The Master of Mrs. Chilvers: An Improbable Comedy

Lady Mogton. You consent?

Annys. Yes. If it’s everybody’s wish.

Lady Mogton. That’s settled.

Phoebe. (She springs up, waving a handkerchief.) Chilvers for ever!

Janet. (Rises.) God bless you!

Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers. (Clapping her hands.) Now we shan’t be long!

Lady Mogton. (Hammers.) Order, please!

(The three subside.)

This is serious business. The next step is, of course —

(The door opens; Geoffrey enters. He is a youngish-looking man of three or four and thirty. Lady Mogton, at the sound of the door, turns. St. Herbert rises. There is a pause.)

Lady Mogton. We’ve been talking about you. We must apologise for turning your drawing-room —

Geoffrey. My dear mother-in-law, it is Providence. (He kisses her.) There is no one I was more longing to see.

Annys. (She has risen.) Hake told me you would be dining at the House.

Geoffrey. (He comes to her, kisses her, he is in a state of suppressed excitement.) I shall be. I came back to bring you some news.

Phoebe. We’ve got some news for you. Have you heard —

Geoffrey. (He stays her.) May I claim man’s privilege for the first word? It is news, I am sure, you will all be delighted to hear. A friend of yours has been appointed to an office where – it is quite possible – he may be of service to you.

Phoebe. Governorship of Holloway Gaol?

Geoffrey. Not a bad guess. Very near it. To the Under-Secretaryship for Home Affairs.

Lady Mogton. Who is it?

Geoffrey. (He bows.) Your affectionate and devoted servant.

Annys. You!

Phoebe. (Genuinely delighted. She is not a quick thinker.) Bravo! Congratulations, old boy! (She has risen—she slaps him on the back.)

Annys. Geoffrey! (She puts her arms about him.) You never told me anything.

Geoffrey. I know, dear. I was afraid. It mightn’t have come off. And then you would have been so disappointed.

Annys. (There are tears in her eyes. She still clings to him.) I am so glad. Oh, I am so glad!

Geoffrey. It is all your doing. You have been such a splendid help. (He breaks gently away from her. Turns to St. Herbert, with a lighter tone.) Haven’t you anything to say to a fellow? You’re not usually dumb.

St. Herbert. It has all been so sudden – as the early Victorian heroine was fond of remarking!

Geoffrey. (Laughs.) It has been sudden. We had, none of us, any idea till yesterday that old Bullock was thinking of resigning.

Elizabeth. (She has risen and moved towards the fire.) Won’t it necessitate a bye-election?

(Lady Mogton and St. Herbert have been thinking it out. On the others the word falls like a bombshell.)

Geoffrey. (He turns to her. He does not see their faces.) Yes. But I don’t anticipate a contest. The Conservatives are without a candidate, and I am on good terms with the Labour Party. Perhaps Mr. Hunnable – (He laughs, then, turning, catches sight of his wife’s face. From Annys he looks to the others.)

Lady Mogton. (She has risen.) You haven’t heard, then, of McCaw versus Potts?

Geoffrey. “McCaw versus Potts!” What the —

St. Herbert. Was decided in the House of Lords late yesterday afternoon. Briefly stated, it confers upon women the right of becoming Parliamentary candidates.

Geoffrey. (He is staggered.) You mean —

Lady Mogton. Having regard to which, we have decided to bring forward a woman candidate to contest the next bye-election.

Geoffrey. Um! I see.

Annys. But we never thought – we never anticipated it would be Geoffrey’s.

Lady Mogton. I really cannot admit that that alters the case. Geoffrey himself would never dream, I am sure, of asking us to sacrifice our cause to his convenience.

Geoffrey. No. Of course not. Certainly not.

Lady Mogton. It is perhaps unfortunate that the candidate selected —

Annys. It is quite impossible. Such a dilemma was never dreamed of.

Lady Mogton. And if not? Is the solidarity of woman —

Geoffrey. (Beginning to guess.) Forgive my impatience; but whom have you selected?

Elizabeth. (When she likes she can be quite sweet.) Your wife. (He expected it.) We rather assumed (she appeals to the others with a gesture), I think, that the president of the Man’s League for the Extension of the Franchise to Women would regard it as a compliment.

Geoffrey. (His dislike of her is already in existence.) Yes. Very thoughtful.

Annys. You must choose some one else.

