Laurence Housman

“ Don't! You mustn't try to touch her, or she goes.
laura. Goes?
julia. I can't explain. She is not quite herself. She doesn't always hear what one says.
laura (assertively) . She can hear me. (To prove it, she raises her voice defiantly.) Can't you, Mother?
mrs. r. (the voice perhaps reminding her) . Jane, dear, I wonder what's become of Laura, little Laura: she was always so naughty and difficult to manage, so different from Martha—and the rest.
laura. Lor', Julia! Is it as bad as that? Mother, 'little Laura' is here, sitting in front of you. Don't you know me? ”

“ Why did she keep on calling me 'Jane'?
julia. She took you for poor Aunt Jane, I fancy.
laura (infuriated at being taken for anyone 'poor') . Why should she do that, pray?
julia. Well, there always was a likeness, you know; and you are older than you were, Laura.
laura (crushingly) . Does 'poor Aunt Jane' wear widow's weeds? (This reminds her not only of her own condition, but of other things as well. She sits up and takes a stiller bigger bite into her new world.) ”

“ A pity that love is so wasteful! Well, I suppose I must go now and change into my cap. (Goes to the door, where she encounters Julia.) Why, Julia, you nearly knocked me down!
julia (ironically) . I beg your pardon, Laura; it comes of using the same door. Hannah has lighted a fire in your room.
laura. That's sensible at any rate.
(Exit Mrs. James.)
julia. Well? And how do you find Laura?
martha. Julia, I don't know whether I can stand her.
julia. She hasn't got quite—used to herself yet.
martha (explosively) . Put that away somewhere!
(She gives an angry shove to the wreath.) ”

“ Dress and appearance show a doubly septuagenarian character: at the age of seventy, which in this place she retains as the hall-mark of her earthly pilgrimage, she belongs also to the 'seventies' of the last century, wears watered silk, and retains under her cap a shortened and stiffer version of the side-curls with which she and all 'the sex' captivated the hearts of Charles Dickens and other novelists in their early youth. She has soft and indeterminate features, and when she speaks her voice, a little shaken by the quaver of age, is soft and indeterminate also. ”

“ Julia! . . . Where's William?
julia. I haven't inquired.
laura (self-importance and a sense of duty consuming her) . I wish to see him.
julia. Better not, as it didn't occur to you before.
laura. Am I not to see my own husband, pray?
julia. He didn't ever live here, you know.
laura. He can come, I suppose. He has got legs like the rest of us.
julia. Yes, but one can't force people: at least, [25] not here. You should remember that—before he married you—he had other ties.
(Mrs. James preserves her self-possession, but there is battle in her eye.) ”

“ Possession
Scene.—The Everlasting Habitations
It is evening (or so it seems) , and to the comfortably furnished Victorian drawing-room a middle-aged maid-servant in cap and apron brings a lamp, and proceeds to draw blinds and close curtains. To do this she passes the fire-place, where before a pleasantly bright hearth sits, comfortably sedate, an elderly lady whose countenance and attitude suggest the very acme of genteel repose. She is a handsome woman, very conscious of herself, but carrying the burden of her importance with an ease which, in her own mind, leaves nothing to be desired. ”

“ The door opens and in comes Martha. She has neither the distinction of look nor the force of character which belongs to her two sisters. Age has given a depression to the plain kindliness of her face, and there is a harassed look about her eyes. ”

“ You didn't tell me you were dying.
laura. Do people tell each other when they are dying? They don't know. I told you I wasn't well.
martha. You always told me that, just when I'd settled down somewhere else. . . . Of course I'd have come if I'd known! (testily) .
julia. Oh, surely we needn't go into these matters now! Isn't it better to accept things?
laura. I like to have my wishes attended to. What was going to be done about the furniture? (This to Martha.) You know, I suppose, that I left it to the two of you—you and Edwin?
martha. ”

“ I can't say, Laura.
laura. No—no more can I; no more can anyone! Martha has got the miser spirit. She's as grasping as a caterpillar. I ought to have had that tea-pot.
julia. Why?
laura. Because I had a house of my own, and people coming to tea. Martha never had anyone to tea with her in her life—except in lodgings.
julia. We all like to live in our own way. Martha liked going about.
laura. Yes. She promised me, after William—I suppose I had better say 'evaporated' as you won't let me say 'died'—she promised always to stay with me for three months in the year. She never did. ”

“ Now Mrs. Dobson—you remember her: she lives in Tudor Street with a daughter one never sees—something wrong in her head, and has fits—she sent me a cross of lilies, white lilac, and stephanotis, as handsome as you could wish; and a card—I forget what was on the card. . . . Julia, when you died——
julia. Oh, don't Laura!
laura. Well, you did die, didn't you?
julia. Here one doesn't talk of it. That's over. There are things you will have to learn.
laura. What I was going to say was—when I died I found my sight was much better. I could read all the cards without my glasses. Do you use glasses? ”

