The Demon Lover by Elizabeth Bowen
Adapted into a Chamber Theatre Performance

By Abrahim Harb

(in order of appearance)
Narrator - Preferably a male, older in age
Mrs. Drover - 42, woman
Ghost - Around the same age as Mrs. Drover
Kathleen - 24, Young Mrs. Drover
Fiance - 24, Kathleen’s fiancé



Preshow music: “The Demon Lover” ballad by Anonymous (see end)
(An image of a war ravaged London street is projected on a screen covering the stage area. Narrator enters and stands between SL and CS.)

Narrator: Toward the end of her day in London Mrs. Drover went round to her shut-up house to look for several things she wanted to take away. Some belonged to herself, some to her family, who were by now used to their country life. It was late August; it had been a steamy, showery day.

(Mrs. Drover enters stage left and walks towards stage right holding parcels in her hand.)

Narrator (cont’d): At the moment the trees down the pavement glittered in an escape of humid yellow afternoon sun. Against the next batch of clouds, already piling up ink-dark, broken chimneys and parapets stood out. (beat)

(The screen disappears to reveal the set. Lights are bright on stage right, stage left remains in sparse lighting. Ghost is peering out the window on stage right.)

Narrator (cont’d): In her once familiar street, as in any unused channel, an unfamiliar queerness had silted up; a cat wove itself in and out of railings, but no human eye watched Mrs. Drover’s return.

Ghost: Shifting some parcels under her arm, she slowly forced round her latchkey in an unwilling lock, (Mrs. Drover opens door) then gave the door, which had warped, a push with her knee. (beat) Dead air came out to meet her as she went in.

(She motions and plugs her nose to indicate the stench she smells. Put her parcels down to the right of the door.)

Ghost (cont’d): The staircase window having been boarded up, no light came down into the hall. But one door, she could just see, stood ajar, so she went quickly through into the room and unshuttered the big window in there. Now the prosaic woman, looking about her, was more perplexed than she knew by everything that she saw, by traces of her long former habit of life—

Mrs. Drover: The yellow smoke stain up the white marble mantelpiece, the ring left by a vase on the top of the escritoire; the bruise in the wallpaper where, on the door being thrown open widely, the china handle had always hit the wall. The piano, having gone away to be stored— had left what looked like claw marks on its part of the parquet.

(Mrs. Dover walks around the house, in a reminiscing mood.)

Ghost: —though not much dust had seeped in, each object wore a film of another kind; and, the only ventilation being the chimney, the whole drawing room smelled of the cold hearth. Mrs. Drover proceeded upstairs

(Mrs. Dover proceeds upstairs.)

Ghost: The things she wanted were in a bedroom chest. She had been anxious to see how the house was—The part-time caretaker she shared with some neighbors was away this week on his holiday, known to be not yet back.

Mrs. Drover: At the best of times he did not look in often, and she was never sure that she trusted him.

(Mrs. Dover is looking through a box, when she notices a crack in the wall and walks over to it.)

Ghost: There were some cracks in the structure, left by the last bombing, on which she was anxious to keep an eye. Not that one could do anything—A shaft of refracted daylight now lay across the hall.

(She quickly gathers a few things and runs down the stairs, stopping dead in her track at the bottom step.)

Ghost (cont’d): She stopped dead and stared at the hall table—on this lay a letter addressed to her.

She thought first—

Mrs. Drover: then the caretaker must be back. All the same, who, seeing the house shuttered, would have dropped a letter in at the box? It was not a circular, it was not a bill. And the post office redirected, to the address in the country. Everything for her that came through the post.


Mrs. Drover The caretaker—

Ghost: Even if he were back—

Mrs. Drover: —Did not know she was due in London today—

(Narrator enters stage left.)

Narrator: Her call here had been planned to be a surprise—so his negligence in the manner of this letter, leaving it to wait in the dusk and the dust, annoyed her.

Ghost: Annoyed, she picked up the letter, (Ghost peers over her shoulder) which bore no stamp. But it cannot be important, or they would know . . . She took the letter rapidly upstairs with her, (Mrs. Drover runs up the stairs. Lights on stage right go dark) without a stop to look at the writing till she reached what had been her bedroom, where she let in light. The room looked over the garden and other gardens.

(Stands near window.)

Narrator: The sun had gone in; as the clouds sharpened and lowered, the trees and rank lawns seemed already to smoke with dark.

(Narrator exits stage left.)

Ghost: Her reluctance to look again at the letter came from the fact that she felt intruded upon—and by someone contemptuous of her ways. However, in the tenseness preceding the fall of rain she read it: It was a few lines.

(Lights on stage right turn on. Kathleen is on stage right sitting in the desk. Mrs. Drover sits on chest under the window on stage left. Mrs. Drover pantomimes reading the letter as Kathleen writes the letter and reads it out loud.)

Dear Kathleen: You will not have forgotten that today is our anniversary, and the day we said. The years have gone by at once slowly and fast. In view of the fact that nothing has changed, I shall rely upon you to keep your promise. I was sorry to see you leave London, but was satisfied that you would be back in time. You may expect me, therefore, at the hour arranged.
                                                Until then . . .

