shovels. Look around and see
if you can’t find a bit of board to scrape with.
Horace. A bit of board to scrape with! I recognize
the inventor.
Tramp. Here, what’s the matter with that barrel?
Horace. Lor’, I should never have thought of
that.
Tramp. Look out for the Bobby!
(Tramp kicks barrel apart and tears out a couple of
staves.)
Tramp. You start on the steps.
(They clear a path from door to off L.)
Horace. (As they work) I wonder how much
we shall make?
Tramp. Sixpence or two if we’re in luck. Halves,
partner?
Horace. Halves, if you say so. Halves, partner.
Tramp. Seems to me I’ve met you somewhere.
Horace. Thunder, he recognizes me! (Aside.)
Tramp. Didn’t I see you last August down Margate
way with a piano-organ and a monkey?
Horace. (Quite boldly) Very likely.
Tramp. I thought I’d met you before. Ah, you
have come down a bit since then. About ready for
them.
(Footman at door and Lady and First Gentleman
come out.)
Tramp. (Most cheerily) Cleared the snow for
you, Lady. Made a nice path, Sir. (Touching his
hat.)
Horace. (Faintly imitating and touching his
hat) Cleared the snow for you, Lady. Made a
nice path, Sir.
First Gentleman. Sorry I haven’t got any coppers.
Do take an answer.
Tramp. Shall I call a cab, sir?
Horace. Shall I call a cab, sir?
First Gentleman. No, no! (Exit with lady L.)
Tramp. That was a frost. Here’s some more.
(Two gentlemen and a lady come out.)
Tramp. Beg pardon, sir. Look what we’ve done.
Ain’t it nice and handy for the lady? (Less cheerily.)
Horace. (Rather more forcibly) See what we’ve
done. Ain’t it nice and handy for the lady?
Second Gentleman. All muffled up or I would—
(Exit with others of the party.)
Horace. I’ve said the same thing myself a dozen
times.
Tramp. Ain’t making our fortunes, are we, partner?
Horace. The stingy brutes! Never mind, we’ll
try again.
(Sir Edward Vivian and two ladies come out.)
Tramp. We cleared the snow away for you, sir.
Can’t you spare us a trifle, sir?
Sir Edward. Nonsense! The servants of the
house cleared it.
Tramp. No, sir, we done it, sir. Me and my
partner.
Sir Edward. You couple of impostors! Why,
where are your shovels?
Horace. (Firing up) We cleared it, and if you
don’t like it you can bally well walk in the snow!
(Shoulders Sir Edward off the path into the snow.)
Sir Edward. You impudent loafer! Hi, Policeman!
(Enter Policeman L.) This ruffian assaulted
me.
Policeman. Come out of that, you two! I know
you! You’re old hands! Be off, both of you!
(Tramp drags Horace away.)
Policeman. Cab, sir? (Very sweetly.)
Sir Edward. Thank you, Policeman. (Gives
money.)
(Exeunt Sir Edward, ladies and Policeman L.)
Messenger. Fine force, the police!
Horace. I was nearly starting a labor riot. Well,
that’s what is at the bottom of most of them.
Tramp. (Thoroughly broken) My ideas don’t
seem to come to anything any more. I’m a failure,
and a bad ’un. I’ve been feeling bad all day, and
this has about done for me. (Falls down.)
(Horace goes to him and kneels down to him, trying
to rouse him up.)
Horace. Don’t talk like that! It is a splendid
idea, and there are plenty more to come out.
Tramp. I only wants burying, Partner, and
they’ll have to do that. Damn ’em!
Horace. You must pull yourself together. Marsy,
won’t you help him?
Messenger. You can’t make me responsible for
that dirty beggar’s condition.
Horace. Ah, don’t mock me! I’m beaten! I
give in.
Messenger. If you had your money again, you’d
just go your old way, and leave him to die.
Horace. That’s gone, and I wouldn’t have it
back at that price. Only help him now.
Messenger. Try at the house.
Horace. They know me there.
Messenger. What of that?
Horace. I wouldn’t like Mrs. Clarence to see me
in this condition.
Messenger. Your friend is dying.
(Horace pulls himself together and knocks loudly
at the door. Footman opens door.)