Phoebe. But there is no one else.

Annys. There’s mamma.

Phoebe. Mamma’s too heavy.

Annys. Well, then, there’s Elizabeth – there’s you!

Geoffrey. Yes. Why not you? You and I could have a jolly little fight.

Lady Mogton. This is not a laughing matter. If I could think of any one to take Annys’s place I should not insist. I cannot.

Phoebe. You see, it mustn’t be a crank.

Geoffrey. (He is losing his temper.) Yes, I suppose that does limit you.

Elizabeth. And then – thanks to you – Mrs. Chilvers has had such excellent training in politics. It was that, I think, that decided us.

Geoffrey. (Convention forbids his strangling her.) Will somebody kindly introduce me to this lady?

St. Herbert. Ah, yes, of course. You don’t know each other, do you? Mr. Geoffrey Chilvers – Mrs. Joseph Spender. Mrs. Spender – Mr. Chilvers, M.P.

Elizabeth. (Sweetly.) Delighted!

Geoffrey. (Not.) Charmed.

Lady Mogton. (To Annys.) I am not indifferent to your difficulty. But the history of woman, my dear Annys, is a history of sacrifice. We give our sons – if necessary, our husbands.

Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers. (Affected.) How true!

Annys. But you are not asking me to give him. You are asking me to fight him. I can’t.

Lady Mogton. You mean you won’t.

Annys. You can put it that way if you like. I won’t.

(A pause.)

Janet. I thought Mrs. Chilvers had pledged her word.

Elizabeth. Yes. But without her husband’s consent. So, of course, it doesn’t count.

Geoffrey. (He turns on her.) Why not you – if there must be a fight? Or would it be against your principles?

Elizabeth. Not in the least.

Geoffrey. Ah!

Elizabeth. I would offer myself as a substitute. Only it might seem like coming between husband and wife.

Geoffrey. (He turns away with a grunt of disgust.)

Phoebe. It’s awfully rough on you, Geoffrey. I can see it from your point of view. But one can’t help remembering the things that you yourself have said.

Geoffrey. I know; I know. I’ve been going up and down the country, excusing even your excesses on the ground that no movement can force its way to the front without treading on innumerable toes. For me, now, to cry halt merely because it happens to be my own toes that are in the way would be – ridiculous – absurd – would be monstrous. (Nobody contradicts him.) You are perfectly justified – if this case means what you say it does – in putting up a candidate against me for East Poplar. Only, naturally, it cannot be Annys. (He reaches out his hand to where Annys stands a little behind him, takes her hand.) Annys and I have fought more than one election. It has been side by side.

Elizabeth. The lady a little behind.

Geoffrey. (He moves away with an expression of deep annoyance.)

Janet. (She comes forward. She holds forth her hands with a half-appealing, half-commanding gesture. She almost seems inspired.) Would it not be so much better if, in this first political contest between man and woman, the opponents were two people honouring one another, loving one another? Would it not show to all the world that man and woman may meet – contend in public life without anger, without scorn? (There is a pause. They stand listening.) I do not know, but it seems to me that if Mr. Chilvers could bring himself to do this it would be such a big thing – perhaps the most chivalrous thing that a man has ever done to help women. If he would put aside, quite voluntarily, all the man’s privilege – just say to the people, “Now choose – one of us two to serve you. We stand before you, equal, my wife and I.” I don’t know how to put it, but I feel that by merely doing that one thing Mr. Chilvers would solve the whole problem. It would prove that good men are ready to give us of their free accord all that we claim. We should gain our rights, not by warfare, but through love and understanding. Wouldn’t that be – so much better? (She looks – her hands still appealing – from one to the other.)

(Another silence. They have all been carried a little off their feet by Janet’s earnestness.)

Annys. (She touches him.) What do you think, dear?

Geoffrey. Yes, there’s a good deal, of course, in what Miss Blake says.

Annys. It would be a big thing for you to do.

Phoebe. You see, whatever happened, the seat would be yours. This case only gives us the right to go to the poll. We are keen upon Annys because she’s our best card, that’s all.

Geoffrey. Do you wish it?

Annys. (She smiles up at him.) I’d rather fight you than any one else.

Geoffrey. You are not afraid that the situation might be – just a trifle comical?

Annys. (Shakes her head.) No. I think everybody will say it was rather splendid of you.

Geoffrey. Well, if it will help women.

