MORALITY
(In the manner of John Galsworthy.)
ACT I
Scene: The rectory at Swilberry. The rector, the Rev. Hardy Heavyweight, is going through the accounts of the village cricket club with Diggers, his sexton and factotum.
Diggers (adding up as he goes along): And three and sixpence is four pound two and a penny ’a’penny, and five shillin’ is four seven one a half; and there’s that cheque from Mr. Selvidge.
Heavyweight (comparing each item in the bank book): That’s not entered here.
Diggers: Paid in later, per’aps. The cheque——
Heavyweight: Yes—it will be in the pocket of the book. (He gropes for it.) There seem to be a lot of papers here. (He pulls them out.) Why, good heavens!
Diggers: What’s matter, Sir?
Heavyweight (in a changed voice that belies his words): Nothing, Diggers, nothing.... Here’s the cheque (he holds it up).... Who had charge of this book?
Diggers (mildly surprised): Miss Agatha, Sir.
Heavyweight (mechanically—he is thinking hard of something else): You’ve never seemed to get accustomed to calling her Mrs. Foxglove, Diggers.
Diggers (heartily): No, Sir, that I ’aven’t. An’ when them ’orrible divorce proceedings is finished an’ she’s quit o’ that thing of a ’usband, she will be Miss Agatha again, to all intents an’ purposes.
Heavyweight (pained): I think we mustn’t talk about that, Diggers. The club accounts are all right?
Diggers (disappointed): Yes, Sir.
Heavyweight: Thank you for helping me. Would you ask Mrs. Foxglove to come?
Diggers: Miss Agatha, Sir? Certainly. (He goes. The rector leans back in his chair, with his face drawn with anxiety. He toys with the papers he has abstracted from the pocket of the bank book. He shakes his head sadly as he reads. Suddenly Agatha Foxglove, a charming and vital creature, bursts in on him.)
Agatha: Hello, papa—what’s up?
Heavyweight (looking away from her): Agatha, dear, these letters—(he holds them up)—these letters from a man called Jim, they’re yours, are they?
Agatha (taken aback): Ye—yes. I....
Heavyweight: (appealingly): I’m sure there’s an explanation, dear. Won’t you tell me?
Agatha (laughing uneasily): Well, er, I suppose ... where did you find them? (He silently points to the book.) I don’t know. I suppose I must have put them there accidentally, from my table.... It comes of keeping those horrible accounts for you.
Heavyweight (sadly): But the contents, Agatha, dear.
Agatha (sharply): You’ve read them?
Heavyweight: I was unable to help reading them. They were lying open among the cheques. (Tenderly): Won’t you explain?
Agatha (with the modern mixture of frankness and impatience): Of course, there’s an explanation, papa. You surely don’t suppose that, with a drunken imbecile for a husband, I could do entirely without sympathy and affection?
Heavyweight (apprehensively): Then—you were—unfaithful?
Agatha (swiftly): But we’re going to be married, as soon as the decree is made absolute.
Heavyweight (pitifully): I’m sure, my dear, that that was your intention; but, as a clergyman——
Agatha (anxious): You won’t tell anyone——?
Heavyweight: My child, can’t you see? can’t you feel for me? As a clergyman I believe—I am bound to believe—that marriage is an irrevocable tie. Divorce on proper grounds I have to recognise, as a servant of the State; but when I see the procedure abused by those who have forfeited their right to invoke it, how can I, as a conscientious minister of God—how can I stand aside because the culprit is my own adopted daughter and ward? I am morally bound to inform the King’s Proctor.
Agatha: But father—father. Oh, for God’s sake—(she becomes incoherent.)
Heavyweight: Ah, my child, my child. Morality demands—(His voice breaks. There is a terrible pause. He goes to the bookshelf.)
Agatha (agonised): Oh—what are you doing?
Heavyweight (in a dead, mirthless voice): Looking out my train to London.
The Curtain Falls.
ACT II
Scene: The Divorce Court.
Mr. Whassit (Agatha’s Counsel):—a temptation which, please God, I shall never encounter myself. And further——
The Judge (testily): Mr. Whassit, is it necessary to prolong this?