Horace. There’s a poor fellow dying of cold and
hunger. Ask Mrs. Clarence if she will——
(Mrs. Clarence appears behind Footman.)
Mrs. Clarence. What is it, John?
Horace. There’s a poor fellow outside dying of
cold.
Mrs. Clarence. This is not a hospital. John,
shut the door.
Horace. (Holding the door open) Mrs. Clarence,
you must not refuse this service.
Mrs. Clarence. And pray, who are you?
Horace. Horace Parker, a ruined man as you
know—a tramp as you see.
Mrs. Clarence. John, do you hear me?
Horace. Mrs. Clarence—may he lie on the mat
where your dog sleeps?
Mrs. Clarence. John—— (Retires, and door
is shut in Horace’s face.)
Horace. You hear? What shall I do for him,
Marsy?
Messenger. Well done, my pupil!
Tramp. You’re a good ’un. I said it all along.
Messenger. Feel in your pocket.
Horace. My pocket? What for? What’s this?
A note! A pound note! Halves, Partner! Halves!
(Horace bending over Tramp, succoring him.)
CURTAIN
ACT III
Scene same as at end of Act I.
At rise of curtain there should be shown on a transparency
set, well down stage, a picture of the
end of the last act, the snow scene and Horace
bending over the Tramp and The Messenger
soaring homewards. At the same time Horace
himself is seen sleeping in his chair, breathing
heavily. With the first clanging of the fire-engine
bell and Horace waking up, the lights
increase at back and the dream scene fades
away. The lamp is now seen to be lighted
again, the fire burning brightly, and an “Extra”
evening paper lying on table, close to Horace.
After sufficient pause after curtain is up, a fire
engine is heard rumbling past from R. to L. outside,
and this disturbs Horace, who begins to
wake, as the transparency picture fades away.
Horace. (Looks about him, bewildered, then at
his clothes. Gives a short laugh and grunt, and
leans back, smiling, with closed eyes.) What a
nightmare!
(N.B. If the statue of the Messenger is not used
in performing the play, the following will be the
correct speech, but if the figure is now on the
lamp-stand, reference may be made and addressed
to him in the second person.)
Horace. Marsy, old boy, you have a lot to answer
for! Fancy my dreaming I was hungry! Comes of
eating a heavy dinner. (With a sudden thought.)
By Jove! (Searches his pockets for his money.
Finds it with a sigh of relief. Counts his notes
carefully.) Ten, twenty, fifty, and one. All there.
(Pulls out some silver from his trousers pocket.)
Even the silver. Very careless, very careless of me.
I can hardly be trusted out at night with so much.
I might in a weak moment hand it over to some
hospital amid the admiring cheers of the populace.
I must watch myself.
(Loud clang of fire-engine bell as it passes from R.
to L. startles him, and involuntarily he shouts
out.)
Horace. Fire! (Then he checks himself.) Hope
nobody heard me. My nerves are all on edge. I
wish old Marsy would tell me whether that inventive
vagabond got over his troubles or peacefully expired
in the snow. Poor devil! I almost wish I could
meet him again. We call such fellows riff-raff, rabble,
but, if the truth were told, might not some of
us be found to be the real loafers in the snug corners
of Easy Street, of little good to anyone, cumbering
up the way till that old patrolman, Death,
steps up and bids us “Move on”?
(Enter Bella abruptly and alarmed, R.)
Bella. Oh, sir, did you call?
Horace. Call? (Innocently.) Call what?
Bella. Fire, sir. Fire.
Horace. Fire is all right. Burning nicely.
Bella. Yes, sir. Perhaps it was the fire engine
going by.
Horace. Very likely. Very likely. Did one go
by?
Bella. Yes, sir—and I was half dozing, and——
Horace. You must have been dreaming, Bella.
That’s very wrong. You shouldn’t. It’s a bad
habit to get into. However, as you are sleepy you
needn’t wait up. I shan’t sleep again. I mean I
don’t think I shall feel like going to sleep at all.
Bella. (Aside) As if I didn’t see him asleep.
I think I would like to go to bed, sir, if you think
Miss Minnie won’t want anything. They can’t be
long now, sir.
Horace. No. You go to bed. By the way, did
you fill the lamp?
