Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PORTRAIT OF MRS. W., by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PORTRAIT OF MRS. W., by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography
First Line: Go: bring them in, tom -- persons of worship coming, today
Last Line: Curtain
Alternate Author Name(s): Marks, Lionel S., Mrs.
Subject(s): Common Law Marriage; Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797); Women's Rights; Feminism

ACT I

A Spring afternoon in London, 1796.

MR. OPIE'S painting-room in Berners Street.

A large panelled studio, with a row of casement-windows on the right, and a
door
to the outer hall below them. — Another door, left, up. In the centre, up,

a model-stand with a seat; tapestry behind it. Right, centre, an easel, back
to
the audience, and several canvases standing against it, their faces
concealed.
Left, centre, a large table with a few books and painting things
upon it. Right,
a small table with a few books. Down, left, a long seat.
MR. JOHN OPIE is still surveying his canvas with severe
scrutiny. He has on a
painting smock, and his palette is in his hand.
His boy servant, a raw youth of fourteen, dogs him with a certain fascinated
awe, apparently scenting some ulterior purpose for MR. OPIE'S afternoon.
... OPIE crosses to the windows.
He pushes open the casement. — A near churchbell strikes four; to his
evident satisfaction. — He leans out and looks into the street. —
There is a chorus of Spring street-cries:
'Lavender, sweet lavender! ... Fair fresh cherries, fair fresh cherries!
— Sixpence the pound. — Buy my posies! — Fresh posies! —
Lavender, lavender! — Fair — fresh — Cherries: — sixpence
the pound! — Posies! — Cherries — Cherries!' —
OPIE takes a coin from his pocket and flings it out of the window to some
one
below, with a smiling gesture: then turns to the boy, TOM.

OPIE
GO: — bring them in, Tom... Persons of worship coming, to-day.
(Exit TOM.)
(OPIE helps himself into his coat, and is touching up his stock and
his
unpowdered queue, rather anxiously, when TOM reënters with a
nosegay of
violets. — OPIE points to his discarded painting tools, and
while TOM
removes them carefully, he pours water into a bowl, arranges the violets,
thinking happily, and surveys the room and its foreground, picturing it with a

special guest in mind. TOM watches him open-mouthed.)

OPIE
More chairs... (TOM starts for the door, left.) No, come back... Bring
that
small, low chair, with the green cushion ... and arms (gesticulating.
Smiling
at TOM'S astonishment)... Persons of worship, Tom.

TOM
Muffins, sir?

OPIE
Muffins, of course.

TOM
If she comes by herself, sir...

OPIE
Ah! —

TOM
Shall I bring her up here, sir?

OPIE
The green chair, quick! — (Exit TOM, left.)
(Enter, right, AMELIA ALDERSON with a pottle of cherries in a lace
handkerchief, under her arm.)
Ah! —
(They look at each other with frank enjoyment. AMELIA all mirth for

the moment, then gazes about the studio, ignoring him.)

AMELIA
What, no one here?

OPIE
You. —

AMELIA
No one here at all! — And this street was to be twinkling with lanterns;
and brocades trailing from the windows; and waits to be singing, in May —

or June — or whatever it was, that day when first I came to the painting-
room of the Cornish wonder. — Oh, here you are!
(Curtsies to him.)
(Reënter TOM with two chairs)

OPIE
We were watching for you, — Tom and I. — For you, and that friendly
dish of talk and tea.

AMELIA
But where's the tea?

OPIE
Bring it, Tom. — (He places the chair with the green cushion for
AMELIA
and stands regarding the composition. Moves the bowl of violets nearer
to the
lady. TOM stands observing this, tranced. OPIE lays his hand on his
shoulder.) And the muffins. —
(Exit TOM. — OPIE studies his arrangement. — AMELIA
breaks the spell by uncovering her pottle and holding out the cherries.)

AMELIA
Not a word about cherries! Look, I've brought an offering: from just outside
your own door, and such a dear rosy old woman. — Gaze — taste
—
no, wear them! There's that something a little savage about you, —
aboriginal. How would you look with ear-rings? — Let me try before the
others come.

OPIE
The others?

AMELIA
All here in a moment. — Heavens, did n't you ask me to bring Mrs.
Inchbald
... if I must? And must n't I? — Dear creature! And her s-s-stammer with
her! And did n't that bring Mr. Kemble? And would n't it have brought Mr.
Holcroft but that he's working desperately on his tragedy? Oh, oh, —
quick:
before they come, tell me if this is true I heard the other day.

OPIE
No, certainly not. — But say it.

AMELIA
That Mr. Holcroft is in love with Mrs. Inchbald; — Mrs. Inchbald
with Mr.
Godwin; yes, Mr. Godwin, the author of 'Political Justice'; Mr. Godwin is in
love with — Ah, let me see, where was I? —

OPIE
You know very well.

AMELIA
Very well, Mr. Godwin with Miss Alderson. — That I heard. But
you know, the
odd part of it is, — that he is not; he is not in love
with me at all!
Oh, the surprise, — the novelty of it! — Well, laggard sir?

OPIE
I'm thinking.

AMELIA
That is not at all the proper reply to me, an only child ...
away from Norwich
... on a visit.

OPIE
There are a plenty of men in love with that only child,
a-visiting from Norwich.
But William Godwin is not one of them.

AMELIA
He showed me some pretty manners, though. But — who's he in love with?

OPIE
And I have no manners forsooth.

AMELIA
Not as many as a bear... Uncouth you are; Mrs. Inchbald says so. (Loops
cherries over his ears, like ear-rings.) Now you look like Othello. —
Tell me (sagely): Who has cast the spell over William Godwin?

OPIE
Don't waste these moments on William Godwin.
You must see the difference, little blue lady.

AMELIA
Blue stocking? Surely I don't deserve that.
Such a few small stories. ...

OPIE
And may they some day be longer and larger!

AMELIA
Bear!
OPIE
But it is n't of stockings I'm thinking.

AMELIA
Quaker!

OPIE
It is still that first sight that I had of you, in the
doorway, — but just
newly come; in that blue ... that blue frock; and your shoulders and your hair.

...

AMELIA
— Almost the color of Mary Wollstonecraft's hair —; only blonder.

OPIE
Lighter, brighter. — And you wore three little white feathers...

AMELIA
My three feathers! — You did n't remember the three!

OPIE
Yes ... there were —
(Enter, right, MRS. INCHBALD)
— there were too many feathers.

AMELIA
This is no way to speak to an only child so far away from Norwich. — Dear

Mrs. Inchbald!
(OPIE removes the cherries from his ears and greets her gravely.)

MRS. INCHBALD
Do you make love to all your sitters, Opie?

AMELIA
Oh, I have n't even sat for him yet! — Look: (Pointing to the
cherries.) sixpence the pound: but they're cheaper in Norwich. ...

MRS. INCHBALD
And the portrait.

AMELIA
Yes, we were just coming to that.

OPIE
It's but half done. She would see it, this after-noon.

AMELIA
(darting towards the hidden canvas)
Of course I would. — Go home to Norwich in two days more, and go without
a
glimpse of her portrait?

OPIE
Unfinished, as I've told you.

AMELIA
And not to be finished ever, without advice from me!

OPIE
I had almost given it up.

AMELIA
Give up that adorable creature? Nothing I ever saw in all this world ... of
all
the little I have seen! — that did not disappoint me, but two things.
Guess.

MRS. INCHBALD
What then?

AMELIA
The Cumberland lakes; and Mary Wollstone-craft!

MRS. INCHBALD
But why do you still call her Mary Wollstone-craft?

AMELIA
Mrs. Imlay, if you will, then.
(Reënter TOM with preparations for the tea-table. MRS.
INCHBALD crosses him, laughing.)

MRS. INCHBALD
(to TOM)
'Peter, my fan! My fan, Peter!'

TOM
You had no fan, ma'am, that I know of.

OPIE
(motioning TOM away, smilingly)
Ladies, you are her friends, are you not? I could beg you, be true to her in
this. She is the truest-hearted champion you ever had.

MRS. INCHBALD
— It will be so useful to remember that, dear Opie; when I need a
champion. Do go on.

OPIE
She was sitting for me: I had begged it. And I began this. But I cannot go on
with it, till her face and her heart are ... further from that shadow.

MRS. INCHBALD
What shadow? ... Oh, Mr. Imlay's shadow.

OPIE
(doggedly)
Yes, Imlay.

MRS. INCHBALD
So recent a widow!

OPIE
Her history is full of sorrow, madam; personal grief and disaster coming close

upon the dire scene of the revolution in France; where — as you must have

heard, she met Mr. Imlay ...

MRS. INCHBALD
Yes, we've all heard that. And a Republican marriage it was, no doubt, if any.

AMELIA
Of course. As an Englishwoman her life would have been in danger — but
Mr.
Imlay was from America. Was he not?

OPIE
Yes. He had even fought in Washington's army. — He matters nothing now.
— The point is only that she wrecked her hope and happiness upon a rock.
She was a high-hearted woman, looking — as most of us were looking —

for a millennium to come through the French struggle; only she believed and
trusted and gave her all. And he was no idealist; but a libertine.

AMELIA
(looking on the canvas)
... Ah! ...
(MRS. INCHBALD hastens beside her. They are silent for a moment.)

AMELIA
(to OPIE, with emotion)
You will show them now that you can paint a woman's face. You will show them
now.

MRS. INCHBALD
Droll, is it not, to think of Mr. Walpole referring to her as 'that hyena in

petticoats.'

AMELIA
Oh, you may be sure, Mr. Walpole took care never to meet her.

MRS. INCHBALD
He would do that, you know. — And after all she's certainly not a
laughing hyena. ...

OPIE
She has been laughing very little this year, madam.

AMELIA
Finish it, finish it. Now. At once.

OPIE
I am waiting: — for another look.

AMELIA
The look is coming. I swear it. I promise it. — I've seen it.
(Coaxingly.) And I have seen her much lately. I can tell you this. Just
now
she is amazingly serene.

MRS. INCHBALD
Spring, spring! ... Even to a desolate old turtle like me, the trees in the
Park! (Approaching the window-seat.) But tell me, Opie. Did you ever
really
see this late-lamented Mr. Imlay? Of the United States of North America?
— And is he dead? Or missing merely? And why do you look at me, you Cornis
h
man, as if I'd said something that I should n't? — Here comes the Tragic
Muse!
(AMELIA waves her hand at the window and runs out to meet the
newcomers. OPIE stands at the open door to welcome them. TOM is
placing
the tea-tray, up. — Reënter AMELIA, with MRS. SIDDONS and
JOHN KEMBLE, her brother.)

MRS. SIDDONS
Dear Opie!

AMELIA
Here's your throne. Come in, come in!

MRS. SIDDONS
Truly, the very pavements melt with Spring. John, will you tie my sandal?

MRS. INCHBALD
Now will you hear the Muse?

MRS. SIDDONS
(greeting her)
Elizabeth!

OPIE
(smilingly busy with the tray)
How does Cecilia, now?

MRS. SIDDONS
(maternally)
Oh, winsomely. Dark little witch!

AMELIA
Your image.

MRS. SIDDONS
Say you so? — There's an arch flatterer. She is like me ...
(Thoughtfully.) Save in her manner.

KEMBLE
(tersely)
Too much comedy.

MRS. SIDDONS
(deprecatingly)
Still, my dear Brother! ... (To the others.) — She is only three!
(Enter ROBERT SOUTHEY with MR. JAMES WILSON. SOUTHEY is a buoyant
young man of twenty-two. He has a Rose, partly wrapped, in his left hand, with
a
Book.)

SOUTHEY
Am I late? — Is she here?

OPIE
Three She's — and all persons of worship. —

SOUTHEY
But not Mrs. Wollstonecraft, yet. I brought her this Rose. I'm saving it.
Also,
I've taken the liberty to bring a new friend whom I met just now at the book-
shop; a great admirer of that lady's. Mr. Wilson of the United States of
America; also interested in books: in selling them. (Bowing to WILSON.)

WILSON
(deprecatingly)
The Upper Market, Wilmington, Delaware.

SOUTHEY
You'll let him see the portrait?

WILSON
It would be a privilege, Mr. Opie.

SOUTHEY
Something else... (Looks back at the door. Opens it, and returns,
shaking his
head.) I've left him, somehow! — A man, a mere man. I met
him just now,
yes, at Johnson's book-shop. And — without your kind
permission, I told him
you would let him see the portrait. He's a great admirer of that lady's
works; that moved me. A very diffident man. 'T would give him pleasure. —

His name was ... Symes. —
(Enter SYMES. He is a silent-looking, shy, youngish man; with a
touch
of native dignity and singularity about him: something between awkwardness and

unworldliness. He stands, looking about with modest interest, till SOUTHEY
introduces him to OPIE.)
Ah, here you are! (To OPIE) Mr. Symes.
(OPIE shakes hands with him, and leaves the two men with SOUTHEY,
indicating that SOUTHEY is to show them the portrait.)

OPIE
(to SOUTHEY)
You've seen it. — Come and sit at the feet of our Tragic Muse, and learn
to
write blank verse as it should be spoken... He's a very young poet, ladies.

MRS. INCHBALD
Ah, we know Mr. Southey.
(SOUTHEY, bowing, conducts WILSON and SYMES up. They
contemplate
the portrait; — WILSON turns away, first, and comes down, evidently
filled with admiration and expectancy. SOUTHEY joins the ladies at the
table. SYMES remains up, a little way off, en silhouette, from
the portrait,
contemplating it alone. MRS. INCHBALD comes down, with her
tea-cup, to the
long seat, and beguiles MR. WILSON.)

