The Pigeon: A Fantasy in Three Acts

TIMSON. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. Old 'orse – standin' abaht in th' cold.

[He relapses into coma.]

FERRAND. [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'.

WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a horse outside, do you think?

FERRAND. Non, non, Monsieur – no 'orse. He is dreaming. I know very well that state of him – that catches you sometimes. It is the warmth sudden on the stomach. He will speak no more sense to-night. At the most, drink, and fly a little in his past.

WELLWYN. Poor old buffer!

FERRAND. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents among the old cabbies – they have philosophy – that comes from 'orses, and from sitting still.

WELLWYN. [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched!

FERRAND. That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all. He is well wet inside, remember – it is Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam.

[WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the old man.]

TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put – the rug on th' old 'orse.

[He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]

WELLWYN. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him?

FERRAND. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a 'orse. 'Il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call – 'is bitt.

WELLWYN. But what's to be done with him? One can't turn him out in this state.

FERRAND. If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear. I charge myself with him.

WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] You – er – I really don't know, I – hadn't contemplated – You think you could manage if I – if I went to bed?

FERRAND. But certainly, Monsieur.

WELLWYN. [Still dubiously.] You – you're sure you've everything you want?

FERRAND. [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'.

WELLWYN. I don't know what I can do by staying.

FERRAND. There is nothing you can do, Monsieur. Have confidence in me.

WELLWYN. Well-keep the fire up quietly – very quietly. You'd better take this coat of mine, too. You'll find it precious cold, I expect, about three o'clock. [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.]

FERRAND. [Taking it.] I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur.

WELLWYN. Ah! Yes! Thanks! Well-good-night! By the way, I shall be down rather early. Have to think of my household a bit, you know.

FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Monsieur'. I comprehend. One must well be regular in this life.

WELLWYN. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the door of the model's room.] I'd forgotten —

FERRAND. Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?

WELLWYN. No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer door.] You won't want this, will you?

FERRAND. 'Merci, Monsieur'.

[WELLWYN switches off the light.]

FERRAND. 'Bon soir, Monsieur'!

WELLWYN. The devil! Er – good-night!

[He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly away.]

FERRAND. [To himself.] Poor pigeon! [Looking long at old TIMSON] 'Espece de type anglais!'

[He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary stitch of a new hem – all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed. Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and slips behind the screen. MRS. MEGAN, attracted by the cessation of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model's room towards the fire. She has almost reached it before she takes in the torpid crimson figure of old TIMSON. She halts and puts her hand to her chest – a queer figure in the firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-wool slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck. Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of stupor, MRS. MEGAN goes close to the fire, and sits on the little stool, smiling sideways at old TIMSON. FERRAND, coming quietly up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back a yard or two.]

FERRAND. [Gently.] 'Pardon, Ma'moiselle'.

MRS. MEGAN. [Springing to her feet.] Oh!

FERRAND. All right, all right! We are brave gents!

TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] 'Old up, there!

FERRAND. Trust in me, Ma'moiselle!

[MRS. MEGAN responds by drawing away.]

FERRAND. [Gently.] We must be good comrades. This asylum – it is better than a doss-'ouse.

[He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself. Somewhat reassured, MRS. MEGAN again sits down.]

MRS. MEGAN. You frightened me.

TIMSON. [Unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.] Purple foreigners!

FERRAND. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a philosopher.

MRS. MEGAN. Oh! I thought 'e was boozed.

[They both look at TIMSON]

FERRAND. It is the same-veree 'armless.

MRS. MEGAN. What's that he's got on 'im?

FERRAND. It is a coronation robe. Have no fear, Ma'moiselle. Veree docile potentate.

MRS. MEGAN. I wouldn't be afraid of him. [Challenging FERRAND.] I'm afraid o' you.

FERRAND. It is because you do not know me, Ma'moiselle. You are wrong, it is always the unknown you should love.

MRS. MEGAN. I don't like the way you-speaks to me.

FERRAND. Ah! You are a Princess in disguise?

MRS. MEGAN. No fear!

FERRAND. No? What is it then you do to make face against the necessities of life? A living?

MRS. MEGAN. Sells flowers.

FERRAND. [Rolling his eyes.] It is not a career.

