The Complete Plays of J. M. Barrie - 30 Titles in One Edition. Джеймс Барри

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      PROCTOR. What is he up to? If I had only being going, I should be at the half-hour by this time, and then I could see with the left eye. Ten past nine! I little thought that the time would come when the grand ambition of my life would be to be nine-thirty. What is he doing upstairs? Hallo! a girl, and after some mischief. I wonder if I dare ask her to put me on twenty minutes. I feel very queer, as if I was turning into a real clock. I hope I sha’n’t strike.

      ROSE and MILLY come softly out of their rooms.

      MILLY. I have been thinking so much of what Bab told us that I can’t go to bed.

      ROSE. Nor I — Oh, Milly!

      MILLY. What time is it, Rose?

      ROSE (holding candle to clock). Half-past nine.

      PROCTOR (aside). I wish it was!

      ROSE (to MILLY). What?

      MILLY. I didn’t speak.

       Flute heard outside.

      ROSE. Listen!

      MILLY. Oh, Rose! I am all of a tremble; turn up the gas.

      BAB enters. Flute playing continues.

      ROSE. It is he — Jack!

      BAB (trembling). No, that is Tom!

      MILLY. The other one!

      BAB. Milly, he must have heard that I am to elope with Jack and doubtless he has come here to shoot me.

      MILLY. How romantic!

      ROSE. How delightful!

      PROCTOR. How out of tune!

      MILLY. Perhaps he has only come to ask you to give him back his presents.

      ROSE. How horrid of him to bother you when you don’t care for him.

      BAB. I never said I didn’t care for him.

      MILLY. Oh!

      ROSE. I hear him climbing up the ivy.

      MILLY. He is coming to the window.

      BAB. If he and Jack meet they will fight. (To GIRLS.) Leave us.

      ROSE and MILLY exeunt. BAB hides. TOM enters from the window. He is very sad.

      BALLAD. — TOM.

       It was the time of thistledown,

       The corn we wandered through;

       She plucked the lover’s thistledown,

       As maids are wont to do.

       She blew upon the thistledown,

       “He loves, he loves me not!”

       And from the loyal thistledown,

       “He loves” the answer got.

       She did not ask the thistledown

       If her own love were true;

       No need to ask the thistledown,

       She thought — as maidens do.

       But had she asked the thistledown,

       This answer she’d have got,

       “Your false breath stains the thistledown,

       He loves, but you love not.”

      BAB (coming down). Tom! (They embrace.)

      TOM. Then you do love me?

      BAB (kissing him). Oh no, this is only saying goodbye.

      TOM. You fling me over?

      BAB. Jack insists on it.

      TOM. Have you forgotten that day on the river, when —

      BAB. When you kissed my hand? Oh, Tom, but I have been on the river since then with Jack, and he —

      TOM. Kissed your hand also?

      BAB. No, he did not kiss my — hand. (TOM takes something wrapped in paper from his pocket.) What is that?

      TOM. The glove you gave me. (Gives it to her.) Give it to Jack. (Hands her something else.)

      BAB. And what is this?

      TOM. A hairpin. Give it to Jack. Goodbye!

      BAB. Ah, Tom, you will soon forget me.

      TOM. I am a man who loves but once, and then for aye.

      BAB. You will be heartbroken about me all your life?

      TOM. Till the grave close on me.

      BAB. Dear Tom, you make me so happy. Now, kiss me passionately for the last time. You must see that it is not my fault. (He is about to kiss her, then sadly lets her go.)

      DUET. — TOM and BAB.

      TOM. O eyes that spoke to me of truth,

       Farewell, deceptive mirror!

      BAB. Thus you describe them, yet forsooth,

       You look into the mirror!

      TOM. Sweet mouth that pouted for my kiss,

       Farewell, sweet lying mouth!

      BAB. The words you’re using are amiss,

       Yet sweet you call my mouth!

      TOM. O heart that throbbed a tale untrue,

       Farewell, you falsely beat!

      BAB. Although it may not beat for you,

       The words you say are sweet.

      TOM. False one, farewell, I harm you not;

       To him depart, and scathless;

       Be mine to bear my dreary lot,

       Struck down by woman faithless.

       For you, a jilt, my heart has bled,

       My cup with grief you fill.

       Ah, tell me, empty little head,

       Why ‘tis I love you still?

      BAB. He loves me still, he loves me true,

       He worships at my feet.

       My heart may never beat for you,

       And yet your СКАЧАТЬ