The Master of Mrs. Chilvers: An Improbable Comedy

Mr. Peekin. We propose, Mr. Chilvers, to come to the point at once. (He is all smiles, caressing gestures.)

Geoffrey. Excellent.

Peekin. If I left a baby at your door, what would you do with it?

Geoffrey. (For a moment he is taken aback, recovers himself.) Are you thinking of doing so?

Peekin. It’s not impossible.

Geoffrey. Well, it sounds perhaps inhospitable, but do you know I really think I should ask you to take it away again.

Peekin. Yes, but by the time you find it there, I shall have disappeared – skedaddled.

Hopper. Good. (He rubs his hands. Smiles at the others.)

Geoffrey. In that case I warn you that I shall hand it over to the police.

Peekin. (He turns to the others.) I don’t myself see what else Mr. Chilvers could be expected to do.

Miss Borlasse. He’d be a fool not to.

Geoffrey. Thank you. So far we seem to be in agreement. And now may I ask to what all this is leading?

Peekin. (He changes from the debonnair to the dramatic.) How many men, Mr. Chilvers, leave their babies every year at the door of poverty-stricken women? What are they expected to do with them?

(A moment. The Deputation murmur approval.)

Geoffrey. I see. But is there no difference between the two doors? I am not an accomplice.

Peekin. An accomplice! Is the ignorant servant-girl – first lured into the public-house, cajoled, tricked, deceived by false promises – the half-starved shop-girl in the hands of the practised libertine – is she an accomplice?

Mrs. Peekin. (A dowdily-dressed, untidy woman, but the face is sweet and tender.) Ah, Mr. Chilvers, if you could only hear the stories that I have heard from dying lips.

Geoffrey. Very pitiful, my dear lady. And, alas, only too old. But there are others. It would not be fair to blame always the man.

Annys. (Unnoticed, drawn by the subject, she has risen and come down.) Perhaps not. But the punishment always falls on the woman. Is that quite fair?

Geoffrey. (He is irritated at Annys’s incursion into the discussion.) My dear Annys, that is Nature’s law, not man’s. All man can do is to mitigate it.

Peekin. That is all we ask. The suffering, the shame, must always be the woman’s. Surely that is sufficient.

Geoffrey. What do you propose?

Miss Borlasse. (In her deep, fierce tones.) That all children born out of wedlock should be a charge upon the rates.

Miss Ricketts. (A slight, fair, middle-aged woman, with a nervous hesitating manner.) Of course, only if the mother wishes it.

Geoffrey. (The proposal staggers him. But the next moment it inspires him with mingled anger and amusement.) My dear, good people, have you stopped for one moment to consider what the result of your proposal would be?

Peekin. For one thing, Mr. Chilvers, the adding to the populace of healthy children in place of the stunted and diseased abortions that is all that these poor women, out of their scanty earnings, can afford to present to the State.

Geoffrey. Humph! That incidentally it would undermine the whole institution of marriage, let loose the flood-gates that at present hold immorality in check, doesn’t appear to trouble you. That the law must be altered to press less heavily upon the woman – that the man must be made an equal sharer in the penalty – all that goes without saying. The remedy you propose would be a thousand times worse than the disease.

Annys. And meanwhile? Until you have devised this scheme (there is a note of contempt in her voice) under which escape for the man will be impossible?

Geoffrey. The evil must continue. As other evils have to until the true remedy is found.

Peekin. (He has hurriedly consulted with the others. All have risen – he turns to Geoffrey.) You will not support our demand?

Geoffrey. Support it! Do you mean that you cannot yourselves see that you are holding out an indemnity to every profligate, male and female, throughout the land – that you would be handicapping, in the struggle for existence, every honest man and woman desirous of bringing up their children in honour and in love? Your suggestion is monstrous!

Peekin. (The little man is not without his dignity.) We apologise, Mr. Chilvers, for having taken up your time.

Geoffrey. I am sorry the matter was one offering so little chance of agreement.

Peekin. We will make only one slight further trespass on your kindness. Mrs. Chilvers, if one may judge, would seem to be more in sympathy with our views. Might we – it would be a saving of time and shoe leather (he smiles) – might we take this opportunity of laying our case before her?

Geoffrey. It would be useless.

