THE WIDOWING OF
MRS. HOLROYD

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS

BY

D. H. LAWRENCE

LONDON

DUCKWORTH & CO.

3, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, W. C.

1914

COPYRIGHT 1914 BY
MITCHELL KENNERLEY

THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

D H. Lawrence is one of the most significant of the new generation of writers just beginning to appear in England. One of their chief marks is that they seem to step forward full-grown, without a history to account for their maturity. Another characteristic is that they frequently spring from social layers which in the past had to remain largely voiceless. And finally, they have all in their blood what their elders had to acquire painfully: that is, an evolutionary conception of life.

Three years ago the author of "The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd" was wholly unknown, having not yet published a single work. To-day he has to his credit three novels—"The White Peacock," "The Trespasser" and "Sons and Lovers"—a collection of verse entitled "Love Poems," and the play contained in this volume. All of these works, but in particular the play and the latest novel, prove their author a man gifted with a strikingly original vision, a keen sense of beauty, an equally keen sense of verbal values, and a sincerity, which makes him see and tell the truth where even the most audacious used to falter in the past. Flaubert himself was hardly less free from the old curse of sentimentalizing compromise—and yet this young writer knows how to tell the utmost truth with a daintiness that puts offence out of the question.

He was born twenty-seven years ago in a coal-miner's cottage at the little colliery town of Eastwood, on the border line between Nottingham and Derbyshire. The home was poor, yet not without certain aspirations and refinements. It was the mother who held it together, who saved it from a still more abject poverty, and who filled it with a spirit that made it possible for the boy—her youngest son—to keep alive the gifts still slumbering undiscovered within him. In "Sons and Lovers" we get the picture of just such a home and such a mother, and it seems safe to conclude that the novel in question is in many ways autobiographical.

At the age of twelve the boy won a County Council Scholarship—and came near having to give it up because he found that the fifteen pounds a year conferred by it would barely pay the fees at the Nottingham High School and the railway fares to that city. But his mother's determination and self-sacrifice carried him safely past the seemingly impossible. At sixteen he left school to earn his living as a clerk. Illness saved him from that uncongenial fate. Instead he became a teacher, having charge of a class of colliers' boys in one of those rough, old-fashioned British schools where all the classes used to fight against one another within a single large room. Before the classes convened in the morning, at eight o'clock, he himself received instruction from the head-master; at night he continued his studies in the little kitchen at home, where all the rest of the family were wont to fore gather. At nineteen he found himself, to his own and everybody else's astonishment, the first on the list of the King's Scholarship examination, and from that on he was, to use his own words, "considered clever." But the lack of twenty pounds needed in a lump sum to pay the entrance fee at the training college for teachers made it impossible for him to make use of the gained advantage.

Two years later, however, he succeeded in matriculating at the Nottingham Day Training College. But by that time the creative impulse had already begun to stir within him, aided by an early love affair, and so he wrote poems and worked at his first novel when he should have been studying. At twenty-three he left the college and went to London to teach school, to study French and German, and to write. At twenty-five he had his first novel—"The White Peacock"—accepted and printed. But the death of his mother only a month before that event made his victory seem useless and joyless. After the publication of his second novel, in 1912, he became able to give up teaching in order to devote himself entirely to his art. Out of that leisure—and perhaps also out of the sorrow caused by the loss of her who until then had been the mainspring of his life—came "Sons and Lovers" and "The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd."

What has struck me most deeply in these two works—apart from their splendid craftsmanship—is their psychological penetration, so closely paralleling the most recent conclusions of the world's leading thinkers. In the hands of this writer, barely emerged out of obscurity, sex becomes almost a new thing. Not only the relationship between man and woman, but also that of mother and child is laid bare in a new light which startles—or even shocks—but which nevertheless compels acceptance. One might think that Mr. Lawrence had carefully studied and employed the very latest theories of such men as Freud, for instance, and yet it is a pretty safe bet that most of his studies have been carried on in his own soul, within his own memories. Thus it is proved once more that what the student gropingly reasons out for abstract formulation is flashed upon the poetic dreamer in terms of living reality.

