Джек Лондон
The Human Drift
A CLASSIC OF THE SEA
Introduction to “Two Years before the Mast.”
Once in a hundred years is a book written that lives not alone for its own century but which becomes a document for the future centuries. Such a book is Dana’s. When Marryat’s and Cooper’s sea novels are gone to dust, stimulating and joyful as they have been to generations of men, still will remain “Two Years Before the Mast.”
Paradoxical as it may seem, Dana’s book is the classic of the sea, not because there was anything extraordinary about Dana, but for the precise contrary reason that he was just an ordinary, normal man, clear-seeing, hard-headed, controlled, fitted with adequate education to go about the work. He brought a trained mind to put down with untroubled vision what he saw of a certain phase of work-a-day life. There was nothing brilliant nor fly-away about him. He was not a genius. His heart never rode his head. He was neither overlorded by sentiment nor hag-ridden by imagination. Otherwise he might have been guilty of the beautiful exaggerations in Melville’s “Typee” or the imaginative orgies in the latter’s “Moby Dick.” It was Dana’s cool poise that saved him from being spread-eagled and flogged when two of his mates were so treated; it was his lack of abandon that prevented him from taking up permanently with the sea, that prevented him from seeing more than one poetical spot, and more than one romantic spot on all the coast of Old California. Yet these apparent defects were his strength. They enabled him magnificently to write, and for all time, the picture of the sea-life of his time.
Written close to the middle of the last century, such has been the revolution worked in man’s method of trafficking with the sea, that the life and conditions described in Dana’s book have passed utterly away. Gone are the crack clippers, the driving captains, the hard-bitten but efficient foremast hands. Remain only crawling cargo tanks, dirty tramps, greyhound liners, and a sombre, sordid type of sailing ship. The only records broken to-day by sailing vessels are those for slowness. They are no longer built for speed, nor are they manned before the mast by as sturdy a sailor stock, nor aft the mast are they officered by sail-carrying captains and driving mates.
Speed is left to the liners, who run the silk, and tea, and spices. Admiralty courts, boards of trade, and underwriters frown upon driving and sail-carrying. No more are the free-and-easy, dare-devil days, when fortunes were made in fast runs and lucky ventures, not alone for owners, but for captains as well. Nothing is ventured now. The risks of swift passages cannot be abided. Freights are calculated to the last least fraction of per cent. The captains do no speculating, no bargain-making for the owners. The latter attend to all this, and by wire and cable rake the ports of the seven seas in quest of cargoes, and through their agents make all business arrangements.
It has been learned that small crews only, and large carriers only, can return a decent interest on the investment. The inevitable corollary is that speed and spirit are at a discount. There is no discussion of the fact that in the sailing merchant marine the seamen, as a class, have sadly deteriorated. Men no longer sell farms to go to sea. But the time of which Dana writes was the heyday of fortune-making and adventure on the sea – with the full connotation of hardship and peril always attendant.
It was Dana’s fortune, for the sake of the picture, that the Pilgrim was an average ship, with an average crew and officers, and managed with average discipline. Even the hazing that took place after the California coast was reached, was of the average sort. The Pilgrim savoured not in any way of a hell-ship. The captain, while not the sweetest-natured man in the world, was only an average down-east driver, neither brilliant nor slovenly in his seamanship, neither cruel nor sentimental in the treatment of his men. While, on the one hand, there were no extra liberty days, no delicacies added to the meagre forecastle fare, nor grog or hot coffee on double watches, on the other hand the crew were not chronically crippled by the continual play of knuckle-dusters and belaying pins. Once, and once only, were men flogged or ironed – a very fair average for the year 1834, for at that time flogging on board merchant vessels was already well on the decline.
The difference between the sea-life then and now can be no better epitomised than in Dana’s description of the dress of the sailor of his day:
“The trousers tight around the hips, and thence hanging long and loose around the feet, a superabundance of checked shirt, a low-crowned, well-varnished black hat, worn on the back of the head, with half a fathom of black ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a peculiar tie to the black silk neckerchief.”