Mr. Whassit (firmly): My Lord, I have a duty to my client, and——
The Judge: Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Whassit. Your conduct of the case has been very proper; and, of course, if you wish to proceed, I shall say no more. But you’ve not traversed a single fact——
Mr. Whassit (sitting down at last): I will leave the matter in your Lordship’s hands.
The Judge: That is well.... This is an application to make absolute a decree nisi pronounced in October last. The King’s Proctor has intervened, alleging misconduct on the part of petitioner, such as would have invalidated her plea; and he has amply and abundantly proved his case. The application therefore fails, and the petitioner will pay the costs of the intervention.
But that is not all. In the course of the proceedings, which were defended, the cross-examination of the petitioner was directed towards establishing these very adulteries, which have now been proved. She denied them with vehemence, and went so far as to comment, from the witness-box, upon the propriety of counsel raising issues of the kind. Now this is a serious matter. It is one thing to make what I might call a formal denial of adultery, in an undefended case, though technically it might be perjury, and I myself should view even that with gravity; it is quite another thing in a defended case, where the matter has definitely been put in issue, to make a denial of the kind; and I cannot see how the situation differs from that of a plaintiff who comes before the court seeking relief, let us say, on a Bill of Exchange, and falsely denies an allegation of fraud, or some other invalidating factor. In both cases there may result a serious miscarriage of justice, which at least cannot be so in an undefended divorce suit, where it is to be imagined that the respondent is indifferent to the consequences.
(Addressing Agatha at the solicitor’s table): It has been urged most eloquently by your counsel that you had much to endure, and many temptations to the course upon which you ultimately embarked with so much recklessness. That may be so; or, again, it may not. It might be taken into account by another court, as a mitigating circumstance. But the Law, which I am here to administer, gives me, as I see it, no choice. Public morality must be vindicated; and a flagrant perjury of a kind that has become all too prevalent of late, is more than I can pass unchallenged. The papers in this case will therefore be forwarded to the Director of Public Prosecutions.
Agatha (hysterically): My Lord. We—I—Oh God——
The Usher (sternly): Silence.
Diggers (patting her hand): There, there, Miss Agatha. Don’t take on.
Heavyweight (on the other side): My dear—don’t let’s have a scene.
Her Solicitor (kindly): Hush! You mustn’t interrupt his Lordship, you know.
Agatha (wildly): But if I don’t, they’ll prosecute me!
The Usher (to the Serjeant of Police): Get ’er solicitor to take ’er quietly outside. (The Serjeant complies.)
Diggers (following and moaning as he goes): Why did you go an’ do it, Mr. ’Eavyweight, Sir? (Wringing his hands more than ever): Oh, Miss Agatha, Miss Agatha.
Heavyweight (trying hard to be brave): Hush, Diggers, be a man. Bear up. Courage.
Diggers (bursting into tears): Oh, Mr. ’Eavyweight, Sir, ’ow could you?
Heavyweight (who has only done his duty): You don’t understand, my poor fellow.... Morality demands——(His voice breaks. They vanish in the wake of the Serjeant.)
The Registrar (calling the next case): Boggs versus Boggs and Boggs, Boggs intervening. (He hands up a bundle of papers to the judge.)
A Counsel (rising): This is an application for administration de bonis non, my Lord. I understand——
The Curtain Falls.
ACT III
Scene: A prison. Agatha in her cell. The doors are flung open and the visiting justices troop in, accompanied by the Governor of the prison, the doctor, the chaplain, warders, and our old friend Diggers, the sexton.
First Visiting Justice: Well, what’s this one?
The Governor (curtly): Perjury. Five years’ penal servitude. Last Assizes.
The Woman Superintendent: Sulky little fiend. Won’t speak; and throws her food at the warders.
Second Visiting Justice (addressing Agatha): Come, come, my girl, you’re doing yourself no good by this kind of thing. (Addressing the Governor): Can’t your doctor do anything—or the chaplain?
The Doctor (in a dry staccato voice): She’s perfectly healthy—not losing weight—organs in good condition. I can’t do more than keep her fit.
