Part 7

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 the window!

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._]