Though Dana sailed from Boston only three-quarters of a century ago, much that is at present obsolete was then in full sway. For instance, the old word larboard was still in use. He was a member of the larboard watch. The vessel was on the larboard tack. It was only the other day, because of its similarity in sound to starboard, that larboard was changed to port. Try to imagine “All larboard bowlines on deck!” being shouted down into the forecastle of a present day ship. Yet that was the call used on the Pilgrim to fetch Dana and the rest of his watch on deck.
The chronometer, which is merely the least imperfect time-piece man has devised, makes possible the surest and easiest method by far of ascertaining longitude. Yet the Pilgrim sailed in a day when the chronometer was just coming into general use. So little was it depended upon that the Pilgrim carried only one, and that one, going wrong at the outset, was never used again. A navigator of the present would be aghast if asked to voyage for two years, from Boston, around the Horn to California, and back again, without a chronometer. In those days such a proceeding was a matter of course, for those were the days when dead reckoning was indeed something to reckon on, when running down the latitude was a common way of finding a place, and when lunar observations were direly necessary. It may be fairly asserted that very few merchant officers of to-day ever make a lunar observation, and that a large percentage are unable to do it.
“Sept. 22nd., upon coming on deck at seven bells in the morning we found the other watch aloft throwing water upon the sails, and looking astern we saw a small, clipper-built brig with a black hull heading directly after us. We went to work immediately, and put all the canvas upon the brig which we could get upon her, rigging out oars for studding-sail yards; and contined wetting down the sails by buckets of water whipped up to the mast-head.. She was armed, and full of men, and showed no colours.”
The foregoing sounds like a paragraph from “Midshipman Easy” or the “Water Witch,” rather than a paragraph from the soberest, faithfullest, and most literal chronicle of the sea ever written. And yet the chase by a pirate occurred, on board the brig Pilgrim, on September 22nd, 1834 – something like only two generations ago.
Dana was the thorough-going type of man, not overbalanced and erratic, without quirk or quibble of temperament. He was efficient, but not brilliant. His was a general all-round efficiency. He was efficient at the law; he was efficient at college; he was efficient as a sailor; he was efficient in the matter of pride, when that pride was no more than the pride of a forecastle hand, at twelve dollars a month, in his seaman’s task well done, in the smart sailing of his captain, in the clearness and trimness of his ship.
There is no sailor whose cockles of the heart will not warm to Dana’s description of the first time he sent down a royal yard. Once or twice he had seen it done. He got an old hand in the crew to coach him. And then, the first anchorage at Monterey, being pretty thick with the second mate, he got him to ask the mate to be sent up the first time the royal yards were struck. “Fortunately,” as Dana describes it, “I got through without any word from the officer; and heard the ‘well done’ of the mate, when the yard reached the deck, with as much satisfaction as I ever felt at Cambridge on seeing a ‘bene’ at the foot of a Latin exercise.”
“This was the first time I had taken a weather ear-ring, and I felt not a little proud to sit astride of the weather yard-arm, past the ear-ring, and sing out ‘Haul out to leeward!’” He had been over a year at sea before he essayed this able seaman’s task, but he did it, and he did it with pride. And with pride, he went down a four-hundred foot cliff, on a pair of top-gallant studding-sail halyards bent together, to dislodge several dollars worth of stranded bullock hides, though all the acclaim he got from his mates was: “What a d-d fool you were to risk your life for half a dozen hides!”
In brief, it was just this efficiency in pride, as well as work, that enabled Dana to set down, not merely the photograph detail of life before the mast and hide-droghing on the coast of California, but of the untarnished simple psychology and ethics of the forecastle hands who droghed the hides, stood at the wheel, made and took in sail, tarred down the rigging, holystoned the decks, turned in all-standing, grumbled as they cut about the kid, criticised the seamanship of their officers, and estimated the duration of their exile from the cubic space of the hide-house.
JACK LONDON
Glen Ellen, California,
August 13, 1911.
A WICKED WOMAN
(Curtain Raiser)
BY JACK LONDON
Scene – California.
Time – Afternoon of a summer day.
