Chapter 9 No.9

The Parlour of a Public House. Two young men, MORRIS and HAMISH.

Hamish.

Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk,

Or drink, at least.

Morris.

I'm wondering about Love.

Hamish. Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?

Morris.

I'm not in love; but altogether posed

I am by lovers.

Hamish. They're a simple folk: I'm one.

Morris.

It's you I'm mainly thinking of.

Hamish. Why, that's an honour, surely.

Morris.

Now if I loved

The girl you love, your Jean, (look where she goes

Waiting on drinkers, hearing their loose tongues;

And yet her clean thought takes no more of soil

Than white-hot steel laid among dust can take!)-

Hamish. You not in love, and talking this fine stuff?

Morris.

I say, if I loved Jean, I'ld do without

All these vile pleasures of the flesh, your mind

Seems running on for ever: I would think

A thought that was always tasting them would make

The fire a foul thing in me, as the flame

Of burning wood, which has a rare sweet smell,

Is turned to bitter stink when it scorches flesh.

Hamish. Why specially Jean?

Morris.

Why Jean? The girl's all spirit!

Hamish.

She's a lithe burd, it's true; that, I suppose,

Is why you think her made of spirit,-unless

You've seen her angry: she has a blazing temper.-

But what's a girl's beauty meant for, but to rouse

Lust in a man? And where's the harm in that,-

In loving her because she's beautiful,

And in the way that drives me?-I dare say

My spirit loves her too. But if it does

I don't know what it loves.

Morris.

Why, man, her beauty

Is but the visible manners of her spirit;

And this you go to love by the filthy road

Which all the paws and hoofs in the world tread too!

God! And it's Jean whose lover runs with the herd

Of grunting, howling, barking lovers,-Jean!-

Hamish.

O spirit, spirit, spirit! What is spirit?

I know I've got a body, and it loves:

But who can tell me what my spirit's doing,

Or even if I have one?

Morris.

Well, it's strange,

My God, it's strange. A girl goes through the world

Like a white sail over the sea, a being

Woven so fine and lissom that her life

Is but the urging spirit on its journey,

And held by her in shape and attitude.

And all she's here for is that you may clutch

Her spirit in the love of a mating beast!

Hamish.

Why, she has fifty lovers if she has one,

And fifty's few for her.

Morris.

I'm going out.

If the night does me good, I'll come back here

Maybe, and walk home with you.

Hamish.

O don't bother.

If I want spirit, it will be for drinking.

[MORRIS goes out.

Spirit or no, drinking's better than talking.

Who was the sickly fellow to invent

That crazy notion spirit, now, I wonder?

But who'd have thought a burly lout like Morris

Would join the brabble? Sure he'll have in him

A pint more blood than I have; and he's all

For loving girls with words, three yards away!

JEAN comes in.

Jean. Alone, my boy? Who was your handsome friend?

Hamish. Whoever he was he's gone. But I'm still here.

Jean. O yes, you're here; you're always here.

Hamish. Of course, And you know why.

Jean.

Do I? I've forgotten.

Hamish. Jean, how can you say that? O how can you?

Jean. Now don't begin to pity yourself, please.

Hamish.

Ah, I am learning now; it's truth they talk.

You would undo the skill of a spider's web

And take the inches of it in one line,

More easily than know a woman's thought.

I'm ugly on a sudden?

Jean.

The queer thing

About you men is that you will have women

Love in the way you do. But now learn this;

We don't love fellows for their skins; we want

Something to wonder at in the way they love.

A chap may be as rough as brick, if you like,

Yes, or a mannikin and grow a tail,-

If he's the spunk in him to love a girl

Mainly and heartily, he's the man for her.-

My soul, I've done with all you pretty men;

I want to stand in a thing as big as a wind;

And I can only get your paper fans!

Hamish.

You've done with me? You wicked Jean! You'll dare

To throw me off like this? After you've made,

O, made my whole heart love you?

Jean.

You are no good.

Your friend, now, seems a likely man; but you?-

I thought you were a torch; and you're a squib.

Hamish. Not love you enough? Death, I'll show you then.

Jean.

Hands off, Hamish. There's smoke in you, I know,

And splutter too. Hands off, I say.

Hamish. By God Tell me to-morrow there's no force in me!

Jean.

Leave go, you little beast, you're hurting me:

I never thought you'ld be so strong as this.

Let go, or I'll bite; I mean it. You young fool,

I'm not for you. Take off your hands. O help!

[MORRIS has come in unseen and rushes forward.

Morris.

You beast! You filthy villainous fellow!-Now,

I hope I've hurt the hellish brain in you.

Take yourself off. You'll need a nurse to-night.

[HAMISH slinks out.

Poor girl! And are you sprained at all? That ruffian!

Jean.

O sir, how can I thank you? You don't know

What we poor serving girls must put up with.

We don't hear many voices like yours, sir.

They think, because we serve, we've no more right

To feelings than their cattle. O forgive me

Talking to you. You don't come often here.

Morris.

No, but I will: after to-night I'll see

You take no harm. And as for him, I'll smash him.

Jean.

Yes, break the devil's ribs,-I mean,-O leave me;

I'm all distraught.

Morris.

Good night, Jean. My name's Morris.

Jean.

Good night, Morris-dear. O I must thank you.

[She suddenly kisses him.

Perhaps,-perhaps, you'll think that wicked of me?

Morris. You wicked? O how silly!-But-good night. [He goes.

Jean. The man, the man! What luck! My soul, what luck!