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    The Farmer's Wife - A Comedy in Three Acts
    The Farmer's Wife - A Comedy in Three Acts
    The Farmer's Wife - A Comedy in Three Acts
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    The Farmer's Wife - A Comedy in Three Acts

    By Eden Phillpotts

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    About this ebook

    Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateApr 16, 2013
    ISBN9781447488712
    The Farmer's Wife - A Comedy in Three Acts
    Author

    Eden Phillpotts

    Eden Phillpotts was an English author, poet, and dramatist. Born in Mount Abu, India, he was educated in Devon, England, and worked as an insurance officer for ten years before studying for the stage and eventually becoming a writer. Over the course of his career, he published scores of novels, many of which were mysteries. He died in 1960.

    Read more from Eden Phillpotts

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      Book preview

      The Farmer's Wife - A Comedy in Three Acts - Eden Phillpotts

      ACT I

      SCENE.—The house-place of Applegarth Farm in the village of Little Silver. A roomy and spacious kitchen with buff-washed walls, a deep fireplace and range and bright windows, with leaded panes and large embrasures. A dresser stands to the right upon which white and blue crockery is placed; along the high mantelshelf are bright tins and brass candlesticks; above it is a gun-rack with guns and whips. A great pair of bellows hangs by the hearth. Elsewhere stands a ‘Grandfather’s Clock’ with bright, brass warming-pans hanging on each side of it. Cream pans stand on the floor, a couple of easy-chairs flank the hearth, and there are other kitchen chairs disposed in the room. A large kitchen table stands between the windows, and a few bright pictures and almanacs hang on the walls. There are doors opening to the right and left. The right-hand door is the entrance; the left-hand door communicates with the house.

      [ARAMINTA DENCH and CHURDLES ASH discovered. He stands by the fireplace and oils the breech of a gun; she sits under the window plucking a fowl.

      ASH. There’s marriage in the air, Araminta Dench, and us that have escaped the state be often quickest to see the fatal signs.

      ARAMINTA. Grapes are sour, Churdles Ash.

      ASH. No, no. I’ve always been very interested in married people since I was fifteen year old, when father kicked me out of doors for trying to show him how to manage mother. Love did ought to be got over early in life. To see an old man in love be worse than seeing him with the whooping-cough.

      ARAMINTA. The master’s not old and he’s not in love.

      ASH. Why can’t he bide a widow man? He’s had his dose.

      ARAMINTA. He was happy and wants to be happy again.

      ASH. How do you know he was happy? Married people hide the truth for very shame. Marriage don’t alter women—nothing alters ’em. They change their clothes—not their claws.

      ARAMINTA. You talk as if you’d got a scratch or two. Yet there’s something magical in the married state. It have a beautiful side.

      ASH. So have the moon; but there’s another side we never see.

      ARAMINTA. That may be beautiful too. You’ll hear married people going on sometimes, raging and saying such cruel, bitter things, and threatening to throw the house out of the windows; and you’ll think ’tis all over with ’em and the end of their happiness; and then, come presently, they bob up again, jogging along as peaceful and contented as a pair of ponies.

      ASH. Yes, marriage breaks ’em in, and breaks their hearts too. Holy matrimony’s a proper steamroller for flattening the hope out of man and the joy out of woman.

      ARAMINTA. No, no. Some are built for it. Mr Sweetland’s the very pattern of a good husband. He’s only got to drop the handkercher, I reckon.

      ASH. No doubt he thinks so. There’s no man better pleased with his own cleverness than our man. Please God, if he ventures, he’ll find one of the mild and gentle sort. We’ve got enough fireworks here as ’tis.

      ARAMINTA. Petronell?

      ASH. As proud as a turkey-cock, she is!

      ARAMINTA. And pretty as a picture. A right to be proud—such a fine thing as her. But she won’t be here much longer.

      ASH. George Smerdon’s after her.

      ARAMINTA. And Dicky Coaker—very nice young men both; and they don’t live in the public-house, like George Smerdon’s brother, Tom, and a good few others.