CHARACTERS
LORETTA, A sweet, young thing. Frightfully innocent. About nineteen years old. Slender, delicate, a fragile flower. Ingenuous.
NED BASHFORD, A jaded young man of the world, who has philosophised his experiences and who is without faith in the veracity or purity of women.
BILLY MARSH, A boy from a country town who is just about as innocent as Loretta. Awkward. Positive. Raw and callow youth.
ALICE HEMINGWAY, A society woman, good-hearted, and a match-maker.
JACK HEMINGWAY, Her husband.
MAID.
A WICKED WOMAN
[Curtain rises on a conventional living room of a country house in California. It is the Hemingway house at Santa Clara. The room is remarkable for magnificent stone fireplace at rear centre. On either side of fireplace are generous, diamond-paned windows. Wide, curtained doorways to right and left. To left, front, table, with vase of flowers and chairs. To right, front, grand piano.]
[Curtain discovers LORETTA seated at piano, not playing, her back to it, facing NED BASHFORD, who is standing.]
LORETTA. [Petulantly, fanning herself with sheet of music.] No, I won’t go fishing. It’s too warm. Besides, the fish won’t bite so early in the afternoon.
NED. Oh, come on. It’s not warm at all. And anyway, we won’t really fish. I want to tell you something.
LORETTA. [Still petulantly.] You are always wanting to tell me something.
NED. Yes, but only in fun. This is different. This is serious. Our.. my happiness depends upon it.
LORETTA. [Speaking eagerly, no longer petulant, looking, serious and delighted, divining a proposal.] Then don’t wait. Tell me right here.
NED. [Almost threateningly.] Shall I?
LORETTA. [Challenging.] Yes.
[He looks around apprehensively as though fearing interruption, clears his throat, takes resolution, also takes LORETTA’s hand.]
[LORETTA is startled, timid, yet willing to hear, naïvely unable to conceal her love for him.]
NED. [Speaking softly.] Loretta.. I… ever since I met you I have —
[JACK HEMINGWAY appears in the doorway to the left, just entering.]
[NED suddenly drops LORETTA’s hand. He shows exasperation.]
[LORETTA shows disappointment at interruption.]
NED. Confound it
LORETTA. [Shocked.] Ned! Why will you swear so?
NED. [Testily.] That isn’t swearing.
LORETTA. What is it, pray?
NED. Displeasuring.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Who is crossing over to right.] Squabbling again?
LORETTA. [Indignantly and with dignity.] No, we’re not.
NED. [Gruffly.] What do you want now?
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Enthusiastically.] Come on fishing.
NED. [Snappily.] No. It’s too warm.
JACK HEMINGWAY. [Resignedly, going out right.] You needn’t take a fellow’s head off.
LORETTA. I thought you wanted to go fishing.
NED. Not with Jack.
LORETTA. [Accusingly, fanning herself vigorously.] And you told me it wasn’t warm at all.
NED. [Speaking softly.] That isn’t what I wanted to tell you, Loretta. [He takes her hand.] Dear Loretta —
[Enter abruptly ALICE HEMINGWAY from right.]
[LORETTA sharply jerks her hand away, and looks put out.]
[NED tries not to look awkward.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Goodness! I thought you’d both gone fishing!
LORETTA. [Sweetly.] Is there anything you want, Alice?
NED. [Trying to be courteous.] Anything I can do?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Speaking quickly, and trying to withdraw.] No, no. I only came to see if the mail had arrived.
LORETTA AND NED
[Speaking together.] No, it hasn’t arrived.
LORETTA. [Suddenly moving toward door to right.] I am going to see.
[NED looks at her reproachfully.]
[LORETTA looks back tantalisingly from doorway and disappears.]
[NED flings himself disgustedly into Morris chair.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Moving over and standing in front of him. Speaks accusingly.] What have you been saying to her?
NED. [Disgruntled.] Nothing.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Threateningly.] Now listen to me, Ned.
NED. [Earnestly.] On my word, Alice, I’ve been saying nothing to her.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front.] Then you ought to have been saying something to her.
