The Master of Mrs. Chilvers: An Improbable Comedy

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.

Ginger. (Cowed, but simmering.) Chivalry! (A shrill snort.)

Jawbones. Yus. And don’t you put a strain upon it neither. Because I tell you straight, it’s weakening.

Ginger. (His sudden fierceness has completely cowed her.)

Jawbones. You wimmin —

(There re-enters Mrs. Chinn with a tray. He is between them.)

That’s old Sigsby’s chop?

Mrs. Chinn. Yes. He hasn’t gone out again, has he?

Jawbones. I’ll ’ave it. Get ’im another. Guess ’e won’t be back for ’alf an hour.

Mrs. Chinn. He’s nasty when his food ain’t ready.

Jawbones. (He takes the tray from her.) Not your fault. Tell ’im I took it from you by brute force.

Mrs. Chinn. (She acquiesces with her usual even absence of all emotion.)

Jawbones. You needn’t stop. Miss Rose Merton will do the waiting.

Ginger. (Starts, then begins to collect her etceteras.)

Mrs. Chinn. Perhaps there’ll be time to cook him another.

(She goes out.)

Jawbones. Take off that cover.

Ginger. (She starts on a bolt for the door.)

Jawbones. (He is quite prepared. In an instant he is in front of her.) No, yer don’t.

(A pause.)

Take off that cover.

Ginger. (She still hesitates.)

Jawbones. If yer don’t do what I tell yer, I’ll ’ide yer. I’m in the mood.

Ginger. (She takes off the cover.)

Jawbones. (He seats himself and falls to.) Now pour me out a cup of tea.

Ginger. (Is pouring it out.)

Jawbones. Know why yer doing it?

Ginger. (With shrill indignation.) Yus. Becos yer got me ’ere alone, yer beast, with only that cracked image of a Mrs. Chinn —

Jawbones. That’ll do.

Ginger. (It is sufficient. She stops.)

Jawbones. None of your insults agen a lady as I ’olds in ’igh respect. The rest of it is all right. Becos I’ve got yer ’ere alone. You wimmin, you think it’s going to pay you to chuck law and order. You’re out for a fight, are yer?

Ginger. Yus, and we’re going to win. Brute force ’as ’ad its d’y. It’s brains wot are going to rule the world. And we’ve got ’em.

(She has become quite oratorical.)

Jawbones. Glad to ’ear it. Take my tip: you’ll use ’em. Meanwhile I’ll ’ave another cup o’ tea.

Ginger. (She takes the cup – is making for the window.)

Jawbones. (Fierce again.) I said tea.

Ginger. All right, I was only going to throw the slops out of window. There ain’t no basin.

Jawbones. I’ll tell yer when I want yer to open the window and call for the p’lice. You can throw them into the waste-paper basket.

Ginger. (She obeys.)

Jawbones. Thank you. Very much obliged. One of these d’ys, maybe, you’ll marry.

Ginger. When I do, it will be a man, not a monkey.

Jawbones. I’m not proposing. I’m talking to you for your good.

Ginger. (Snorts.)

Jawbones. You’ve been listening to a lot of toffs. Easy enough for them to talk about wimmen not being domestic drudges. They keep a cook to do it. They don’t pity ’e for being a down-trodden slive, spending sixteen hours a d’y in their kitchen with an evening out once a week. When you marry it will be to a bloke like me, a working man.

Ginger. Working! (She follows it with a shrill laugh.)

Jawbones. Yus. There’s always a class as laughs when you mention the word “work.” Them as knows wot it is, don’t. I’ve been at it since six o’clock this morning, carrying a ladder, a can of paste weighing twenty pounds, and two ’undred double royal posters. You try it! When ’e comes ’ome, ’e’ll want ’is victuals. If you’ve got ’em ready for ’im and are looking nice – no reason why you shouldn’t – and feeling amiable, you’ll get on very well together. If you are going to argue with ’im about woman’s sphere, you’ll get the worst of it.

