THE FIFTH ACT
As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged.
[There is heard a Ring of the Bell. All three turn their heads, alert.]
VICAR. If it's my brother . . .
MANSON. Which?
VICAR. I meant—the Bishop of Benares; but . . .
AUNTIE [hand on his arm, apprehensively]. William . . .
MANSON. It wants ten minutes of the time you said you expected him. [Goes to door: turns.] Only ten minutes.
[He goes out, closing the door softly.]
VICAR. Ten minutes! . . .
AUNTIE. We shall never be able to do it, William! How can we possibly undo the work of all these years in ten minutes? It wants a miracle.
VICAR. We must make the attempt, somehow.
AUNTIE. Yes—yes: how? Oh, I have been blind—blind! [She walks across the room in agitation.] Where has he gone, I wonder? We don't even know that—where he is!
VICAR [making a movement]. Perhaps Manson . . .
AUNTIE. No, no, no: it must be ourselves . . .
Ten minutest—And no assistance on his side: we can't expect it, after our treatment of him. He will hate me most of all: there's the chief difficulty! . . .
VICAR. You would say me, if you had seen his face and heard his voice this morning!
AUNTIE. God help us. God pity us!
VICAR. Amen . . .
Then, there's the child, too! That difficulty must be faced.
AUNTIE. Yes—no escape! We shall have to pay the whole debt,
William: I see that.
VICAR. Who knows! Perhaps the child will have to pay most, when all is done.
AUNTIE. The innocent for the guilty—yes . . . Oh, William,
William, can you ever forgive me?
VICAR. There is much to forgive, both sides, Martha. My sin has been greater than yours. You have only loved unworthily in blindness: I have seen clearly and been a coward.
[Enter MARY from the garden.]
Mary! . . .
MARY. Let me speak, uncle. I have been thinking, out there in the garden—thinking very hard: I've been trying to put things together again and make them straight; but it's still very difficult. Only there's one thing—I'm sorry I was unkind just now: I didn't mean it: you are everything I have—everything I have ever had; and as for what uncle said—about himself, I mean—I can't believe it. No, I'm sure there's a mistake somewhere; and mistakes can always be put right, if we only help one another and mean it. Shall we try, uncle? Shall we, auntie?
AUNTIE. If it's not too late! . . .
MARY. It can't be too late, auntie dear, if we all wish very hard.
I was a coward to give up wishing. That was my sin, too!
AUNTIE. God knows, I wish, Mary! . . .
VICAR. And I! . . .
MARY. And, indeed, I do! . . .
Now, I've been thinking: I've been trying to look the worst in the face. Supposing my father is the wicked man you say—the very, very wickedest man that ever lived, don't you think if we tried to love him very much it might make a difference?
VICAR. What made you think of that, Mary? . . .
MARY [simply]. It's what you taught me, uncle, in your sermons.
VICAR. I taught you? . . .
MARY. Yes: and, besides, there's another reason. . . I've been thinking of the poor man I met this morning.
AUNTIE. ) Yes . . .
VICAR. ) What of him? . . .
MARY. He said he was a wicked man, and at first he looked so dreadfully wicked, I believed him; but when I began to look at him closely, and heard him talk about his little girl, everything seemed different! I could no more believe him, than I can believe you, uncle, when you say such awful things about yourself! I believe he was a much better man than he ever dreamed! And so I think we might find my father just the same, if he was properly loved and looked after!
VICAR [with determination]. Then listen to me, Mary: I have something to tell you: that very man you spoke to . . .
[ROGERS enters, his face betraying signs of his morning's affliction.]
ROGERS. Beg your pardon, sir; but . . .
VICAR. Yes, Rogers: what is it?
ROGERS. Mr. Manson sent me, sir; it ain't my fault! . . .
VICAR. Do explain yourself, Rogers!
ROGERS. Well, sir, it's a bit orkard: it's . . . I really don't know what you'll say, sir, I don't really . . .
VICAR [impatiently]. Come, come, come, what is it?
ROGERS. It's a man, sir!
VICAR. Well, there's nothing very extraordinary in that. Wants to see me, eh?