Annys. (She holds out her hand. She is still in exalted mood.) We will show how man and woman may be drawn nearer to one another by rivalry for noble ends.

St. Herbert. (He shakes Geoffrey’s somewhat limp hand.) I envy you. The situation promises to be piquant.

Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers. It will be a battle of roses.

Lady Mogton. I must go. I shall see you both again to-morrow. (She kisses Geoffrey.) This is an historic day.

Geoffrey. Yes. I daresay we shall all remember it.

Lady Mogton. (To Janet.) I will get you to come to the station with me. I can give you your instructions in the cab. (She kisses Annys.) You have been called to a great work. Be worthy of it.

(They are all making ready to go. Annys has rung the bell for Hake.)

Janet. (To Annys.) Are you glad?

Annys. (Kisses her.) You showed me the whole thing in a new light. You were splendid. (She turns to Elizabeth.) Didn’t I tell you he would convert you?

Elizabeth. I was wrong to judge all men guilty. There are also – the innocent.

Annys. (For a moment – but a moment only – she is pleased. Then the doubtful meaning of Elizabeth’s words strikes her.)

(Enter Hake.)

Annys. (She has to dismiss Elizabeth.) Oh, Hake – (To Lady Mogton.) You’ll want a cab, won’t you, mamma?

Lady Mogton. A taxi – Goodbye, everybody.

(She sails out.)

Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers. I have my carriage. (To Elizabeth.) Can I give you a lift?

Elizabeth. Thank you. (To Geoffrey.) We shall meet again.

Geoffrey. I feel sure of it.

(Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers and Elizabeth go out.)

Phoebe. (To Hake.) Are Miss Blake’s things dry yet?

Janet. They’ll be quite all right, dear. Please don’t trouble. (She advances a timid hand to Geoffrey.) Goodbye, Mr. Chilvers.

Geoffrey. (He takes it smiling.) Goodbye.

(She goes out; Hake follows.)

Phoebe. Goodbye, old boy. (They shake hands.) Don’t you let her walk over you. Make her fight.

Annys. (Laughing.) Don’t you worry about that.

St. Herbert. Would you care to look through McCaw v. Potts? (He has the papers in his hand.)

Geoffrey. I’ll ask you for it when I want it.

Phoebe. (At door.) You’ll be alone this evening?

Annys. Yes. Come in to dinner.

Phoebe. All right. Goodbye.

St. Herbert. Goodbye.

(Geoffrey and Annys answer them. They go out, closing the door. Geoffrey is by the fire. Annys comes to him.)

Annys. (She puts her arms round him.) You don’t mind?

Geoffrey. (He holds her at arms’ length – looking into her eyes and smiling.) I believe you are looking forward to it.

Annys. Do you know how long we have been married? Eight years. And do you know, sir, that all that time we have never had a difference? Don’t you think it will be good for you?

Geoffrey. Do you know why we have never had a difference? Because you have always had your own way.

Annys. Oh!

Geoffrey. You have got so used to it, you don’t notice it.

Annys. Then it will be good for me. I must learn to suffer opposition. (She laughs.)

Geoffrey. You won’t like it.

Annys. Do you know, I’m not at all sure that I shan’t. (Unconsciously they let loose of one another.) You see, I shall have the right of hitting back. (Again she laughs.)

Geoffrey. (Also laughingly.) Is woman going to develop the fighting instinct?

Annys. I wonder.

(A moment’s silence.)

Geoffrey. The difficulty in our case is there seems nothing to fight about.

Annys. We must think of something. (Laughs.)

Geoffrey. What line are you going to take – what is your argument: why they should vote for you in preference to me?

Annys. Simply that I am a woman.

Geoffrey. My dear child, that won’t be enough. Why should they vote for you merely because you’re a woman?

Annys. (Slightly astonished.) Because – because women are wanted in public life.

Geoffrey. Who wants them?

Annys. (More astonished.) Who? Why – (it doesn’t seem too clear.) Why, all of us – you, yourself!

Geoffrey. I’m not East Poplar.

Annys. (Is puzzled a moment, then valiantly.) I shall ask them to send me to Parliament to represent the interests of their women – and therefore of themselves – the interests of their children.

Geoffrey. Children! What do you know about children?

(Another silence.)

Annys. Personally – no. We have had no children of our own, of course. But (hopefully) it is a woman’s instinct.

