The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Unknown; A Play in Three Acts
Title: The Unknown; A Play in Three Acts
Author: W. Somerset Maugham
Release date: August 24, 2015 [eBook #49771]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
THE UNKNOWN
| CHARACTERS ACT I ACT II ACT III |
| BY THE SAME AUTHOR. ——— PLAYS (Uniform with this Volume): |
| THE EXPLORER MRS. DOT A MAN OF HONOUR PENELOPE JACK STRAW LADY FREDERICK THE TENTH MAN SMITH LANDED GENTRY |
| NOVELS: |
| THE EXPLORER THE MAGICIAN THE MERRY-GO-ROUND THE MOON AND SIXPENCE MRS. CRADDOCK OF HUMAN BONDAGE |
T h e U n k n o w n
A PLAY
In Three Acts
By W. S. MAUGHAM
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
MCMXX
Copyright: London William Heinemann 1920
To
VIOLA TREE.
This play was produced on Monday, August 9, 1920, at the Aldwych Theatre with the following cast:
| Colonel Wharton | Mr. Charles V. France |
| Major Wharton (John) | Mr. Basil Rathbone |
| Mrs. Wharton | Lady Tree |
| Mrs. Littlewood | Miss Haidee Wright |
| Rev. Norman Poole | Mr. H. R. Hignett |
| Mrs. Poole | Miss Lena Halliday |
| Sylvia Bullough | Miss Ellen O’Malley |
| Dr. Macfarlane | Mr. Clarence Blakiston |
| Kate | Miss Gwendolen Ffloyd |
CHARACTERS
- Colonel Wharton
- Major Wharton (John)
- Mrs. Wharton
- Mrs. Littlewood
- Rev. Norman Poole
- Mrs. Poole
- Sylvia Bullough
- Dr. Macfarlane
- Kate
- Cook
The action of the play takes place at the Manor House, Stour, in the County of Kent.
The author ventures to suggest to the readers of this play that he makes no pretensions to throw a new light on any of the questions which are discussed in it, nor has he attempted to offer a solution of problems which, judging from the diversity of opinion which they have occasioned, may be regarded as insoluble. He has tried to put into dramatic form some of the thoughts and emotions which have recently agitated many, and for this purpose he has chosen the most ordinary characters in the circle with which, owing to his own circumstances, he is best acquainted. But because it is a good many years since he was on terms of intimate familiarity with a parish priest, and he was not certain how much the views of the clergy had changed, the author has put into the mouth of the Rev. Norman Poole phrases from Dr. Gore’s “The Religion of the Church,” and from a sermon by Dr. Stewart Holden. Since it is impossible in a play to indicate by quotation marks what is borrowed, the author takes this opportunity to acknowledge his indebtedness for the Rev. Norman Poole’s most characteristic speeches.
THE UNKNOWN
ACT I
The drawing-room at the Manor House, Colonel Wharton’s residence. It is a simple room, somewhat heavily furnished in an old-fashioned style; there is nothing in it which is in the least artistic; but the furniture is comfortable, and neither new nor shabby. On the papered walls are the Academy pictures of forty years ago. There are a great many framed photographs of men in uniform, and here and there a bunch of simple flowers in a vase. The only things in the room which are at all exotic are silver ornaments from Indian bazaars and flimsy Indian fabrics, used as cloths on the occasional tables and as drapery on the piano.
At the back are French windows leading into the garden; and this, with its lawn and trees, is seen through them. It is summer, and the windows are open. Morning.
Mrs. Wharton is sitting in the corner of the sofa, knitting a khaki comforter. She is a slight, tall woman of five-and-fifty; she has deliberate features, with kind eyes and a gentle look; her dark hair is getting very gray; it is simply done; and her dress, too, is simple; it is not at all new and was never fashionable.
Kate, a middle-aged maid-servant, in a print dress, a cap and apron, comes in.
Kate.
If you please, ma’am, the butcher’s called.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh! I arranged with Cook that we should have cold roast beef again for luncheon to-day, Kate. Tell the butcher to bring two and a half pounds of the best end of the neck for to-night, and tell him to pick me out a really nice piece, Kate. It’s so long since the Major has had any good English meat.
Kate.
Very good, ma’am.
Mrs. Wharton.
And he might send in a couple of kidneys. The Colonel and Major Wharton enjoyed the kidneys that they had for breakfast yesterday so much.
Kate.
Very good, ma’am. If you please, ma’am, the gardener hasn’t sent in a very big basket of pease. Cook says it won’t look much for three.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, well, it doesn’t matter as long as there are enough for the gentlemen. I’ll just pretend to take some.