MRS. MEGAN. [With a touch of devilry.] You don't know what I do.

FERRAND. Ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming.

[MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and slowly smiles.]

MRS. MEGAN. You're a foreigner.

FERRAND. It is true.

MRS. MEGAN. What do you do for a livin'?

FERRAND. I am an interpreter.

MRS. MEGAN. You ain't very busy, are you?

FERRAND. [With dignity.] At present I am resting.

MRS. MEGAN. [Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and 'im come here?

FERRAND. Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question.

MRS. MEGAN. The gentleman let me. 'E's funny.

FERRAND. 'C'est un ange' [At MRS. MEGAN's blank stare he interprets.] An angel!

MRS. MEGAN. Me luck's out-that's why I come.

FERRAND. [Rising.] Ah! Ma'moiselle! Luck! There is the little God who dominates us all. Look at this old! [He points to TIMSON.] He is finished. In his day that old would be doing good business. He could afford himself – [He maker a sign of drinking.] – Then come the motor cars. All goes – he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a 'cocher'! Luck!

TIMSON. [With a vague gesture – drowsily.] Kick the foreign beggars out.

FERRAND. A real Englishman… And look at me! My father was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels. If I had been content to go in his business, I would 'ave been rich. But I was born to roll – "rolling stone" to voyage is stronger than myself. Luck!.. And you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune? [He looks in her face.] You were born for 'la joie de vivre' – to drink the wines of life. 'Et vous voila'! Luck!

[Though she does not in the least understand what he has said, her expression changes to a sort of glee.]

FERRAND. Yes. You were born loving pleasure. Is it not? You see, you cannot say, No. All of us, we have our fates. Give me your hand. [He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is that against which we cannot struggle. Yes, yes!

[He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own. MRS. MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.]

TIMSON. [Flickering into consciousness.] Be'ave yourselves! Yer crimson canary birds!

[MRS. MEGAN would withdraw her hand, but cannot.]

FERRAND. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a Puritan.

[TIMSON relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which falls with a crash.]

MRS. MEGAN. Let go my hand, please!

FERRAND. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.] There is one thing I have never done – 'urt a woman – that is hardly in my character. [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her face.] Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?

MRS. MEGAN. I dunno – lots, I thinks of.

FERRAND. Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along." He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets – the lights – the faces – it is of all which moves, and is warm – it is of colour – it is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love. That is for you what the road is for me. That is for you what the rum is for that old – [He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON. Then bending swiftly forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you – Ah!

[He draws her forward off the stool. There is a little struggle, then she resigns her lips. The little stool, overturned, falls with a clatter. They spring up, and move apart. The door opens and ANN enters from the house in a blue dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above her head. Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove, she recoils. Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice sharpened by fright: "Daddy – Daddy!"]

TIMSON. [Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.] All right! I'm comin'!

FERRAND. Have no fear, Madame!

[In the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking twelve. ANN remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened on the strangers. There is the sound of someone falling downstairs, and WELLWYN appears, also holding a candle above his head.]

ANN. Look!

WELLWYN. Yes, yes, my dear! It – it happened.

ANN. [With a sort of groan.] Oh! Daddy!

[In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.]

FERRAND. [Softly, in his ironic voice.] HE is come, Monsieur! 'Appy Christmas! Bon Noel!

[There is a sudden chime of bells. The Stage is blotted dark.]

Curtain

ACT II

It is four o'clock in the afternoon of New Year's Day. On the raised dais MRS. MEGAN is standing, in her rags; with bare feet and ankles, her dark hair as if blown about, her lips parted, holding out a dishevelled bunch of violets. Before his easel, WELLWYN is painting her. Behind him, at a table between the cupboard and the door to the model's room, TIMSON is washing brushes, with the movements of one employed upon relief works. The samovar is hissing on the table by the stove, the tea things are set out.

WELLWYN. Open your mouth.

[MRS. MEGAN opens her mouth.]

ANN. [In hat and coat, entering from the house.] Daddy!

[WELLWYN goes to her; and, released from restraint, MRS. MEGAN looks round at TIMSON and grimaces.]

WELLWYN. Well, my dear?

[They speak in low voices.]

ANN. [Holding out a note.] This note from Canon Bentley. He's going to bring her husband here this afternoon. [She looks at MRS. MEGAN.]