First Justice: Well, the chaplain, then?
The Chaplain: She’s very hard and unrepentant.
Second Justice: Can’t you make her repent?
The Chaplain (decidedly): No. Nor can anyone else.
Both Justices (uneasily): I see. Yes. (Addressing the Governor): Can nothing be done?
The Governor: Nothing more. She’s under constant supervision.... There’s a visitor for her with our party; where is he?
Diggers (coming forward): Here, Sir?
The Governor: See if you can persuade her to speak to you.
Diggers (approaching her timidly): Miss Agatha, Miss Agatha ... won’t you speak to me, old Diggers? (She pays no attention.) Miss Agatha, I’ve brought you some cowslips from the old glebe be’ind the church. (Anxiously, to the Governor): May she ’ave them, Sir?
The Governor (blowing his nose): Of course. Of course. (Diggers produces a sorry mess of yellow blossoms.)
Diggers: They’re faded, but they’re from the old ’ome.... Won’t you ’ave them, Miss? (She makes no sign. One of the justices breaks down.)
The Woman Superintendent: Now, dearie, take the nice flowers. (But Agatha pays no attention.)
The Second Justice: Dear, dear, how sad. (Making a final effort): My poor young woman, you mustn’t take it so to heart. Your sentence, with good conduct remission, which I presume you mean to earn—though you won’t do so by throwing good food about—your sentence is really quite trivial. (She suddenly turns her eyes on him, with a baleful glare in them. He stumbles over his words and dries up): Yes, er, exactly.
The First Justice (who is bored): Well, let’s be getting on. (They troop out.) It’s a sad case; but of course, Morality—(his voice dies away.)
Agatha (when they have gone): Stupid, sentimental humbugs! (Viciously): Slugs, worms, uncomprehending BEASTS! (In impotent fury she whirls round the cell like a dervish, finally throwing herself panting on her mattress.) Morality, indeed! (She bites a large piece out of the floor.)
The Curtain Falls.
ACT IV
Scene: The streets of London (many years later). Heavyweight and Diggers walk slowly along, searching the faces of the passers-by. Suddenly Heavyweight stops in front of a thin, emaciated woman.
Heavyweight: God! It’s you, Agatha, at last.... Have you come to this?
Agatha (unsteadily): Don’t interfere with me. I’m looking after myself. What I do is my affair.
Diggers (incoherently): Oh, Miss Agatha, Miss Agatha. (He strokes her hand.)
Heavyweight (tenderly): My dear. You’re worn out, thin, hungry. Wait. We’ll buy some food and wine and take you back. Come, Diggers. (They enter a shop. She leans against a lamp-post. A detective appears suddenly beside her.)
The Detective (addressing her sharply): Solicitin’, you was.... You come along o’ me.
Agatha (furiously): I won’t, I won’t! It’s a lie.
The Detective: Now, then, be civil.... Ticket o’ leave, ain’t you?
Agatha: Oh, what’s that to do with you? I’ve served my time. You’ve no further claim on me.
The Detective (grimly): ’Aven’t we? You just come along. (He takes her arm. Maddened, she deals him a vicious backhander in the mouth and escapes from his grasp, fleeing along the pavement.) That won’t do you no good, my girl. (He starts in pursuit. Heavyweight reappears, followed by the faithful Diggers.)
Heavyweight (anxiously): Agatha, Agatha.... My God! (Realising what has happened, he rushes in pursuit.)
Diggers: Oh, Miss Agatha, Miss Agatha. (He walks unsteadily after them, wringing his hands. There is a hoarse shout, off, then a horrible crash and a sharp, sickening scream. The detective and Heavyweight reappear, carrying a lifeless form.)
Diggers (in an agony): What’s happened? Oh, what’s happened to Miss Agatha?
The Detective (huskily): Run over. (Addressing Heavyweight): Not my fault, Sir. I couldn’t let ’er ’op it like that.
Heavyweight (brokenly): My poor fellow, I know. You only did your duty.... The social code must be upheld. Morality demands——(His voice breaks for the last time, and the curtain descends on his tears.)
The End of the Play.