Kate.
Very good, ma’am.
As she is going, Colonel Wharton enters from the garden with a basket of cherries. He is a thin old man, much older than his wife, with white hair; but though very frail he still carries himself erectly. His face is bronzed by long exposure to tropical suns, but even so it is the face of a sick man. He wears a light tweed suit which hangs about him loosely, as though he had shrunk since it was made for him. He has a round tweed hat of the same material.
Colonel Wharton.
Has the paper come yet, Kate?
Kate.
Yes, sir. I’ll bring it.
[Exit Kate
Colonel Wharton.
I’ve brought you in some cherries, Evelyn. They’re the only ripe ones I could find.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, that is nice. I hope you’re not tired.
Colonel Wharton.
Great Scott, I’m not such a crock that it can tire me to pick a few cherries. If I’d been able to find a ladder I’d have got you double the number.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, my dear, you’d better let the gardener get them. I don’t approve of your skipping up and down ladders.
Colonel Wharton.
The gardener’s just as old as I am and not nearly so active. Hasn’t John come in yet? He said he was only going to the post.
Mrs. Wharton.
Perhaps he went in to see Sylvia on the way back.
Colonel Wharton.
I shouldn’t have thought she wanted to be bothered with him in the morning.
Mrs. Wharton.
George!
Colonel Wharton.
Yes, dear.
Mrs. Wharton.
It seems so extraordinary to hear you say: “Hasn’t John come in yet? He said he was only going to the post.” It makes me rather want to cry.
Colonel Wharton.
It’s been a long time, Evelyn. It’s been a bad time for both of us, my dear. But worse for you.
Mrs. Wharton.
I tried not to be troublesome, George.
Colonel Wharton.
Dear child, aren’t I there to share your troubles with you?
Mrs. Wharton.
It seems so natural that he should come in any minute, it seems as though he’d never been away—and yet somehow I can’t quite believe it. It seems incredible that he should really be back.
Colonel Wharton.
[Patting her hand.] My dear Evelyn!
[Kate brings in the paper and gives it to the Colonel. She goes out.
Colonel Wharton.
Thank you. [While he puts on his spectacles.] It’s a blessing to be able to read the births, deaths, and marriages like a gentleman instead of turning before anything else to the casualties.
Mrs. Wharton.
I hope before long that we shall be composing a little announcement for that column.
Colonel Wharton.
Have they settled a day yet, those young people?
Mrs. Wharton.
I don’t know. John hasn’t said anything, and I didn’t see Sylvia yesterday except for a moment after church.
Colonel Wharton.
Evelyn dear, the gardener tells me he hasn’t got much in the way of pease ready for to-night, so I’ve told him to send in a few carrots for me; I think they’re probably better for my digestion.
Mrs. Wharton.
Nonsense, George. You know how much you like pease, and I’m not very fond of them. I was hoping there’d only be enough for two so that I shouldn’t have to eat any.
Colonel Wharton.
Evelyn, where do you expect to go when you die if you tell such stories?
Mrs. Wharton.
Now, George, don’t be obstinate. You might give in to me sometimes. They’re the first pease out of the garden and I should like you to eat them.
Colonel Wharton.
No, my dear, I’d like to see you eat them. I’m an invalid, and I must have my own way.
Mrs. Wharton.
You tyrant! You haven’t seen Dr. Macfarlane this morning? I’m so anxious.
Colonel Wharton.
You old fusser! No sooner have you stopped worrying over your boy than you start worrying over me.
Mrs. Wharton.
Even though you won’t let me call my soul my own, I don’t want to lose you just yet.
Colonel Wharton.
Don’t be alarmed. I shall live to plague you for another twenty years.
[Kate comes in.
Kate.
If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Poole has called.
Mrs. Wharton.
Why haven’t you shown her in?
Kate.
She wouldn’t come in, ma’am. She said she was passing and she just stopped to enquire how you were.
Colonel Wharton.
Tell her to come in, Kate. What’s she making all this fuss about.
Kate.
Very well, sir.
[Exit.
Mrs. Wharton.
I expect she wants to hear all about John.
Colonel Wharton.
If she’ll wait a minute she’ll have the chance of seeing the young fellow himself.
[Kate comes in, followed by Mrs. Poole. The visitor is a thin, rather dour person of middle age, brisk in her movements, competent and firm. She is a woman who knows her own mind and has no hesitation in speaking it. She is not unsympathetic. She wears a serviceable black coat and skirt and a black straw hat.
Kate.
Mrs. Poole.
[Exit.
Colonel Wharton.
What do you mean by trying to get away without showing yourself? Is this how you do your district visiting?