(A short silence. Annys, with Elizabeth and Phoebe a little behind her, stands right. Lamb, Sigsby, and St. Herbert are behind Geoffrey centre. The Deputation is left.)

Hopper. Do we gather that in this election you speak for both candidates?

Geoffrey. In matters of common decency, yes. My wife does not associate herself with movements for the encouragement of vice.

(There is another moment’s silence.)

Annys. But, Geoffrey, dear – we should not be encouraging the evil. We should still seek to find the man, to punish him. The woman would still suffer —

Geoffrey. My dear Annys, this is neither the time nor place for you and me to argue out the matter. I must ask you to trust to my judgment.

Annys. I can understand your refusing, but why do you object to my —

Geoffrey. Because I do not choose for my wife’s name to be linked with a movement that I regard as criminal. I forbid it.

(It was the moment that was bound to come. The man’s instincts, training, have involuntarily asserted themselves. Shall the woman yield? If so, then down goes the whole movement – her claim to freedom of judgment, of action, in all things. All watch the struggle with breathless interest.)

Annys. (She speaks very slowly, very quietly, but with a new note in her voice.) I am sorry, but I have given much thought to this matter, and – I do not agree with you.

Mrs. Peekin. You will help us?

Annys. I will do what I can.

Peekin. (He takes from his pocket a folded paper.) It is always so much more satisfactory when these things are in writing. Candidates, with the best intentions in the world, are apt to forget. (He has spread the paper on a corner of the table. He has in his hand his fountain-pen.)

Annys. (With a smile.) I am not likely to forget, but if you wish it – (She approaches the table.)

Geoffrey. (He interposes. His voice is very low, almost a whisper.) My wife will not sign.

Annys. (She also speaks low, but there is no yielding in her voice.) I am not only your wife. I have a duty also to others.

Geoffrey. It is for you to choose. (He leaves the way open to her.)

(The silence can almost be felt. She moves to the table, takes up the paper. It contains but a few lines of writing. Having read it, she holds out her hand for the pen. Peekin puts it in her hand. With a firm hand she signs, folds the paper, and returns it to him. She remains standing by the table. With the removal of the tension there comes a rustle, a breaking of the silence.)

Miss Ricketts. (She seizes Annys’s hand, hanging listlessly by her side, and, stooping, kisses it.)

Miss Borlasse. That is all, isn’t it?

Peekin. We thank you, Mrs. Chilvers. Good afternoon.

Annys. (The natural reaction is asserting itself. She pulls herself together sufficiently to murmur her answer.) Good afternoon.

Mrs. Peekin. (The Deputation is moving away; she takes from her waist a small bunch of flowers, and, turning, places them in Annys’s hand.)

Annys. (She smiles, remains standing silent, the flowers in her hand.)

(“Good afternoons” are exchanged with some of the others. Finally:)

Peekin. Good afternoon, Mr. Chilvers.

Geoffrey. (Who has moved away.) Good afternoon.

(The Deputation joins Sigsby by the door. He leads them out.)

Elizabeth. (To Phoebe.) Are you going my way?

Phoebe. (She glances round at Annys.) Yes, I’ll come with you.

St. Herbert. I will put you into a bus, if you will let me. We don’t sport many cabs in East Poplar. (He is helping Elizabeth with her cloak.)

Elizabeth. Thank you.

Lamb. I’ve got to go up West. (To Geoffrey.) Will you be at the House this evening?

Geoffrey. (He is standing by the desk pretending to look at some papers.) I shall look in about ten o’clock.

Lamb. One or two things I want to say to you. Goodbye for the present.

Geoffrey. Goodbye!

Phoebe. Goodbye, old man. (She stretches out her hand.)

Geoffrey. Goodbye. (She shakes hands with a smile, exchanges a casual “goodbye” with Elizabeth.)

(They go towards the door.)(Sigsby re-enters.)

Sigsby. (To Lamb.) Are you going?

Lamb. Yes. I’ll see you to-morrow morning. About ten o’clock.

Sigsby. I shall be here. (He exchanges a “good afternoon” with the others.)

(They go out. Sigsby crosses and goes into the other room.)

Annys. (She has let fall the flowers on the table. She crosses to where Geoffrey still stands by the desk, his back towards her. She stretches out her hand, touches him. He does not move.) Geoffrey!

(But still he takes no notice.)

I am so sorry. We must talk it over quietly – at home.

