WELLWYN.Quite, quite! Have some cake?
[He cuts cake.]
FERRAND.In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have it.But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content.
[Refusing the cake.] 'Grand merci', but for the moment I have no stomach--I have lost my stomach now for two days.If I could smoke, Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of smoking.]
WELLWYN.Rather! [Handing his tobacco pouch.] Roll yourself one.
FERRAND.[Rapidly rolling a cigarette.] If I had not found you, Monsieur--I would have been a little hole in the river to-night--I was so discouraged.[He inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of smoke.Very bitterly.] Life! [He disperses the puff of smoke with his finger, and stares before him.] And to think that in a few minutes HE will be born! Monsieur! [He gazes intently at WELLWYN.]
The world would reproach you for your goodness to me.
WELLWYN.[Looking uneasily at the door into the house.] You think so? Ah!
FERRAND.Monsieur, if HE himself were on earth now, there would be a little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call Him sloppee sentimentalist! And what is veree funny, these gentlemen they would all be most strong Christians.[He regards WELLWYNdeeply.] But that will not trouble you, Monsieur; I saw well from the first that you are no Christian.You have so kind a face.
WELLWYN.Oh! Indeed!
FERRAND.You have not enough the Pharisee in your character.You do not judge, and you are judged.
[He stretches his limbs as if in pain.]
WELLWYN.Are you in pain?
FERRAND.I 'ave a little the rheumatism.
WELLWYN.Wet through, of course! [Glancing towards the house.] Wait a bit! I wonder if you'd like these trousers; they've--er--they're not quite--[He passes through the door into the house.FERRAND stands at the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it, smoking with abandonment.WELLWYN returns stealthily, dressed in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.]
WELLWYN.[Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] Can you make these do for the moment?
FERRAND.'Je vous remercie', Monsieur.[Pointing to the screen.]
May I retire?
WELLWYN.Yes, yes.
[FERRAND goes behind the screen.WELLWYN closes the door into the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains.He suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.
WELLWYN.Good Lord!
[There is the sound of tapping on glass.Against the window-pane is pressed the face of a man.WELLWYN motions to him to go away.He does not go, but continues tapping.WELLWYNopens the door.There enters a square old man, with a red, pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler hat.He is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.
WELLWYN.Who's that? Who are you?
TIMSON.[In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir;we 'ad a talk this morning.Timson--I give you me name.You invited of me, if ye remember.
WELLWYN.It's a little late, really.
TIMSON.Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer.Iwas 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein'
Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day.[He speaks with increasing thickness.] I'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a bed abaht me.Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my age.
WELLWYN.[With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me.
TIMSON.[Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn't arsk you if I could 'elp it.'Ad to do with 'orses all me life.
It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of.I'm afraid I'll go to sleep.
WELLWYN.Well, really, I--
TIMSON.To be froze to death--I mean--it's awkward.
WELLWYN.[Puzzled and unhappy.] Well--come in a moment, and let's--think it out.Have some tea!
[He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not very much, adds rum rather liberally.TIMSON, who walks a little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.
TIMSON.[Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth.'Ere's--soberiety!
[He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand.Agreeably surprised.] Blimey! Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it?
FERRAND.[Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would soon have with what to make face against the world.
WELLWYN.Too short! Ah!
[He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes from it a needle and cotton.]
[While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one dog will another.The old man, glass in hand, seems to have lapsed into coma.]
FERRAND.[Indicating TIMSON] Monsieur!
[He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]
WELLWYN.[Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so!
[They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.]
FERRAND.[Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur? 'Ceux sont tous des buveurs'.
WELLWYN.[Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] Now, my old friend, sit down a moment.[They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.]
Will you smoke?
TIMSON.[In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer.Old 'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold.
[He relapses into coma.]
FERRAND.[With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'.
WELLWYN.[Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a horse outside, do you think?
FERRAND.Non, non, Monsieur--no 'orse.He is dreaming.I know very well that state of him--that catches you sometimes.It is the warmth sudden on the stomach.He will speak no more sense to-night.At the most, drink, and fly a little in his past.
WELLWYN.Poor old buffer!
FERRAND.Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses, and from sitting still.
WELLWYN.[Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched!
FERRAND.That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all.He is well wet inside, remember--it is Christmas to-morrow.Put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam.