MRS. INCHBALD
I wonder how my little book fares in your country, Mr.
Wilson ... 'A Simple
Story'? (WILSON somewhat perplexed.) ... But here is Mr. Southey, all
eagerness to talk with you about America; or perhaps I should say North
America. Mr. Southey is one of our ... very young
Romanticists. (SOUTHEY, over
his tea-cup, resigns himself to this
description.) I am not aware of the names
of all your interesting States; but Mr. Southey and some friends of his have
— as you may not have heard — founded a colony there; yes, in the
States; where all the Millennialists are going to live. (SOUTHEY chokes with

protest. WILSON listens, bewildered.) The name of their community is, I
think, Susquina; — no, no, — Sus-que-hanna?

SOUTHEY
The Colony was not founded, after all, Mr. Wilson.

WILSON
But we have a river, madam, by the name of Susquehanna.

SOUTHEY
Lovely name. I had heard of it. It lent itself to all our hopes of another and
a
better world. 'Susquehanna' ... And most of your people read; do they not?

WILSON
(drawing a pamphlet from his pocket contentedly)
Watts's 'Lyric Poems'; Watson's 'Apology for Christianity'; Wollstonecraft's
'French Revolution' (only last season); and I am taking back with me her
'Letters from Norway.'

SOUTHEY
They read Mary Wollstonecraft!

WILSON
They will read anything now, Sir, by the author of 'The Vindication of the
Rights of Woman!'

MRS. INCHBALD
(to change the subject)
And Mr. Washington remains your president till he dies?

WILSON
Mr. Washington, madam, to our great regret, declines a third term. He has just

returned for a much-needed rest, to his estate at Mount Vernon.

MRS. INCHBALD
What a disappointing creature! It would have been interesting to call upon him

when one joins Mr. Southey's community at Susquehanna where they — But,
do
tell me this; will they marry or will they not, Mr. Southey? Or are they
merely to write verses and tend sheep? Is Philosopher William Godwin with
you?
And if not, why not?

SOUTHEY
No, madam, Mr. Godwin is — perhaps, too wise; and perhaps too much a man o
f
the city. To write verses and tend sheep is, indeed, a simplified statement of

our hopes.

MRS. INCHBALD
Men never do what they write about; do they? And after all, what is a
Philosopher but a man who insists upon paying a shilling a pound for his
cherries? So perhaps William Godwin will join you. — He's written
with
such theoretical acuteness against marriage, I vow he will end by bringing a
wife with him: to till the soil of Susquehanna.

SOUTHEY
Our Susquehanna dream, Mr. Wilson, is two years old and gone by. — I
would
have gone: but for the simple lack of money. I remain, to till — in
a sense
— the soil of my own country. But in the meantime I have earned no less
than seven pounds and two pair of breeches. Not amiss, dear radical
Lady, after
all?

MRS. INCHBALD
(surveying him, approvingly)
Not at all amiss. — And then, you are not ounting in your book —

WILSON
'Joan of Arc' — and dedicated, I see, Sir, to Mary Wollstonecraft.

MRS. INCHBALD
You don't call her Mrs. Imlay, then?

SOUTHEY
(loudly, with reckless enthusiasm)
Mary Wollstonecraft stands alone. She must always, by whatever name we call her
.
She is as solitary as truth; shining at the bottom of the well: no parasite of

marriage.

MRS. SIDDONS
How true. — And then, her Swedish letters. I was charmed, I may say, even

enthralled. This latest book, dear William Godwin sent me, that alone,
softened,
methought, with sorrow's finger on it, gave me the fixed resolve that I must
know her. And above all, her Courage! Even I, who speak for queens,
— as a
mere woman still, I thrill to hear this woman's heart beat high, with such
devotion for her sisters, all. — In the next world, the
women will be
valued, yes, there perhaps, more than they are in this!

KEMBLE
Sarah? — And this, from You?

MRS. SIDDONS
(prophetically)
Yes, John! — From me. (Shaking her head in turn, at OPIE.) Yes, dear
John Opie, yes! (Recovering her serenity, and holding out her cup.) ...
Delicious tea.

AMELIA
(coming down)
And is she not worth knowing? But, you see, some few who do not know her can
be
harsh enough to please the envious. You hear it every-where her name is
spoken;
from strangers who resent her hopes for woman, and her condemnation of
fashionable parasites, — how Mr. Walpole called her 'that hyena in
petticoats.' ...
(Enter MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. — She is bonnily dressed, a large
hat tied over her heavy auburn hair; noticeably quieter than the others, in
speech and motion; a touch of shadow in her voice now and then.)
Hyena! (Impressively.) 'Hyena in petticoats!'

MARY
Yes, I am here. (They turn.) Your hyena never meant to keep you waiting.
(There is a breeze of welcome and laughter, as they turn. OPIE greets

her with the quiet of an old friend, later presenting WILSON. AMELIA comes

down to embrace her. SYMES disappears, up, behind canvases.)

AMELIA
Oh, here you are at last!

MRS. SIDDONS
(rising)
Dear Mrs. Imlay!
(MARY goes up to greet her; and turns back to face SOUTHEY, who
holds
out his Rose.)

SOUTHEY
I knew you were coming. — And I've brought you a Rose.

MARY
(taking it and putting it in the fichu of her dress, sweetly)
A Rose... What it is to be a poet, — a Young Poet! ... And what would we
older women do without you? — We shall have some talk together?
Presently?
(She turns away again to join MRS. SIDDONS, KEMBLE and
the others at
the tea-table to which OPIE leads WILSON. They talk together.
SYMES looks down cautiously, apparently seeking a way out
unnoticed. As MRS.
INCHBALD comes down accompanied by JOHN KEMBLE, who
inspects a book or two
through his eye-glass, SYMES retreats again, among the pictures.)

MRS. INCHBALD
(to SOUTHEY)
In parenthesis, who is Mr. Symes? ... and what?

SOUTHEY
(shaking his head)
God knows. (KEMBLE joins them.)

MRS. INCHBALD
He looks a bit like Hamlet; out of work. — Not like
your Hamlet, John.
And after all, — the times can never have been really out of joint for
Hamlet: he had such a ready flow of language! —
John has it too: but only
on the stage.

SOUTHEY
I don't know him at all: but we fell into talk at Johnson's book-shop; and I
bade him along with me. I suppose it was very-young poet. Was n't it?

MRS. INCHBALD
Very, very Young-Poet. — He is something of a Quakerish Romeo, on second
thought. He has an indescribable air of feeling himself in the wrong place: an

always too-late manner. Yes, John, I venture — as a modest female writer,

married and a widow, that man will always be too late.

KEMBLE
Elizabeth, why do you cling so to this draughty corner by the door?

MRS. INCHBALD
Draughty, on a day like this, John? Come then. Another crumpet.
(As she leads him back to the tea-table, SYMES comes down hastily
to SOUTHEY.)

SYMES
A word with you, Sir, to thank you for your kindness. I should have told you,
I
realize now, too late; but I — I desired so much, to see her once more;
at
a — distance; I mean a slight distance.

SOUTHEY
Mrs... Imlay? You've met Mrs. Imlay?

SYMES
Once or twice ... a few times, a few years ago. She would hardly recall it.
In
fact I know not if I dare to meet her now. But it is very much to have seen her
,
without ... being a source of annoyance to her. I had the misfortune to offend

that lady through the foolishest ... inexperience. Words would fail me to tell

how; much as I respect — even venerate her. — I will go, now.

SOUTHEY
(looking keenly into his face)
I protest. — You must take this opportunity to right yourself. Do so, Mr.

Symes. She's the tenderest soul alive, and the proudest.

SYMES
I believe that. But it is the pride alone that I've seen ... closely. —
I'm
very miserable. (With desperate honesty.) If you are a poet, you know
what
that is. (SOUTHEY nods solemnly.)

SOUTHEY
Go and say good-bye to Opie. Then, — don't go!
(He pushes him gently towards OPIE who comes down at that moment.
They speak together, left.)

MRS. INCHBALD
(coming down with KEMBLE, who bears a bowl of cherries majestically)
Come, Mrs. Imlay, we are going to hear this young man's Sonnet to you. Mr.
Wilson says it dedicates his 'Joan of Arc' —

SOUTHEY
(correcting)
'Triumph of Woman!'

MRS. INCHBALD
To be sure: and before he ever saw Mrs. Imlay, romantic boy. Do repeat
it, Mr.
Southey. No? Perhaps John will read it, if you have a copy here ...

KEMBLE
Elizabeth, my voice, as you seem to forget ...

MRS. INCHBALD
Oh, John, dear, don't be so majestical.

SOUTHEY
I think I could remember it, if I were in a corner.

MRS. INCHBALD
Go in a corner then, and think it up. (To the others, up-stage.)
Mr. Southey
is going to recite his sonnet on Mrs. Imlay. Do l-l-listen.

SOUTHEY
(to MARY)
You won't think me impertinent?
'The lily cheek, the purple light of love' —
The liquid lustre of the melting eye.
Mary! of these the poet sung, for these
Did Woman triumph: turn not thou away ...

(MRS. INCHBALD is feeding cherries to MR. KEMBLE, unheeding.
SOUTHEY speaks closely to MARY)
So! You know the rest. — There is an unhappy man across the room.
(Indicating SYMES.) He tells me that he once offended you. He dares not
speak; but yet he longs to. Do you transfigure him; with happiness.

MARY
Could I do that?

SOUTHEY
Can any one else?

MARY
Oh, you have 'eyes of youth.' (Lightly.) Go. Bring him; bring
him before us.
— What is his name?

SOUTHEY
His name is — Symes. ...

MARY
— Symes! — (With a sudden dismaying recollection.)

MRS. INCHBALD
(turning)
Symes! — All this fanfare at the name of a man called Symes, And we,
assembled in the studio of the Cornish wonder, — with the Tragic Muse,
the
belle of Norwich, John Kemble, — to say absolutely nothing of the
authoress
of 'A Simple Story.' I have n't been so humbled since I used to lunch
on spring
onions by the road-side, when Mr. Inchbald and I travelled with the company.
'But see, he comes. — Walk we apart.'
(Withdrawing, as SYMES stands facing them.)

MARY
(who has recovered herself, speaks with a kindly manner that gathers
composure, as of an older woman addressing a young man, though he is of like
age)
Mr. Symes. (SYMES approaches her gravely.)

SYMES
(almost with awe)
Mrs. Wollstonecraft... I beg your pardon. That was the name I knew
when, in my
rashness, — my ignorance, — my temerity which I can
hardly understand,
I had the — misfortune ...

MARY
Ah, Mr. Symes ... it is so long ago ... or seems so. The
hardships and sorrows
of a whole people have opened all our eyes to things larger than ourselves.

SYMES
That is true. Will you permit me to tell you, then, at this distance, without
hope ... and never again, perhaps, to venture so near —

MARY
(with abashed concern)
Mr. Symes ...

SYMES
That when I had the audacity to — to —

MARY
Proffer me your hand, in marriage, —

SYMES
Nay, to beg for yours, — it was with all the reverence, — the
adoration in the world; though it was madness in me, as I saw in a day. It was

that one saving sense of my preposterous hope that drove me to seek a
messenger,
rather than to speak for myself. You scarcely knew me.

MARY
True.

SYMES
(simply)
And yet, as Poets know, these things do happen suddenly; sometimes.

MARY
(touched by his meekness, speaking shyly)
Yes. It is true.

SYMES
When I learned your terrible message of scorn and grief, I saw — too late

— how I had made myself misunderstood.

MARY
Oh, I did misunderstand. Forgive me that. We have so much to learn. I was
younger, and very sad; and proud. Life seemed unbearably hard upon me, with
burdens from other lives, not mine. I was beside myself with the effort to be
stoical.

SYMES
And do you think a man could look on you, do you think a man could hear you
speak, and learn unmoved of those burdens that threatened to crush your youth?

... Could any man of feeling look on the spectacle of Genius rending the
spirit
of a lovely female, from within; and the thorns of this world thrust in her
pathway; and keep humbly to his by-path, with no dream of being a rescuer?
— Yes. I confess to you, I was a trespasser. I tried to find out all I
could of your life, your trials, your natural protectors; and finding no help
there, I lost my head. And if, in that state of fascinated desperation, I
conceived the wild dream — that I might be blessed to lighten your
destiny
... I pray you to forgive my youth.

MARY
Oh, I see all, now. And will you not try to see, that to my tormented
soul, at
bay, the — the mention your ... messenger made, ... of your worldly
possessions ... seemed ... seemed to me —

SYMES
An insult. Yes, you called it that.

MARY
Forgive me. Your truth-telling makes it all clear; and me so humble.
If you had
dared to speak, yourself —

SYMES
I was a dumb thing; an uncouth creature always; timid of himself. My downfall
made me feel that I had no self to be anxious for, any longer. So I come by
words more honestly.

MARY
(simply: bewildered by his reality)
What are you, Mr. Symes? ... You are Something.

SYMES
Do we know what we are? But I am a very obscure person. I was thinking of
taking
orders, when I met you. I was an only son; with a few women-folk. It was what
they desired. We had always had enough. — Then, when I saw you, and read
what you had written; and understood your great thoughts struggling in this
insolent world, — I knew that it was my duty to follow my conscience
only;
with one taper in my hand, a little truth that lighted the world newly.
—
And I longed to see whatever you should see. And afterwards ... I learned
that you were living and thinking over the water, in those terrible days with
the French. And next I heard that you were — were Mrs. Imlay. And I hoped

that I might but see you, once again.

MARY
Oh, many times again. I welcome the chance to ask your pardon.

SYMES
(much younger and happier)
I am deeply in your debt, that you permit me to tell you the truth. Surely,
happiness must be something like this.
(Up-stage, they all rise suddenly from the tea-table and face OPIE,
who has the canvas with her portrait in his arms.)

AMELIA
Come, Mary!

OPIE
You have only to mount the model-stand and help my ruthless critics to an
opinion.