Geoffrey. (He turns.) Home! I have no home. I have neither children nor wife. I keep a political opponent.

(Annys starts back with a cry. He crosses in front of her and seats himself at the table. The flowers are lying there; he throws them into the waste-paper basket.)

Annys. (She puts on her cloak, moves towards the door. Half-way she pauses, makes a movement towards him. But he will not see. Then a hard look comes into her eyes, and without another word she goes out, leaving the door open.)

(Sigsby is heard moving in the other room.)

Geoffrey. (He is writing.) Sigsby.

Sigsby. Hallo!

Geoffrey. That poster I told young Gordon I wouldn’t sanction, “The Woman spouting politics, the Man returning to a slattern’s home.”

(Sigsby enters.)

Sigsby. I have countermanded them.

Geoffrey. Countermand them again. We shall want a thousand.

Sigsby. (Can hardly believe his ears.)

Geoffrey. (With a gesture round the room.) All of them. “A Man for Men!” “Save the Children!” “Guard your Homes!” All the damned collection. Order as many as you want.

Sigsby. (His excitement rising.) I can go ahead. You mean it?

Geoffrey. (He looks at him.) It’s got to be a fight! (A moment. He returns to his writing.) Telephone Hake that I shall be dining at the Reform Club.

Curtain

THE THIRD ACT

Scene: —A room in the Town Hall, Poplar. A high, bare, cold room, unfurnished except for cane-bottomed chairs ranged against the walls. French windows right give on to a balcony overlooking the street. Door in back opens upon a stone passage. A larger door opens into another room, through which one passes to reach the room in which the counting of the votes is taking place. A fire burns—or rather tries to burn. The room is lighted from the centre of the ceiling by an electric sun. A row of hat-pegs is on the wall between the two doors. The time is about 9 p. m.

(People entering from the street wear coats or cloaks, &c., the season being early spring. If passing through or staying in the room, they take off their outdoor things and hang them up, putting them on again before going out.)

(Jawbones is coaxing the reluctant fire by using a newspaper as a blower. He curses steadily under his breath. The door opens. Ginger enters; she is dressed in cheap furs.)

Jawbones. Shut the door, can’t yer!

Ginger. Don’t yer want a draught?

Jawbones. No, I don’t. Not any more than I’ve got.

Ginger. (She shuts the door.) ’Ave they begun counting the votes?

Jawbones. Been at it for the last three-quarters of an hour.

Ginger. Who’s going to win?

Jawbones. One of ’em.

(Lady Mogton has entered. She has come from the room where they are counting the votes.)

Shut that door! (He glances over his shoulder, sees his mistake.) Beg pardon! (To himself.) Thought ’twas the other fool!

Lady Mogton. (She shuts the door. To Ginger.) Have you seen Mrs. Chilvers?

Ginger. Not since the afternoon, your ladyship.

Lady Mogton. She is coming, I suppose?

Ginger. I think so, your ladyship.

Lady Mogton. It’s very cold in here, Gordon.

Jawbones. Yes, my lady. Not what I call a cosy room.

Lady Mogton. (To Ginger.) Jump into a cab. See if you can find her. Perhaps she has been detained at one of the committee-rooms. Tell her she ought to be here.

Ginger. Yes, your ladyship. (She crosses, opens door.)

Jawbones. Shut the door.

Ginger. Oh, shut —

(She finds herself face to face with a Messenger carrying a ballot-box.)

I beg yer pardon! (She goes out, closes door.)

Lady Mogton. (To the Messenger.) Is that the last?

Messenger. Generally is. Isle of Dogs!

(He goes into the other room.)

Lady Mogton. (To Jawbones.) Do you know where Mr. Chilvers is?

(There comes a bloodthirsty yell from the crowd outside.)

Jawbones. Not unless that’s ’im. (He finishes for the time being with the fire. Rises.)

(Janet enters.)

Lady Mogton. Was that you they were yelling at?

Janet. No, it’s Mr. Sigsby.

(Another yell is heard. Out of it a shrill female voice– “Mind ’is fice; yer spoiling it!”)

The Woman’s Laundry Union have taken such a strong dislike to him.

(A final yell. Then a voice: “That’s taken some of the starch out of him!” followed by a shriek of laughter.)

Jawbones. ’E only suggested as ’ow there was enough old washerwomen in Parliament as it was.

