Mrs. Warren's Profession. The Dark Lady of the Sonnets / Профессия миссис Уоррен. Смуглая леди сонетов

THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed!

PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands cordially]. What on earth are you doing here?

FRANK. Staying with my father.

PRAED. The Roman father?

FRANK. He’s rector here. I’m living with my people this autumn for the sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the Roman father had to pay my debts. He’s stony broke in consequence; and so am I. What are you up to in these parts? do you know the people here?

PRAED. Yes: I’m spending the day with a Miss Warren.

FRANK [enthusiastically]. What! Do you know Vivie? Isn’t she a jolly girl? I’m teaching her to shoot with this [putting down the rifle]. I’m so glad she knows you: you’re just the sort of fellow she ought to know. [He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a singing tone as he exclaims] It’s ever so jolly to find you here, Praed.

PRAED. I’m an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me over to make her daughter’s acquaintance.

FRANK. The mother! Is she here?

PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea.

MRS WARREN [calling from within]. Prad-dee-eee! The tea-cake’ll be cold.

PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. I’ve just met a friend here.

MRS WARREN. A what?

PRAED [louder]. A friend.

MRS WARREN. Bring him in.

PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation?

FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused]. Is that Vivie’s mother?

PRAED. Yes.

FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she’ll like me?

PRAED. I’ve no doubt you’ll make yourself popular, as usual. Come in and try [moving towards the house].

FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my confidence.

PRAED. Pray don’t. It’s only some fresh folly, like the barmaid at Redhill.

FRANK. It’s ever so much more serious than that. You say you’ve only just met Vivie for the first time?

PRAED. Yes.

FRANK [rhapsodically]. Then you can have no idea what a girl she is. Such character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my eye, Praed, but I can tell you she is clever! And—need I add? – she loves me.

CROFTS [putting his head out of the window]. I say, Praed: what are you about? Do come along. [He disappears].

FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog show, ain’t he? Who’s he?

PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren’s. I think we had better come in.

[On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate. Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it.]

THE CLERGYMAN [calling]. Frank!

FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] Yes, gov’nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: you’d better go in to tea. I’ll join you directly.

PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage].

[The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy, important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command respect in either capacity.]

REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask?

FRANK. Oh, it’s all right, gov’nor! Come in.

REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering.

FRANK. It’s all right. It’s Miss Warren’s.

REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came.

FRANK. Of course not: she’s a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach?

REV. S. Don't be disrespectful, sir.

FRANK. Oh, it don't matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the gate, unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden]. I want to introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me last July, gov’nor?

REV. S. [severely]. Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and flippancy, and to work your way into an honourable profession and live on it and not upon me.

FRANK. No: that’s what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said was that since I had neither brains nor money, I’d better turn my good looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss Warren has brains: you can’t deny that.

REV. S. Brains are not everything.

FRANK. No, of course not: there’s the money—

REV. S. [interrupting him austerely]. I was not thinking of money, sir. I was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance.

FRANK. I don’t care a rap about that.

REV. S. But I do, sir.

FRANK. Well, nobody wants you to marry her. Anyhow, she has what amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money as she wants.

REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor]. I greatly doubt whether she has as much money as you will want.

FRANK. Oh, come: I havn’t been so very extravagant. I live ever so quietly; I don’t drink; I don’t bet much; and I never go regularly to the razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age.

REV. S. [booming hollowly]. Silence, sir.

FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when—

REV. S. [terrified]. Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! [He looks round apprehensively. Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom again, but more subduedly]. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father’s follies, sir; and don’t make them an excuse for your own.

FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his letters?

REV. S. No, sir; and I don't want to hear it.

FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn’t throw away fifty pounds: not he. He just wrote: “Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, Wellington.” That’s what you should have done.

REV. S. [piteously]. Frank, my boy, when I wrote those letters I put myself into that woman’s power. When I told you about them I put myself, to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money with these words, which I shall never forget. “Knowledge is power” she said; “and I never sell power.” That’s more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her power or caused me a moment’s uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me than she did, Frank.

FRANK. Oh yes, I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach at me every day?

REV. S. [wounded almost to tears]. I leave you, sir. You are incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate].

FRANK [utterly unmoved]. Tell them I shan’t be home to tea, will you, gov’nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is met by Praed and Vivie coming out].

VIVIE [to Frank]. Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him.

FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov’nor. You’re wanted. [The parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities]. My father: Miss Warren.

VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand]. Very glad to see you here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come along: you’re wanted.

[Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed, recognizing the clergyman.]

VIVIE [continuing]. Let me introduce—

MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel]. Why it’s Sam Gardner, gone into the Church! Well, I never! Don't you know us, Sam? This is George Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don't you remember me?