Mrs. Poole.
[Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton and with the Colonel.] I wanted to come in, but I thought you mightn’t wish to see me to-day, so I put it like that to make it easier for you to send me about my business.
Mrs. Wharton.
We always wish to see you, my dear.
Mrs. Poole.
If I had a son that I hadn’t seen for four years and he’d been dangerously wounded, I think I’d want to keep him to myself for the first few days after he got home.
Colonel Wharton.
Then you’re not as unselfish a woman as Evelyn.
Mrs. Wharton.
Or perhaps not nearly so vain.
Mrs. Poole.
Did you go down to the station to meet him on Saturday?
Mrs. Wharton.
The Colonel went. He wouldn’t let me go because he said I’d make a fool of myself on the platform.
Colonel Wharton.
I took Sylvia. I thought that was enough. I knew I could trust her to control herself.
Mrs. Poole.
And when are they going to be married.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, I hope very soon. It’s been a long and anxious time for her.
Mrs. Poole.
Can you bear to give him up when he’s only just come back to you?
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, but it’s not giving him up when he’s marrying Sylvia. She’s been like a daughter to us. D’you know, they’ve been engaged for seven years.
Mrs. Poole.
I hope they’ll be very happy. Sylvia certainly deserves to be.
Colonel Wharton.
She’s done cheerfully the most difficult thing anyone can do. All through the war when she was pining to be off and do her bit she stayed at home with a bed-ridden mother.
Mrs. Wharton.
Poor Mrs. Bullough.
Colonel Wharton.
Yes, but poor Sylvia too. It’s easy enough to do your duty when duty is dangerous and exciting, but when you can do nothing—no one knows better than I what it is to sit still and look on when others are doing the things that are worth while. This war came ten years too late for me.
Mrs. Poole.
That’s what the Vicar has been saying ever since the war began. But after all your son has taken your place, and I think you can be proud of him.
Colonel Wharton.
[With intense satisfaction.] The rascal with his Military Cross and his D.S.O.
Mrs. Poole.
I’m so glad that his first day here was a Sunday.
Mrs. Wharton.
You don’t know what I felt when we knelt down side by side in church. I was very grateful.
Mrs. Poole.
I know. I could see it in your face and the Colonel’s.
Colonel Wharton.
God has vouchsafed us a great mercy.
Mrs. Poole.
The Vicar was dreadfully disappointed that he didn’t stay for Holy Communion. You know that he looks upon that as the essential part of the service.
Mrs. Wharton.
I think we were a little disappointed, too. We were so surprised when John walked out.
Mrs. Poole.
Did he say why he had?
Mrs. Wharton.
No. I talked it over with the Colonel. We didn’t quite know what to do. I don’t know whether to mention it or not.
Mrs. Poole.
I do hope he’ll stay next Sunday.
Mrs. Wharton.
He was always a very regular communicant.
Colonel Wharton.
I don’t see why you shouldn’t say something to him about it, Evelyn.
Mrs. Wharton.
I will if you like.
[There is the sound of a laugh in the garden.
Why, here he is. And Sylvia.
[Sylvia Bullough and John Wharton come in. She is no longer quite young. She has a pleasant, friendly look rather than beauty, and she suggests the homely virtues of a girl very well brought up in a nice English family; she gives the impression of a practical, competent, and sensible woman. She will make a good wife and an excellent mother. She is very simply dressed in light summery things, and she wears a straw hat. She is carrying a string bag, in which are a number of household purchases. John Wharton is in mufti. He is a man of thirty.
Sylvia.
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, how nice of you to come in.
John.
She didn’t want to, but I made her.
[Sylvia kisses Mrs. Wharton and shakes hands with Mrs. Poole, then she kisses the Colonel.
Sylvia.
[Gaily.] That’s a deliberate lie, John.
Mrs. Wharton.
This is my son, Mrs. Poole.
John.
[Shaking hands with her.] I daresay you suspected it.
Mrs. Poole.
I had a good look at you in church, you know.
John.
Is that how vicars’ wives behave themselves?
Mrs. Poole.
They allow themselves a little licence when young people come home on leave.
Colonel Wharton.
Did you meet in the village?
John.
Not exactly. I saw Sylvia darting into Mrs. Gann’s shop, evidently to avoid me....
Sylvia.
[Interrupting.] I don’t know how you imagined I could see you out of the back of my head.
John.
So I ran like a hare, and caught her in the very act of buying two pounds of vermicelli.
Sylvia.
To say nothing of a tin of sardines and a packet of mustard.
John.
Now take off your hat, Sylvia. You mustn’t hide the best feature you’ve got.
Sylvia.