Lady Mogton. A most unnecessary remark. It will teach him —

(Sigsby enters, damaged. His appearance is comic. Lady Mogton makes no effort to repress a grim smile.)

Sigsby. Funny, ain’t it?

Lady Mogton. I am sorry.

Sigsby. (He snarls.) “The Mother’s Hand shall Help Us!” One of your posters, I think.

Lady Mogton. You shouldn’t have insulted them – calling them old washerwomen!

Sigsby. Insult! Can’t one indulge in a harmless jeu d’esprit– (he pronounces it according to his own ideas) – without having one’s clothes torn off one’s back? (Fiercely.) What do you mean by it – disgracing your sex?

Lady Mogton. Are you addressing me?

Sigsby. All of you. Upsetting the foundations upon which society has been reared – the natural and lawful subjection of the woman to the man. Why don’t you read St. Paul?

Lady Mogton. St. Paul was addressing Christians. When men behave like Christians there will be no need of Votes for Women. You read St. Paul on men. (To Janet.) I shall want you!

(She goes out, followed by Janet.)(Sigsby gives vent to a gesture.)

Jawbones. Getting saucy, ain’t they?

Sigsby. Over-indulgence. That’s what the modern woman is suffering from. Gets an idea on Monday that she’d like the whole world altered; if it isn’t done by Saturday, raises hell! Where’s the guv’nor?

Jawbones. Hasn’t been here.

Sigsby. (Hands Jawbones his damaged hat.) See if they can do anything to that. If not, get me a new one. (He forks out a sovereign.) Sure to be some shops open in the High Street.

(Lamb and St. Herbert enter.)

Lamb. Hallo! have they been mauling you?

Sigsby. (He snatches the damaged hat from Jawbones, to hand it back the next moment; holds it out.) Woman’s contribution to politics. Get me a collar at the same time – sixteen and a half.

(Jawbones takes his cap and goes out. The men hang up their overcoats.)

Sigsby. Where’s it all going to end? That’s what I want to know!

St. Herbert. Where most things end. In the millennium, according to its advocates. In the ruin of the country, according to its opponents. In mild surprise on the part of the next generation that ever there was any fuss about it.

Sigsby. In amazement, you mean, that their fathers were so blind as not to see where it was leading. My boy, this is going to alter the whole relationship between the sexes!

St. Herbert. Is it so perfect as it is?

(A silence.)

Might it not be established on a more workable, a more enduring basis if woman were allowed a share in the shaping of it?

(Some woman in the crowd starts the refrain, “We’ll hang old Asquith on a sour apple tree.” It is taken up with quiet earnestness by others.)

Sigsby. Shaping it! Nice sort of shape it will be by the time that lot (with a gesture, including the crowd, Lady Mogton & Co.) have done knocking it about. Wouldn’t be any next generation to be surprised at anything if some of them had their way.

St. Herbert. The housebreakers come first – not a class of work demanding much intelligence; the builders come later. Have you seen Chilvers?

Lamb. I left him at the House. He couldn’t get away.

Sigsby. There’s your object-lesson for you. We don’t need to go far. A man’s whole career ruined by the wife he nourishes.

St. Herbert. How do you mean, “ruined?”

Sigsby. So it is. If she wins the election and claims the seat. Do you think the Cabinet will want him? Their latest addition compelled to appeal to the House of Commons to fight for him against his own womenfolk. (Grunts.) He’ll be the laughing-stock of the whole country.

St. Herbert. Do you know for certain that they mean to claim the seat?

Sigsby. “Wait and see” is their answer.

Lamb. Hasn’t Chilvers any idea?

Sigsby. Can’t get him to talk. Don’t think he’s seen her since that shindy over the Deputation.

Lamb. Humph!

Sigsby. Even if she herself wished to draw back, the others would overrule her.

Lamb. I’m not so sure of that. She’s got a way of shutting her mouth that reminds me of my old woman.

Sigsby. The arrangement, as he explained it to me, was that the whole thing was to end with the polling. It was to have been a mere joke, a mere ballon d’essai. The mistake he made was thinking he could depend on her.

Lamb. Guess she made the same mistake. You can fight and shake hands afterwards; it doesn’t go with kissing.

Sigsby. Man and woman were not made to fight. It was never intended.