Another thing that has impressed me is the aspect in which Mr. Lawrence presents the home life of those hitherto submerged classes which are now at last reaching out for a full share in the general social and cultural inheritance. He writes of that life, not only with a knowledge obtained at first hand, but with a sympathy that scorns any apologetic phrase-mongering. Having read him, one feels inclined to conclude, in spite of all conflicting testimony, that the slum is not a location, but a state of mind, and that everywhere, on all levels, the individual soul may create around itself an atmosphere expressive of its ideals. A book like "Sons and Lovers" ought to go far to prove that most of the qualities held peculiar to the best portion of the "ruling classes" are nothing but the typical marks of normal humanity.

Edwin Björkman.

THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD

PERSONS

Mrs. Holroyd
Holroyd
Blackmore
Jack Holroyd
Minnie Holroyd
Grandmother
Rigley
Clara
Laura
Manager
Two Miners

THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD

THE FIRST ACT

SCENE I

The kitchen of a miner's small cottage. On the left is the fireplace, with a deep, full red fire. At the back is a white-curtained window, and beside it the outer door of the room. On the right, two white wooden stairs intrude into the kitchen below the closed stair foot door. On the left, another door.

The room is furnished with a chintz-backed sofa under the window, a glass-knobbed painted dresser on the right, and in the centre, toward the fire, a table with a red and blue check tablecloth. On one side of the hearth is a wooden rocking-chair, on the other an armchair of round staves. An unlighted copper-shaded lamp hangs from the raftered ceiling. It is dark twilight, with the room full of warm fireglow. A woman enters from the outer door. As she leaves the door open behind her, the colliery rail can be seen not far from the threshold, and, away back, the headstocks of a pit.

The woman is tall and voluptuously built. She carries a basket heaped full of washing, which she has just taken from the clotheslines outside. Setting down the basket heavily, she feels among the clothes. She lifts out a white heap of sheets and other linen, setting it on the table; then she takes a woollen shirt in her hand.

MRS. HOLROYD (aloud, to herself)

You know they're not dry even now, though it's been as fine as it has. (She spreads the shirt on the back of her rocking-chair, which she turns to the fire)

VOICE (calling from outside)

Well, have you got them dry?

[Mrs. Holroyd starts up, turns and flings her hand in the direction of the open door, where appears a man in blue overalls, swarfed and greased. He carries a dinner-basket.

MRS. HOLROYD

You—you—I don't know what to call you! The idea of shouting at me like that—like the Evil One out of the darkness!

BLACKMORE

I ought to have remembered your tender nerves. Shall I come in?

MRS. HOLROYD

No—not for your impudence. But you're late, aren't you?

BLACKMORE

It's only just gone six. We electricians, you know, we're the gentlemen on a mine: ours is gentlemen's work. But I'll bet Charles Holroyd was home before four.

MRS. HOLROYD (bitterly)

Ay, and gone again before five.

BLACKMORE

But mine's a lad's job, and I do nothing!—Where's he gone?

MRS. HOLROYD (contemptuously)

Dunno! He'd got a game on somewhere—toffed himself up to the nines, and skedaddled off as brisk as a turkey-cock. (She smirks in front of the mirror hanging on the chimney-piece, in imitation of a man brushing his hair and moustache and admiring himself)

BLACKMORE

Though turkey-cocks aren't brisk as a rule. Children playing?

MRS. HOLROYD (recovering herself, coldly)

Yes. And they ought to be in. (She continues placing the flannel garments before the fire, on the fender and on chair-backs, till the stove is hedged in with a steaming fence; then she takes a sheet in a bundle from the table, and going up to Blackmore, who stands watching her, says) Here, take hold, and help me fold it.

BLACKMORE

I shall swarf it up.

MRS. HOLROYD (snatching back the sheet)

Oh, you're as tiresome as everybody else.

BLACKMORE (putting down his basket and moving to door on right)

Well, I can soon wash my hands.

MRS. HOLROYD (ceasing to flap and fold pillowcases)

That roller-towel's ever so dirty. I'll get you another. (She goes to a drawer in the dresser, and then back toward the scullery, where is a sound of water)

BLACKMORE

Why, bless my life, I'm a lot dirtier than the towel. I don't want another.

MRS. HOLROYD (going into the scullery)

Here you are.

BLACKMORE (softly, now she is near him)

Why did you trouble now? Pride, you know, pride, nothing else.

MRS. HOLROYD (also playful)

It's nothing but decency.

BLACKMORE (softly)

Pride, pride, pride!

[A child of eight suddenly appears in the doorway.

JACK

Oo, how dark!