NED. [Irritably. Getting chair for her, seating her, and seating himself again.] Look here, Alice, I know your game. You invited me down here to make a fool of me.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Nothing of the sort, sir. I asked you down to meet a sweet and unsullied girl – the sweetest, most innocent and ingenuous girl in the world.
NED. [Dryly.] That’s what you said in your letter.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. And that’s why you came. Jack had been trying for a year to get you to come. He did not know what kind of a letter to write.
NED. If you think I came because of a line in a letter about a girl I’d never seen —
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Mockingly.] The poor, jaded, world-worn man, who is no longer interested in women.. and girls! The poor, tired pessimist who has lost all faith in the goodness of women —
NED. For which you are responsible.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Incredulously.] I?
NED. You are responsible. Why did you throw me over and marry Jack?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Do you want to know?
NED. Yes.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Judiciously.] First, because I did not love you. Second, because you did not love me. [She smiles at his protesting hand and at the protesting expression on his face.] And third, because there were just about twenty-seven other women at that time that you loved, or thought you loved. That is why I married Jack. And that is why you lost faith in the goodness of women. You have only yourself to blame.
NED. [Admiringly.] You talk so convincingly. I almost believe you as I listen to you. And yet I know all the time that you are like all the rest of your sex – faithless, unveracious, and.
[He glares at her, but does not proceed.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Go on. I’m not afraid.
NED. [With finality.] And immoral.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Oh! You wretch!
NED. [Gloatingly.] That’s right. Get angry. You may break the furniture if you wish. I don’t mind.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front, softly.] And how about Loretta?
[NED gasps and remains silent.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. The depths of duplicity that must lurk under that sweet and innocent exterior.. according to your philosophy!
NED. [Earnestly.] Loretta is an exception, I confess. She is all that you said in your letter. She is a little fairy, an angel. I never dreamed of anything like her. It is remarkable to find such a woman in this age.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Encouragingly.] She is so naive.
NED. [Taking the bait.] Yes, isn’t she? Her face and her tongue betray all her secrets.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding her head.] Yes, I have noticed it.
NED. [Delightedly.] Have you?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. She cannot conceal anything. Do you know that she loves you?
NED. [Falling into the trap, eagerly.] Do you think so?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and rising.] And to think I once permitted you to make love to me for three weeks!
[NED rises.]
[MAID enters from left with letters, which she brings to ALICE HEMINGWAY.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Running over letters.] None for you, Ned. [Selecting two letters for herself.] Tradesmen. [Handing remainder of letters to MAID.] And three for Loretta. [Speaking to MAID.] Put them on the table, Josie.
[MAID puts letters on table to left front, and makes exit to left.]
NED. [With shade of jealousy.] Loretta seems to have quite a correspondence.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With a sigh.] Yes, as I used to when I was a girl.
NED. But hers are family letters.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Yes, I did not notice any from Billy.
NED. [Faintly.] Billy?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding.] Of course she has told you about him?
NED. [Gasping.] She has had lovers.. already?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. And why not? She is nineteen.
NED. [Haltingly.] This.. er.. this Billy.. ?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and putting her hand reassuringly on his arm.] Now don’t be alarmed, poor, tired philosopher. She doesn’t love Billy at all.
[LORETTA enters from right.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [To LORETTA, nodding toward table.] Three letters for you.
LORETTA. [Delightedly.] Oh! Thank you.
[LORETTA trips swiftly across to table, looks at letters, sits down, opens letters, and begins to read.]
NED. [Suspiciously.] But Billy?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. I am afraid he loves her very hard. That is why she is here. They had to send her away. Billy was making life miserable for her. They were little children together – playmates. And Billy has been, well, importunate. And Loretta, poor child, does not know anything about marriage. That is all.
NED. [Reassured.] Oh, I see.
[ALICE HEMINGWAY starts slowly toward right exit, continuing conversation and accompanied by NED.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Calling to LORETTA.] Are you going fishing, Loretta?
[LORETTA looks up from letter and shakes head.]
ALICE HEMINGWAY. [To NED.] Then you’re not, I suppose?
NED. No, it’s too warm.
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Then I know the place for you.