Geoffrey. Oh, Lord! That’s what the lady said who had buried seven.

Annys. (Her mouth is growing hard.) Don’t you believe in the right of women to share in the government of the country?

Geoffrey. Some women. Yes. I can see some capable —

Annys. (Winces.)

Geoffrey. – elderly, motherly woman who has brought up a dozen children of her own – who knows the world, being of some real use.

Annys. If it comes to that, there must be – I don’t say more “capable,” but more experienced, more fatherly men than yourself.

(He turns, they look at one another. His tone almost touched contempt – hers was veiled anger.)

Geoffrey. That’s the danger. It may come to a real fight.

Annys. (Upon her also the fear has fallen.) It must not. (She flings her arms around him.) We must show the world that man and woman can meet – contend in public life without anger, without scorn.

Geoffrey. (He folds her to him.) The very words sound ugly, don’t they?

Annys. It would be hideous. (She draws away.) How long will the election last?

Geoffrey. Not long. The writ will be issued on Wednesday. Nomination on Monday – polling, I expect, on Saturday. Puts me in mind – I must prepare my election address.

Annys. I ought to be getting on with mine, too, I suppose.

Geoffrey. It ought to be out by to-morrow.

Annys. (With inspiration.) We’ll do yours first. (She wonders why he hesitates.)

Geoffrey. “We?” Shan’t I have to do it alone – this time?

Annys. Alone! Nonsense! How can you?

Geoffrey. I’m afraid I shall have to try.

Annys. Um! I suppose you’re right. What a nuisance! (She turns away.) I shan’t like it.

Geoffrey. (He moves towards the folding-doors.) No. It won’t be quite the same thing. Goodbye.

Annys. (She crosses to her desk by the window. Not the same instant but the next his “Goodbye” strikes her. She turns.) You’re not going out, are you?

Geoffrey. (He stops and turns – puzzled at her question.) No. Only into my study.

Annys. You said “Goodbye.”

Geoffrey. (Not remembering.) I did! Must have been thinking of something else. I shall be in here if you want me. (He goes into the other room.)

Annys. (She has crossed to her desk. She is humming. She seats herself, takes paper and pen, writes. Without turning – still writing – she raises her voice.) Geoffrey! How do you spell “experimental”? One “r” or two?

(There is no answer. Puzzled at the silence, she looks round. The great folding-doors are closed. She stares in front of her, thinking, then turns again to her work.)

Curtain

THE SECOND ACT

Scene: —Liberal Central Committee Rooms, East India Dock Road, Poplar. A large, high room on the first floor of an old-fashioned house. Two high windows right. A door at back is the main entrance. A door left leads to other rooms. The walls are papered with election literature. Conspicuous among the posters displayed is “A Man for Men.” “No Petticoat Government.” “Will you be Henpecked?” A large, round table centre is littered with papers and pamphlets. A large desk stands between the windows. A settee is against the left wall.

(When the curtain rises, Rose Merton (otherwise “Ginger”) is discovered seated, her left arm resting on the table. She is a young lady typical of the Cockney slavey type, dressed according to the ideas of her class as regards the perfect lady. Her hat is characteristic. Her gloves, her reticule, her umbrella – the latter something rather “saucy” —are displayed around her. She is feeling comfortable and airing her views. Mrs. Chinn is laying the cloth over a portion of the table, with some tea-things. Mrs. Chinn is a thin, narrow-chested lady with thin hands and bony wrists. No one since her husband died has ever seen her without her bonnet. Its appearance suggests the possibility that she sleeps in it. It is black, like her dress. The whole figure is decent, but dingy.)

Ginger. Wot I say about the question is —

Mrs. Chinn. Do you mind moving your arm?

Ginger. Beg pardon. (She shifts.) Wot I say is, why not give us the vote and end all the talking?

Mrs. Chinn. You think it would have that effect?

Ginger. Well! we don’t want to go on being a nuisance – longer than we can possibly ’elp!

Mrs. Chinn. Daresay you’re right. It’s about the time most people stop.

Ginger. You’ve never thought much about the question yourself, ’ave you, Mrs. Chinn?

Mrs. Chinn. I ain’t fretted much about it.

Ginger. Was a time when I didn’t. I used to be all for – you know – larking about. I never thought much about anything.

Mrs. Chinn. Ah! it’s a useful habit.

Ginger. What is?