MRS. HOLROYD (hurrying agitated into the kitchen)

Why, where have you been—what have you been doing now?

JACK (surprised)

Why—I've only been out to play.

MRS. HOLROYD (still sharply)

And where's Minnie?

[A little girl of six appears by the door.

MINNIE

I'm here, mam, and what do you think—?

MRS. HOLROYD (softening, as she recovers equanimity)

Well, and what should I think?

JACK

Oh, yes, mam—you know my father—?

MRS. HOLROYD (ironically)

I should hope so.

MINNIE

We saw him dancing, mam, with a paper bonnet.

MRS. HOLROYD

What—?

JACK

There's some women at "New Inn," what's come from Nottingham—

MINNIE

An' he's dancin' with the pink one.

JACK

Shut up our Minnie. An' they've got paper bonnets on—

MINNIE

All colors, mam!

JACK (getting angry)

Shut up our Minnie! An' my dad's dancing with her.

MINNIE

With the pink-bonnet one, mam.

JACK

Up in the club-room over the bar.

MINNIE

An' she's a lot littler than him, mam.

JACK (piteously)

Shut up our Minnie—An' you can see 'em go past the window, 'cause there isn't no curtains up, an' my father's got the pink bonnet one—

MINNIE

An' there's a piano, mam—

JACK

An' lots of folks outside watchin', lookin' at my dad! He can dance, can't he, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD (she has been lighting the lamp, and holds the lamp-glass)

And who else is there?

MINNIE

Some more men—an' all the women with paper bonnets on.

JACK

There's about ten, I should think, an' they say they came in a brake from Nottingham.

[Mrs. Holroyd, trying to replace the lamp-glass over the flame, lets it drop on the floor with a smash.

JACK

There, now—now we 'll have to have a candle.

BLACKMORE (appearing in the scullery doorway with the towel) What's that—the lamp-glass?

JACK

I never knowed Mr. Blackmore was here.

BLACKMORE (to Mrs. Holroyd)

Have you got another?

MRS. HOLROYD

No. (There is silence for a moment) We can manage with a candle for to-night.

BLACKMORE (stepping forward and blowing out the smoky flame) I'll see if I can't get you one from the pit. I shan't be a minute.

MRS. HOLROYD

Don't—don't bother—I don't want you to.

[He, however, unscrews the burner and goes.

MINNIE

Did Mr. Blackmore come for tea, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

No; he's had no tea.

JACK

I bet he's hungry. Can I have some bread?

MRS. HOLROYD (she stands a lighted candle on the table) Yes, and you can get your boots off to go to bed.

JACK

It's not seven o'clock yet.

MRS. HOLROYD

It doesn't matter.

MINNIE

What do they wear paper bonnets for, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

Because they're brazen hussies.

JACK

I saw them having a glass of beer.

MRS. HOLROYD

A nice crew!

JACK

They say they are old pals of Mrs. Meakins. You could hear her screaming o' laughin', an' my dad says: "He-ah, missis—here—a dog's-nose for the Dachess—hopin' it'll smell samthing"—What's a dog's-nose?

MRS. HOLROYD (giving him a piece of bread and butter)

Don't ask me, child. How should I know?

MINNIE

Would she eat it, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

Eat what?

MINNIE

Her in the pink bonnet—eat the dog's nose?

MRS. HOLROYD

No, of course not. How should I know what a dog's-nose is?

JACK

I bet he'll never go to work to-morrow, mother—will he?

MRS. HOLROYD

Goodness knows. I'm sick of it—disgracing me. There'll be the whole place cackling this now. They've no sooner finished about him getting taken up for fighting than they begin on this. But I'll put a stop to it some road or other. It's not going on, if I know it: it isn't.

[She stops, hearing footsteps, and Blackmore enters.

BLACKMORE

Here we are then—got one all right.

MINNIE

Did they give it you, Mr. Blackmore?

BLACKMORE

No, I took it.

[He screws on the burner and proceeds to light the lamp. He is a tall, slender, mobile man of twenty-seven, brown-haired, dressed in blue overalls. Jack Holroyd is a big, dark, ruddy, lusty lad. Minnie is also big, but fair.

MINNIE

What do you wear blue trousers for, Mr. Blackmore?

BLACKMORE

They're to keep my other trousers from getting greasy.

MINNIE

Why don't you wear pit-breeches, like dad's?

JACK

'Cause he's a 'lectrician. Could you make me a little injun what would make electric light?

