ROBERT.
[Looks at Richard.] Did you hear his voice, too, Richard, with the others—out there on the strand? Your son’s voice. [Smiling.] Listen! How full it is of despair!
ARCHIE.
Open the window, please, will you?
ROBERT.
Perhaps, there, Richard, is the freedom we seek—you in one way, I in another. In him and not in us. Perhaps…
RICHARD.
Perhaps…?
ROBERT.
I said perhaps. I would say almost surely if…
RICHARD.
If what?
ROBERT.
[With a faint smile.] If he were mine.
[He goes to the window and opens it. Archie scrambles in.]
ROBERT.
Like yesterday—eh?
ARCHIE.
Good morning, Mr Hand. [He runs to Richard and kisses him:] Buon giorno, babbo.
RICHARD.
Buon giorno, Archie.
ROBERT.
And where were you, my young gentleman?
ARCHIE.
Out with the milkman. I drove the horse. We went to Booterstown. [He takes off his cap and throws it on a chair.] I am very hungry.
ROBERT.
[Takes his hat from the table.] Richard, goodbye. [Offering his hand.] To our next meeting!
RICHARD.
[Rises, touches his hand.] Goodbye.
[Bertha appears at the door on the right.]
ROBERT.
[Catches sight of her: to Archie.] Get your cap. Come on with me. I’ll buy you a cake and I’ll tell you a story.
ARCHIE.
[To Bertha.] May I, mamma?
BERTHA.
Yes.
ARCHIE.
[Takes his cap.] I am ready.
ROBERT.
[To Richard and Bertha.] Goodbye to pappa and mamma. But not a big goodbye.
ARCHIE.
Will you tell me a fairy story, Mr Hand?
ROBERT.
A fairy story? Why not? I am your fairy godfather.
[They go out together through the double doors and down the garden. When they have gone Bertha goes to Richard and puts her arm round his waist.]
BERTHA.
Dick, dear, do you believe now that I have been true to you? Last night and always?
RICHARD.
[Sadly.] Do not ask me, Bertha.
BERTHA.
[Pressing him more closely.] I have been, dear. Surely you believe me. I gave you myself—all. I gave up all for you. You took me—and you left me.
RICHARD.
When did I leave you?
BERTHA.
You left me: and I waited for you to come back to me. Dick, dear, come here to me. Sit down. How tired you must be!
[She draws him towards the lounge. He sits down, almost reclining, resting on his arm. She sits on the mat before the lounge, holding his hand.]
BERTHA.
Yes, dear. I waited for you. Heavens, what I suffered then—when we lived in Rome! Do you remember the terrace of our house?
RICHARD.
Yes.
BERTHA.
I used to sit there, waiting, with the poor child with his toys, waiting till he got sleepy. I could see all the roofs of the city and the river, the Tevere. What is its name?
RICHARD.
The Tiber.
BERTHA.
[Caressing her cheek with his hand.] It was lovely, Dick, only I was so sad. I was alone, Dick, forgotten by you and by all. I felt my life was ended.
RICHARD.
It had not begun.
BERTHA.
And I used to look at the sky, so beautiful, without a cloud and the city you said was so old: and then I used to think of Ireland and about ourselves.
RICHARD.
Ourselves?
BERTHA.
Yes. Ourselves. Not a day passes that I do not see ourselves, you and me, as we were when we met first. Every day of my life I see that. Was I not true to you all that time?
RICHARD.
[Sighs deeply.] Yes, Bertha. You were my bride in exile.
BERTHA.
Wherever you go, I will follow you. If you wish to go away now I will go with you.
RICHARD.
I will remain. It is too soon yet to despair.
BERTHA.
[Again caressing his hand.] It is not true that I want to drive everyone from you. I wanted to bring you close together—you and him. Speak to me. Speak out all your heart to me. What you feel and what you suffer.
RICHARD.
I am wounded, Bertha.
BERTHA.
How wounded, dear? Explain to me what you mean. I will try to understand everything you say. In what way are you wounded?
RICHARD.
[Releases his hand and, taking her head between his hands, bends it back and gazes long into her eyes.] I have a deep, deep wound of doubt in my soul.
BERTHA.
[Motionless.] Doubt of me?
RICHARD.
Yes.
BERTHA.
I am yours. [In a whisper.] If I died this moment, I am yours.
RICHARD.
[Still gazing at her and speaking as if to an absent person.] I have wounded my soul for you—a deep wound of doubt which can never be healed. I can never know, never in this world. I do not wish to know or to believe. I do not care. It is not in the darkness of belief that I desire you. But in restless living wounding doubt. To hold you by no bonds, even of love, to be united with you in body and soul in utter nakedness—for this I longed. And now I am tired for a while, Bertha. My wound tires me.
[He stretches himself out wearily along the lounge. Bertha holds his hand still, speaking very softly.]
BERTHA.
Forget me, Dick. Forget me and love me again as you did the first time. I want my lover. To meet him, to go to him, to give myself to him. You, Dick. O, my strange wild lover, come back to me again!
[She closes her eyes.]
May 25, 1918
END