MRS. SIDDONS
Mr. Opie waits for an Aurora Borealis, —
(MARY goes up. AMELIA takes off her hat for her and pats it. OPIE

places a chair on the model-stand, poses MARY in it; and then sets the
Portrait on the easel, facing front.)

SOUTHEY
You know, Mrs. Imlay, until the Americans build a new world, and that world is

peopled with new women all like you, I fear you will never be forgiven for
looking as you look.

OPIE
Too personal, Mr. Southey. The expression is the question.
(Enter, by the open door, WILLIAM GODWIN. He pauses, —
catches
MARY'S look and silently greets her with a buoyant gesture. Her face lights,

shyly.)

AMELIA
There it is!

MRS. INCHBALD
(turning)
Enter, a philosopher, late and uninvited!

OPIE
Late, but long expected. Godwin!
(The group breaks up. GODWIN goes up, and is greeted by each in
turn. MARY sits, smiling; but as if she were weary.)

MRS. SIDDONS
(coming down)
So late! And to my deep regret, friend Godwin, I must go, alas.

KEMBLE
And I. — Elizabeth, you will come with us, now.
(Authoritatively, as she is saying to TOM:)

MRS. INCHBALD
Some hot tea ... for Mr. Godwin.

MRS. INCHBALD
(archly)
Must I, John? Do you think it improper — for a widow — to remain
long
in the company of the Author of 'Political Justice'? John, how suspicious.

KEMBLE
You and Miss Alderson are dining with us.

AMELIA
I come with you.
(They all, including MARY, come down from the model-stand, taking
leave of OPIE.)

SOUTHEY
(to MARY)
And may I come to see you soon?

MARY
Oh, very soon, — Ah me, how dreadful of me. There's my Fanny waiting
below.
How could I have left her for so long!

SOUTHEY
Let me take you both home.

MARY
I left her playing with Opie's Dorcas.

SOUTHEY
(rushing to the tea-table)
Let me take her a muffin: May I? Or no! These ear-rings!
(He seizes some cherries on their stems and returns to MARY.)
(SYMES approaches her wistfully.)

MARY
Mr. Symes. ... Now that I can truly value a true friend ... (She
inspects the
cherries, and nods encouragingly to SOUTHEY.) Tell her, Mother
will come home
now, very soon. We'll go together. ... (Exit SOUTHEY.)

SYMES
(with suspense)
And 'Fanny.' ... Is that ... is that ...

MARY
It is my little girl. (He seems stunned.) My girl-child.

SYMES
I did not know. — I never heard that ... I am glad indeed
to learn that you
have such a source of comfort ... in your loss.

MARY
She is ... a consolation and a strength. — Mr. Symes, I
fear you have not
heard all, indeed. I must not accept your friendship under
any pretense. But I
cannot make all my friends understand my way of thinking
— nor of speaking.
They will call me Mrs. Imlay.

SYMES
You mean —?

MARY
I did not marry Mr. Imlay. ... I believed that faith and love were better
forever through utter freedom; and only faith and
love. But all came to an
end ... in chaos; after I had been true to that faith and that love. — Mr.

Imlay is dead, you see, only to me; only to me. — And I am Mary
Wollstonecraft; and that is my daughter, ... my little girl-child.
(GODWIN turns back from the door with OPIE.)

SYMES
(to OPIE, like a strangled man)
I beg to thank you, Sir ... for an afternoon ... of revelations. — I
shall
hope to see Mrs. Imlay's portrait ... again, when it is completed.
(He bows very respectfully to MARY, and exit.)

AMELIA
What a curious creature! Let him get down-stairs alone, and safely. Then I'll
go, too —
(She peeps after him, and waves her hand for good-bye. Exit.)

OPIE
Miss Alderson! — One moment. (Exit after her.)

(WILLIAM GODWIN and MARY are left standing face to face. But she is

clouded, again, by SYMES' evident agitation.)

GODWIN
(looking at her with a sage gentleness)
You were speaking of ... Fanny? (She nods, mutely. His voice is gentle with
a
newness of careful tenderness.) She told me you were here, as I came by.

MARY
Fanny!

GODWIN
Fanny, in her own speech; like a small rainbow messenger, to point the way.
She
pointed up. — And when I followed, what should I find indeed but
You,
enthroned? (She backs away, gently, evidently almost dismayed at his
enveloping gentleness. He makes a step after her; then on a second thought,
steps back and stands still. He speaks with sudden adoring passion.)
Oh, stand
there so, again, for a moment; — for me! ... (Smiling, she obeys his
gesture: and steps up on the model-stand, trying to be gay, but deeply moved.
)
Why do your eyes drop from mine, now?

MARY
There is some change in your aspect surely, neighbor Godwin.

GODWIN
Mary!

MARY
(tremulously)
And there must be a change in mine as well ... if you see me as one
'enthroned'
... How different ... how different —

GODWIN
Different ...?

MARY
From ... What he was.

GODWIN
You are the source and centre of all the changes.
How did I ever see you otherwise? The blind worm that I have been! Opie is
right. — We would-be philosophers who put to death our eyes and
understanding —

MARY
(laughing)
Hear him!

GODWIN
Mary, it is true, that I was struggling with doubts ... not doubts
merely; Fear;
Fear: think of it! Fear lest the gods might shake my life — long gray
serenity — with a more god-like agitation. — Mary, I feared the
whirlwinds that have gone over you, wonder of wonders, and left you still
unbowed! I went away ... to be rid of my fear; to know myself; to see you as
you
are. — And I see you as you are; now. — Never before: never before.
And I know I am not, as I tried to think, blinded by your human sweetness.
(She covers her face with her hands.) No, let me tell you; let me tell
myself. As the days passed, the surer I grew, from longing. — And I came
to-day, only to see the beginning of your portrait. And here at the gate,
—
your own child calls to me: she bids me go higher. And up I climb, to
reach you:
and the door is open. And then, of a sudden, for a hill-top look, I
see you as
you are!
(He holds his arms wide. MARY, on the edge of the model-stand,
clasping her hands together, looks back at him, luminously. —
Reënter, OPIE, and halts with sudden unusual tact.)

OPIE
I have it. They are all of them right. It shall be finished now.
— I have
the look.
(MARY hastens down from the model-stand. OPIE is about to give her
her hat again, when MRS. INCHBALD reënters exuberantly. She sweeps in

the loiterers with a glance.)

MRS. INCHBALD
Ah, there it is, precisely where I left it, — my fan! (Going up to her
earlier seat, she takes the fan.) Did you know, dear Mrs. Imlay, some one is

waiting to take you home? Young Mr. Southey, yes. And John wants a word with
you
now, Godwin, — about the play. Oh, yes, he was after coming back for my
fan, of course; but we could n't risk his young, young mind! I knew the two
philosophers would be hurling their scorn —

GODWIN
Scorn? On such an afternoon?

MRS. INCHBALD
On all the commonplaces of this world.

OPIE
As for instance?

MRS. INCHBALD
Why, you Cornish wonder, what is the most commonplace thing in all this
world?
... What indeed, — but Marriage, Marriage, Marriage!
(She nods debonairly to MARY and OPIE, takes GODWIN'S
arm and
leads him away.)

CURTAIN

ACT II

29, The Polygon, Somers Town, on a sunny summer day

Scene: a living-room with a wide casement-window at back, centre. The doors,
upper left and down right, stand open, that to the right leading to a
corridor.
Down, left, a double doorway, closed. The windows stand open, all. A
cluster of
chairs huddles together, waiting to be bestowed. A large table towards the
centre holds numerous unrelated objects, including a tea-set in evident
disorder, some books and a large hour-glass. One or two
packing-cases cumber the
floor at its foot. Down, right centre, a long Empire sofa.
UPPIE, an austere but dignified housekeeper in the
forties, stands looking out
of the window, with a silver tea-pot in one hand,
and a polishing-cloth in the
other. She thrusts out her head anon, and shakes the cloth, then speaks, with
kindness softening her authoritative voice.

UPPIE
(to one in the garden below)
No, no, ... Dinna pat him. The dog is not our dog; he may bite thee. ... Dinna

pat him. Flowers is best. That's so, now. ... Pick some for Uppie. —
(Withdrawing her head and reciting sonorously.) ... 'Gilead is mine and
Mánasses is mine; over Edom ... have I cast out my shoe.' ... 'Why hop ye

so, ye high hills?' ...
(Resumes her polishing. Enter, right, with wide eyes, OPIE'S boy,

TOM, doubtfully.)

TOM
Number 29? ... Is this Number 29?

UPPIE
Of course it is.

TOM
How be I to know?

UPPIE
The number's on the door.

TOM
The door were open wide. — I'll fetch it.

UPPIE
What'll you fetch? — Leave that door where it is: and leave it open.
—
There's other things to come. (Exit TOM. UPPIE goes to the window and
looks out with softened mien. She calls.) Take care: thou'll hurt thy
little
hands in the gateway there ... Mind ...
(Reënter TOM, with a swathed picture in his arms)

UPPIE
What's that?

TOM
It's for Mr. Godwin. That's what Mr. Opie said.
(He takes off the covering, and leans the picture against the
table. It
is OPIE'S portrait of MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, finished and framed.)

UPPIE
That's her ... that's her!

TOM
When did Mr. Godwin come to here? I've seen that chair o' his in the old
lodgings.

UPPIE
Go on, Boy. I'm busy. I must be upstairs and down to set the place to rights.
(Turns the picture to the wall, left, carefully.)

TOM
(drawing in his head from the window)
Here comes a lady; she's puzzled, too.
(Enter MRS. INCHBALD, who pauses as she sees the two)

MRS. INCHBALD.
This is Number 29? ... Am I right?

UPPIE
Yes, ma'am.

MRS. INCHBALD
Mr. Godwin l-l-lives here?

UPPIE
(with reserve)
No, — yes, ma'am. In a manner. He is moving in.

MRS. INCHBALD
Moving in? — And he is out, then? So. I'm an early guest. He'll not
be
back soon? ... There is no chop waiting in the Dutch oven? ... But where
is
the Dutch oven? — You here, Peter? — Have you got a new master?

TOM
Came on an errand from Mr. Opie, ma'am.

MRS. INCHBALD
Oh, to be sure! — 'T was Mr. Opie who told me of Godwin's new
lodgings. I
thought to surprise him with a greeting. I can't wait. ... Make
yourself useful,
Peter, while the ph-ph-philosopher is out. (To UPPIE.) I
suppose you don't
know — (Inspecting her dubiously.) Heigh-ho, no
matter! Will you give
me a pen? I'll leave a note for him. —
(Laughing.) Poor dear soul! New
tea-cups ... I don't remember those. ... It's a luxury! ... Two chairs;
unfamiliar. Green tea ... (uncovering a caddy, and sniffing at it, to
UPPIE'S indignation). Green tea ... (bewildered). An hour-glass. I've
seen that. (To UPPIE.) You expect him soon?
(Exit TOM, unwillingly, backing out.)

UPPIE
(coldly)
I can't say, ma'am. He left no word with me.

MRS. INCHBALD
Ah, well! 'T is useless to dally longer. ... Pray, desire my compliments to
Mr.
Godwin when he comes back; and tell him that Mrs. Inchbald dropped in for a
moment, to remind him of the play this evening. Oh, to be sure, I'll tell
him,
myself.
(Takes the pen from the table indicated by UPPIE and sits down to
scribble a note, with absorption.)

UPPIE
(to herself sonorously, while she stands, inspecting MRS. INCHBALD'S
back)
... 'He hath said in his heart, Tush, I shall never be cast down: there shall

no harm happen unto me ... He lieth waiting secretly; even as a lion lurketh
he
in his den. — He doth ravish the poor: when he getteth him into his
net.'
...

MRS. INCHBALD
(rising)
There! Mrs. Inchbald. — And tell him, Mrs. Inchbald says, he ought
to have
a mirror there.
(Pointing to the wall, right.)

UPPIE
Mrs. Inchbald. — If you please, ma'am, I think Mr. Godwin sent a
letter to
a lady of that name, this morning before he went out.

MRS. INCHBALD
A note to me? How vexing! Waiting now at my lodgings, I suppose. — And
then, — but you could n't know ... Ah! (Darts across the room
at a pile
of books set down, haphazard.) 'A Simple Story'! (Smiling
benignly. Turning;
she backs against a child's high-chair and gazes at it open-mouthed.) What
— in the name of pitiful Providence — is — that? Has — is
— I never saw — that before. Tell me! — Has Mr. Godwin ...
adopted ... s-s-some one?

UPPIE
(with reserve)
In a manner, I suppose you might say, ma'am.
(They look at each other, MRS. INCHBALD baffled by UPPIE'S
taciturnity, UPPIE triumphant with reserve.)

MRS. INCHBALD
(agitated)
And — wh-wh-wh-why did n't he ask m-me?

UPPIE
(puzzled, but hostile)
Ask you, ma'am? ...

MRS. INCHBALD
I don't understand it ... (Reconsidering.) I shall, doubtless, when I have

my l-letter. (UPPIE serenely removes the little chair from the foreground
and
sets it aside. MRS. INCHBALD, shaken for a moment, removes the nosegay
from
her bosom, and looks about for a vase; finding a bowl on the table, she
puts the
flowers in it.) Poor, lonely creature! ... I suppose (to UPPIE) he will
educate it ... according to his system. But you would n't know! ... At any
rate,
it won't be able to answer back for a long time yet! Will it? (Giving
way to
curiosity.)

UPPIE
I should think not, madam.

MRS. INCHBALD
(at a plunge)
How old ... is the c-creature?

UPPIE
(frigidly)
Three years, ma'am.