      ASH. Beer-drinking don’t do half the harm of love-making. For why? Drink’s a matter between a man and himself. Love’s a matter between a man and a woman; and that means the next generation. If I was the Government I’d give the drunkards a rest and look after the lovers.

      ARAMINTA. Petronell will take Dick, I reckon. He’ll have Henry Coaker’s little farm when the old man drops.

      ASH. They haven’t got the brains of a sheepdog between ’em.

      ARAMINTA. I wouldn’t say that. They be both in love, and perfect love casteth out sense—but only for the time being.

      ASH. [Putting gun under his arm.] Bah! It makes me wild to see the men after the women. Poor things—the best of you—compared to us—sly, shifty and full of craft. But we be open and honest and straight, and say what we think and mean what we say. The difference between a man and a woman’s the difference between a dog and a cat, Araminta.

      ARAMINTA. So ’tis then—a dog can be happy on a chain—a cat’s far too fine.

      ASH. Black or white, tabby or tortoisehell—cats all! Not tame things; but wild, savage things—pretending to be tame—for what you can get. Marriage is your dreadful business; you be man-eaters and love-hunters at heart—the pack of you.

      ARAMINTA. No woman ever hunted you for love, I reckon—or wanted to eat you, Churdles.

      [Rises with her bird and feathers.

      ASH. Oh yes, they have—plenty of ’em. Them what skim the cream off women keep bachelors. To marry be like jumping into a river because you’re thirsty.

      ARAMINTA. [Looking out of the window.] Here’s one that never went love-hunting, I’m sure. Miss Thirza Tapper’s coming up the garden. I know what she wants.

      ASH. Something for nothing—according to her custom. Nature don’t give nothing for nothing; why should we? If she’s seeking for favours ’twill be ‘Miss Dench’; if she ain’t, she’ll just call you ‘Minta.’

      [A brisk knock. ARAMINTA puts down her bird and goes to open the door.

      Enter MISS THIRZA TAPPER.

      MISS T. Good afternoon, Miss Dench, and you, Mr Ash. This is most fortunate. Where’s the family?

      ARAMINTA. Round about somewhere, Miss Tapper.

      ASH. We’ve been cutting corn, and I’ve just come for a gun, because there’s a dozen rabbits in the midst of Nine Acres, and they’ll bolt presently. Then I shoots ’em.

      [Going.

      MISS T. Wait a moment. It’s about my little affair—the party, you know.

      ARAMINTA. ’Twill be a brave rally of neighbours, I hear. All the world and his wife have been invited, they say, Miss.

      MISS T. Yes—twenty are coming, and possibly twenty-three.

      ASH. How ever will ’e get ’em in the parlour to your villa residence?

      MISS T. There is a French window that gives upon the lawn. Those who have had their refreshments will pass out of the window to make room for those who have not. And I am here to ask a great personal favour—an immense kindness. Do you think, Miss Dench, that you could come and help Susan Maine with the tea things? It’s the pouring out that will want brains. You must keep your head when you are pouring out at a party—so much depends on it. There will be both tea and coffee; and poor Susan——

      ARAMINTA. I’ll come and welcome.

      MISS T. How good of you! How like you! You are the kindest woman in Little Silver—kindness made alive. I am going to use my famous Lowestoft china—you know: the wonderful blue and white set that I had when Mrs Ramsbottom died. It will be safe with you—if you can only stay for the washing-up afterwards. To hear Susan Maine at work on china—it strains one’s religion almost.

      ASH. She’s my sister’s niece, and a very nice young woman. You can’t have a shining angel with wings for fifteen pound a year.

      MISS T. True, Mr Ash; you can’t have ‘a shining angel with wings’ for that money; but you can have an honourable girl, who respects her mistress’s crockery. And I want you to come too. I want everything to go off well; but I have had no manservant since my dear father died.

      ARAMINTA. I am sure Churdles will lend a hand gladly.

      MISS T. To borrow a friend’s man-servant is not derogatory on such an occasion. Dear Mr Sweetland won’t mind.

      ASH. I’m an outdoor man—not an indoor servant. I hate they indoor men. I blush for ’em and

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