WELLWYN. Oh! [He also looks at MRS. MEGAN.]

ANN. And I met Sir Thomas Hoxton at church this morning, and spoke to him about Timson.

WELLWYN. Um!

[They look at TIMSON. Then ANN goes back to the door, and WELLWYN follows her.]

ANN. [Turning.] I'm going round now, Daddy, to ask Professor Calway what we're to do with that Ferrand.

WELLWYN. Oh! One each! I wonder if they'll like it.

ANN. They'll have to lump it.

[She goes out into the house.]

WELLWYN. [Back at his easel.] You can shut your mouth now.

[MRS. MEGAN shuts her mouth, but opens it immediately to smile.]

WELLWYN. [Spasmodically.] Ah! Now that's what I want. [He dabs furiously at the canvas. Then standing back, runs his hands through his hair and turns a painter's glance towards the skylight.] Dash! Light's gone! Off you get, child – don't tempt me!

[MRS. MEGAN descends. Passing towards the door of the model's room she stops, and stealthily looks at the picture.]

TIMSON. Ah! Would yer!

WELLWYN. [Wheeling round.] Want to have a look? Well – come on!

[He takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas. After a stolid moment, she giggles.]

WELLWYN. Oh! You think so?

MRS. MEGAN. [Who has lost her hoarseness.] It's not like my picture that I had on the pier.

WELLWYN. No-it wouldn't be.

MRS. MEGAN. [Timidly.] If I had an 'at on, I'd look better.

WELLWYN. With feathers?

MRS. MEGAN. Yes.

WELLWYN. Well, you can't! I don't like hats, and I don't like feathers.

[MRS. MEGAN timidly tugs his sleeve. TIMSON, screened as he thinks by the picture, has drawn from his bulky pocket a bottle and is taking a stealthy swig.]

WELLWYN. [To MRS. MEGAN, affecting not to notice.] How much do I owe you?

MRS. MEGAN. [A little surprised.] You paid me for to-day-all 'cept a penny.

WELLWYN. Well! Here it is. [He gives her a coin.] Go and get your feet on!

MRS. MEGAN. You've give me 'arf a crown.

WELLWYN. Cut away now!

[MRS. MEGAN, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room. She looks back at WELLWYN, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he is gazing at the picture; then, catching old TIMSON'S sour glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little squeal. But when WELLWYN turns to the sound, she is demurely passing through the doorway.]

TIMSON. [In his voice of dubious sobriety.] I've finished these yer brushes, sir. It's not a man's work. I've been thinkin' if you'd keep an 'orse, I could give yer satisfaction.

WELLWYN. Would the horse, Timson?

TIMSON. [Looking him up and down.] I knows of one that would just suit yer. Reel 'orse, you'd like 'im.

WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] Afraid not, Timson! Awfully sorry, though, to have nothing better for you than this, at present.

TIMSON. [Faintly waving the brushes.] Of course, if you can't afford it, I don't press you – it's only that I feel I'm not doing meself justice. [Confidentially.] There's just one thing, sir; I can't bear to see a gen'leman imposed on. That foreigner – 'e's not the sort to 'ave about the place. Talk? Oh! ah! But 'e'll never do any good with 'imself. He's a alien.

WELLWYN. Terrible misfortune to a fellow, Timson.

TIMSON. Don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault I says to the young lady yesterday: Miss Ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are – I don't mind sayin' it – but, I said, he's too easy-goin'.

WELLWYN. Indeed!

TIMSON. Well, see that girl now! [He shakes his head.] I never did believe in goin' behind a person's back – I'm an Englishman – but [lowering his voice] she's a bad hat, sir. Why, look at the street she comes from!

WELLWYN. Oh! you know it.

TIMSON. Lived there meself larst three years. See the difference a few days' corn's made in her. She's that saucy you can't touch 'er head.

WELLWYN. Is there any necessity, Timson?

TIMSON. Artful too. Full o' vice, I call'er. Where's 'er 'usband?

WELLWYN. [Gravely.] Come, Timson! You wouldn't like her to —

TIMSON. [With dignity, so that the bottle in his pocket is plainly visible.] I'm a man as always beared inspection.