Ginger. You always was a bully.

Jawbones. Not always. Remember last Bank ’oliday? (He winks.)

Ginger. (She tries not to give in.)

Jawbones. ’Ave a cup of tea. (He pours it out for her.)

Ginger. (The natural woman steals in – she sits.)

Jawbones. ’Ow are they doing you, fairly well?

Ginger. Oh! Well, nothing to grumble at.

Jawbones. You can do a bit o’ dressing on it.

Ginger. (She meets his admiring eye. The suffragette departs.) Dressing don’t cost much – when you’ve got tyste.

Jawbones. Wot! Not that ’at?

Ginger. Made it myself.

Jawbones. No!

Ginger. Honour bright! Tell yer —

(Geoffrey and St. Herbert enter. Jawbones and Ginger make to rise. Ginger succeeds.)

Geoffrey. All right, all right. Don’t let me disturb the party. Where’s Mr. Sigsby?

Jawbones. Gone to look up the police, I think, sir. (Having finished, he rises.) Some of those factory girls been up to their larks again.

Geoffrey. Umph! What’s it about this time?

Jawbones. They’ve took objection to one of our posters.

Geoffrey. What, another! (To St. Herbert.) Woman has disappointed me as a fighter. She’s willing enough to strike. If you hit back, she’s surprised and grieved.

St. Herbert. She’s come to the game rather late.

Geoffrey. She might have learned the rules. (To Jawbones.) Which particular one is it that has failed to meet with their approval?

Jawbones. It’s rather a good one, sir, from our point of view: “Why she left her ’appy ’ome.”

Geoffrey. I don’t seem to remember it. Have I seen it?

Jawbones. I don’t think you ’ave, sir. It was Mr. Sigsby’s idea. On the left, the ruined ’ome, baby crying it’s little ’eart out – eldest child lying on the floor, scalded – upset the tea-kettle over itself – youngest boy in flames – been playing with the matches, nobody there to stop ’im. At the open door the father, returning from work. Nothing ready for ’im. On the other side – ’er, on a tub, spouting politics.

Geoffrey. (To St. Herbert.) Sounds rather good.

Jawbones. Wait a minute. There was a copy somewhere about – a proof. (He is searching for it on the desk – finds it.) Yus, ’ere ’tis. (To Ginger.) Catch ’old.

(Jawbones and Ginger hold it displayed.)

That’s the one, sir.

St. Herbert. Why is the working man, for pictorial purposes, always a carpenter?

Ginger. It’s the skirt we object to.

Geoffrey. The skirt! What’s wrong with the skirt?

Ginger. Well, it’s only been out of fashion for the last three years, that’s all.

Geoffrey. Oh! I see. (To St. Herbert.) We’ve been hitting them below the belt. What do you think I ought to do about it?

St. Herbert. What would you have thought yourself, three weeks ago?

Geoffrey. You and I have been friends ever since we were boys. You rather like me, don’t you?

St. Herbert. (Puzzled.) Yes.

Geoffrey. If I were to suddenly hit you on the nose, what would happen?

St. Herbert. I understand. Woman has suddenly started hitting man on the nose. Her excuse being that she really couldn’t keep her hands off him any longer.

Jawbones. (He has pinned the poster to the wall.) They begun it. To ’ear them talk, you’d think as man had never done anything right.

Geoffrey. He’s quite right. Their posters are on every hoarding: “Who’s made all the Muddles? Man!” “Men’s Promises! Why, it’s all Froth!” “Woman this Time!” I suppose it will have to go.

Jawbones. (Hopefully.) Up, sir?

Geoffrey. No, Jawbones. Into the dust-heap with the rest.

(Jawbones is disgusted. Ginger is triumphant.)

Geoffrey. I must talk to Sigsby. He’s taking the whole thing too seriously. It will be some time before we reach that stage. (To Jawbones.) Ask Mrs. Chinn to bring me a cup of tea.

