BERTHA.
To have it always to throw against me. To make me humble before you, as you always did. To be free yourself. [Pointing towards the garden.] With her! And that is your love! Every word you say is false.
RICHARD.
[Controlling himself.] It is useless to ask you to listen to me.
BERTHA.
Listen to you! She is the person for listening. Why would you waste your time with me? Talk to her.
RICHARD.
[Nods his head.] I see. You have driven her away from me now, as you drove everyone else from my side—every friend I ever had, every human being that ever tried to approach me. You hate her.
BERTHA.
[Warmly.] No such thing! I think you have made her unhappy as you have made me and as you made your dead mother unhappy and killed her. Womankiller! That is your name.
RICHARD.
[Turns to go.] Arrivederci!
BERTHA.
[Excitedly.] She is a fine and high character. I like her. She is everything that I am not—in birth and education. You tried to ruin her but you could not. Because she is well able for you—what I am not. And you know it.
RICHARD.
[Almost shouting.] What the devil are you talking about her for?
BERTHA.
[Clasping her hands.] O, how I wish I had never met you! How I curse that day!
RICHARD.
[Bitterly.] I am in the way, is it? You would like to be free now. You have only to say the word.
BERTHA.
[Proudly.] Whenever you like I am ready.
RICHARD.
So that you could meet your lover—freely?
BERTHA.
Yes.
RICHARD.
Night after night?
BERTHA.
[Gazing before her and speaking with intense passion.] To meet my lover! [Holding out her arms before her.] My lover! Yes! My lover!
[She bursts suddenly into tears and sinks down on a chair, covering her face with her hands. Richard approaches her slowly and touches her on the shoulder.]
RICHARD.
Bertha! [She does not answer.] Bertha, you are free.
BERTHA.
[Pushes his hand aside and starts to her feet.] Don’t touch me! You are a stranger to me. You do not understand anything in me—not one thing in my heart or soul. A stranger! I am living with a stranger!
[A knock is heard at the hall door. Bertha dries her eyes quickly with her handkerchief and settles the front of her gown. Richard listens for a moment, looks at her keenly and, turning away, walks into his study. Robert Hand enters from the left. He is dressed in dark brown and carries in his hand a brown Alpine hat.]
ROBERT.
[Closing the door quietly behind him.] You sent for me.
BERTHA.
[Rises.] Yes. Are you mad to think of going away like that—without even coming here—without saying anything?
ROBERT.
[Advancing towards the table on which the paper lies, glances at it.] What I have to say I said here.
BERTHA.
When did you write it? Last night—after I went away?
ROBERT.
[Gracefully.] To be quite accurate, I wrote part of it—in my mind—before you went away. The rest—the worst part—I wrote after. Much later.
BERTHA.
And you could write last night!
ROBERT.
[Shrugs his shoulders.] I am a welltrained animal. [He comes closer to her.] I passed a long wandering night after… in my office, at the vicechancellor’s house, in a nightclub, in the streets, in my room. Your image was always before my eyes, your hand in my hand. Bertha, I will never forget last night. [He lays his hat on the table and takes her hand.] Why do you not look at me? May I not touch you?
BERTHA.
[Points to the study.] Dick is in there.
ROBERT.
[Drops her hand.] In that case children be good.
BERTHA.
Where are you going?
ROBERT.
To foreign parts. That is, to my cousin Jack Justice, alias Doggy Justice, in Surrey. He has a nice country place there and the air is mild.
BERTHA.
Why are you going?
ROBERT.
[Looks at her in silence.] Can you not guess one reason?
BERTHA.
On account of me?
ROBERT.
Yes. It is not pleasant for me to remain here just now.
BERTHA.
[Sits down helplessly.] But this is cruel of you, Robert. Cruel to me and to him also.
ROBERT.
Has he asked… what happened?
BERTHA.
[Joining her hands in despair.] No. He refuses to ask me anything. He says he will never know.
ROBERT.
[Nods gravely.] Richard is right there. He is always right.
BERTHA.
But, Robert, you must speak to him.
ROBERT.
What am I to say to him?
BERTHA.
The truth! Everything!
ROBERT.
[Reflects.] No, Bertha. I am a man speaking to a man. I cannot tell him everything.
BERTHA.
He will believe that you are going away because you are afraid to face him after last night.
ROBERT.
[After a pause.] Well, I am not a coward any more than he. I will see him.
BERTHA.
[Rises.] I will call him.
ROBERT.
[Catching her hands.] Bertha! What happened last night? What is the truth that I am to tell? [He gazes earnestly into her eyes.] Were you mine in that sacred night of love? Or have I dreamed it?
BERTHA.
[Smiles faintly.] Remember your dream of me. You dreamed that I was yours last night.