Bella. Yes, sir, and made up the fire, and
brought you in your “Extra.”
Horace. Extra? (Almost reeling with nervousness.)
Bella. Yes, sir, I put it on the table. Oh, sir,
are you ill?
Horace. Ill? No. What an idea!
Bella. You were so—so busy, sir, when I came
in with the oil, I didn’t like to wa—— to disturb
you, sir. Good night, sir.
Horace. Good night, Bella. (She exits R.) Then
there was an Extra in reality. That was not all
dream. There it is. What made me dream of the
bank smash if nothing had been said about it? I
dreamt of Mars. I had been reading of Mars. At
this moment, great heavens, I may be, in very fact,
a ruined man! (Seizes paper with trembling hands
and finds the place. Reads.) Not a word! (Wipes
his forehead.) Not a word, but there might have
been! And why should this house not be burning
as well as the one that is? What would I do? Cut
my throat! An arrant coward’s refuge, after all.
Ah, from the beggar’s point of view, wealth seemed
so flinty hearted, while charity was natural and easy
to the poor. (Fire engine.) Evidently no false
alarm this time. Somebody sick with anxiety and
dread to-night. Heaven help them, whoever they
are! What a rap Marsy would give me for that
speech. He’d say, “Help them yourself. Don’t
overtax Heaven.” Pshaw, I’d only be in the way.
We have an excellent fire department. Best in the
world. And there are so many need helping. How
many lines of this paper tell of suffering, and how
much may we read between the lines! (Skims over
paper.) “Wanted, plain sewing, to do at home.”
“Young man wants work. Will do anything honest.”
Honest? He is particular for these days.
And I swore to Marsy that I wouldn’t take back my
money except to share it with others. He might
have made favorable terms with me just then. (Sees
ring on table.) Minnie’s ring. My trying to bully
her. It was the act of a cur! I’ll tell her so. I’ll—(Fire
engine passes.) Another! It must be serious.
(Looks through curtains of window C.) What
a sheet of flame! It must be in the next street. It
may reach here. (Looks intently.) No, the wind’s
the other way. (Relieved.) That tenement house,
I’ll be bound! Poor people, what will they do this
bitter night if they are burnt out? I don’t know
what I could do if I really wanted to. I think I’ll
put on my coat and hat and go and see. Don’t suppose
I’ll do much harm looking on. (Fire-engine
bell again. He looks out again.) Ladder escape.
(Dresses a little quicker now.) I might take an extra
coat for some one. (Goes to closet containing
several overcoats and takes one. Hesitates and
then puts another over his arm. Is going R. when
another engine passes.) I can’t stand it! (Snatches
the last overcoat. Leaves the closet door open and
rushes out with coats over his arm R.)
(Considerable pause, when front door bell rings.
Pause, and then knock heard. Further pause,
and knock and bell heard. Voices heard. After
further pause, vigorous knocking and ringing
heard, and voices in expostulation. Knocking
and ringing suddenly stop as door is opened,
and then enter Aunt, followed by Minnie and
Dicey, and last by Bella, in hastily thrown on
gown. They gather round the fire.)
Aunt. Really, Bella, I don’t understand you!
We have been fully ten minutes battering at that
door, and getting our deaths. I declare my teeth are
chattering.
Minnie. So is your tongue, Auntie.
Aunt. Don’t be disrespectful to your elders.
Minnie. Sorry, Auntie. Only a joke.
Aunt. And quite without a point.
Minnie. (Aside) It seemed to prick, though.
Bella. If you please, Madam, Mr. Parker told
me to go to bed.
Aunt. Very considerate of him as regards you.
Minnie. Perhaps he meant to lock us out for our
sins. It does look like it.
Aunt. Mr. Dicey, you must wait awhile till you
get warmed up.
Dicey. It is very late, and I must not intrude.
You are safe home now.
Aunt. I am sure we poor deserted females have
much to be grateful for to you. You see how the
master of the house treats us. Have you any idea
where Mr. Parker is?
Bella. No, Madam. He said he was going to
sit up for you, and that is why I went to bed. I
dressed as quick as I could, Madam.
Minnie. Oh, it is not your fault, Bella.