“ And while the older articles are treasured on account of family association, the younger and newer stand erected in places of honour by reason of an intrinsic beauty never previously attained to. Through this chamber the dashing crinoline has wheeled the too vast orb of its fate, and left fifty years after (if we may measure the times of Heaven by the ticks of an earthly chronometer) a mark which nothing is likely to erase. Upon the small table, where Hannah the servant deposits the lamp, lies a piece of crochet-work. ”

“ Does William belong to himself?
julia. I suppose.
laura. It isn't Scriptural!
julia. It's better.
laura. Julia, don't be blasphemous!
julia. To consult William's wishes, I meant.
laura. But I want him. I've a right to him. If he didn't mean to belong to me, he ought not to have married me.
julia. People make mistakes sometimes.
laura. Then they should stick to them. It's not honourable. Julia, I mean to have William!
julia (resignedly) . You and he must arrange that between you.
laura (making a dash for it) . William! William, I say! William!
julia. Oh, Laura, you'll wake the dead! ”

“ She has routed him out.
martha (awe-struck) . Has she?
julia (shaking her head wisely) . William won't live with her; he knows better.
martha. Who will live with her, then? She's bound to get hold of somebody.
julia. Apparently she means to live here.
martha. Then it's going to be me! I know it's going to be me! When we lived here before, it used to be poor Mamma.
julia. The dear Mother is quite capable of looking after herself, you'll find. You needn't belong to Laura if you don't like, Martha. I never let her take possession of me.
martha. She seems never to want to. ”

“ If you press her too much, she goes. . . . You'll have to accommodate yourself, Laura.
laura (imposing her own explanation) . I think you gave me green tea, Julia . . . or have had it yourself.
julia (knowing better) . The dear Mother seldom stays long, except when she finds me alone.
(Having insinuated this barb into the flesh of her 'dear sister,' she takes up her crochet with an air of great contentment. Mrs. [24] James, meanwhile, to make herself more at home, now that tea is finished, undoes her bonnet-strings with a tug, and lets them hang. She is not in the best of tempers.) ”

“ The once-striking outline of her features has been rounded by good feeding to a softness which is merely physical; and her voice, when she speaks, has a calculated gentleness very caressing to her own ear, and a little irritating to others who are not of an inferior class. ”

“ Julia!
(Martha is quite as much surprised as Mrs. James, but less indignant.)
martha. Well! Did you ever?
laura (facing about after vain search) . Does she think that is the proper way to behave to me? Julia!
martha. It's no good, Laura. You know Julia, as well as I do. If she makes up her mind to a thing——
laura. Yes. She's been waiting here to exercise her patience on me, and now she's happy! Well, she'll have to learn that this house doesn't belong to [47] her any longer. She has got to accommodate herself to living with others. . . . ”

“ It's all right, Laura. You don't understand.
laura. What don't I understand?
julia. Here one always uses the best. Nothing wears out or gets broken.
laura. Then where's the pleasure of it? If one always uses them and they never break—'best' means nothing!
julia. It is a little puzzling at first. You must be patient.
laura. I'm not a child, Julia.
julia (beautifully ignoring) . A little more coal, please, Hannah. (Then to her sister as she pours out the tea.) And how did you leave everybody?
laura. Oh, pretty much as usual. Most of them having colds. That's how I got mine. Mrs. ”

“ James's character.)
hannah (resignedly) . Yes, M'm.
julia. I don't think I'll wait any longer. If you'll bring in tea now. Make enough for two, in case: pour it off into another pot, and have it under the tea-cosy.
hannah. Yes, Ma'am.
(Left alone, the dear lady enjoys the sense of herself and the small world of her own thoughts in solitude. Then she sighs indulgently.)
[15] julia. Yes, I suppose I would rather it had been Martha. Poor Laura! (She puts out her hand for her crochet, when it is arrested by the sound of a knock, rather rapacious in character.) Ah, that's Laura all over! ”

“ A tall, florid gentleman of the Dundreary type, with long side-whiskers, and dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago, has taken up his position to one side of the ormolu clock; standing, eye-glass in eye, with folded arms resting on the mantel-slab and a stylish hat in one hand, he gazes upon the assembled family with quizzical benevolence.)
mrs. r. (placidly) . What, is that you, Thomas?
thomas (with the fashionable lisp of the fifties, always substituting 'th' for 's') . How do you do, Susan?
(There follows a pause, broken courageously by Mrs. James.)
laura. Are you my Father? ”

“ Why?
martha (furiously) . Emily made it: and it didn't [50] cost anything; and it hasn't got any maiden-hair fern in it; and it's too big to wear with her cap. So it's good for nothing! Put it on the fire! She doesn't want to see it again.
julia (comprehending the situation, restores the wreath to its box) . Why did you bring it here, Martha?
martha (miserably) . I don't know. ”

“ While this conversation has been going on, a gentle old lady has appeared upon the scene, unnoticed and unannounced. One perceives, that is to say, that the high-backed arm-chair beside the fire, sheltered by a screen from all possibility of draughts, has an occupant. ”