MRS. INCHBALD
And you take care of it? ... Oh, it's yours! I see! — Oh, how
absurd of
me! I beg your pardon, really. (Sits down suddenly, with relief;
while UPPIE
listens impassively to her laughter.) How very nice. He must
be dying of s-
solitude. Wh-what a change.
(In the doorway, appears SYMES, who stands inquiringly. MRS.
INCHBALD rises; and stands still as she recognizes him. Her
laughter dies.)

SYMES
I beg your pardon. — Is this Number 29?

MRS. INCHBALD
(advancing)
Yes, it's 29. I was asking only now. But there's no one at
home. Surely this is
... Mr. S-S-Symes!

SYMES
(bowing)
Mrs. Inchbald.

MRS. INCHBALD
I remember you thoroughly. At Mr. Opie's we met you. Only last season. Mr.
Opie's painting-room.

SYMES
You are more than kind, madam.

MRS. INCHBALD
Oh, I could n't forget that name. You'll pardon me, won't
you, if I have to run
away at once?
(They bow. Exit MRS. INCHBALD.)

SYMES
(to UPPIE)
I beg your pardon for walking in. Perhaps you don't know
that the door is wide
open. I intended to pay my respects to Mrs. Imlay; and I went to the address
— quite near — which she once gave me. They told me that she had
removed from her lodgings there to Number 29. (UPPIE
melts.) Is she —
could I see her?

UPPIE
She's out at present, Sir; but I'm looking for her
at any moment. They went out
for a walk ... It's most unusual, Sir ... You'll
pardon the disorder. We've only
been here a short time in this house; and I could n't set it all to rights at
once.

SYMES
I feel that I'm intruding; I must n't do that. But she was so good as to bid
me
come ... some day. Perhaps this is not the day.

UPPIE
(calling out of the window)
Now don't 'ee call to any strange cat, my dearie. Flowers is best. Be a good
child now. — I beg pardon, Sir?

SYMES
I thought I saw behind the hedge ... a little girl? Mrs. Imlay's little girl?
— As I came by? Do you — do you think I might go down and speak with

her awhile, — till Mrs. Imlay returns?

UPPIE
(beamingly)
Certainly, Sir! (Calls out of the window.) Here is a gentleman coming to
talk to 'ee. Get up off the grass, darling. There's a daisy under the laburnum

tree ... You show it to him. He's never seen the like. (To SYMES.) The
best
way, Sir, is through the door at the back of the corridor downstairs.
(Showing
him out, left upper door.) There's the market-boy. (Exit after him.)
(Enter, right, laughing, AMELIA ALDERSON and JOHN OPIE)

AMELIA
She certainly wrote me, Twenty-nine, The Polygon, Somers Town; after April
10th.

OPIE
He said the same thing, precisely.

AMELIA
And straightway I come to see her in her new lodgings; and must needs encounter

you; coming to quite the same place; coming to see quite a different person.

OPIE
No. Coming to see quite the same person I always come to see. Whenever I go
out,
it's always you I go to see; and wherever I go; since ever we met. A
monotonous
programme for you, till we both die. Or till —

AMELIA
Or till I beg you begone; — and keep myself to that mind.

OPIE
But since we are met —

AMELIA
Agree with me, this time! It's certain that he loves her.

OPIE
Yes, I believe it. I used to think him the one man in the world who
was made of
pure Reason; no passion in him.

AMELIA
She has transformed him. And she herself — how happy she looks! I hardly
dare to breathe upon them. — I believe it will all come true forever!

OPIE
I sent Tom before me, with the portrait. — There it is. (He goes to it
and turns it face outwards. They stand before it.) No, it has n't the
hill-top
look. — After all, would it be true to paint that, if one could?
It can't
happen every day. (Enter together buoyantly from the corridor
GODWIN and
MARY. Her arms are full of flowers; she is laughing.) A surprise for us!

MARY
Oh, the happy chance. — You here, together!

AMELIA
And you?

MARY
We, here together!

GODWIN
You see? — And, for once, before our working-hours are over.
(He searches their faces happily. MARY puts her hand on his arm.)

AMELIA
(expectantly)
Then you — new neighbors —

MARY
We 'neighbors' —

OPIE
At last —

AMELIA
It is — I mean — you are going to be — You are —

MARY
We are.

AMELIA
Married!

GODWIN
Married, in brief!

MARY
Long ago.

OPIE
Married!

GODWIN
Magical word. (OPIE shakes his hands joyfully.)

AMELIA
(rapturously)
I saw it, from the first. ... I don't know why I — I'm so astonished. ...

But after all you — he had written ... though I knew he couldn't believe
it
... and after all. ... When were you married? And why did n't you tell
your
Amelia?

MARY
Ah, just the being married; you know what we think of the old-world's
thought of
that! What does that matter? And as for the true surprise —
which we've had
to ourselves this long time, were we not going to tell you in
just another day,
— just another! — Were we not going to tell you, just — Now?

GODWIN
I've written to our oldest friends these past few days;
friends at a distance.
... I wrote to Mrs. Inchbald only this morning.

AMELIA
And what about me?

MARY
I waited to tell you, dearest. I knew you were coming. (She sees the
portrait.) And here is my defender! (Curtsies delightedly to the
portrait.) Do the honors now, Mary. — Say your
thanks for the two of us.
Say your thanks to Mr. Opie, for his faith ... and gentleness. They'll never
dare to call you Hyena any more, when once they see this; no, no!

AMELIA
Oh, Loveliest, what bliss to see you, in your home! ... Go away, you learned
gentlemen, and see that the house is right. I have
such foolish things to say to
her, for just this moment.

MARY
Show him the other rooms, William. — Ask his
opinion; just for the sake of
asking. And then — come back! (The two men laughingly exeunt, by the
upper left door. AMELIA and MARY kiss
each other.) And it is such news
to you? I thought you saw.

AMELIA
But — you two to marry!

MARY
That delights you, does it?

AMELIA
What you can do for the world, now!

MARY
Yes, marriage is for sake of others; so it
seems. And so it seemed to us. But I
am happy!

AMELIA
Happy? And Godwin is new-born! Only think; once upon a time, just before I met

you, people said, — some people said, — that the Philosopher's eye
was
upon me; — me, and my harp; and my very neat slippers. Think of it!
— And as surely as I come from Norwich, I've never set eyes on this
William Godwin, never; I nor my harp, nor my very, very neat slippers.

MARY
Ah, you know whom you have to make happy. — Do so, dear! You can spend
all your years together.

AMELIA
(hovering over the table)
Yes, that's so certain; it's the only hindrance. No suspense! ... New
tea-cups?
But of course. Here's an old remnant. —

MARY
Cherish it! Many a time in those old days when I was so poor and shabby, I've
offered my guests not only tea, but wine in those same teacups. And the very
ones who marvelled at my shabbiness, were still glad to come and drink my tea,

— and wine; — and welcome!

AMELIA
And now, some one is here to care for you, as you have cared for others. Some
one is here to strip the briars off your every rose!

MARY
Ah ... how I did long to do that, for women. Perhaps now —

AMELIA
You will do all that you have dreamed.

MARY
You are good to think that. Once, of course, people would say to me, 'When you

have a home of your own, then you'll think no more of these wild projects for
reforming the world.' — Reforming the world, Amelia! — Simply to
desire truth to be true; love to be love; thought to be thought; —
for
the poor; — for women and for men. Simply to desire the human to be
human!
— And while that passion burned in me, my own blood-kindred, — my
mother, my brothers and sisters, — yes, and our father, too, our
wretched
abject father, — God forgive him, — were crying out to the
hearing of
my body, — for ... husks. (Puts her hands over her ears.)

(Reënter UPPIE)

UPPIE
If you please, Mrs. Godwin, there's a gentleman to see you. He's in
the garden,
playing with Miss Fanny, ma'am. Shall I desire him up? His name is Symes; Mr.
Symes.

MARY
Oh, yes, yes, yes! ... I remember. And this is his first call. — Bring
him
in, most kindly, Uppie, please. — Stay here, Amelia. Help me to make him
happy ... about it. (Exit UPPIE.) ... You are right. I must not think of
those old days; nor of anything but Now. Godwin is transformed; and I am so
happy. — You should see him with my Fanny. That was the first new light
upon him, that tenderness. He is a treasury of virtues that he doesn't know.
And
if ... if she ever has a brother —. Oh, some day, she must —
(laughing) she shall have a brother! —

AMELIA
Yes, dear, I can imagine.

MARY
Do! —
(Interrupts herself with a sharp gesture, at a sudden sound of street
music. — A violin, with a harp, plays a strain of 'Drink to me only with
thine eyes.')

AMELIA
(with pleasure)
'Drink to me only'! (Runs to the window.)

MARY
We have more singers in the street here. — Oh, William! — William
has
stopped him. (The music stops.) — And I've heard him before. His
voice
is sweet, truly. (Looking out of the window, as AMELIA turns
back.) And
he's blind. Did you see that? He's blind. ... Gone away. —
(Enter SYMES, up left. He looks at once towards MARY, and stands

silent, smiling. She comes towards him, with outstretched hand.)

MARY
This is a pleasure, Mr. Symes! You were good to remember my invitation. How
long
ago it seems! Did it take you so long to screw up your courage, and come?

SYMES
(whose manner is larger and more dignified than it was, but still simple
and
direct)
Yes. — Miss Alderson. (Bowing.)

AMELIA
And how comes it, you know this new dwelling as soon as I?

SYMES
I went to the address near by which your Champion had given me that
afternoon at
Mr. Opie's; and I was told that she no longer lived there. And even as I
considered the way, a messenger appeared ... a heavenly visitant in disguise;
with — what think you, ladies? — in his very hands? — The
Portrait. (Points it out.)

MARY
(bowing to herself gaily)
Well done, again!

SYMES
I followed. — I even walked in. The door was open.

AMELIA
(animatedly)
What then! the portrait led you directly to the new home of Mrs. William
Godwin?
What a fairy-tale! (SYMES is visibly startled.)

SYMES
I — I beg your pardon?

AMELIA
Did n't you know? You had n't heard? Why, no, of course.

SYMES
Mrs. ... Godwin?
(He looks at MARY, who regards him with friendly benignity.)

AMELIA
(in impulsive distress)
He does n't know! (Hastily) How stupid of me! Of course you could
n't know.
I did n't know; — not really know, you know, until a
little while
ago. — How silly of me! Really, I —

MARY
Very well announced, Amelia, I think. —

AMELIA
Will you excuse me? I'm coming back. — I left — I left —
something or other — downstairs. (To MARY) Where are
they? Oh. —
For a moment! (Exit.)

SYMES
(who has recovered himself, and speaks with the calm and friendliness of an
older man)
Will you pardon me?

MARY
Pardon?

SYMES
This ignorant intrusion. — I had not even heard of your ... removal to a
new home.

MARY
Please think no more of it. Indeed, indeed, I should so like to tell you.
—
You must be puzzled. You had heard certain opinions of mine: — and much
distorted; as they have always been. Then, too, you had heard something of my
personal history; for that I told you myself. And now; if you are
wonder-struck
that I seem to have thrown away the beliefs that I ... that I
have suffered for,
— how should I blame you? Pray, stay awhile.

SYMES
You are willing?

MARY
I desire it; with all my heart. (They sit.) I saw that day at Mr. Opie's
— I could not help seeing — that the facts of my story pained you;
when I insisted upon them. I never willingly concealed them,
you know. But only
to truthloving minds would I ever explain. I believe that you are one. I look
upon you as a friend. A friend: almost as the Americans call our Quakers,
—
Friend.

SYMES
That would be to me an order of knighthood (smiling) in my obscurity.

MARY
Then let us be friends; and understand what we can, as we live on. — I
begin to see that all my ideas of human life were gloomy and foreboding.
From my
childhood they were dark, save for one hope; my hope (smiling) that
I should
find some path out, when I grew older; that I should be a slayer of
dragons; the
dragons that I knew! Only the brutal look of marriage — as it is on this
Island — had I ever seen closely. My own mother's life was one long
blasphemy of womanhood. And my sister married — to escape from Home!
—
How could it all do anything but warp my wits? Until all the poor helpless
parasites I saw, with no livelihood, no work, no life, they thought,
unless they
Married! — How could they seem different in any wise from the world's
accursed, who have always sold their minds and bodies? How could they, ...
Friend?

SYMES
I see.

MARY
I was fevered, perhaps, — with knowledge of this home-life that was ours.
I
was beside myself with hardships that were not mine to tell of. All my hopes
of
fellowship were beyond my youth; they were with the men and women, — the
few men and women who see; the few who were eager, as I am eager, to help
solve
the dark tyrannies of the world. — Light and liberty for all: — the
hope of the New World; the dream of France; the dream of all human nature that

is really human! — And disgust with the false, had taken away the God
from
men: most men. But not from me! Those of us who kept our God, knew that
whatever
He is, He knows the heart of men! And who else was there to serve? So: when I
went to France, and met there ... a man — from the new world of America
— (she speaks slowly but serenely, from a new knowledge of happiness)

and the Terror threw us together, with the clinging of creatures on a lone
island in a sea of horror; — there was no State; there was no Church;
there
was nothing left; but the human heart, and the faith still burning! A
proud
faith, in a New World, for all to build; men, and women. — And as to
marriage; There were a hundred paltry complications; dangers that name and
nation made, among a maddened people. — What did that matter to me?
—
God knew my heart. ... I thought that I knew ... his. I thought it a
folly ...
and a wrong, then, to vow anything. But I believed ... that Love must live
forever.

SYMES
Perhaps it does.

MARY
But I ... died. — No matter. You know the ending of that story. It left me

with a bitter wisdom.

SYMES
All bitter?

MARY
No. ... No. My little girl ... my revelation. And now — Mr. Godwin ...
whose philosophy may seem to you cold.

SYMES
But I shall always be an obscure person!

MARY
(looking at him wistfully, like a child at bay)
He is so tender ... with her. — I was deceived in him when we first met,
I
think. And he — (laughing) he saw that I talk too much!