ROGERS. Yes, sir; and what's more, Mr. Manson told me to bring 'im in!
VICAR. Well, why don't you?
ROGERS. 'E's mucked up to the eyes, sir! Bin down the drains! It's the same chap as come an' made so free 'ere this mornin'!
[There is a general rapturous excitement.]
VICAR. Praise God! Shew him in at once!
ROGERS [flabbergasted]. What! In 'ere, sir? . . .
VICAR. Come, come, come!
[ROGERS'S cosmos is fast slipping away: he crawls abjectly to the door: his hand on the knob, he turns once more a face of bewildered inquiry upon the VICAR, who snaps his fingers impatiently.]
ROGERS [with a sickly smile]. 'E's just outside, sir.
[Opening the door, he whines.]
Oh, do come in.
[ROBERT enters, amply fulfilling the lad's description. The latter lags out, nauseated with the world.]
[ROBERT stands up stage, in the middle: AUNTIE and VICAR, down stage, one on either side. MARY with her aunt.]
ROBERT. Can I be 'eard civil in this 'ouse, if I speak a few words?
[They make a movement as towards him.]
'Old back! Don't you come near me! Don't you so much as speak till I've done! . . .
[To Auntie and Vicar respectively]. You don't know me: you don't know me . . . Understand?
There's no one 'ere as knows oo I am, excep' one little gel—'er over there. Now, keep quiet! 'Ere! . . .
[MARY goes up to him.]
Tell 'em oo I am.
MARY. Why, it's my friend—the man I was telling you about! The man who looks after the drains!
ROBERT. That's about it: I'm the drain-man, see? Thought you might be mistakin' me for—summat else, if you wasn't told. Now you know.
[MARY'S face, as she returns, bears the first dawn of an idea. The
VICAR lifts a hand of warning to AUNTIE.]
VICAR. Go on.
ROBERT. That's what I come 'ere to talk abaht—my job. P'r'aps you'll think as it ain't a tasty subjic, before a lot o' nice, clean, respectable people as never 'ad anythin' worse on their fingers than a bit of lawn-dirt, playin' crokey; but some one 'as to see to the drains, some one 'as to clear up the muck of the world! I'm the one.
An' I'm 'ere to tell you about it.
AUNTIE [involuntarily]. Oh! . . .
ROBERT. You don't like that, ma'am? 'Urts your feelin's, eh?
AUNTIE. Yes; but not in the way you mean,
MARY. But you know, you really are a little unpleasant!
ROBERT. I'm not 'ere to be pleasant, young leddy: I'm 'ere to edicate you.
VICAR. Yes, I think I see!
AUNTIE [breathlessly]. Go on: go on!
ROBERT. Well, I come to this 'ouse this mornin', I don't mind ownin' it, in a rotten bad frame of mind: I 'ad a little job on 'and—a job a bit above my 'ead, an' it got me dahn an' worried me: yus it did—worried me. That young leddy 'll tell you wot I was like when she fust saw me: I looked that bad, she thought I come to steal summat! Well, p'r'aps I did, arter al!—summat as I 'ad no right to, summat as don't properly belong to a streaky swine like me. That was when she fust saw me; but I was wuss before that, I tell you strite!
MARY [self-consciously]. What changed you?
ROBERT. A bloke I met, miss, as knowed me better than I knowed myself. 'E changed me.
AUNTIE. ) Manson! . . .
VICAR. ) Manson! . . .
MARY. ) Oh, I thought, perhaps . . .
ROBERT. Don't know 'is name; 'e was a fair knock-aht— Got togs on 'im like an Earl's Court Exhibition . . . 'E changed me: 'e taught me my own mind; 'e brought me back to my own job—drains.
AUNTIE. Yes . . .
ROBERT. Funny thing, ma'am, peopled born different: some's born without noses in their 'eads, worth speakin' of. I wasn't—I can smell out a stink anywhere.
AUNTIE [fascinated]. I am sure you can. This is most interesting!