REV. S. [very red]. I really—er—

MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters still: I came across them only the other day.

REV. S. [miserably confused]. Miss Vavasour, I believe.

MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper]. Tch! Nonsense! Mrs Warren: don't you see my daughter there?

Act II

[Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser with a candle and matches on it, and Frank’s rifle standing beside them, with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie’s books and writing materials are on a table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set right and left of the table.]

[The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat; takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the table.]

MRS WARREN. O Lord! I don't know which is the worst of the country, the walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. I could do with a whisky and soda now very well, if only they had such a things in this place.

FRANK. Perhaps Vivie’s got some.

MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing with such things! Never mind: it don’t matter. I wonder how she passes her time here! I’d a good deal rather be in Vienna.

FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her shawl, gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze as he does so].

MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I’m beginning to think you’re a chip of the old block.

FRANK. Like the gov’nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest chair, and sits down].

MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things? You’re only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from temptation].

FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It’d be ever such larks.

MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you—at least not until you’re a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize this piece of advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes. She looks at him; then comes back to him]. Now, look here, little boy [taking his face in her hands and turning it up to her]: I know you through and through by your likeness to your father, better than you know yourself. Don't you go taking any silly ideas into your head about me. Do you hear?

FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice]. Can’t help it, my dear Mrs Warren: it runs in the family.

[She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.]

MRS WARREN. There! I shouldn’t have done that. I am wicked. Never you mind, my dear: it’s only a motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie.

FRANK. So I have.

MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her voice]. What!

FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums.

MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I wont have any young scamp tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I won’t have it.

FRANK [quite unabashed]. My dear Mrs Warren: don’t you be alarmed. My intentions are honourable: ever so honourable; and your little girl is jolly well able to take care of herself. She don’t need looking after half so much as her mother. She ain’t so handsome, you know.

MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a nice healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I don't know where you got it. Not from your father, anyhow.

CROFTS [in the garden]. The gipsies, I suppose?

REV. S. [replying]. The broomsquires are far worse.

MRS WARREN [to Frank]. S-sh! Remember! you’ve had your warning.

[Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, the clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.]

REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable.

MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And where's Praddy and Vivie?

CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the chimney corner]. They went up the hill. We went to the village. I wanted a drink. [He sits down on the settle, putting his legs up along the seat].

MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtn’t to go off like that without telling me. [To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are your manners? [Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the middle, with his father on his right and Mrs Warren on his left]. George: where are you going to stay to-night? You can’t stay here. And whats Praddy going to do?

CROFTS. Gardner’ll put me up.

MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt you’ve taken care of yourself! But what about Praddy?

CROFTS. Don't know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn.

MRS WARREN. Havn’t you room for him, Sam?

REV. S. Well—er—you see, as rector here, I am not free to do as I like. Er—what is Mr Praed’s social position?

MRS WARREN. Oh, he’s all right: he’s an architect. What an old stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam!

FRANK. Yes, it’s all right, gov’nor. He built that place down in Wales for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must have heard of it. [He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs Warren, and regards his father blandly].

REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. I suppose he knows the Duke personally.

FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina’s old room.

MRS WARREN. Well, that's settled. Now if those two would only come in and let us have supper. They’ve no right to stay out after dark like this.

CROFTS [aggressively]. What harm are they doing you?

MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I don’t like it.

FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay out as long as possible. He has never known before what it is to stray over the heath on a summer night with my Vivie.

CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation]. I say, you know! Come!

REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into real force and sincerity]. Frank, once and for all, it’s out of the question. Mrs Warren will tell you that it’s not to be thought of.

CROFTS. Of course not.

FRANK [with enchanting placidity]. Is that so, Mrs Warren?

MRS WARREN [reflectively]. Well, Sam, I don’t know. If the girl wants to get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried.

REV. S. [astounded]. But married to him! – your daughter to my son! Only think: it’s impossible.

CROFTS. Of course it’s impossible. Don’t be a fool, Kitty.

MRS WARREN [nettled]. Why not? Isn’t my daughter good enough for your son?

REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons—

MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you can tell them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your congregation, if you like.

REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair]. You know very well that I couldn’t tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe me when I tell him there are reasons.

FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy’s conduct ever been influenced by your reasons?

CROFTS. You can’t marry her; and that's all about it.

[He gets up and stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, frowning determinedly].

MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply]. What have you got to do with it, pray?

FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence]. Precisely what I was going to ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion.

CROFTS [to Mrs Warren]. I suppose you don’t want to marry the girl to a man younger than herself and without either a profession or twopence to keep her on. Ask Sam, if you don’t believe me. [To the parson]. How much more money are you going to give him?

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