Aunt. I’ll warrant he has gone to bed. Just like
his utter want of thought for anybody. I hope he is
sound asleep. He shall explain and apologize. This
is going a little too far. Locking us out. Excuse
me a moment. (Bella and Aunt exeunt R.)
Minnie. Have a little something till Auntie
comes back. Horace ought to be here to thank you
for doing his duty.
Dicey. I’m afraid I’m keeping you up.
Minnie. I am too much awake now. I shan’t
sleep till daylight. Oh, here are some cigars. Have
some?
Dicey. Some? If you are sure I am not trespassing
upon your good nature, I’ll start one here
and finish it on my way home. (Minnie strikes a
light.) Oh, you are too good.
Minnie. We must do something by way of return.
Dicey. Just order the car as if it were your own.
I wish it was. It couldn’t have a fairer owner.
Minnie. I was going to pour you out a glass—but
I’m a little afraid——
Dicey. All the wines of Bacchus would be less
intoxicating than my last waltz with you.
Minnie. Then we must certainly swear off dancing!
Dicey. I’d as soon swear off living.
Minnie. Do you only live to dance?
Dicey. I think I only live to dance with you.
Minnie. Mr. Dicey!
Dicey. Minnie!
Minnie. I wonder what has become of Horace?
Dicey. (As she turns away on pretence of turning
the lamp up, aside) Always Horace. Heigho!
I must really be going, and thank you so much for
all the pleasure—and pain you have given me. (Re-enter
Aunt R.)
Aunt. He is not in his room. I hammered on
his door till my arm ached, and then thinking he
was keeping up his joke, I lit a match and marched
in. His bed wasn’t crumpled, even. Must you go?
Dicey. I must, indeed; the richer by a cigar,
however—(Shakes hands with Aunt and turns to
Minnie)—the poorer by a heart! Good night.
Aunt. I’ll see you out myself. (Exit with Dicey
R.)
Minnie. I like him, but I don’t love him. How
strange it is. He would do anything for me, while—well—I
don’t suppose he—(Meaning Horace)—would,
unless a mountain fell at his feet to start
him into action. (Enter Aunt.)
Aunt. A very nice young man, but hardly correct
of him to come in at such an hour.
Minnie. Oh, Auntie, we made him. But where
can Horace be, then? His coat has gone. (Pointing
to chair below fireplace where it had been. Aunt
notices closet open and empty.)
Aunt. Oh! There have been burglars here!
Coats all taken. He has pursued them.
Minnie. He couldn’t wear all his coats at once.
(Sounds of voices at front door heard, growing
louder and louder.)
Aunt. They are returning for more plunder.
(Enter R. a crowd of poor people, preceded by a
burly working man, half dressed, carrying a
child. He advances well to C., the ladies retreating
in alarm before him, slightly screaming.
He stops short.)
Working Man. Gent told us to come in, ladies.
We’re all burnt out by the fire.
Minnie. He has been to the fire!
Aunt. Gather round the fire. Bring the children
to the front. This is terrible! Poor little
ones!
(The crowd consists of the following: First the man
described, whose face is partly blackened by
smoke, his child wrapped in a bit of blanket;
then a woman wearing Horace’s fur coat over
her night dress, and carrying a baby. An old
couple, woman wearing a gray overcoat of
Horace’s; a girl wearing Horace’s mackintosh
over nightclothes; she leads a boy in knee pants,
no stockings, and one shoe on; a little girl carrying
a baby. She tries to get to fire, but is
blocked off by others, so dives under the table
with her charge. Others, men and women, may
be added, one wearing another of Horace’s
overcoats. Then comes in Horace and the
Tramp, carrying an unconscious youth whom
they place on the sofa C. Bella also comes in,
looking rather bewildered.)
Horace. Ah, that’s right, Bella, stir up the fire.
Then call all the servants and start fires in all the
bedrooms. We must find places for these unfortunate
people. Has the doctor come yet? I am awfully
afraid this lad is beyond his aid.
Aunt. What is the matter with him, Horace?
Horace. Half an arm burnt away.
Minnie. These tiny tots! Would a little wine
help them or you?
First Working Woman. You set us hoping,
Miss, so you do. We ought to be thankful for our
lives and our babies. Some didn’t get out. I don’t
know how many.