(Jawbones goes out.)

(He seats himself at table and takes up some correspondence. To Ginger.) Are you waiting for any one?

Ginger. A letter from her ladyship. (She picks up from the desk and hands him the letter Sigsby had thrown there.) Her ladyship thought you ought to be consulted.

Geoffrey. (He reads the short letter with a gathering frown – hands it across to St. Herbert.)

St. Herbert. (Having read, he passes it back in silence.)

Geoffrey. (To Ginger.) Do you know the contents of this letter?

Ginger. The matter has been discussed among us – informally.

Geoffrey. Tell Lady Mogton I’ll – talk to her myself on the subject.

Ginger. Thank you. (She collects her etceteras.) Good afternoon.

Geoffrey. (Shortly.) Good afternoon.

Ginger. (She bows graciously to St. Herbert, who responds. Goes out.)

Geoffrey. The devil of it is that it’s the truth.

St. Herbert. Somebody was bound to say it, sooner or later!

Geoffrey. Yes, but one’s own wife! This is a confoundedly awkward situation.

St. Herbert. (He comes to him, stands looking down at him.) Did it never occur to you, when you were advocating equal political rights for women, that awkward situations might arise?

Geoffrey. (He leans back in his chair.) Do you remember Tommy the Terrier, as they used to call him in the House – was always preaching Socialism?

St. Herbert. Quite the most amusing man I ever met!

Geoffrey. And not afraid of being honest. Do you remember his answer when somebody asked him what he would do if Socialism, by any chance, really became established in England? He had just married an American heiress. He said he should emigrate. I am still convinced that woman is entitled to equal political rights with man. I didn’t think it was coming in my time. There are points in the problem remaining to be settled before we can arrive at a working solution. This is one of them. (He takes up the letter and reads.) “Are you prepared to have as your representative a person who for six months out of every year may be incapacitated from serving you?” It’s easy enough to say I oughtn’t to allow my supporters to drag in the personal element. I like it even less myself. But what’s the answer?

(Jawbones enters with a tray.)

Jawbones. (Places tray on table.) Tea’s coming in a minute, sir. (He is clearing away.)

Geoffrey. Never mind all that. (He hands him a slip.) Take this to the printers. Tell them I must have a proof to-night.

Jawbones. Yes, sir.

(Finds his cap and goes out.)

St. Herbert. The answer, I should say, would be that the majority of women will continue to find something better to do. The women who will throw themselves into politics will be the unattached women, the childless women. (In an instant he sees his mistake, but it is too late.)

Geoffrey. (He rises, crosses to the desk, throws into a waste-paper-basket a piece of crumpled paper that was in his hand; then turns. The personal note has entered into the discussion.) The women who want to be childless – what about them?

St. Herbert. (He shrugs his shoulders.) Are there any such?

Geoffrey. There are women who talk openly of woman’s share in the general scheme being a “burden” on her – an “incubus.”

St. Herbert. A handful of cranks. To the normal woman motherhood has always been the one supreme desire.

Geoffrey. Because children crowned her with honour. The barren woman was despised. All that is changing. This movement is adding impulse to it.

St. Herbert. Movements do not alter instincts.

Geoffrey. But they do. Ever since man emerged from the jungle he has been shedding his instincts – shaping them to new desires. Where do you find this all-prevailing instinct towards maternity? Among the women of society, who sacrifice it without a moment’s hesitation to their vanity – to their mere pleasures? The middle-class woman – she, too, is demanding “freedom.” Children, servants, the home! – they are too much for her “nerves.” And now there comes this new development, appealing to the intellectual woman. Is there not danger of her preferring political ambition, the excitement of public life, to what has come to be regarded as the “drudgery” of turning four walls into a home, of peopling the silence with the voices of the children? (He crosses to the table – lays his hand again upon the open letter.) How do you know that this may not be her answer – “I have no children. I never mean to have children”?