(The woman’s “Marseillaise” has been taken up by the crowd. The chorus has been reached.)

Oh, damn your row! (He slams to the window; it was ajar.)

(Jawbones has entered, with his purchases.)

(Turning from window he sees Jawbones, goes to meet him.) Couldn’t they do anything?

Jawbones. (He has bought a new hat; has also brought back the remains. He shakes his head.) No good for anything else but a memento.

Sigsby. (With a grunt he snatches the thing and flings it into a corner. Tries on the new one.)

Jawbones. ’Ow’s it feel?

(Sigsby, with the help of Jawbones, attends to his appearance.)

Lamb. (To St. Herbert.) No use talking to her, I suppose?

St. Herbert. (Shrugs his shoulders.) She’ll do what she imagines to be her duty. Women are so uncivilised.

(A burst of cheering is heard. A shrill male voice: “Three cheers for Winston Churchill!” It is followed by an explosion of yells.)

St. Herbert. Who’s that?

Lamb. (He has opened the window.) Phoebe Mogton!

Sigsby. What a family!

(Janet has entered.)

Janet. Is that Mrs. Chilvers? (To Lamb and St. Herbert.) Good evening.

St. Herbert. Good evening.

Lamb. No; it’s her sister.

Janet. I wonder she doesn’t come.

Sigsby. What are the latest figures? Do you know?

(Phoebe enters.)

Janet. I forget the numbers. Mrs. Chilvers is forty ahead.

Phoebe. Forty ahead! (To Janet.) Did you order the band?

Lamb. (To Sigsby.) The Dock division was against him to a man; that Shipping Bill has upset them.

Janet. No. I didn’t think we should want the band.

Phoebe. Not want it! My dear girl —

Janet. Perhaps Lady Mogton has ordered it, I’ll ask her.

(She goes out.)

Sigsby. Hadn’t you better “Wait and see”? It isn’t over yet.

Phoebe. We may as well have it! It can play the Dead March in “Saul” if you win. (She laughs.)

Sigsby. (Grunts. To Lamb.) Are you coming?

(He goes out.)

Lamb. Yes. (To St. Herbert.) Are you coming?

St. Herbert. Hardly worth while; nearly over, isn’t it?

Lamb. It generally takes an hour and a half. (He looks at his watch.) Another forty minutes. Perhaps less.

(He goes out.)

Phoebe. I do love to make him ratty. Wish it wasn’t poor old Geoff we were fighting.

St. Herbert. When I marry, it will be the womanly woman.

Phoebe. No chance for me then?

St. Herbert. I don’t say that. I can see you taking your political opinions from your husband, and thinking them your own.

Phoebe. Good heavens!

St. Herbert. The brainy woman will think for herself. And then I foresee some lively breakfast tables.

Phoebe. Humph! No fear, I suppose, of a man taking his views from his wife and thinking them his own?

St. Herbert. That may be the solution. The brainy woman will have to marry the manly man.

(Ginger enters.)

Jawbones. (He is on his knees blowing the fire. In a low growl.) Shut the door!

Ginger. Can’t till I’m inside, can I? (Shuts it.) Where’s Lady Mogton?

Jawbones. I don’t know.

Phoebe. What do you want her for?

Ginger. Only to tell her that I can’t find Chilvers.

Phoebe. Isn’t she here?

Ginger. Not unless she’s come while I’ve been out.

(Janet enters.)

Janet. Oh, Lady Mogton —

Phoebe. (Interrupting her.) Isn’t Annys here?

Janet. No. (To Ginger.) Haven’t you found her?

Ginger. (Shakes her head.) Been everywhere I could think of.

Phoebe. (To herself.) She couldn’t have gone home? Is there a telephone here?

Janet. The room’s locked up.

Jawbones. There’s one at 118, High Street. Shall I go, miss?

Phoebe. No, thanks. I’ll go myself. Oh, what about the band?

Janet. Lady Mogton says she’d like it. If it isn’t too tired.

Ginger. It’s at Sell’s Coffee-’ouse in Piggott Street. I ’eard them practising.

Phoebe. Good. I shan’t be more than a few minutes.

St. Herbert. I’ll come with you, if I may? I’ve got some news that may be of use to you.

Phoebe. Do. (To Ginger.) Stop here, I may want you.

(Phoebe and St. Herbert go out.)