SYMES
(cheerfully)
And you are married. ...

MARY
Married: yes. — But it is only now that we've made it known ... Oh, yes, i
t
took much thought; the words for it all so seldom say what one means. That

is hard, friend, for those who would rebuild the world, — and who desire
to
say only what they mean: no syllable untrue. But if only I can still fight
for
the Cause, in this same bewildering, war-stained world; and among these
people
who go on living still as if no struggle had ever been. — Even the
Americans seem to have forgotten.

SYMES
You will live for it — write for it —

MARY
And you will come now, often?

SYMES
You are too kind. I — I have to return to the country very shortly ... But

perhaps I ... later ... in the Autumn.

MARY
Oh, we are not such birds of passage. We shall be here. Be sure you come in
the
Autumn.

SYMES
Had I but known, I would have brought some good omen with me. (He looks
at her
intently.)

MARY
(wistfully)
I hope I have not ... hurt your belief in me.

SYMES
How so?

MARY
My ... my inconsistency. I sometimes think we are like rose-vines. We need a
sustaining trellis of admiration, to grow on. ... Since that brief boldness,
when I pushed away all my ... trellis, — I've been — at times
—
dismayed.

SYMES
You put in my mind a childlike thought — of God: — as Love
that lasts
forever. ...
(He kisses her hand, serenely, and goes out, right. GODWIN, AMELIA
and OPIE reënter, left.)

AMELIA
Well, has he really gone? The poor too-late man?

MARY
(turning)
Do you know, he said something just now. About God, it was. He called God ...
Love that lasts forever. ... (OPIE looks at AMELIA.)

GODWIN
That is a figure of speech, my dearest. ... Attractive, certainly.

MARY
(laughing, on second thought)
Oh, William, William Godwin! — And while I think of it, Dearest! How
could you stop our singer in the street? Never, never again!

GODWIN
You like him, love? I had n't heard a thing. I thought you would n't wish it.

MARY
He's one of the charms of this neighborhood: does n't he pass your study?
(GODWIN shakes his head.) And the violin is always nicely in tune; and
he's
apt to sing 'Drink to me only' ... And if you'd only waited, his voice is
very sweet. And above all things, Darling, — he is blind. —

GODWIN
Not a better musician for that, my dear, strictly speaking. (With sudden
compunction.) Blind? — So is Love; the old wives say. And so was I.
Forgive me.
(MARY leaves him to devote herself to OPIE. They stand together,
considering the portrait, for a moment. Then she moves with OPIE slowly
about the room, stopping to consult him about the placing of various
objects.
AMELIA points majestically to the hour-glass on the table.)

AMELIA
What is that?

GODWIN
An hour-glass, Miss Alderson.

AMELIA
Of course I know an hour-glass when I see one. But what is it doing
here? That
dour reminder, like a skeleton at the feast. This is no place for measuring
hours of time, you incorrigible sage. It should go back to your study. —
Unless you move your study home, — here?

GODWIN
It is a trivial detail, perhaps. But it belongs to a habit I have, of
exactitude
and curiosity. Most of my day has been spent and always will be spent,
doubtless, in my Study. But now and again, I like to know how much time I've
given to desultory reading, or, perhaps, to letter-writing: without
watching the
time too closely. As to my Study, I still keep my rooms at Evesham. It is not
far off, you see; and I — we — have always been of the opinion that
the fondest souls can, by perpetual association, dull their fondness for each
other ... this opinion, of course, without experience. — But it would be
too precious a risk. It is one of the minor reasons why Marriage is such a
mistake. — Has been ... such a mistake (looking across at MARY)
...
or, let me say, has ... often been such a ... grievous mistake. We shall
never risk dulling the northern lights of ever-fresh admiration with that
indifference. What we possess without intermission, we inevitably hold light.
Separation is the image of death; but it is Death stripped of all that is most

tremendous, and his dart purged of its deadly venom. I always thought St.
Paul's
rule, that we should die daily, an exquisite maxim. (Serenely.) The
practice
of it would give to life a double relish. — Thus in my own Study, a few
streets away, if I am seized with a sudden desire to know what Mary is
doing at
that moment, — if I long to see her; if I picture her listless,
biting her
pen, gazing on space, — if I am tempted to throw aside my work like a
schoolboy and run home to know if she is wondering if I am wondering
what she is doing, — shall I yield to that temptation?

AMELIA
I hope so!

GODWIN
But no, dear Amelia. That is no way to help the world.

AMELIA
It might help Mary. — Think of her — her history.

GODWIN
(amiably)
No. — We are agreed together to submit our impulses to
reflection. To act,
after reflection, is a very different matter. The impulses
crowd and throng. And
what a subtle tribute to Mary, — to that exquisite enjoyment which she
alone — I beg your pardon, Amelia, but you know it is true — which sh
e
alone knows how to draw from the smallest circumstance, — that my
thoughts
veer so often, to herward! Only to her, (ardently) though I do not follow
them. This morning, I made an exception.

AMELIA
How many doors away?

GODWIN
Only some twenty.

AMELIA
Twenty doors! ... A door is a dreadful thing. Two walls — side-walls
— to a house. That makes forty side-walls, does n't it? ... Forty walls!
And for a human soul to search Love through all the world ... and then ...
find
it! — And then build forty walls!

GODWIN
We did not build them, Amelia.

AMELIA
(severely)
And what if you died? That thing (pointing to the hour-glass) reminds me.
(Turns it upside-down, then re-turns it; then takes it away and sets it
on the dresser.)

GODWIN
(serenely)
I shall die, some day. And that will end it all; all our impulses and our
disciplines. But this is Now.

AMELIA
May Mary brighten your creed, friend Godwin. This is not bridal talk; nor
thinking. You are always so much gentler than your beliefs. In fact you never
practise what you preach. Heaven help your poor disciples!

GODWIN
There you touch me to the quick. Will my friends take me for a renegade?

AMELIA
You?

GODWIN
That we — who have taught and spoken against this hypocritic tyranny of
Marriage — should be married?

AMELIA
Mary never taught anything against marriage ... (thoughtfully.) But you
...
well, can't you change your mind? What is a philosopher? Is he a
barnacle?
(indignantly.) ... Wait a moment! (Runs to the book-case.) ... Oh, I
know where to find you. I often asked myself, could it be true? ... (She
extracts a book, and waves it towards OPIE and MARY who come down
smilingly. She finds the place, and declaims, running her finger
from place to
place. OPIE, too, plucks a book out.) Here! 'Political
Justice' ... Page
... ah, here it is. — 'The institution of marriage is a system of fraud!'

... (They all laugh at GODWIN'S smiling abashment.) 'We ought to
dismiss
our mistake as soon as it is detected ... but we are taught to cherish
it.' ...
'Marriage, as now understood, is a Monopoly, and the Worst of Monopolies.'

GODWIN
MARY
(triumphantly)
'As now understood'!

AMELIA
'The abolition of marriage, in the form now practised, will be
attended with no
evils.'

GODWIN
(serenely)
'In the form now practised.' There I have you. (Enter
UPPIE with a note,
also a mail-bag.) What is it, Uppie?

UPPIE
A boy with a letter, Sir. — And the mail-bag at the
same time. The boy was
sudden, Sir. Will there be an answer?
(MARY takes the letter and gives it to GODWIN after a glance.)

MARY
For you, dear ... From Mrs. Inchbald.

UPPIE
That was the name, ma'am, ... the lady who called here, earlier.

MARY
(reassured)
She came here? Oh, then all's well.

GODWIN
(to OPIE)
I sent her a note this morning, myself; announcing our marriage ... (To
MARY) Open it, my love.

MARY
Read it, you. I'm not afraid ... not very much afraid.
(GODWIN, with an effort, opens it and shows some
vexation as he reads.
MARY takes it as he hands it to her; and reads it
with blank dismay. Silence
grows. She hands it to AMELIA, who reads, first with indignation.)

AMELIA
How odd! ... But then. How are we reading it? In the expectation of something
witty and ... and not too kind ... After all ... (Reads, in a very cordial
voice, hurrying over its ungracious doubleness.) 'I most sincerely wish you
and Mrs. Godwin joy. ... But, assured that your joyfulness would obliterate
from
your memory every trifling engagement ... Trifling engagement, I have
entreated
... I have entreated another person to supply your place; — and perform
your office in securing a box. If I have done wrong, when you next
marry, I will
act differently.' ...
(Thrusts it into OPIE'S hand and sits on end of sofa,
wiping her eyes
under her drooping hat.)

OPIE
(shaking his head)
Miss Alderson, as an imitation of Mrs. Inchbald ... you are seriously
unsuccessful. (Reads coldly after making a preliminary face.) 'I most
sincerely wish you and Mrs. Godwin joy. But, assured that your
joyfulness would
obliterate from your memory every trifling engagement, I have
entreated another
person to supply your place. ... If I have done wrong, when you next marry, I
will act differently.' ...
(They all look at MARY, who shakes her head, hopelessly ... then
they
look at one another.)

GODWIN
Give it not a thought, my love. She's such an old friend.

MARY
Of yours.

GODWIN
She is grieved, plainly, that we ... that we did not tell her sooner.

MARY
But — after that — of course I must not go.

UPPIE
I beg pardon, ma'am. The same lady left the nosegay on the table. ... I set it

in water, at once.
(She goes to the table, and skilfully abstracts the note under her
apron.
Exit UPPIE with boughs that MARY had brought in, covering all.)

MARY
(comforted)
Oh, how nice of her! ... Rather unusual, don't you think? From her to me?

OPIE
(briefly)
Yes, for Mrs. Inchbald. — We must go, now, and leave you to your
mail-bag.

AMELIA
Yes, indeed. — You see, after all, 't was playful.

OPIE
Thoroughly playful. — That proves it.
(Pointing to the nosegay.)

MARY
Please stay, and share our tea!

AMELIA
Never, never! That is, not to-day. A little later, I shall come; just to see ho
w
a great literary light keeps her home. But never to-day. — Come, Mr. John

Opie. Away with us!
(They part affectionately in the doorway. Exeunt AMELIA and OPIE.

GODWIN opens the mail-bag, sitting down on the long Empire sofa. —
MARY
perches on the arm of it and looks over his shoulder.)

GODWIN
From my mother — God bless her! ... To use a popular phrase. You can't hel
p
loving her when you meet. ... 'Your broken resolution in regard to matrimony
encourages me to hope that you will ere long embrace the Gospel, and not only
you but your other half, whose souls should be both one, as Watts says, the
sooner the better. ... My dears, whatever you do, do not make invitations and
entertainments. Live comfortable with one another. The heart of her husband
safely trusts in her. I cannot give you better advice than out of Proverbs,
the
Prophets, and New Testament. My best affections attend you both. — From
your Mother.' —
(MARY delves after another letter and listens with growing cheer, as he

reads it, pointedly, to her.)

MARY
From Mr. Holcroft ..

GODWIN
'From my very heart and soul I give you joy.' (Holds it under her eyes.)
Those words; do you see, unbeliever? 'I think you the most extraordinary
married
pair in existence. ... I hope and expect to see you — both —
and very
soon. If you show coldness or refuse me, you will do injustice to a
heart which,
since it has really known you, never for a moment felt cold to you.' ...

MARY
(reading)
'I cannot be mistaken concerning the woman you have married' ...
Did you leave
out my name? — 'It is Mrs. W.' ... (She looks at him,
troubled.) 'Your
secrecy a little pains me. ... It tells me you do not yet
know me. — Pray
inform me, sweet lady, in what state is your novel? And
on what, courteous sir,
are you employed? ... Holcroft!' (She delves after
another letter.) Your own
familiar, Mr. Tuthill. — (GODWIN
hesitates.) Come, read it. Let us take
the worst. He agreed with you about marriage, once ...

GODWIN
(reading dispassionately)
'I feel very much gratified at finding myself numbered with those who had
engaged Mrs. Godwin's particular esteem and should rejoice to pay honest
tribute. But if there be men who
appear to me to violate those principles which
they profess they hold sacred, I cannot imitate them.' ... The rest is mere
argument, my love.

MARY
(dazedly)
I suppose ... the world cannot
turn new in a day. ... (She feels her way, up,
brokenly towards the doorway. She strives for speech an instant.) Uppie,
Uppie! (UPPIE appears.) ... Fanny's supper-time. ... She shall have
strawberries too; because it
is a festival ... And bring some honey. — I'll
set her table, here.
(Exit UPPIE. MARY looks out of the window and waves
her hand tenderly
to FANNY, below, while GODWIN sits looking before him.
She turns back more cheerfully, gathering animation as she sets forth the
highchair, and clears away from the table towards the centre, various
superfluous
objects.) Fanny's statesupper; with two parents to wait upon her.
Come!
(She inspects a silver mug critically, and places it, with a porringer.

— GODWIN rises, and smilingly examines the silver on the dresser.)

GODWIN
What a child you are! Who'd dream it?

MARY
And you, friend Godwin, that you dance attendance here, with knife and fork
and
spoon! — Oh, let's make-believe that Fanny is yours; all yours; all
yours.
No; that is not what I mean. She's all mine. She is just a little, stray child

of God ... for us to make divinely happy.