WELLWYN. [With a well-directed smile.] So I see.

TIMSON. [Curving himself round the bottle.] It's not for me to say nothing – but I can tell a gen'leman as quick as ever I can tell an 'orse.

WELLWYN. [Painting.] I find it safest to assume that every man is a gentleman, and every woman a lady. Saves no end of self-contempt. Give me the little brush.

TIMSON. [Handing him the brush – after a considerable introspective pause.] Would yer like me to stay and wash it for yer again? [With great resolution.] I will – I'll do it for you – never grudged workin' for a gen'leman.

WELLWYN. [With sincerity.] Thank you, Timson – very good of you, I'm sure. [He hands him back the brush.] Just lend us a hand with this. [Assisted by TIMSON he pushes back the dais.] Let's see! What do I owe you?

TIMSON. [Reluctantly.] It so 'appens, you advanced me to-day's yesterday.

WELLWYN. Then I suppose you want to-morrow's?

TIMSON. Well, I 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job. When you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you might as well be dead.

WELLWYN. Quite so!

TIMSON. It mounts up in the course o' the year.

WELLWYN. It would. [Passing him a coin.] This is for an exceptional purpose – Timson – see. Not —

TIMSON. [Touching his forehead.] Certainly, sir. I quite understand. I'm not that sort, as I think I've proved to yer, comin' here regular day after day, all the week. There's one thing, I ought to warn you perhaps – I might 'ave to give this job up any day.

[He makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.]

WELLWYN. [Gravely.] I'd never stand in the way of your bettering yourself, Timson. And, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend about you to-day. I think something may come of it.

TIMSON. Oh! Oh! She did! Well, it might do me a bit o' good. [He makes for the outer door, but stops.] That foreigner! 'E sticks in my gizzard. It's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to pluck in 'is own Gawd-forsaken country. Reg-lar jay, that's what I calls 'im. I could tell yer something —

[He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that FERRAND himself is standing there. Sticking out his lower lip, TIMSON gives a roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street. Owing to a slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his battle against the cold. FERRAND, having closed the door, stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle. He is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk, the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a tan waistcoat.]

WELLWYN. What luck to-day?

FERRAND. [With a shrug.] Again I have beaten all London, Monsieur – not one bite. [Contemplating himself.] I think perhaps, that, for the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume.

WELLWYN. [Contemplating him.] Let's see – I believe I've an old top hat somewhere.

FERRAND. Ah! Monsieur, 'merci', but that I could not. It is scarcely in my character.

WELLWYN. True!

FERRAND. I have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to Leicester Square. I have been to a Society for spreading Christian knowledge – I thought there I would have a chance perhaps as interpreter. 'Toujours meme chose', we regret, we have no situation for you – same thing everywhere. It seems there is nothing doing in this town.

WELLWYN. I've noticed, there never is.

FERRAND. I was thinking, Monsieur, that in aviation there might be a career for me – but it seems one must be trained.

WELLWYN. Afraid so, Ferrand.

FERRAND. [Approaching the picture.] Ah! You are always working at this. You will have something of very good there, Monsieur. You wish to fix the type of wild savage existing ever amongst our high civilisation. 'C'est tres chic ca'! [WELLWYN manifests the quiet delight of an English artist actually understood.] In the figures of these good citizens, to whom she offers her flower, you would give the idea of all the cage doors open to catch and make tame the wild bird, that will surely die within. 'Tres gentil'! Believe me, Monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life! How anxious are the tame birds to do the wild birds good. [His voice changes.] For the wild birds it is not funny. There is in some human souls, Monsieur, what cannot be made tame.

WELLWYN. I believe you, Ferrand.

[The face of a young man appears at the window, unseen. Suddenly ANN opens the door leading to the house.]

ANN. Daddy – I want you.

WELLWYN. [To FERRAND.] Excuse me a minute!

[He goes to his daughter, and they pass out. FERRAND remains at the picture. MRS. MEGAN dressed in some of ANN's discarded garments, has come out of the model's room. She steals up behind FERRAND like a cat, reaches an arm up, and curls it round his mouth. He turns, and tries to seize her; she disingenuously slips away. He follows. The chase circles the tea table. He catches her, lifts her up, swings round with her, so that her feet fly out; kisses her bent-back face, and sets her down. She stands there smiling. The face at the window darkens.]