NED. Where?
ALICE HEMINGWAY. Right here. [Looks significantly in direction of LORETTA.] Now is your opportunity to say what you ought to say.
[ALICE HEMINGWAY laughs teasingly and goes out to right.]
[NED hesitates, starts to follow her, looks at LORETTA, and stops. He twists his moustache and continues to look at her meditatively.]
[LORETTA is unaware of his presence and goes on reading. Finishes letter, folds it, replaces in envelope, looks up, and discovers NED.]
LORETTA. [Startled.] Oh! I thought you were gone.
NED. [Walking across to her.] I thought I’d stay and finish our conversation.
LORETTA. [Willingly, settling herself to listen.] Yes, you were going to.. [Drops eyes and ceases talking.]
NED. [Taking her hand, tenderly.] I little dreamed when I came down here visiting that I was to meet my destiny in – [Abruptly releases LORETTA’s hand.]
[MAID enters from left with tray.]
[LORETTA glances into tray and discovers that it is empty. She looks inquiringly at MAID.]
MAID. A gentleman to see you. He hasn’t any card. He said for me to tell you that it was Billy.
LORETTA. [Starting, looking with dismay and appeal to NED.] Oh!.. Ned!
NED [Gracefully and courteously, rising to his feet and preparing to go.] If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll wait till afterward to tell you what I wanted.
LORETTA. [In dismay.] What shall I do?
NED. [Pausing.] Don’t you want to see him? [LORETTA shakes her head.] Then don’t.
LORETTA. [Slowly.] I can’t do that. We are old friends. We.. were children together. [To the MAID.] Send him in. [To NED, who has started to go out toward right.] Don’t go, Ned.
[MAID makes exit to left.]
NED. [Hesitating a moment.] I’ll come back.
[NED makes exit to right.]
[LORETTA, left alone on stage, shows perturbation and dismay.]
[BILLY enters from left. Stands in doorway a moment. His shoes are dusty. He looks overheated. His eyes and face brighten at sight of LORETTA.]
BILLY. [Stepping forward, ardently.] Loretta!
LORETTA. [Not exactly enthusiastic in her reception, going slowly to meet him.] You never said you were coming.
[BILLY shows that he expects to kiss her, but she merely shakes his hand.]
BILLY. [Looking down at his very dusty shoes.] I walked from the station.
LORETTA. If you had let me know, the carriage would have been sent for you.
BILLY. [With expression of shrewdness.] If I had let you know, you wouldn’t have let me come.
[BILLY looks around stage cautiously, then tries to kiss her.]
LORETTA. [Refusing to be kissed.] Won’t you sit down?
BILLY. [Coaxingly.] Go on, just one. [LORETTA shakes head and holds him off.] Why not? We’re engaged.
LORETTA. [With decision.] We’re not. You know we’re not. You know I broke it off the day before I came away. And.. and.. you’d better sit down.
[BILLY sits down on edge of chair. LORETTA seats herself by table. Billy, without rising, jerks his chair forward till they are facing each other, his knees touching hers. He yearns toward her. She moves back her chair slightly.]
BILLY. [With supreme confidence.] That’s what I came to see you for – to get engaged over again.
[BILLY hudges chair forward and tries to take her hand.]
[LORETTA hudges her chair back.]
BILLY. [Drawing out large silver watch and looking at it.] Now look here, Loretta, I haven’t any time to lose. I’ve got to leave for that train in ten minutes. And I want you to set the day.
LORETTA. But we’re not engaged, Billy. So there can’t be any setting of the day.
BILLY. [With confidence.] But we’re going to be. [Suddenly breaking out.] Oh, Loretta, if you only knew how I’ve suffered. That first night I didn’t sleep a wink. I haven’t slept much ever since. [Hudges chair forward.] I walk the floor all night. [Solemnly.] Loretta, I don’t eat enough to keep a canary bird alive. Loretta.. [Hudges chair forward.]
LORETTA. [Hudging her chair back maternally.] Billy, what you need is a tonic. Have you seen Doctor Haskins?