ROBERT [warming]. Moment I stuck my 'ead in this 'ouse, I knowed as summat was wrong in my line, and I ses to myself: Wot oh, 'e ain't such an awl-mighty liar, arter all—that's drains! An' drains it was, strike me dead—arskin' your pawdon!
MARY, Now, didn't I always say . . .
ROBERT. Yus, miss, you're one o' the nosey uns, I can see! Well, soon as ole Togs got done with 'is talk, I got my smeller dahn, follered up the scent, an' afore I knowed where I was, I was in it, up to my eyes!—Out there in the room with the blood-red 'eap o' books! Blimey, you never did see! Muck, ma'am!—Just look at my 'ands! Ain't that pretty?
'Owever, I got there, right enough, I don't fink! Fancy I put that little bit strite afore I done!
AUNTIE. Oh, this is too beautiful of you! . . .
ROBERT [burning with enthusiasm, and manifestly affected by her appreciation]. Wait a bit: I got more yet! Talk abaht bee-utiful!—That bit was on'y an ash-pan! Look 'ere, ma'am, I got the loveliest little job on as ever yer soiled yer 'ands in! . . .
MARY. Oh, do tell us! . . .
AUNTIE. ) Yes, do! . . .
VICAR. ) Yes, yes! . . .
[A splendid rapture infects them all.]
ROBERT. I followed up that drain—I wasn't goin' to stick till kingdom come inside your little mouse-'ole out there: No, I said, Where's this leadin to? What's the 'ell-an-glory use o' flushin' out this blarsted bit of a sink, with devil-know-wot stinkin' cess-pool at the end of it! That's wot I said, ma'am! . . .
AUNTIE. Very rightly! I see! I see! . . .
ROBERT. So up I go through the sludge, puffin' an' blowin' like a bally ole cart-'orse—strooth, it seemed miles! Talk abaht bee-utiful, ma'am, it ud 'a' done your 'eart good, it would really! Rats!—'Undreds on em, ma'am: I'm bitten clean through in places! 'Owever, I pushed my way through, somehow, 'oldin' my nose an fightin' for my breath, till at last I got to the end—and then I soon saw wot was the matter! . . .
It's under the church—that's where it is! I know it's the church, cos I 'eard "The Church's One Foundation" on the orgin, rumblin' up over my 'ead! Well, I . . .
ALL. Yes . . . yes . . .
AUNTIE. Why don't you go on? . . .
ROBERT. You'd never guess wot I saw there, not if you was to try from now till glory 'allelooyer! . . .
The biggest back-'ander, I ever did 'av', swelp me! . . .
[They hang on his words expectantly.]
IT AIN'T NO DRAIN AT ALL!
ALL [breathlessly]. Why, what is it, then? . . .
ROBERT. IT'S A GRIVE!
ALL. A grave! . . .
ROBERT. Yus, one o' them whoppin' great beer-vaults as you shove big bugses' corpses inter! What d'yer think o' that now?
MARY. ) Oh! . . .
AUNTIE. ) Horrible! . . .
VICAR. I seem to remember some tradition . . .
ROBERT, You'd 'a' said so if you'd seen wot I seen! Talk abaht corfins an' shrouds an' bones an' dead men gone to rot, they wasn't in it, wot I saw dahn there! Madame Twosoes is a flea-bite to it! Lord!—I never thought there could be such a lot o' muck an' dead things all in one place before! It was a fair treat, it was, I tek my oath! . . .
[Rapturously]. Why—why, it may cost a man 'is LIFE to deal with that little job!
VICAR. My God! The thing's impossible!
ROBERT. Impossible! Means a bit of work, that's all!
VICAR. Why, no one would ever dare . . .
ROBERT. Dare! Why, wot d'you think I come 'ere for? . . .
VICAR. You! . . .
ROBERT. Yus—makin' myself unpleasant . . .
VICAR. Do you mean . . . Do I understand . . .
ROBERT. I mean as I've found my place, or I don't know a good thing when I see it!
AUNTIE. What! To go into that dreadful vault, and . . .
ROBERT. Why not: ain't it my job?
AUNTIE. But you said—perhaps—death . . .
ROBERT. It's worth it, it's a lovely bit of work!