Minnie. (Giving wine) Try and not worry.
We’ll do what we can.
Horace. Yes, cheer up, folk! We’ll see you on
your feet again.
First Working Man. Thank you, Mister. That’s
a kind word, no mistake.
Horace. No doctor yet? I’ll go myself. Where
is our doctor? (He lifts his fur cap off a child’s
head and gets his scarf from another.)
Minnie. Dr. Chapman is only a few doors down
on the right. You’ll know the house by the red
light. (Horace is going R. A knock on front door
heard.) Perhaps that is the doctor.
(Horace goes out and brings Dr. Chapman in R.)
Horace. This is the worst case, Doctor.
(Dr. Chapman goes to lad on sofa. Enter Bella
R.)
Bella. Some of the rooms are ready, sir.
Horace. Will you dispose them, Auntie? (Apart
to her) I ought to apologize to you for bringing in
all this crowd without asking you, but you see what
a deplorable——
Aunt. (Patting his shoulder) Nephew, I am
proud of you!
Horace. Funny! I thought she’d kick.
Aunt. Let this old couple come first, and the
children, and you. (Aunt Martha shepherds
about half the crowd off R. and exits.)
Tramp. (To Horace) Boy is in a bad way,
Guv’ner, but Doctor thinks he can pull him through.
Minnie. You brought him in. I thought he was
your son.
Tramp. No, Miss, I ain’t got no son, only a
daughter.
Minnie. Has he no friends?
Tramp. His mother was burnt up, Miss, to-night.
(Minnie nearly faints, and Horace catches
her. She gently removes herself from his arms.)
Excuse me, Miss, I was too blunt with it.
Horace. There, Minnie, don’t give way. They
will need your help.
Bella. (Enter R.) The other rooms are ready,
sir.
Minnie. Can you walk now better? Don’t cry,
we will get you some clothes in the morning.
Second Working Woman. God bless your kind
heart, Miss, and you, sir. We’d have died if you
hadn’t come.
(Minnie shows them off with Bella R., and exits
with crowd.)
Horace. What is to be done, Doctor?
Dr. Chapman. Well, if you wish to turn your
house into a hospital, all right. To save his life, he
must be put to bed at once, and kept there.
(Enter Aunt Martha R. Sees lad on sofa.)
Aunt. Oh, how could I? I have forgotten the
principal sufferer, and there is not another room
left.
Horace. Have you used mine?
Aunt. Horace!
Horace. Let him have that. May it save him is
all I say! Now how to move him.
Dr. Chapman. Carry him as he is, sofa and all.
That will save a good deal of strain.
(Dr. Chapman, Horace and Tramp carry out boy
on sofa R. Minnie enters as they exeunt.)
Minnie. Where can they be going to put that
poor boy?
Aunt. Horace insists upon giving up his bed and
room to him.
Minnie. (Astounded) No!
Aunt. (Sharing her wonderment) Yes. (They
look at each other for a moment in silence.)
Minnie. Well, I can believe it after what he has
been doing at the fire.
Aunt. Do you know, Minnie, I hardly think you
should call a man, with a mind rather above social
small talk, selfish, because he doesn’t care to go to
your balls with you.
Minnie. It was you who said he was selfish. I
was willing to give up the dance.
Aunt. I don’t dance. You have misjudged him.
He is the soul of generosity. Do you know, he actually
began excusing himself to me for bringing the
poor people in out of the cold.
Minnie. Fancy those babies sleeping through it
all! Weren’t they sweet? (Enter Tramp and Horace
R.)
Aunt. And you, my poor fellow! I must find a
corner for you somewhere. You have no home now,
I suppose.
Tramp. No, ma’m. I’ve done without a home
for several moons. So I’m used to it, but it’s tough
on those who get it sudden.
Horace. I’m interested in this man. I showed
him scant courtesy this evening, and felt sorry for
him afterwards. We met again at the fire. He is an
inventor, moreover.
Tramp. Ah, Guv’ner, if they had only had my
fire-escape there would have been no killed.
Horace. Have you an idea for a fire-escape?
By Jove, we’ll patent it! Meanwhile——
Tramp. Will you give me the job of cleaning
the snow from your front walks?
Horace. Yes, and I will pay you in advance.