GODWIN
A figure of speech, my dear. —

MARY
Let's be Roman, then, and pray to our Lares before each meal. And Fanny shall
descend upon us, and eat benignly of your gifts and offerings. (He kisses
her
outstretched hand. ... She breaks out:) Oh, kiss my hand again; just my
hand.
I don't know why; but I think it soothes my hurted feelings. (With feverish
gaiety.) It's good for broken wings. Nothing else is good for broken wings.
Only constant deference ... and kisses on her hands. — (Looking about
her.) The household gods! ... Ah, don't we understand now? The reason why
the
poor people in this poor world will cheapen and dull their domesticity? They
don't bid in the gods! ... They stuff them away in churches for
once-a-week. But
we know better! We'll work; and fast: and pray the gods to
come, and sit at meat
with us. — And I shall be a Champion again. — (Runs to the window
and calls out.) Come up, now, darling, come! — (Comes away from the
window; and looks poignantly at GODWIN, who is sitting down, right,
looking
at his handful of letters.) William ... (Her voice is tremulous. He looks a
t
her instantly. As she stands still, searching his face with keen wistfulness,
he
rises, as if to cross to her. She puts out her hand against his impulse.)
No.
— Not yet. ... Let me look at you a moment. 'After due reflection.'
(Unsmilingly for a long pause, almost of awe, they look at each other
with faces that reflect thought, humor, deepest query. Then GODWIN,
smiling,
holds his arms wide, without stirring: MARY, with a sudden outburst of
childlike feeling, runs across the room into them.)

CURTAIN

ACT III

Autumn.
The same room, somewhat altered in appearance. The casement windows
are closed.
There is no portrait there, and no table towards the centre. The long sofa
stands left, down, slanted towards the wall: and before it, a
covered cradle. Up
by the window sits UPPIE, reading through her spectacles. — She holds
a
Bible open before her and moves her finger along, conscientiously, prompting
her
memory in a sonorous chanting voice; trying the hard words with some
difficulty,
but final satisfaction.

UPPIE
'My soul also is sore troubled: ... but ... how long wilt thou
punish me?' ...
Five. 'For in death no man remembereth thee: and who will give thee thanks in
the pit?' Six. 'I am weary of my groaning: every night wash I my bed: and
water
my couch with my tears.' Seven. — 'My beauty is gone for very
trouble; and
worn away because of mine enemies.' (Wipes her eye-glasses, and
slowly turns a
few pages.) 'The tabernacles of the Edomites, and the Ishmaelites: the ...
Moab-ites ... and the ... Hagar-enes ... Hagarenes.'
(A sound of men's voices. She lifts her head; places her
eye-glasses in
the book and rises. The double-door to the left opens and DR. FORDYCE and

MR. CARLISLE enter quietly, followed by WILLIAM GODWIN, pale and tense.
They close the door. GODWIN looks fixedly at their faces. FORDYCE
turns,
and pats his arm almost tenderly.)

FORDYCE
Give yourself an hour of ease, Mr. Godwin. It is a most encouraging
appearance.
And ... I may add this quite truthfully, encouraging for the first time.

CARLISLE
Not one woman in a thousand — ten thousand, — could have
rallied so, I
believe; after (with a glance at FORDYCE) — after these
three days. ...
Compose yourself. You owe it to her.

GODWIN
(after a pause)
Gentlemen, on your word of honor; dare I leave her ... for an hour? Don't
torture me with false hope. ... I have been schooling myself to meet ... the
worst; — as far as ... the mind can gather its forces together. Do not
encourage me to hope.

CARLISLE
Mr. Godwin, I feel with Mr. Fordyce here, and with you, that it would be the
height of cruelty to delude you. You know, for yourself, what a
struggle we have
seen, with forces beyond us all. But she is sustained,
miraculously, one might
be tempted to say. The babe (glancing towards the
cradle), as we have seen,
is now in a highly satisfying condition.

FORDYCE
Oh, quite satisfactory.

CARLISLE
There has been no chill for two days. ...

GODWIN
(brightening feverishly)
Yes, yes, that is true. That I had forgotten.
(A knock at the door, right. UPPIE goes to open it. The three men
stand as if charmed, waiting. Enter TOM with an armful of flowers and a
note. — GODWIN rouses himself to take them.)

TOM
From Mr. Opie, Sir. — Desires his compliments
... and begs to know how ...
how is your Lady since yesterday, Sir.

GODWIN
Thank you, Tom, thank you. ... Better, we think;
— we almost dare to think.
I ... I will take him that answer myself. ... A breath of air. Yes, I will go
out for a little. Dr. Fordyce here, — and Mr. Carlisle, tell me I may do
so; — I should do so. (He looks at them closely again. They nod
assent.) Thank you, gentlemen. I will meet you below ... in a moment.
(They bow and go out)

TOM
I was to stay, Sir, if there could be any use of me.
(GODWIN looks vaguely at him; then refers to OPIE'S note, still in
his hand, and nods his head slowly.)

GODWIN
Uppie... (UPPIE draws nearer.) Things are more hopeful, Uppie. — Mrs.

Fenwick has gone to her own home for a few hours. Mr. Montague is still
resting,
downstairs, in the drawing-room. I have begged him to sleep awhile. If
any one
calls, that person must be spoken with at the door, or up here. But on no
account wake Mr. Montague. He has watched with me three nights. Yes,
Uppie; they
say your mistress is recovering. Yes, yes.

UPPIE
The Lord be praised for that. — If it is indeed so ... Sir.

GODWIN
(more warmly)
I am sure you share our ... gratification ... our anxíous hope.

UPPIE
The Lord's will be done, Sir; if it comes to that.

GODWIN
(uncertainly)
Elizabeth, your good intentions are not to be doubted. But in one respect, my
confidence in you ... is tempted to waver.

UPPIE
(dismayed)
Sir?

GODWIN
I feel a certain un-ease; lest you should feel yourself drawn to speak to Mary

... to my wife ... to your mistress. ... In brief, lest you should make some
opportunity of her weakness in this hour of emergency, to broach to her your
own
— er — religious convictions.

UPPIE
I, Sir? ... Reproach her, Sir?

GODWIN
(nervously)
Broach, broach, — suggest — converse — heavens!

UPPIE
Talk to her, Sir? — About ... dying, Sir?

GODWIN
(distraught)
Be quiet, woman! ... I mean — It would be very natural to you.
—
Remember the temptation you gave way to, in your natural distress.
And remember
— it is my Command — she is not, in my absence, to be
disturbed with a
word of Cant! — (Moderating his indignation.) I mean,
with anything
ordinarily to be stigmatized — I would say characterized as
'Religious.'

UPPIE
No Cant from me, Sir! — And if she do be better —

GODWIN
(severely)
There is no need at any time. Your mistress's ... religion ... is a matter of
her daily life and character; in all her days. ... It has nothing to do with
super — with fear or weakness. She is stronger than all of us. — Do
you follow me, Uppie?

UPPIE
No, Sir. — But when your lady is well again, Sir, she'll explain it
to
me.

GODWIN
(going, and turning back)
And here is Tom, Mr. Opie's boy. (TOM, who has just seen the cradle is
staring
at it openmouthed.) You know him. ... Let him lend a hand, till I return.
— Yes, Tom, we are doing very well. — I was going to see Opie
myself;
was I not? That was it. — God bless you, Tom. — To use a vulgar
expression. —
(Reënter, right, MR. CARLISLE. He sees GODWIN'S shattered
state of mind, and takes him by the arm, gently.)

CARLISLE
Come, Mr. Godwin. A walk will do you worlds of good. I'll meet you below.
(Puts him out of the door, right, and turns back to UPPIE.) Remember; it
is
best that you all take what rest you can, after this strain. Our patient is
worried, to-day, over the care you are taking. Don't let her know of the body-
guard in the house. ... Above all, boy, don't wake the baby! (Exit.)

UPPIE
(to TOM, tartly)
Did you never see a cradle before, Boy?

TOM
Not since I'm living with Mr. Opie. ... Us had un at home; always. ... So
that's
what it is.

UPPIE
What It is! ... And a beautiful dove, too. A perfect young Lady. More
than one
week old. Not like her mother, as I can see. Fair hair and blue eyes. ... But w
e
never can know what we will be.
(Vaguely cerebrating after OPHELIA. Motions for silence suddenly,
listening towards the bedroom door.)

MARY'S voice
(within)
Uppie ... Uppie ...
(UPPIE hastily goes into the bedroom, and returns in a moment, holding
the doors shut behind her, and communing with herself, to TOM'S
open-mouthed
agitation.)

UPPIE
'They run to and fro, and are at their wits' end.' ... Wait ... let me
think. ... Are the doctors gone?

TOM
Yes'm.

UPPIE
'They mount up to heaven, they go down again to the depths; their soul is
melted because of trouble.' ... The sunlight is here. She wants to be out of

that room. I must take it on myself. ... And I will. She's that much heartier
to-day. ... Thank God. (She opens the door.) Thank God! (More loudly.)

MARY'S voice
Why, is that Tom? ... Opie's Tom? ...

UPPIE
(on the threshold)
Don't be calling, my dearie. Yes, it is Tom; and he will help us. — I am
coming.
(She reënters with an armful of pillows, moves the sofa a bit and
opens a screen behind it to keep off any draught. TOM follows her, awe-
struck, to the bedchamber.
They return carrying MARY on their crossed hands. Her arms are round
their necks, and she is smiling faintly. Her hair is loosely tied in her neck,

in girlish fashion; she is wrapped in a bed-gown of pale color. They lay her
with great care against the cushions of the sofa, her back towards her bedroom

door; and spread a coverlet over her.)

MARY
(smiling back at them as one refreshed)
How good to be here again ... out of that room! ... And roses. ... Who sent
them?

UPPIE
Roses everywhere, — upstairs and down. Mr. Opie sent these. ... You could

not have so many in your own room, dear. (As if she were talking to a
child.) You shall rest awhile with these, quite by yourself and no one else.

(Looking at TOM.) And there's the sun. ...

MARY
And ... and is there any message from Amelia?

UPPIE
The poor lamb is in Norwich. She doesn't know you've been sore ill.

MARY
Mrs. Inchbald? ... But ... no. — Mrs. Siddons? ...

UPPIE
No more words, my dearie. Sleep, if you can. Sleep, now.

MARY
(pointing to the cradle)
Oh, she is here? (Eagerly.)

UPPIE
Don't go on about her, dearie, or I shall have to take her away again.

MARY
No, no! — Oh, not while we are so quiet. Let me have her nearer. ...
We'll
both sleep, then ... maybe. — I'll be good. (They move the cradle near
her; and lift the veil from it: she looks.) Fast asleep. ...
(Waves her hand: and nestles back obediently. Her eyes close. UPPIE
looks at her closely; then signs to TOM and touches her lips. She
whispers
in TOM'S ear and points to corridor-door, right. Exit TOM. UPPIE
withdraws by the upper door, left. MARY opens her eyes, and,
turning her
head with little motion, sees that she is alone. She reaches out
and stirs the
cradle very softly; gathers strength, parts the curtains, and reaches her
outstretched hand within; showing her great weakness.)

MARY
(as if she expected an answer)
My girl-child? ... I believe we are defeated, after all. —
Defeat. ... This
heaviness ... this is defeat. ... My girl-child ... what will you be? ...
Something solitary? Be Something for us ... be something ... steadfast. ...
(Reënter UPPIE, watchfully)

UPPIE
Dearie, what is this talking?

MARY
I'm talking to my daughter, Uppie.

UPPIE
But you mustn't be talking to your daughter. Let me take her with me. She's
sleeping soundly. Yes, I'll move her into the next room. ... Do you rest quiet

now.
(She moves out the little cradle, left; returns, pours out a glass of
wine and gives it to MARY, who drinks a mouthful with listless obedience;
then reaches her arms out, as far as she can, towards the windows.)

MARY
(a little troubled)
I cannot dip my hands in the sun. — The days are grown much shorter,
Uppie.
(Her eyes close again.)

UPPIE
It's September, you see, my dearie: — ma'am. — Mid-September,
autumn
like. I'll open one. ...
(Goes to the window. Pauses, with her hand on the casement, and
looks out
with interest. — Thrusts her head out and concentrates her gaze
on some one
below. — Looks back at MARY who does not notice her. — Listens a

moment: — then moves towards the door, right, just as TOM opens it
from
outside.)

TOM
(on the threshold, to UPPIE)
What be I to do? ... It's a gentleman wants to see her ... Mrs. Godwin ...
that's all he said. 'I've come to see Mrs. Godwin.' ... Looks to be a kind of
clergyman ... Dissenting; by his Hat. ... Something like a Quaker, you might
call it.

UPPIE
(with solemn triumph)
The Lord be praised! A man of God. ... 'T is His own doing; and none of mine.
Bid him come in, softly; not to wake Mr. Montague there in the drawing-room.
— Bid him come up. — Don't 'ee be giving this word to any other
living
creature. (Exit TOM.) Some one must have sent for him. A man of God.
(Settles MARY'S coverlet; sets a chair facing her, towards the centr
e
of the room. — Advances towards the corridor-door as SYMES enters. He

halts, once inside the room, and listens in evident bewilderment as she speaks

to him, with an eager respect, looking intently at him. His dress is markedly
severe; he turns — with some nervousness — a Quaker hat in his
hands.)

UPPIE
(softly)
Will it please you step in, Sir. ... I'm sure she will be very much cheered to

see you, Sir; very much cheered.
(With some agitation, she moves the chair towards him, and then
hurriedly
makes her exit up, closing the door after her.
MARY, startled by the sudden action of all this, opens her eyes widely.

As she recognizes SYMES, she sits higher against the cushions; and a
moment's shock of surprise comes into her face.
SYMES' eyes rest upon her; and a similar shock comes into his own fixed

gaze: — amazement, realization, grief. — A look of humility comes
over MARY; she sinks back against the cushions, and spreads her hands out
with a gesture of meekness, looking back at him. When she speaks, it is with a

strain of stoicism and growing strength in her voice.
SYMES makes a sudden movement towards her, convention melting under the

stress of his feeling.)

SYMES
(almost indignantly)
What does this mean?

MARY
(shaking her head slowly)
Mr. Symes. — Do not be disturbed.

SYMES
I was told to come upstairs. ... I had no idea of this. ... Can you forgive
it?
You are ill. — No one told me.