ROBERT.
And that is the truth—a dream? That is what I am to tell?
BERTHA.
Yes.
ROBERT.
[Kisses both her hands.] Bertha! [In a softer voice.] In all my life only that dream is real. I forget the rest. [He kisses her hands again.] And now I can tell him the truth. Call him.
[Bertha goes to the door of Richard’s study and knocks. There is no answer. She knocks again.]
BERTHA.
Dick! [There is no answer.] Mr Hand is here. He wants to speak to you, to say goodbye. He is going away. [There is no answer. She beats her hand loudly on the panel of the door and calls in an alarmed voice.] Dick! Answer me!
[Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He comes at once to Robert but does not hold out his hand.]
RICHARD.
[Calmly.] I thank you for your kind article about me. Is it true that you have come to say goodbye?
ROBERT.
There is nothing to thank me for, Richard. Now and always I am your friend. Now more than ever before. Do you believe me, Richard?
[Richard sits down on a chair and buries his face in his hands. Bertha and Robert gaze at each other in silence. Then she turns away and goes out quietly on the right. Robert goes towards Richard and stands near him, resting his hands on the back of a chair, looking down at him. There is a long silence. A Fishwoman is heard crying out as she passes along the road outside.]
THE FISHWOMAN.
Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Dublin bay herrings!
ROBERT.
[Quietly.] I will tell you the truth, Richard. Are you listening?
RICHARD.
[Raises his face and leans back to listen.] Yes.
[Robert sits on the chair beside him. The Fishwoman is heard calling out farther away.]
THE FISHWOMAN.
Fresh herrings! Dublin bay herrings!
ROBERT.
I failed, Richard. That is the truth. Do you believe me?
RICHARD.
I am listening.
ROBERT.
I failed. She is yours, as she was nine years ago, when you met her first.
RICHARD.
When we met her first, you mean.
ROBERT.
Yes. [He looks down for some moments.] Shall I go on?
RICHARD.
Yes.
ROBERT.
She went away. I was left alone—for the second time. I went to the vicechancellor’s house and dined. I said you were ill and would come another night. I made epigrams new and old—that one about the statues also. I drank claret cup. I went to my office and wrote my article. Then…
RICHARD.
Then?
ROBERT.
Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there—and also women. At least, they looked like women. I danced with one of them. She asked me to see her home. Shall I go on?
RICHARD.
Yes.
ROBERT.
I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on?
RICHARD.
Yes.
ROBERT.
She wept. She told me she was the divorced wife of a barrister. I offered her a sovereign as she told me she was short of money. She would not take it and wept very much. Then she drank some melissa water from a little bottle which she had in her satchel. I saw her enter her house. Then I walked home. In my room I found that my coat was all stained with the melissa water. I had no luck even with my coats yesterday: that was the second one. The idea came to me then to change my suit and go away by the morning boat. I packed my valise and went to bed. I am going away by the next train to my cousin, Jack Justice, in Surrey. Perhaps for a fortnight. Perhaps longer. Are you disgusted?
RICHARD.
Why did you not go by the boat?
ROBERT.
I slept it out.
RICHARD.
You intended to go without saying goodbye—without coming here?
ROBERT.
Yes.
RICHARD.
Why?
ROBERT.
My story is not very nice, is it?
RICHARD.
But you have come.
ROBERT.
Bertha sent me a message to come.
RICHARD.
But for that…?
ROBERT.
But for that I should not have come.
RICHARD.
Did it strike you that if you had gone without coming here I should have understood it—in my own way?
ROBERT.
Yes, it did.
RICHARD.
What, then, do you wish me to believe?
ROBERT.
I wish you to believe that I failed. That Bertha is yours now as she was nine years ago, when you—when we—met her first.
RICHARD.
Do you want to know what I did?
ROBERT.
No.
RICHARD.
I came home at once.
ROBERT.
Did you hear Bertha return?
RICHARD.
No. I wrote all the night. And thought. [Pointing to the study.] In there. Before dawn I went out and walked the strand from end to end.
ROBERT.
[Shaking his head.] Suffering. Torturing yourself.
RICHARD.
Hearing voices about me. The voices of those who say they love me.
ROBERT.
[Points to the door on the right.] One. And mine?
RICHARD.
Another still.
ROBERT.
[Smiles and touches his forehead with his right forefinger.] True. My interesting but somewhat melancholy cousin. And what did they tell you?
RICHARD.
They told me to despair.
ROBERT.
A queer way of showing their love, I must say! And will you despair?
RICHARD.
[Rising.] No.
[A noise is heard at the window. Archie’s face is seen flattened against one of the panes. He is heard calling.]
ARCHIE.
Open the window! Open