BILLY. [Looking at watch and evincing signs of haste.] Loretta, when a girl kisses a man, it means she is going to marry him.
LORETTA. I know it, Billy. But.. [She glances toward letters on table.] Captain Kitt doesn’t want me to marry you. He says.. [She takes letter and begins to open it.]
BILLY. Never mind what Captain Kitt says. He wants you to stay and be company for your sister. He doesn’t want you to marry me because he knows she wants to keep you.
LORETTA. Daisy doesn’t want to keep me. She wants nothing but my own happiness. She says – [She takes second letter from table and begins to open it.]
BILLY. Never mind what Daisy says —
LORETTA. [Taking third letter from table and beginning to open it.] And Martha says —
BILLY. [Angrily.] Darn Martha and the whole boiling of them!
LORETTA. [Reprovingly.] Oh, Billy!
BILLY. [Defensively.] Darn isn’t swearing, and you know it isn’t.
[There is an awkward pause. Billy has lost the thread of the conversation and has vacant expression.]
BILLY. [Suddenly recollecting.] Never mind Captain Kitt, and Daisy, and Martha, and what they want. The question is, what do you want?
LORETTA. [Appealingly.] Oh, Billy, I’m so unhappy.
BILLY. [Ignoring the appeal and pressing home the point.] The thing is, do you want to marry me? [He looks at his watch.] Just answer that.
LORETTA. Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss that train?
BILLY. Darn the train!
LORETTA. [Reprovingly.] Oh, Billy!
BILLY. [Most irascibly.] Darn isn’t swearing. [Plaintively.] That’s the way you always put me off. I didn’t come all the way here for a train. I came for you. Now just answer me one thing. Do you want to marry me?
LORETTA. [Firmly.] No, I don’t want to marry you.
BILLY. [With assurance.] But you’ve got to, just the same.
LORETTA. [With defiance.] Got to?
BILLY. [With unshaken assurance.] That’s what I said – got to. And I’ll see that you do.
LORETTA. [Blazing with anger.] I am no longer a child. You can’t bully me, Billy Marsh!
BILLY. [Coolly.] I’m not trying to bully you. I’m trying to save your reputation.
LORETTA. [Faintly.] Reputation?
BILLY. [Nodding.] Yes, reputation. [He pauses for a moment, then speaks very solemnly.] Loretta, when a woman kisses a man, she’s got to marry him.
LORETTA. [Appalled, faintly.] Got to?
BILLY. [Dogmatically.] It is the custom.
LORETTA. [Brokenly.] And when.. a.. a woman kisses a man and doesn’t.. marry him.. ?
BILLY. Then there is a scandal. That’s where all the scandals you see in the papers come from.
[BILLY looks at watch.]
[LORETTA in silent despair.]
LORETTA. [In abasement.] You are a good man, Billy. [Billy shows that he believes it.] And I am a very wicked woman.
BILLY. No, you’re not, Loretta. You just didn’t know.
LORETTA. [With a gleam of hope.] But you kissed me first.
BILLY. It doesn’t matter. You let me kiss you.
LORETTA. [Hope dying down.] But not at first.
BILLY. But you did afterward and that’s what counts. You let me you in the grape-arbour. You let me —
LORETTA. [With anguish] Don’t! Don’t!
BILLY. [Relentlessly.] – kiss you when you were playing the piano. You let me kiss you that day of the picnic. And I can’t remember all the times you let me kiss you good night.
LORETTA. [Beginning to weep.] Not more than five.
BILLY. [With conviction.] Eight at least.
LORETTA. [Reproachfully, still weeping.] You told me it was all right.
BILLY. [Emphatically.] So it was all right – until you said you wouldn’t marry me after all. Then it was a scandal – only no one knows it yet. If you marry me no one ever will know it. [Looks at watch.] I’ve got to go. [Stands up.] Where’s my hat?
LORETTA. [Sobbing.] This is awful.
BILLY. [Approvingly.] You bet it’s awful. And there’s only one way out. [Looks anxiously about for hat.] What do you say?
LORETTA. [Brokenly.] I must think. I’ll write to you. [Faintly.] The train? Your hat’s in the hall.