MARY
(smiling)
They thought the whole world must know ... the whole of our little
distress. ...
Perhaps ... my Uppie ... thought. ...

SYMES
Shall I call her?

MARY
(more firmly)
No. — I see now, what she thought. ... I beg you, stay. ...
You have taken
orders, Mr. Symes?

SYMES
(looking vaguely at his hat)
No ... not exactly. — But (with passionate concern) ... I can see you

have been very ill.
(He approaches and sits down near her.)

MARY
Yes ... Let us talk together a little. Words of understanding, — are they

not the most precious of all ministrations? She took you (smiling) for a
man
of some Church; and it seemed well to her that you should be here. ... Do not
let that distress you. For I wish to talk. — And how strangely we seem to

meet, at long intervals; and at moments that make us see, in the midst of
noise,
or of stillness, — how fast the Earth is journeying round the Sun. ...
(He looks back at her immovably, rapt in her face and her words.) I think
there is a destiny in it. For the first time, to-day, I have been left alone.
(She looks towards the table: he rises, pours out more wine and brings it to

her. She drinks of it, like a child, and he sets back the glass and sits
again,
still watching her.) Pray be at ease. I have come back but newly from the
doors ... of birth and death. Should not that make us simple? And one
can look
both ways, for a time ... (Laughs faintly.) The doors are both ... open.
(SYMES puts by his hat on the table; and stands, looking back at
her.) ... I
thought ... the Friends ... as the Americans call them, did not
take off their
hats to monarchs or to magistrates, friend Symes; or yet to women.
(He resumes his seat, smiling. Youth emerges from his
formal manner, as
her spell lays hold of him. But he listens always with
passionate intentness and
a certain strength of cheer, regardful of her feebleness.)

SYMES
I am not yet a Quaker; but always a Friend, Mary Wollstonecraft. You gave me
that title. I have been trying to widen my mind to hold the meaning it might
have. So, with your help, I am finding ... my religion.

MARY
My help? Oh, say all. You strengthen me, more than that wine.
(She pushes herself higher against the pillows.)

SYMES
Ought I to speak with you? You are too gentle to say Go. ... And yet, I know,
you lover of the truth, — and so compassionate, you must be happier ...
for
words spoken from that brink of birth and ... God forbid it —

MARY
(tranquilly)
Death.

SYMES
Dare I ask —

MARY
My child is living. ... She is well.

SYMES
(simply)
I have never come so near to these mysteries.

MARY
Nor I ... before. These depths, friend, that I know now, have taken me to the
uttermost, under the world. — Why do I talk so to you? ... I know.

SYMES
Because we are almost strangers. No. ... You are the friend I meet only on the

edge of a cloud; where searchers find out simpleness and things abiding; where

there is neither 'marrying nor giving in marriage' ... (smiling wanly).

MARY
(smiling back with sudden confidence)
It is so. — And neighbor, I may not ask them here, — I've tried
their souls so far — with all this watching. ... Is this Defeat?

SYMES
(warmly)
Defeat?

MARY
This irony: — that I, who tried to burn my own heart as a little
rush-light
for the truth, — that I must go out ... empty-handed, and that light ...
despised?

SYMES
Despised?

MARY
And leave all undone; again, again: blank. — For those little unknowing,
helpless hands of my child? And I cannot even tell her, poor newborn, the
bitter
wisdom from my simpleness! ... It's all so simple. ... He does not yet know
that.

SYMES
He?

MARY
(simply)
Godwin. ... So tender, now. Yet he knows nothing of the source of that
tenderness. Oh, if one rose from the dead, yet would he not believe. It
is too
simple! — But hearken, you new friend. I'm thankful for the more that I
have learned. I tried, you see, to fill my little life with what I
thought full
measure of truth and love. ... But when we call on truth, it
over-runs, —
it over-fills, — it overwhelms; it is so much greater
than we understand.
It poured on me; and I was only human. — As I told
you once, I plunged to
the very deep ... of despair. I thought that was death.

SYMES
Do not think of that.

MARY
Out of that pitiful life, I died, truly. ... But when I crept about again, a
humbler spirit, I was much younger; and meeker; more a little child.

SYMES
(gently)
Strange hero; always with the heart of a child for innocence of this terrible
world.

MARY
(shaking her head slowly)
Even the New World, as we called it once ... is no new world. — This is
my
trouble. Keep it for me, friend. You know when people ... are ill and ...
very
weak, sometimes they say true things, much truer; and the others think it is
only their weakness speaking. ... Will he think that? — Godwin? ...
This is
all so late. ... Must I be only a defeated woman-thing? After all? — A
woman-voice crying in the wilderness? — Dead ... of her
woman-child? —
(Leans back suddenly, exhausted.)

SYMES
(rising, and speaking strongly to her)
You? Oh, never dream such words. This is the edge of a
cloud. And I see you as a
soul in the vanguard of all souls that strive after
light and liberty. We have
not reached them yet; — nor in poor France; nor in the New World over
there, be sure! But you, you lead me now; can you
not feel it? You have opened a
way before me, more than I ever dreamed one soul could show another, you,
solitary woman; a way, and a strength. — I may tell you now, in
forthright
words. I saw you first with man's eyes; man's love, it may be. But I did not
understand that love; I had no words to tell it. I desired to
shelter you; whose
Beauty sheltered me. — I lost you; and I followed, and
could not turn away.
And losing you, I followed that wistful flame in your eyes that followed
Something. — I lost you in human grief when the waves went over you. I
could hardly bear it that my pioneer was spent and torn in briary ways of
hardship. Still she went on before me, unconquerable,
through griefs men cannot
know, all herself, and only herself, and her sacrifices. She led me out of
myself ... out of my small contents ... out of my low dwelling.

MARY
A pioneer?

SYMES
A torch; forever. ... Yes, we do learn more than we
would; we have more than we
ask. We knock, and dare not enter. Because there opens before us —

MARY
Life, — forever going on; and we — so little and so young! ... You
comfort me. ... These were good human words, such
as I have dreamed there should
be, between men and women, and all toil-worn creatures breaking their bread
together. ... You must go?

SYMES
I bless your tender mercy. — They would be vexed indeed, I fear, if they
knew.

MARY
(meekly)
Yes.
(A streak of sunlight reaches, lower and farther, from the casement
window. SYMES sees it, and in response to her unuttered wish, goes up and
opens the window to let in more.)

SYMES
But again, when you are stronger.

MARY
Go, dear friend. ... You have given me new heart.

SYMES
I?

MARY
For the high adventure. — Heart to journey through ... alone.
(SYMES, coming down towards her, folds back the screen so that the
light
may reach her as she wishes, bringing into view, nearly, a small stand
with the
hour-glass upon it. Neither observes it. She reaches out her hand to him; and
with an effort to conceal his emotion, he comes close and bends his forehead
upon it for a moment; then lays it back upon the other.)

SYMES
Beautiful hand, stay by the other, close; till she be strong. (He turns to
the
door right.)

MARY
They bless you, both. — (Exit SYMES.)
Ah, sunset! —
(Turning, restlessly, she sees the hour-glass. — She regards it
for
a moment and then takes it in her hands and looks at it stoically. —
Below,
in the street, there is the sound of fiddle and harp, suddenly, in
preliminary
strain, as of the street-singers in Act II. — She looks up
and listens. A
mellow voice sings:

'Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine. ...
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine.'

She struggles to sit up; and reaches the hourglass back
upon the stand;
so that the sand trickles; — and as the song goes on, she stretches out he
r
hands, both, into the long sun-ray that touches her, just before it goes out.

'The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Love's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.'

The song stops and the players move on. The bedroom door opens and
UPPIE reënters hastily, agitated.)

UPPIE
(drawing near to look closely at her, sees her lying back with closed
eyes)
Ah! ... Say you're not worse, dearie! Say you're not worse! I must have gone
asleep. ... I shouldn't have let you have your own way. But ... no; it
was not
wrong. It was not wrong. — Boy! (TOM appears in the doorway.) Quick, t
o
her bed. ... Before Mr. Godwin comes. ... He's very long away.

MARY
(opening her eyes and repeating)
He is ... very long ... away.
(The two fold her robe about her, lift her tenderly from the couch, and

carry her into the bedroom. A second later, her voice is heard murmuring
deliriously — 'Cold — cold — cold' ...
Enter GODWIN from the corridor, freshened with outer air. He
enters,
throws off his coat, and looks about, responding suddenly to some
change in the
room.)

GODWIN
Mary! — They moved you ... (Agitated.) Why are there no
candles? Uppie,
Uppie! —
(UPPIE reënters with a candle from which she lights
two or three.
GODWIN watches her, with a childlike awe; he sees the
cushions, the couch, the
flowers, and unconsciously follows UPPIE as she
lights, last of all, a tall
candle on the stand beside the hourglass. — He points to it, and says in a

high, excited voice —)
Who turned the glass? Who turned the glass? (As UPPIE stands austerely
silent and brushes away the tears from her eyes, he makes a gesture of
penitence, standing by the couch.) Oh, I ... I am foolish. ... Uppie ...
(timidly.) (UPPIE turns.) Uppie ... Elizabeth. Tell me, — before
I
see her. What do you truly think of your mistress? ... How is she, Uppie?
What
do you think?

UPPIE
(controlling her grief)
She's going fast, Sir ... She's going ...

GODWIN
(with a cry between rage and anguish)
Ah, — no, no! —
(He clenches the hour-glass at arm's length for an instant,
regarding it
with superstitious hatred — dashes it violently on the
ground; and covers
his face with his two hands.)

UPPIE
(straightening her apron like a rustic Fate, looks at him with woe and pity,

as he stands. Then she speaks with inflexible resignation)
That can do no help, Sir. We can't measure things like that; and we can't
destroy them if we would. Not Time, nor Life, nor Death. — They go on,
Sir.

CURTAIN

Epilogue

A late July afternoon, 1814.

Scene: MR. WILLIAM GODWIN'S Study, in Skinner Street. — It is a
large
room, subdued in color, with a softened shabbiness; and books everywhere. At
back, centre, a fireplace and mantel. Over this, the portrait of Mary
Wollstonecraft. To right and left of the fireplace, doors; the one to
the right
opening on an outer corridor. Down, to the left, an inner door.
— Windows
to the left, with curtains half-drawn, letting in a low summer light. Down,
right, the same long couch seen in Act III. Left, near the windows, a large
table strewn with papers, and a scrap-basket full of them to
overflowing; some
on the floor.
There is a knock at the outer door; then a pause. The door opens slowly.
Enter MARY GODWIN, with resolute dignity, followed by
SHELLEY, whose air
is similarly firm, but calmer. He is a tall, radiant looking youth, with
roughish, upstanding hair and luminous eyes. His hat is in his hands, and he
looks before him clearly into the room, over MARY'S head.
MARY is a very fair girl of sixteen; pale and tense at present, and wholly
unconscious of her youth. They enter, one at a time, and close the door.

SHELLEY
(decisively)
He is not in the house.

MARY
He is never in the house for me, these late days. I was foolish to be
frightened. ... But if you had seen him yesterday ...

SHELLEY
Mary, I saw him just three days ago. ... This means the end. For us, the
Beginning. Take it as an answer, if you still need any beyond what your own
heart tells you. (Ardently.) I do not. (She looks up at him with
worship.) You have tried to write him.

MARY
To write him! ... (She comes down towards the
scrap-basket and points to the
strewings there, looking closely.) Percy! ... He will not read a word.

SHELLEY
It is a vision of parental tyranny at its worst. He will no longer speak with
me. And what more have we to ask? ... We love each other. That is our answer
to
the rest of Life! Your father is no longer capable of living up to his own
teachings, my Life. — You see that. (She nods assent.) His close,
personal point of view has blinded him to the doctrines he was born to teach ..
.
and we were born to uphold! But we two together, we will be true to them till
he
shall return to himself. Don't be so grieved, my dearest one. In time, he
will
come to know us, as we know ourselves.

MARY
Oh, if I could hope that!

SHELLEY
Believe it, Darling. Must I remind you of your own father's teachings?
... Yes,
... (resolutely) for I am still his faithful disciple, though he
be absent
from himself. It is unthinkable today, he is the same man who wrote, without
blenching, 'Marriage is law, and the worst of all laws' ... he who could
fail so utterly to understand me when I told him our resolve. ... But think
lovingly of him; and I will try to do so, Mary. He has taught us
better than he
knows. I'll go now, and leave you these last few hours. —
Be firm, my Soul.
— I trust you. (She looks at him glowingly.) ... Give him all your
thoughts, this little while. Write him, if you will, that I,
— I love him
too. He is your Father! For to-day. — But to-morrow, Mary!

MARY
To-morrow!

SHELLEY
Will be all ... all ours! ... We have a world to save.
— And you ... have
me.
(Exit, by the outer door. They exchange one look, of breathless
expectancy.
Once alone, MARY slips off her wide hat with sudden relief. —
While she does so, the upper left-hand door opens, to admit UPPIE; an
older UPPIE, a trifle formal in her dress, and very melancholy. MARY
throws her hat on the couch; following it, carefully, with her armful of
books, folding some green leaves in their pages. She
runs her fingers over her
hair with a deep sigh; and turns to catch sight of UPPIE'S watchful silence
.
— Her start of surprise shows her overwrought state of mind and body.)

MARY
Uppie! ... Why didn't you speak?

UPPIE
(coming down, her eyes still mournfully fixed on MARY)
Miss Mary ... You're wearied out.

MARY
(about to deny it, but giving in to UPPIE'S gentleness)
Oh ... Yes, you are right. I think I must be. But it's stifling here. How can
you keep the room so dark this day?