Mrs. Chinn. Thinking.

Ginger. It’s what we women ’aven’t done enough of – in the past, I mean. All that’s going to be altered. In the future there’s going to be no difference between men and women.

Mrs. Chinn. (Slowly, quietly she turns upon Ginger her expressionless eyes.)

Ginger. Mentally, I mean, o’ course.

Mrs. Chinn. (Takes back her eyes.)

Ginger. Do you know, Mrs. Chinn, that once upon a time there was only one sex? (She spreads herself.) Hus!

Mrs. Chinn. You ain’t thinking of going back to it, are you?

Ginger. Not if the men be’ave themselves.

Mrs. Chinn. Perhaps they’re doing their best, poor things! It don’t do to be too impatient with them.

Ginger. Was talking to old Dot-and-carry-one the other d’y. You know who I mean – chap with the wooden leg as ’as ’is pitch outside the “George.” “Wot do you wimmen want worrying yourselves about things outside the ’ome?” ’e says to me. “You’ve got the children,” ’e says. “Oh,” I says, “and whose fault’s that, I’d like to know? You wait till we’ve got the vote,” I says, “we’ll soon show you – ”

(Sigsby enters. Sigsby is a dapper little man, very brisk and bustling – hirsute – looks as if he wanted dusting, cleaning up generally.)

Sigsby. That young blackguard come back yet?

Ginger. (At sound of Sigsby’s voice she springs up. At first is about to offer excuses for being found seated, but recollects herself.)

Mrs. Chinn. Which one, sir?

Sigsby. Young Jawbones – what’s he call himself? – Gordon.

Mrs. Chinn. Not yet, sir.

Sigsby. (Grunts.) My chop ready?

Mrs. Chinn. I expect it’s about done. I’ll see.

(She goes out.)

Sigsby. (He turns to Ginger.) What can I do for you?

Ginger. (She produces a letter.) I was to wait for an answer.

Sigsby. (He opens and reads it.) What do they expect me to do?

Ginger. ’Er ladyship thought as perhaps you would consult Mr. Chilvers ’imself on the subject.

Sigsby. Look here. What I want to know is this: am I being asked to regard Lady Mogton as my opponent’s election agent, or as my principal’s mother-in-law? That point’s got to be settled. (His vehemence deepens.) Look at all these posters. Not to be used, for fear the other side mayn’t like them. Now Lady Mogton writes me that my candidate’s supporters are not to employ a certain argument she disapproves of: because, if they do, she’ll tell his wife. Is this an election, or is it a family jar?

(Jawbones enters. Jawbones —otherwise William Gordon —is a clean-shaven young hooligan. He wears a bicycle cap on the back of his head, allowing a picturesque tuft of hair to fall over his forehead. Evidently he is suffering from controlled indignation.)

Sigsby. (Seeing him.) Oh, so you’ve come back, have you?

Jawbones. I ’ave, wot’s left of me.

Sigsby. What have you been doing?

Jawbones. Clinging to a roof for the last three hours.

Sigsby. Clinging to a roof! What for?

Jawbones. (He boils over.) Wot for? ’Cos I didn’t want to fall off! Wot do you think: ’cos I was fond of it?

Sigsby. I don’t understand —

Jawbones. You find yourself ’alf way up a ladder, posting bills as the other side ’as took objection to – with a crowd of girls from Pink’s jam factory waiting for you at the bottom with a barrel of treacle, and you will understand. Nothing else for me to do, o’ course, but to go up. Then they took the ladder away.

Sigsby. Where are the bills?

Jawbones. Last I see of them was their being put into a ’earse on its way to Ilford Cemetery.

Sigsby. This has got to be seen into. This sort of thing can’t be allowed to go on. (He snatches up his hat.)

Jawbones. There’s another suggestion I’d like to make.

Sigsby. (Pauses.)

Jawbones. That is, if this election is going to be fought fairly, that our side should be provided with ’at-pins.

Sigsby. (Grunts.) Tell Mrs. Chinn to keep that chop warm.

(He goes out.)

Ginger. (She begins to giggle. It grows into a shrill hee-haw.)

Jawbones. (He looks at her fixedly.)

Ginger. (Her laugh, under the stern eye of Jawbones, dies away.)

Jawbones. Ain’t no crowd of you ’ere, you know. Nothing but my inborn chivalry to prevent my pulling your nose.