BILLY. [Looks at watch, hastily tries to kiss her, succeeds only in shaking hand, starts across stage toward left.] All right. You write to me. Write to-morrow. [Stops for a moment in doorway and speaks very solemnly.] Remember, Loretta, there must be no scandal.
[Billy goes out.]
[LORETTA sits in chair quietly weeping. Slowly dries eyes, rises from chair, and stands, undecided as to what she will do next.]
[NED enters from right, peeping. Discovers that LORETTA is alone, and comes quietly across stage to her. When NED comes up to her she begins weeping again and tries to turn her head away. NED catches both her hands in his and compels her to look at him. She weeps harder.]
NED. [Putting one arm protectingly around her shoulder and drawing her toward him.] There, there, little one, don’t cry.
LORETTA. [Turning her face to his shoulder like a tired child, sobbing.] Oh, Ned, if you only knew how wicked I am.
NED. [Smiling indulgently.] What is the matter, little one? Has your dearly beloved sister failed to write to you? [LORETTA shakes head.] Has Hemingway been bullying you? [LORETTA shakes head.] Then it must have been that caller of yours? [Long pause, during which LORETTA’s weeping grows more violent.] Tell me what’s the matter, and we’ll see what I can do. [He lightly kisses her hair – so lightly that she does not know.]
LORETTA. [Sobbing.] I can’t. You will despise me. Oh, Ned, I am so ashamed.
NED. [Laughing incredulously.] Let us forget all about it. I want to tell you something that may make me very happy. My fondest hope is that it will make you happy, too. Loretta, I love you —
LORETTA. [Uttering a sharp cry of delight, then moaning.] Too late!
NED. [Surprised.] Too late?
LORETTA. [Still moaning.] Oh, why did I? [NED somewhat stiffens.] I was so young. I did not know the world then.
NED. What is it all about anyway?
LORETTA. Oh, I.. he.. Billy.. I am a wicked woman, Ned. I know you will never speak to me again.
NED. This.. er.. this Billy – what has he been doing?
LORETTA. I.. he.. I didn’t know. I was so young. I could not help it. Oh, I shall go mad, I shall go mad!
[NED’s encircling arm goes limp. He gently disengages her and deposits her in big chair.]
[LORETTA buries her face and sobs afresh.]
NED. [Twisting moustache fiercely, regarding her dubiously, hesitating a moment, then drawing up chair and sitting down.] I.. I do not understand.
LORETTA. [Wailing.] I am so unhappy!
NED. [Inquisitorially.] Why unhappy?
LORETTA. Because.. he.. he wants to marry me.
NED. [His face brightening instantly, leaning forward and laying a hand soothingly on hers.] That should not make any girl unhappy. Because you don’t love him is no reason – [Abruptly breaking off.] Of course you don’t love him? [LORETTA shakes her head and shoulders vigorously.] What?
LORETTA. [Explosively.] No, I don’t love Billy! I don’t want to love Billy!
NED. [With confidence.] Because you don’t love him is no reason that you should be unhappy just because he has proposed to you.
LORETTA. [Sobbing.] That’s the trouble. I wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead.
NED. [Growing complacent.] Now my dear child, you are worrying yourself over trifles. [His second hand joins the first in holding her hands.] Women do it every day. Because you have changed your mind, or did not know you mind, because you have – to use an unnecessarily harsh word – jilted a man —
LORETTA. [Interrupting, raising her head and looking at him.] Jilted? Oh Ned, if that were a all!
NED. [Hollow voice.] All!
[NED’s hands slowly retreat from hers. He opens his mouth as though to speak further, then changes his mind and remains silent.]
LORETTA. [Protestingly.] But I don’t want to marry him!
NED. Then I shouldn’t.
LORETTA. But I ought to marry him.
NED. Ought to marry him? [LORETTA nods.] That is a strong word.
LORETTA. [Nodding.] I know it is. [Her lips are trembling, but she strives for control and manages to speak more calmly.] I am a wicked woman. A terrible wicked woman. No one knows how wicked I am.. except Billy.