(Sigsby enters in company with Ben Lamb, M.P. Lamb is a short, thick-set, good-tempered man.)

Ah, Lamb, how are you?

Lamb. (They greet one another.) How are things going?

Sigsby. They’re not going at all well.

Geoffrey. Sigsby was ever the child of despondency.

Sigsby. Yes, and so will you be when you find yourself at the bottom of the poll.

Geoffrey. (The notion takes him by surprise.)

Lamb. It’s going to be a closer affair than any of us thought. It’s the joke of the thing that appears to have got hold of them. They want to see what will happen.

Geoffrey. Man’s fatal curiosity concerning the eternal feminine!

Sigsby. Yes, and they won’t have to pay for it. That will be our department.

St. Herbert. (To Sigsby.) What do you think they’ll do, supposing by any chance Mrs. Chilvers should head the poll?

Sigsby. How do you mean – “what’ll they do?”

St. Herbert. Do you think they’ll claim the seat?

Sigsby. Claim the seat! What do you think they’re out for – their health? Get another six months’ advertisement, if they don’t get anything else. Meanwhile what’s our position – just at the beginning of our ministerial career?

Geoffrey. They will not claim the seat.

Sigsby. How do you know?

Geoffrey. I know my wife.

Lamb. (After a moment’s silence.) Quite sure you do?

Geoffrey. (Turns.)

Lamb. Ever seen a sheep fighting mad? I have. Damned sight worse than the old ram.

Geoffrey. She doesn’t fight the ram.

Lamb. (He makes a sweeping movement that takes in the room, the election – all things.) What’s all this? We thought woman hadn’t got the fighting instinct – that we “knew her.” My boy, we’re in the infants’ class.

Sigsby. If you want to be his Majesty’s Under-Secretary for Home Affairs, you take my tip, guv’nor, you’ll win this election.

Geoffrey. What more can I do than I’m doing? How can I countenance this sort of thing? (He indicates the posters.) Declare myself dead against the whole movement?

Lamb. You’ll do it later. May as well do it soon.

Geoffrey. Why must I do it?

Lamb. Because you’re beginning to find out what it means.

(A pause. The door is open. Annys is standing there.)

Annys. Dare we venture into the enemy’s camp?

(She enters, laughing, followed by Elizabeth and Phoebe. Annys is somewhat changed from the grave, dreamy Annys of a short week ago. She is brimming over with vitality – excitement. There is a decisiveness, an egoism, about her that seems new to her. The women’s skirts make a flutter. A breeze seems to have entered. Annys runs to her husband. For the moment the election fades away. They are all smiles, tenderness for one another.)

Annys. Don’t tell, will you? Mamma would be so shocked. Do you know you haven’t been near me for three days?

Geoffrey. Umph! I like that. Where were you last night?

Annys. Last night? In the neighbourhood of Leicester Square till three o’clock. Oh, Geoff, there’s such a lot wants altering!

(She turns to greet the others.)

Geoffrey. Your ruining your health won’t do it. You’re looking fagged to death.

Annys. (She shakes hands with Sigsby.) How are you? (To Lamb.) I’m so glad you’re helping him. (She turns again to Geoffrey.) Pure imagination, dearest. I never felt better in my life.

Geoffrey. Umph! Look at all those lines underneath your eyes. (He shakes hands with Elizabeth.) How do you do? (To Phoebe.) How are you?

Annys. (She comes back to him – makes to smooth the lines from his forehead.) Look at all those, there. We’ll run away together for a holiday, when it’s all over. What are you doing this evening?

Sigsby. You promised to speak at a Smoker to-night; the Bow and Bromley Buffaloes.

Annys. Oh, bother the Buffaloes. Take me out to dinner. I am free after seven.

(Mrs. Chinn has entered – is arranging the table for tea. Annys goes to her.)

How are you, Mrs. Chinn?