BLACKMORE

I will, some day.

JACK

When?

MINNIE

Why don't you come an' live here?

BLACKMORE (looking swiftly at Mrs. Holroyd)

Nay, you've got your own dad to live here.

MINNIE (plaintively)

Well, you could come as well. Dad shouts when we've gone to bed, an' thumps the table. He wouldn't if you was here.

JACK

He dursn't—

MRS. HOLROYD

Be quiet now, be quiet. Here, Mr. Blackmore. (She again gives him the sheet to fold)

BLACKMORE

Your hands are cold.

MRS. HOLROYD

Are they?—I didn't know.

[Blackmore puts his hand on hers.

MRS. HOLROYD (confusedly, looking aside)

You must want your tea.

BLACKMORE

I'm in no hurry.

MRS. HOLROYD

Selvidge to selvidge. You'll be quite a domestic man, if you go on.

BLACKMORE

Ay.

[They fold the two sheets.

BLACKMORE

They are white, your sheets!

MRS. HOLROYD

But look at the smuts on them—look! This vile hole! I'd never have come to live here, in all the thick of the pit-grime, and lonely, if it hadn't been for him, so that he shouldn't call in a public-house on his road home from work. And now he slinks past on the other side of the railway, and goes down to the New Inn instead of coming in for his dinner. I might as well have stopped in Bestwood.

BLACKMORE

Though I rather like this little place, standing by itself.

MRS. HOLROYD

Jack, can you go and take the stockings in for me? They're on the line just below the pigsty. The prop's near the apple-tree—mind it. Minnie, you take the peg-basket.

MINNIE

Will there be any rats, mam?

MRS. HOLROYD

Rats—no. They'll be frightened when they hear you, if there are.

[The children go out.

BLACKMORE

Poor little beggars!

MRS. HOLROYD

Do you know, this place is fairly alive with rats. They run up that dirty vine in front of the house—I'm always at him to cut it down—and you can hear them at night overhead like a regiment of soldiers tramping. Really, you know, I hate them.

BLACKMORE

Well—a rat is a nasty thing!

MRS. HOLROYD

But I s'll get used to them. I'd give anything to be out of this place.

BLACKMORE

It is rotten, when you're tied to a life you don't like. But I should miss it if you weren't here. When I'm coming down the line to the pit in the morning—it's nearly dark at seven now—I watch the firelight in here—Sometimes I put my hand on the wall outside where the chimney runs up to feel it warm—There isn't much in Bestwood, is there?

MRS. HOLROYD

There's less than nothing if you can't be like the rest of them—as common as they're 'made.

BLACKMORE

It's a fact—particularly for a woman—But this place is cosy—God love me, I'm sick of lodgings.

MRS. HOLROYD

You'll have to get married—I'm sure there are plenty of nice girls about.

BLACKMORE

Are there? I never see 'em. (He laughs)

MRS. HOLROYD

Oh, come, you can't say that.

BLACKMORE

I've not seen a single girl—an unmarried girl—that I should want for more than a fortnight—not one.

MRS. HOLROYD

Perhaps you're very particular.

[She puts her two palms on the table and leans back. He draws near to her, dropping his head.

BLACKMORE

Look here!

[He has put his hand on the table near hers.

MRS. HOLROYD

Yes, I know you've got nice hands—but you needn't be vain of them.

BLACKMORE

No—it's not that—But don't they seem—(he glances swiftly at her; she turns her head aside; he laughs nervously)—they sort of go well with one another. (He laughs again)

MRS. HOLROYD

They do, rather—

[They stand still, near one another, with bent heads, for a moment. Suddenly she starts up and draws her hand away.

BLACKMORE

Why—what is it?

[She does not answer. The children come in—Jack with an armful of stockings, Minnie with the basket of pegs.

JACK

I believe it's freezing, mother.

MINNIE

Mr. Blackmore, could you shoot a rat an' hit it?

BLACKMORE (laughing)

Shoot the lot of 'em, like a wink.

MRS. HOLROYD

But you've had no tea. What an awful shame to keep you here!

BLACKMORE

Nay, I don't care. It never bothers me.

MRS. HOLROYD

Then you're different from most men.

BLACKMORE

All men aren't alike, you know.

MRS. HOLROYD

But do go and get some tea.

MINNIE (plaintively)

Can't you stop, Mr. Blackmore?