VICAR. No, ten thousand times, no! The sacrifice is too much!
ROBERT. You call that sacrifice?—It's fun: not 'arf!
VICAR. I had rather see the church itself . . .
ROBERT. What, you call yourself a clergyman!
VICAR. I call myself nothing: I am nothing—less than nothing in all this living world!
ROBERT. By God, but I call myself summat—I'M THE DRAIN-MAN,
THAT'S WOT I AM!
VICAR [feverishly]. You shall not go! . . .
ROBERT. Why, wot is there to fear? Ain't it worth while, to move away that load o' muck!
VICAR. The stench—the horror—the darkness . . .
ROBERT. What's it matter, if the comrides up above 'av' light an' joy an' a breath of 'olesome air to sing by? . . .
VICAR. Hour by hour—dying—alone . . .
ROBERT. The comrides up in the spans an arches, joinin' 'ands . . .
VICAR. Fainter and fainter, below there, and at last—an endless silence! . . .
ROBERT. 'Igh in the dome, the 'ammerin's of the comrides as 'av' climbed aloft!
AUNTIE. William, there is yet one other way! . . .
VICAR. Yes, yes, I see: I see! . . . [To ROBERT]. Then—you mean to go?
ROBERT. By 'Eaven, yus!
VICAR. Then, by God and all the powers of grace, you shall not go alone! Off with these lies and make-believes! Off with these prisoner's shackles! They cramp, they stifle me! Freedom! Freedom! This is no priest's work—it calls for a man! . . .
[He tears off his parson's coat and collar, casting them furiously aside. He rolls up his sleeves.]
Now, if you're ready, Comrade: you and I together!
AUNTIE. God's might go with you, William! Accept him, Christ!
[There is a silence. Then ROBERT speaks with slow consideration.]
ROBERT. I—don't—know. It's dangerous, you understand!
VICAR. I go with you.
ROBERT. This ain't psalms an 'ymns an' ole maids' tea-parties, mind you! It may mean typhoid!
VICAR. I understand.
ROBERT. Rats.
VICAR. Yes.
ROBERT. They don't leave you alone: they got teeth, remember—poison in 'em!
VICAR. I will go with you.
[A slight pause. Then ROBERT, dropping into a quite ordinary tone, says.]
ROBERT. Then let's 'av' summat so eat, an' get along. There's nuthin' more to say.
MARY [inspired]. Yes, there is!
ROBERT. What do you mean, miss?
MARY. I mean that I understand: that I know who you are.
ROBERT. Me? . . .
MARY [simply]. Yes, you are my father.
ROBERT. 'Ow the everlastin' did you know that?
MARY [going up to him]. Because you are my wish come true: because you are brave, because you are very beautiful, because you are good!
ROBERT. My little kid! My little kid!
[They embrace each other.]
VICAR. Robert! [Taking his left hand].
AUNTIE. Brother! [Taking his other hand.]
[They form a kind of cross.]
[MANSON and ROGERS re-enter with table-cloth, etc., for lunch.]
MANSON. Come along, Rogers. Take that end.
[They lay the cloth, as it were with ceremonial gravity, MANSON being at the upper end of the table. They pay no heed to the others, who watch them interestedly.]
ROBERT. I could just do with a good, square feed. My work meks me 'ungry.
MANSON. Flowers, Rogers.
[ROGERS brings vase from side-board and places it on the VICAR'S side of the table. MANSON removes it to a more communal position. Presently looking up, he sees the group to his left watching him.]
Oh, beg pardon, sir: perhaps you'd like to know—the Bishop of
Benares is here.
VICAR. What, already! Let's have him in at once!
[MANSON deliberates with the flowers before he speaks.]
MANSON. He is here.
[The VICAR crosses towards him.]
VICAR. What do you mean? Where is he?
[MANSON looks at him over the flowers.]
MANSON. Here.
[The VICAR steps back, gazing at him. After a moment he gasps.]
VICAR. In God's name, who are you?
MANSON. In God's Name—your brother.
[He holds out his hand. The VICAR takes it, sinking to his knees and sobbing as one broken yet healed.]
[The curtain descends slowly.]