If I Had a Father

Scene.⁠—A Sculptor’s studio. Arthur Gervaise working at a clay figure and humming a tune. A knock.

Gervaise

Come in. Throws a wet cloth over the clay. Enter Warren by the door communicating with the house. Ah, Warren! How do you do?

Warren

How are you, Gervaise? I’m delighted to see you once more. I have but just heard of your return.

Gervaise

I’ve been home but a fortnight. I was just thinking of you.

Warren

I was certain I should find you at work.

Gervaise

You see my work can go on by any light. It is more independent than yours.

Warren

I wish it weren’t, then.

Gervaise

Why?

Warren

Because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your den sometimes.

Gervaise

Like any other wild beast when the dark falls⁠—eh?

Warren

Just so.

The house-door opens slowly, and Thomas peeps cautiously in.

Thomas

What sort of a plaze be this, maister?

Col. Gervaise

You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in?

Thomas

By th’ dur-hole. Iv yo leave th’ dur oppen, th’ dogs’ll coom in.

Col. Gervaise

I must speak to Martha again. She will leave the street-door open!⁠—Well, you needn’t look so frightened. It ain’t a robbers’ cave.

Thomas

That be more’n aw knaw⁠—not for sartin sure, maister. Nobory mun keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a gentleman axes mo into his heawse, aw’m noan beawn to be afeard. Aw’ll coom in, for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak here?

Col. Gervaise

What would you think now?

Thomas

It looks to mo like a mason’s shed⁠—a greight one.

Col. Gervaise

You’re not so far wrong.

Thomas

Advancing. It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin’. Aw’ll bother noan. Sits down on the dais and wipes his face. Well, aw be a’most weary.

Col. Gervaise

Is there anything I can do for you?

Thomas

Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw dunnot think aw’ll coom to th’ end in haste. Aw’re a lookin’ for summut aw’ve lost, mou.

Col. Gervaise

Did you come all the way from Lancashire to look for it?

Thomas

Eh, lad! aw thowt thae’rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro!

Col. Gervaise

Anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. I mean no offence.

Mun aw tell tho again? Aw’ve lost summut, aw tell tho. Didsto ne’er hear tell ov th’ owd woman ’at lost her shillin’? Hoo couldn’t sit her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon’s me. Hides his face in his hands.

Col. Gervaise

Ah! now I begin to guess! Aside.⁠—You don’t mean you’ve lost your⁠—

Thomas

Starting up and grasping his stick with both hands. Aw do mane aw’ve lost mo yung lass; and aw dunnot say thae’s feawnd her, but aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then!

Col. Gervaise

What on earth makes you think that? I don’t know what you’re after.

Thomas

Perhaps my aunt can throw some light upon it. Col. Gervaise lingers. That will do. Exit Col. Gervaise. How oddly the man behaves! A sunstroke in India, perhaps. Or he may have had a knock on the head. I must keep my eye on him. Stops working, steps backward, and gazes at the Psyche. She is growing very like someone! Who can it be? She knows she is puzzling me, the beauty! See how she is keeping back a smile! She knows if she lets one smile out, her whole face will follow it through the clay. How strange the half-lights of memory are! You know and you don’t know⁠—both at once. Like a bat in the twilight you are sure of it, and the same moment it is nowhere. Who is my Psyche like?⁠—The forehead above the eyebrow, and round by the temple? The half-playful, half-sorrowful curve of the lip? The hope in the lifted eyelid? There is more there than ever I put there. Some power has been shaping my ends. By heaven, I have it!⁠—No⁠—yes⁠—it is⁠—it is Constance⁠—momently dawning out of the clay! What does this mean? She never gave me a sitting⁠—at least, she has not done so for the last ten years⁠—yet here she is⁠—she, and no other! I never thought she was beautiful. When she came with my aunt the other day though, I did fancy I saw a new soul dawning through the lovely face. Here it is⁠—the same soul breaking through the clay of my Psyche!⁠—I will give just one touch to the corner of the mouth.

No, Susan, it ain’t. It’s the free look of them⁠—and the head up⁠—and the white hands⁠—and the taper fingers. They’re stronger than us, and they’re that trained like, that all their body goes in one, like the music at a concert. I couldn’t pick up a needle without going down on my knees after it. It’s the pain in my side, Sue.⁠—Yes, it’s a fine thing to be born a lady. It’s not the clothes, Sue. If we was dressed ever so, we couldn’t come near them. It’s that look⁠—I don’t know what.

Susan

Speak for yerself, Mattie; I’m not a goin’ to think such small beer of myself, I can tell you! I believe if I’d been took in time⁠—

Mattie

It’s a big if that though, Sue.⁠—And then she looked so good! You’d hardly think it of me⁠—perhaps it’s because I’m dying⁠—but for one minute I could ha’ kissed her very shoes. Oh, my side!