[Taking it off.] I hope you don’t think I shall go on doing exactly what you tell me a minute after the war’s over.
John.
I haven’t noticed any startling alacrity to do what I tell you as it is.
Sylvia.
You ungrateful fellow! When have I hesitated to carry out your slightest wish?
Mrs. Wharton.
He’s only been back forty-eight hours, poor dear.
John.
Didn’t I go down to you on my bended knees in the middle of the road and ask you to come for a walk with me?
Sylvia.
Oh, well, I wanted to see your father. I was anxious to hear what the specialist had said.
John.
[Surprised.] Have you been seeing a specialist, father? Aren’t you well?
Colonel Wharton.
Perfectly. It was only to satisfy your poor mother.
John.
But why didn’t you tell me? Is anything the matter with him, mother?
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, your father wouldn’t let me tell you anything about it when you came. He didn’t want you to be worried. And I thought myself it might just as well keep till to-day.
Colonel Wharton.
The fact is I haven’t been quite up to the mark lately, and Dr. Macfarlane thought I’d better see a specialist. So I went into Canterbury on Saturday and saw Dr. Keller.
Mrs. Poole.
Yes, I heard you’d been to see him. They say he’s very clever.
John.
What did he say?
Colonel Wharton.
Well, you know what these doctor fellows are. He wouldn’t say much to me. He said he’d write to Macfarlane.
John.
Well?
Colonel Wharton.
I suppose Macfarlane got the letter this morning. He’ll probably be round presently.
Mrs. Poole.
I saw him going along the Bleane Road in his dog-cart about an hour ago. You might ask him who it was he was going to see.
John.
Are you feeling ill, father?
Colonel Wharton.
No. I shouldn’t have dreamed of going to a specialist, only your mother was worrying.
Sylvia.
Don’t put all the blame on her. I was, too.
John.
[Going over to him and putting his arm in his.] Poor old father, you mustn’t be ill.
Colonel Wharton.
Oh, I’m not going to die just yet, you know.
John.
I should jolly well think not. Wait till you’re a hundred and two, and then we’ll begin talking about it.
[The Vicar of Stour, the Rev. Norman Poole, appears at the window. He is a tall, thin man, bald, dressed in a short black coat, with a black straw hat. He is energetic, breezy, and cheerful. He likes to show that, although a clergyman, he is a man; and he affects a rather professional joviality. Mr. and Mrs. Poole have that physical resemblance which you sometimes see in married people. You wonder if they married because they were so much alike, or if it is marriage which has created the similarity.
Vicar.
Hulloa, hulloa, hulloa! May I come in?
Mrs. Wharton.
[Smiling.] Of course. How do you do?
Colonel Wharton.
My dear Vicar!
Vicar.
[Entering.] I suppose I ought to have gone round to the front door, and rung the bell like a gentleman. My dear Dorothy, when will you teach me how to behave?
Mrs. Poole.
I’ve long given up the attempt.
Vicar.
I thought I’d look in and say how-do-you-do to the wounded hero.
Mrs. Wharton.
Vicar.
Welcome! I passed you in the village just now. I had half a mind to come up and wring your hand, but I thought you’d say, who the deuce is this clerical gent?
John.
How do you do?
Vicar.
An authentic hero. And he speaks just like you and me. The world’s a strange place, my masters. Well, what d’you think of Blighty?
John.
I’m very glad to be home again. I thought I never should get back.
Vicar.
You’ve not been home since the beginning of the war, have you?
John.
No, you see I was in India when it broke out. What with Gallipoli and one thing and another, I was done out of my leave every time.
Vicar.
Well, it’s a long lane that has no turning. But I understand that you’ve picked up some bits and pieces here and there. The Military Cross and the D.S.O., isn’t it?
Mrs. Poole.
You must be a very proud man.
Vicar.
How did you win them?
John.
Oh, I don’t know. Playing about generally.
Mrs. Wharton.
I don’t think you’ll get very much more than that out of John.
Vicar.
[To John.] You lucky beggar! You’ve had your chance and you were able to take it. That’s where I should have been, where my heart was, with the brave lads at the front. And my confounded chest has kept me chained to this little tin-pot parish.
Mrs. Poole.
My husband suffers from his lungs.
John.
I’m sorry to hear that.
Vicar.
Yes, the Great White Peril. They say its ravages are terrible. That’s why I came here, you know; I was in charge of the parish of St. Jude’s, Stoke Newington when I crocked up. I tried to get them to let me go when the war broke out, but they wouldn’t hear of it.
Mrs. Wharton.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Vicar.