Tramp. Needn’t do that, Guv.
Aunt. You will find a shovel in the coal shed, if
not——
Horace. A bit of board will do.
Tramp. Shovel’s best, Guv’ner——
Horace. I mean, of course—oh, yes, a shovel, by
all means. The servants are up, and if you don’t
object to eating before retiring, for there’s no hurry
about the snow——
Tramp. I doesn’t object.
Aunt. Will you show him the way to the kitchen,
Minnie?
Tramp. Minnie? Is that her name?
Aunt. Why, yes.
Tramp. I’m looking for a daughter of that name.
Horace. Who were Minnie’s parents, Aunt? Do
you know? Can it be possible that——
Tramp. That this young lady is mine? Lor’, no,
Guv’ner! My daughter would only be about twelve
years old.
Horace. Why, you said she was the image of
your——
Tramp. Me? Never, Guv’ner. Never saw this
lady before.
Horace. Not you, no, I remember. It was someone
else.
Aunt. Your mother knew both Minnie’s parents.
Her father was a clergyman.
Tramp. And I ain’t exactly.
Minnie. I am sure you have a brave as well as
a kind heart, for I have heard from others what
risks you took in carrying them out.
Horace. Well, take a substantial supper—or
breakfast, whichever it may be called—and presently
we’ll clear that snow off together. (Exit Tramp
with Minnie R.)
Aunt. What do you mean by clearing the snow
together?
Horace. I fancy the exercise will stimulate
thought.
Aunt. My dear Horace, I am truly ashamed of
the abuse I heaped upon you this evening. Do forgive
me.
Horace. Why, Aunt, I’m sure I had well earned
it.
Aunt. What a noble reproof you have administered
by this turning of your house into a common
lodging place, you who so dislike being disturbed, and
I thought abominated the lower class. I’m afraid I
should have hesitated long before I invited them in.
Horace. Not if you had seen them as I did. Oh,
Auntie, why have we so little Otherdom?
Aunt. Other—what, dear?
Horace. That is, philanthropy, benevolence, altruism.
Aunt. I am sure you have done your full share
to-night.
Horace. It can only be because we never realize
how the poor live. In the wise days of old, when
men were nearer nature, fast days were instituted,
that the Fat might remember the Lean. Now our
Fasts are feasts. I wonder what a bonafide all-round
forty-eight hour starve, once a year even,
would do for our rich friends. Make that a fad,
Auntie. You’d revolutionize the world.
Aunt. You are quite right, Horace. We do fall
far short of our whole duty. But where are you
going to sleep? Will you go to a hotel?
Horace. Perhaps, or in the chair. Don’t bother
about me.
Aunt. Kiss me, Horace. Heaven bless you.
You have made me very happy to-night. (Exit.)
Horace. The sofa gone. I see nothing for it but
to camp on the hearthrug or in the chair. Don’t
want that any more. (Turns out lamp.) I wish I
could have made my peace with Minnie. But she
hasn’t forgotten so readily. She shrank away from
me when I caught her. I must just hope for the
best. (Settles down in chair.)
(Enter Minnie R.)
Minnie. Light out—then I am too late. He has
gone to some hotel. I wonder how the fire is doing?
(Goes to window and pulls curtains away, when the
morning light falls upon her. Horace, aroused, sees
her.)
Horace. I might be dreaming again. Ah, I can
read it now! She is my guide—my Marsy—my conscience!
Minnie!!
Minnie. (Startled) Horace?
Horace. Forgive me, Minnie! I was a brute to
you.
Minnie. I wronged you, Horace. I know I did.
Horace. Never! Never! It was your spirit
that changed me, and my purpose in life. Help me
to continue.
Minnie. What can I do?
Horace. (Picks up ring from table) Let me put
it back on its finger. (Sounds of scraping of shovel
outside.)
Minnie. (Goes to window and looks out) It is
that poor inventor man shoveling the snow.
Horace. There is good in him, and we will bring
it out.
Minnie. And shall we help him to find his Minnie,
now that you have found yours?
Horace. That we will, dearest. (Puts on ring.)
There it is again, my love, my Minnie!
(Tramp comes into view through window shoveling
the snow cheerily.)
CURTAIN