Behind the Beyond | Page 4

is a narrow young man in a
frock coat. His face is weak. It has to be. Mr. Harding is meant to typify
weakness. Lady Cicely walks straight to him. She puts her two hands
on his shoulders and looks right into his face.
"MY DARLING," she says. Just like that. In capital letters. You can
feel the thrill of it run through the orchestra chairs. All the audience
look at Mr. Harding, some with opera glasses, others with eyeglasses
on sticks. They can see that he is just the sort of ineffectual young man
that a starved woman in a problem play goes mad over.
Lady Cicely repeats "My darling" several times. Mr. Harding says
"Hush," and tries to disengage himself. She won't let him. He offers to
ring for tea. She won't have any. "Oh, Jack," she says. "I can't go on
any longer. I can't. When first you loved me, I thought I could. But I
can't. It throttles me here--this house, this life, everything----" She has
drawn him to a sofa and has sunk down in a wave at his feet. "Do you

remember, Jack, when first you came, in Italy, that night, at Amalfi,
when we sat on the piazza of the palazzo?" She is looking rapturously
into his face.
Mr. Harding says that he does.
"And that day at Fiesole among the orange trees, and Pisa and the
Capello de Terisa and the Mona Lisa--Oh, Jack, take me away from all
this, take me to the Riviera, among the contadini, where we can stand
together with my head on your shoulder just as we did in the Duomo at
Milano, or on the piaggia at Verona. Take me to Corfu, to the Campo
Santo, to Civita Vecchia, to Para Noia--anywhere----"
Mr. Harding, smothered with her kisses, says, "My dearest, I will, I
will." Any man in the audience would do as much. They'd take her to
Honolulu.
While she is speaking, Sir John's voice had been heard off the stage.
"No, thank you, Ransome, I'll get them myself, I know just where I left
them." Sir John enters hurriedly, advances and picks up his papers on
the table--turns--and stands----
He sees his wife's attitude and hears her say "Riviera, Amalfi, Orangieri,
Contadini and Capello Santo." It is enough. He drops his parliamentary
papers. They fall against the fire irons with a crash. These in falling
upset a small table with one leg. The ball of wool that is on it falls to
the floor. The noise of this disturbs the lovers.
They turn. All three look at one another. For a moment they make a
motion as if to ring for tea. Then they stand petrified.
"You!" gasps Lady Cicely. She does this awfully well. Everybody says
afterward that it was just splendid when she said "You."
Sir John stands gazing in horror. "Him! My God! He!" Mr. Harding
says nothing. He looks very weak.
Lady Cicely unpetrifies first.

She breaks out, speaking through her nostrils. "Yes, I love him, I love
him. I'm not ashamed of it. What right have you to deny it me? You
gave me nothing. You made me a chattel, a thing----"
You can feel the rustle of indignation through the house at this. To
make a woman a thing is the crowning horror of a problem play.
"You starved me here. You throttled me." Lady Cicely takes herself by
the neck and throttles herself a little to show how.
"You smothered me. I couldn't breathe--and now I'm going, do you
hear, going away, to life, to love, behind the beyond!" She gathers up
Mr. Harding (practically) and carries him passionately away. He looks
back weakly as he goes.
Sir John has sunk down upon a chair. His face is set.
"Jack," he mutters, "my God, Jack!"
As he sits there, the valet enters with a telegram on a tray.
"A telegram, Sir John."
Sir John (dazed and trying to collect himself), "What?"
"A telegram, sir,--a cablegram."
Sir John takes it, opens it and reads aloud:
"He is dead. My duty is ended. I am coming home--Margaret Harding."
"Margaret coming home. It only needed that--my God."
. . . . . . .
As he says it, the curtain falls.
The lights flick up. There is a great burst of applause. The curtain rises
and falls. Lady Cicely and Mr. Harding and Sir John all come out and

bow charmingly. There is no trace of worry on their faces, and they
hold one another's hands. Then the curtain falls and the orchestra
breaks out into a Winter Garden waltz. The boxes buzz with discussion.
Some of the people think that Lady Cicely is right in claiming the right
to realize herself: others think that before realizing herself she should
have developed herself.