I know, I know. It’s this confounded energy of mine. I’m a crock, and I’ve just had to make the best of it. I’m on the shelf. The future is in the hands of you brave lads who’ve been through the fire. I suppose you went to sleep during my sermon yesterday.
John.
Not at all. I listened to it very attentively.
Vicar.
I shouldn’t blame you if you had. That’s about all I’ve been able to do during the war, to preach. And, upon my word, I sometimes wonder what good I’ve done.
Mrs. Wharton.
You’ve been a great help to us all.
Vicar.
For my part I don’t deplore the war. Our Lord said: “Think not that I come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.” The Christian Church has lived by her sword. Every advance which this world of ours has known in liberty, in justice, in enlightenment, has been won for it by the sword of Jesus Christ.
Colonel Wharton.
I wish all parsons were as broad-minded. I know what war is. I was in Egypt and in South Africa. I’ve been through half a dozen wars in India. I have no use for slop and sentimentality. My own belief is that war is necessary to a nation. It brings out all a man’s best qualities.
Vicar.
There I heartily agree with you. It is the great school of character. Amid the clash of arms the great Christian virtues shine forth with an immortal lustre. Courage, self-sacrifice, charity, self-reliance. No one knew before the war what a pinnacle of heroism was within the power of our brave lads at the front.
Mrs. Poole.
What do you think about it, Major Wharton?
John.
[Smiling.] I? I think it’s a lovely day. I have three weeks leave, and the war is a long way off.
Vicar.
[With a chuckle.] A very good answer. I’ve been saying the obvious, I know that just as well as you do, but, you know, sometimes the obvious has to be said, and when it has, I think a man should have the courage to say it. Now, my dear, let’s be off.
Mrs. Poole.
I don’t know what Mrs. Wharton will think of us for inflicting ourselves on her like this.
Vicar.
We’re all friends here, I hope and trust. If we weren’t welcome, Mrs. Wharton only had to say so. To my mind the afternoon call is a convention more honoured in the breach than the observance.
Mrs. Wharton.
It’s been very good of you to come.
[There is a general shaking of hands.
Vicar.
[To John.] Well, good-bye, young fellow. I’ve tried to show you that I’m by way of being rather broad-minded as parsons go. It wouldn’t shock me in the least to hear you say “damn” or “blast.” I’m often inclined to use a bit of strong language myself. I asked you just now if you’d gone to sleep during my sermon. I wouldn’t have turned a hair if you had.
John.
It’s very kind of you to say so. I may avail myself of your suggestion on some future occasion.
Vicar.
On a future occasion, perhaps—shall we say next Sunday?—I hope you won’t leave the House of God without partaking in the greatest of all the Sacraments of our Church. Don’t forget that the Almighty has in His mercy brought you in safety through great and terrible peril. That’s all I wanted to say to you. Good-bye, God bless you.
John.
Good-bye.
Vicar.
[Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton] Good-bye. These parsons, what a nuisance they make of themselves, don’t they?
Mrs. Wharton.
I wanted to ask you if you’d seen poor Mrs. Littlewood since her return.
Vicar.
No, she didn’t come to church yesterday. And of course, Sunday’s my busy day—I’m the only man in the parish who works seven days a week—so I haven’t had a chance to see her yet, poor soul.
Sylvia.
She came down by the 6.35 on Saturday. She was in the same train as John, but I wasn’t bothering much about anyone else just then, and I didn’t speak to her.
Colonel Wharton.
I wish we could do something for her.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Explaining to John.] She was telegraphed for last week to go to Ned at Boulogne. He died on Tuesday.
John.
[With astonishment.] Ned! But he was only a kid.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, he’d grown up since you were home. He was nearly nineteen.
Mrs. Poole.
Both her sons are gone now. She’s quite alone.
Mrs. Wharton.
We must all be very kind to her. It will be terrible for her in that big house all by herself. I wish you’d spoken to her on Saturday, George.
Colonel Wharton.
I felt rather shy about it. After all, we’ve had rather an anxious time over that young scamp there. If anything had happened to him—well, I should have had Evelyn, but she, poor soul, has nobody.
Sylvia.
I ought to have gone to see her yesterday.
Mrs. Wharton.
She must be absolutely prostrated with grief.
Vicar.
I wonder if she’d like to come and stay at the Vicarage. I can’t bear to think of her all alone.
Mrs. Poole.
That’s a splendid idea, Norman, and just like you. I’ll ask her at once. I’ll be glad to do what I can for her.
Sylvia.
Of course one ought to try and find something to occupy her mind.
Vicar.
Happily she has always been a deeply religious woman. When all’s said and done, in grief like that there’s only one unfailing refuge.