FERRAND. La Valse!

[He takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts her hands against his shoulders to push him of – and suddenly they are whirling. As they whirl, they bob together once or twice, and kiss. Then, with a warning motion towards the door, she wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying desperately to appear demure. WELLWYN and ANN have entered. The face has vanished.]

FERRAND. [Pointing to the picture.] One does not comprehend all this, Monsieur, without well studying. I was in train to interpret for Ma'moiselle the chiaroscuro.

WELLWYN. [With a queer look.] Don't take it too seriously, Ferrand.

FERRAND. It is a masterpiece.

WELLWYN. My daughter's just spoken to a friend, Professor Calway. He'd like to meet you. Could you come back a little later?

FERRAND. Certainly, Ma'moiselle. That will be an opening for me, I trust. [He goes to the street door.]

ANN. [Paying no attention to him.] Mrs. Megan, will you too come back in half an hour?

FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Ma'moiselle'! I will see that she does. We will take a little promenade together. That will do us good.

[He motions towards the door; MRS. MEGAN, all eyes, follows him out.]

ANN. Oh! Daddy, they are rotters. Couldn't you see they were having the most high jinks?

WELLWYN. [At his picture.] I seemed to have noticed something.

ANN. [Preparing for tea.] They were kissing.

WELLWYN. Tt! Tt!

ANN. They're hopeless, all three – especially her. Wish I hadn't given her my clothes now.

WELLWYN. [Absorbed.] Something of wild-savage.

ANN. Thank goodness it's the Vicar's business to see that married people live together in his parish.

WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] The Megans are Roman Catholic-Atheists, Ann.

ANN. [With heat.] Then they're all the more bound. [WELLWYN gives a sudden and alarmed whistle.]

ANN. What's the matter?

WELLWYN. Didn't you say you spoke to Sir Thomas, too. Suppose he comes in while the Professor's here. They're cat and dog.

ANN. [Blankly.] Oh! [As WELLWYN strikes a match.] The samovar is lighted. [Taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to the cupboard.] It's all right. He won't.

WELLWYN. We'll hope not.

[He turns back to his picture.]

ANN. [At the cupboard.] Daddy!

WELLWYN. Hi!

ANN. There were three bottles.

WELLWYN. Oh!

ANN. Well! Now there aren't any.

WELLWYN. [Abstracted.] That'll be Timson.

ANN. [With real horror.] But it's awful!

WELLWYN. It is, my dear.

ANN. In seven days. To say nothing of the stealing.

WELLWYN. [Vexed.] I blame myself-very much. Ought to have kept it locked up.

ANN. You ought to keep him locked up!

[There is heard a mild but authoritative knock.]

WELLWYN. Here's the Vicar!

ANN. What are you going to do about the rum?

WELLWYN. [Opening the door to CANON BERTLEY.] Come in, Vicar! Happy New Year!

BERTLEY. Same to you! Ah! Ann! I've got into touch with her young husband – he's coming round.

ANN. [Still a little out of her plate.] Thank Go – Moses!

BERTLEY. [Faintly surprised.] From what I hear he's not really a bad youth. Afraid he bets on horses. The great thing, WELLWYN, with those poor fellows is to put your finger on the weak spot.

ANN. [To herself-gloomily.] That's not difficult. What would you do, Canon Bertley, with a man who's been drinking father's rum?

BERTLEY. Remove the temptation, of course.

WELLWYN. He's done that.

BERTLEY. Ah! Then – [WELLWYN and ANN hang on his words] then I should – er —

ANN. [Abruptly.] Remove him.

BERTLEY. Before I say that, Ann, I must certainly see the individual.

WELLWYN. [Pointing to the window.] There he is!

[In the failing light TIMSON'S face is indeed to be seen pressed against the window pane.]

ANN. Daddy, I do wish you'd have thick glass put in. It's so disgusting to be spied at! [WELLWYN going quickly to the door, has opened it.] What do you want? [TIMSON enters with dignity. He is fuddled.]

TIMSON. [Slowly.] Arskin' yer pardon-thought it me duty to come back-found thish yer little brishel on me. [He produces the little paint brush.]