UPPIE
'T is the worst day of July that's been down on London these twenty years, the

paper'll be saying; and cooler with the curtains drawn. ... You look fair
dizzied with it, Miss Mary. I wonder ... I really do ... at you going off such
a
length ... to walk ... (searchingly).

MARY
(quickly)
'T was only to St. Pancras ... you know why; the churchyard is full of shade.
(She looks up at her mother's portrait. UPPIE'S gaze follows hers.
She takes a step nearer to the girl's small drawn-up figure, and her voice
softens further. — She smoothes a frill of MARY'S fichu with the
speechless familiarity of devotion and says, doggedly:)

UPPIE
In the simmering heat! ... You look all of a fever; ... a slow fever
(solemnly) and I suppose it will be that same Mr. Shelley kept you there
...
talking hour on hour. (Half to herself, sincerely.) 'Save and deliver me ou
t
of the hand of strange children, whose mouth talketh vanity; — and their
right hand —'
(MARY with sudden playfulness puts her hand over UPPIE'S mouth;
then
kisses her forehead.)

MARY
(as if confidence were a forbidden delight)
Mr. Shelley ... loves the Sun!

UPPIE
(drily)
Perhaps that's what ails him ... I've heard of such: people losing their wits
with staying too much in it: ... and going round without a hat, too. (MARY
laughs.) He's no right, nor any man, to keep young heads a-simmering
'longside of him such an afternoon, in or out of any churchyard.
(Turns and peers inquiringly at the portrait as if for approval.)

MARY
Oh, Uppie, ... Mr. Shelley is a genius; a very great man. —

UPPIE
(with sudden ire)
A great man! Him, a long-legged boy, twenty years old! —

MARY
(with dignity)
Twenty-two years old. ... And he has had terrible, bitter experience (with
awe
and pity) in that short life.

UPPIE
(searchingly)
His wife, you mean.

MARY
(nodding candidly)
We must not speak of it, Uppie.

UPPIE
Men don't have to live long for such bitter experiences; — nor to leave 'e
m
all behind.

MARY
(with sudden fire)
Oh, Uppie! Uppie! ... Is it not enough that my father should so disown his own

teachings, his own Disciple ... for Mr. Shelley is one ... that was how we met

him! — That he should suddenly turn so intractably cold-hearted; deaf to
reason; blind to all the ... the great principles we were reared upon! ...

But ...
(UPPIE softens and folds her arms around the girl; looking over her
nestling head, with a vain appeal to the portrait.)

UPPIE
Your cheeks are burning. You aren't yourself, ... my lamb. I'll make you some
tea. (MARY shakes her head.) No? — Rest you here, then. ... I wish
Miss
Fanny were home. — Your father's out.

MARY
(suddenly)
Of course he's out! ... How he does behave lately, Uppie. Like a ... like a
cross lost child. Whatever I do ... or try to say. But it's I that am the
lost
child, Uppie. Oh, you can see. It's too bad for you to wait on me: you,
here for
just that little city visit. You should be resting. —
(They come down, together.)

UPPIE
It's sore-hearted I am to be going home and leave you here. But, so as
I value
God's word, my lamb, I never could please (in a loud whisper) ... the
present Mrs. Godwin.

MARY
Nor can I. — You see that.

UPPIE
(comfortingly)
I see that. ... But look back now ... to your own mother, your own mother, as
Mr. Opie, God rest his soul! — painted her.

MARY
Oh, I've been looking and listening, Uppie. ... Forgive me, I can't talk now.
My
head aches so.

UPPIE
Rest you here, (pointing to the couch) — just here where I've seen
herself, many's the time.
(As she goes to draw the curtains, MARY touches the cushions with
a
childish affection, and takes her place on the couch.)

MARY
(with a burst of longing)
Oh, you talk to me about her, Uppie. Just about her ... I'm so
mothersick.
— Yes, tell me the very end, again.

UPPIE
(firmly lifting MARY'S two little feet upon the sofa, and
sitting beside
her, and smoothing her forehead)
And I, telling you more than ever I should! ... Well, so, my
lamb. — (God
be our help.) We had taken you and your cradle out of the
room; and we left her
to sleep a bit, quite alone. For there was little care on most of us, those few

small hours. ... (She looks at MARY, and goes on in a lower voice, as
she
strokes her hand regularly.) ... Little care, for those few hours. Sixteen
years ago; only Sixteen. ... Ah, the fine little child you were. ... But
just as
your father came in again, I heard her say those words we were in dread
of. ...
'Cold ... cold,' and that was the beginning of the end. ... Then, 'Uppie,' he
says to me ... the poor man. ... (She looks closely at MARY'S face.
MARY
is asleep.) Poor lamb! —
(She softly withdraws to the window, draws the curtains close to
darken
the room; and goes out, with a backward look.
A last thread of sunlight touches the portrait of MARY over the
fireplace; crosses the canvas and moves down the dark room towards her
sleeping
Daughter. The portrait is left dim.
Behind the couch the faint ray of light defines the Appearance, —
shining with grace and a beauty of strange youth, younger than the portrait
— of Mary Wollstonecraft, smiling upon her child. — She wears the
dress that OPIE has painted; and the same soft binding on her hair. The
Daughter, in her sleep, sits up, slowly and with wide-open eyes, to
look at her;
in wonder, incredulity, quick comfort. Their faces light with unspeakable
tenderness. When MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT speaks, it is in a voice of youth
without a cloud; tranquil to ecstasy.)

DAUGHTER
Mother! ... Mother! ... (MARY'S look replies with radiance.) Mother! ...
Where were you? Why did you never answer?

MARY
Do you hear me at last ... my own?

DAUGHTER
All these days that I have been praying to you, ... Mother,
where were you?

MARY
You did not hear me, Child.

DAUGHTER
Not hear you! ... Beside your grave, Mother. My cheek upon your grave!

MARY
I cannot remember my grave, dear one. I am not there, ever.

DAUGHTER
I knew ... you could not answer. ... But, oh!
I prayed to you ... to know ... the right.

MARY
We are not all-wise, my darling. We grow, and grow. We are all
so young in this
world; much younger than we ever dreamed ourselves. All living things grow on:

in life and youth.

DAUGHTER
And ... Love ... lasts forever?

MARY
Love lasts forever.

DAUGHTER
(like a rapturous child)
I was sure! ... But ... Mother ...

MARY
Love changes; as we change.

DAUGHTER
(with dread in her voice)
Love changes?

MARY
As we change; and grow. — Is my love for you ... changed?

DAUGHTER
(comforted)
No! No!

MARY
(playfully)
Or yours, for me?

DAUGHTER
It grows, — it grows!

MARY
I bathe in it; I shine with it; we shine upon each other. It is our one clear
speech and understanding. — The one all souls would have. ... You are
troubled yet, my Darling?

DAUGHTER
Am I? ... Yes, yes. Surely you know all? ... It is ... Shelley, Mother.

MARY
Who is Shelley?

DAUGHTER
Mother, not know him! ... How can that be? Dearest, he worships you.

MARY
So close, you say? ... (serenely) And I see only you. ... It is some one
you
love.

DAUGHTER
(simply)
Yes. ... And yet ... How can Love ... change?

MARY
Love may be lost. ...

DAUGHTER
(with a shade of dismay)
Lost? ...

MARY
Lost ... in a deeper Love. And the way may lead through bitter grief in that
world; only, we cannot feel the bitterness again, once we are grown. Love
fills
us with new understanding. Love cannot be all contained in one small human
heart. Sometimes it breaks that heart, — to overflow.

DAUGHTER
Oh, Mother, is that the answer?

MARY
We are the answer; we ourselves; and Life in us, that grows.

DAUGHTER
I am strong again; I am strong! ... Only one word. —

MARY
(fading a little)
— And Joy is never lost; save in a greater joy. —

DAUGHTER
Oh, what a word I have to tell them now! — Would they believe it?

MARY
(smiling)
Dream can grow small again. You will forget.

DAUGHTER
No, I will be your torch-bearer! — It is the world forgets. ... It even
forgets you, Mother. Do you know? Do you care?

MARY
(happily; and brightening)
I, too, was blindfold once, blindfold with time!

DAUGHTER
(reaching out her arms)
Breathe on me! Fold me in! — To think I sprang from you!

MARY
Beloved ... You are happy now?

DAUGHTER
So happy!

MARY
(She seems to be going, with a constant backward look)
And be strong. —

DAUGHTER
One question ... Mother ... wait! ... I feel it beating. ...

MARY
We shall be young together, you and I.

(A door outside bangs heavily. The light and the vision are gone in
darkness for a moment. ... When the room emerges into its twilight,
MARY is
seen lying asleep as at first. — She opens her eyes, sits up bewildered,
and puts the hair back from her forehead. She looks refreshed; but mindless of

the dream.
Reënter UPPIE, cautiously. She comes down. — MARY
rises.)

UPPIE
You'd better run upstairs and freshen yourself, Miss Mary. — Your
father's
back, earlier ...

MARY
Yes. (Gathers up her hat and the books beside her.) ... You were right,
dear. I've been asleep, I think. I feel much cheerier; much stronger. And one
thing, I promise you. Father shall read the next letter I write him, Uppie:
yes,
even if he hunts up the pieces, to put them together again!
(Points across at the scrap-basket, and goes towards the door, down,
left. — UPPIE looks vengefully at the scrap-basket. — MARY
stopping suddenly for a backward look, sets down her belongings on the
nearest
table; and running like a child to UPPIE, throws her arms around her and
clings to her for an instant; then hurriedly catches up her armful again. She
goes out by the door, down, left, just as WILLIAM GODWIN enters, from the
street, hat in hand. — He is now a man of middle-age, distinguished-
looking, but of coldish mien; his hair is fully gray.
He walks in with an air of severe abstraction; comes down to the table by

the window, and mail in hand, opens the letters, as if his mind were
elsewhere.
Most of them he tears through, once or twice, and adds contemptuously to the
débris in the waste-basket, giving scant attention to UPPIE when she
speaks with him.
UPPIE observes him with cold heaviness of manner, standing immovably
for
a moment. Then she speaks.)

UPPIE
If I may make so bold, Mr. Godwin ... I was wishing to tell you, Sir ...
without
seeming to interfere. In clearing up Miss Mary's writingtable ... in her room,

Sir, this noon ...
(GODWIN'S attention is caught, in spite of his efforts to discard
her.)

GODWIN
(with a note of exasperation)
Yes, Elizabeth?

UPPIE
I never presume, Sir ...

GODWIN
Certainly not. What did you ... what was ...

UPPIE
Oh, very gratifying to you, Sir, I'm sure, — I couldn't help
noticing. ...
There was such a heap of papers torn in two, Sir, and I had to take them up;
— they were all beginnings to yourself, Sir. (GODWIN turns to stone with

stubborn disapproval.) 'My dear Father,' and ... and 'Dearest Father' ...
and
then, that was all, Sir, ... (coaxingly) 'Father dearest.' ...

GODWIN
Not communicating any striking fact, Elizabeth, save to intricate observation.

UPPIE
I couldn't help thinking, Sir, although I never do ... that for a young lady
to
sit up all night ... beginning letters to her own father ... and him in his
own
house, along with his own daughter; it might be something was on her mind,
Sir.
... It will hardly be for practice, Sir. Miss Mary's handwriting was always
—
(GODWIN utters an inarticulate expression of impatience, and
resumes his
destruction of the mail.)

GODWIN
Whatever it is about, Elizabeth, I shall unquestionably learn in
due time. (As
she lingers in evident concern) However, I thank you. I am glad to hear it.
Miss Mary has at times seemed to me unduly impulsive. This indicates that she
is
now moved to subject her impulses to a rational examination by communicating
them to paper ... for my counsel. ... I thank you, Elizabeth. ... (Spending
his wrath on a few more pamphlets, he adds between his teeth) I think I have

told you several times, you need not save for me any of these ... Tracts. My
mail is cumbersome enough.

UPPIE
Tracts, Sir?

GODWIN
Sermons, pamphlets, tracts. (Holding up a paper and reading its title with
biting scorn.) 'LOVE DIVINE: Our Fountain of Youth.' ... Symes!

UPPIE
(bewildered)
Symes? ... (coming forward) Symes! Let me look, Sir.

GODWIN
(irritably)
Symes. — The name is nothing. Look at the title. — 'LOVE DIVINE: ...

Our Fountain of Youth!' — (Tears it up. — As she moves heavily
away,
he looks after her with some compunction.) I shall be going out again,
presently, Uppie. ... If you will be good enough to clear away these waste
papers then, I ... thank you, Uppie.
(She goes out.)
GODWIN, following her steps, pauses before the portrait of Mary
Wollstonecraft, raising his hands, clinched with intense feeling, for a
moment,
towards her averted gaze. —

GODWIN
Ah, ... Mary! ... If you could only tell me. If you were only ...
Anywhere. If I
could only be the fool my heart is. — If I might only come
to that mirage,
— and we be young, together!
(He picks up his hat again and goes out. Reënter UPPIE. She
comes down mechanically towards the scrap-basket, murmuring.)

UPPIE
'Waste-papers,' says he. ... And 'waste men,' say I.
(She stoops to pick up from the floor various strewings
from GODWIN'S
hasty hand, shaking her head, and quoting solemnly,
'And some ... fell by the wayside.'
Exit UPPIE carrying the scrap-basket, heavily.
Reënter softly, by the lower door, MARY. Her hat and mantle are
hanging on her arm. She holds against her bosom a letter, and hovers a moment
above her father's table with it; then changes her mind.
Turning towards her Mother's portrait, she goes up slowly, closer and
closer to it, clasping the letter. She lifts her face wistfully an instant;
then
she pushes before the fireplace a low ottoman, and mounts it. She spreads her
arms wide, to the sides of the frame, lays her cheek against the canvas, and
kisses it. — Then she steps down, looking back.)

MARY
Darling, ... Good-bye.

CURTAIN

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