(Kathleen puts letter in an envelope, licks and seals it. Rain sounds begin to play and Kathleen grabs the umbrella from the coat rack and leaves to take it to the post office as Mrs. Drove says:)

Mrs. Drover: You may expect me? ….at the arranged hour?

Ghost: Mrs. Drover looked for the date: It was today’s. She dropped the letter onto the bedsprings, then picked it up to see the writing again—her lips, beneath the remains of lipstick, beginning to go white. She felt so much the change in her own face that she went to the mirror, (walks over to mirror) polished a clear patch in it, and looked at once urgently and stealthily in. She was confronted by a woman of forty-four, with eyes starting out under a hat brim that had been rather carelessly pulled down. She had not put on any more powder since she left the shop where she ate her solitary tea. The pearls her husband had given her on their marriage hung loose round her now rather thinner throat, slipping in the V of the pink wool jumper her sister knitted last autumn as they sat round the fire. Mrs. Drover’s most normal expression was one of controlled worry, but of assent. (Rain gets louder) Since the birth of the third of her little boys, attended by a quite serious illness, she had had an intermittent muscular flicker to the left of her mouth, but in spite of this she could always sustain a manner that was at once energetic and calm. Turning from her own face as precipitately as she had gone to meet it, (Briskly walks over to the trunk, dropping the letter on the bed) she went to the chest where the things were, unlocked it, (opens up lid) threw up the lid, and knelt to search. But as rain began to come crashing down she could not keep from looking over her shoulder at the stripped bed on which the letter lay. Behind the blanket of rain the clock of the church that still stood struck six (chime noise) —with rapidly heightening apprehension she counted each of the slow strokes.

Mrs. Drover: “The hour arranged…My God,” she said, “what hour? How should I…? (pauses) After twenty-five years…”

(The stage goes dark and then a spotlight appears on center stage over the narrator and another spotlight on Kathleen and her fiancé on stage left. They perform the action in silence.)


Narrator: (aside) The young girl talking to the soldier in the garden had not ever completely seen his face. It was dark; they were saying goodbye under a tree. Now and then—for it felt, from not seeing him at this intense moment, as though she had never seen him at all—she verified his presence for these few moments longer by putting out a hand, which he each time pressed, without very much kindness, and painfully, on to one of the breast buttons of his uniform. That cut of the button on the palm of her hand was, principally, what she was to carry away. This was so near the end of a leave from France that she could only wish him already gone. It was August 1916. Being not kissed, being drawn away from and looked at intimidated Kathleen till she imagined spectral glitters in the place of his eyes. Turning away and looking back up the lawn she saw, through branches of trees, the drawing-room window alight: She caught a breath for the moment when she could go running back there into the safe arms of her mother and sister, and cry.

(Out loud.)

Kathleen: “What shall I do, what shall I do? He has gone.”

(Fiancé enters from basement door.)

Narrator: Hearing her catch her breath, her fiancé said, without feeling:

Fiancé: “Cold?”

Kathleen: “You’re going away such a long way.”

Fiancé: “Not so far as you think.”

Kathleen: “I don’t understand?”

Fiancé: “You don’t have to—”

“You will. You know what we said.”

Kathleen: “But that was—suppose you—I mean, suppose.”

Fiancé: I shall be with you, sooner or later. You won’t forget that. You need do nothing but wait.”

(Exits using basement door.)

Narrator: Only a little more than a minute later she was free to run up the silent lawn. Looking in through the window at her mother and sister, who did not for the moment perceive her, she already felt that unnatural promise drive down between her and the rest of all humankind. No other way of having given herself could have made her feel so apart, lost and forsworn. She could not have plighted a more sinister troth.


Narrator: (aside) Kathleen behaved well when, some months later, her fiancé was reported missing, presumed killed. Her family not only supported her but were able to praise her courage without stint because they could not regret, as a husband for her, the man they knew almost nothing about. They hoped she would, in a year or two, console herself—and had it been only a question of consolation things might have gone much straighter ahead. But her trouble, behind just a little grief, was a complete dislocation from everything. She did not reject other lovers, for these failed to appear: For years she failed to attract men—and with the approach of her thirties she became natural enough to share her family’s anxiousness on this score. She began to put herself out, to wonder; and at thirty-two she was very greatly relieved to find herself being courted by William Drover. She married him, and the two of them settled down in this quiet, arboreal part of Kensington: In this house the years piled up, her children were born, and they all lived till they were driven out by the bombs of the next war. Her movements as Mrs. Drover were circumscribed, and she dismissed any idea that they were still watched.

(Flashback ends & lights brighten.)

Ghost: As things were—dead or living the letter writer sent her only a threat. Unable, for some minutes, to go on kneeling with her back exposed to the empty room, Mrs. Drover rose from the chest to sit on an upright chair whose back was firmly against the wall. The desuetude of her former bedroom, her married London home’s whole air of being a cracked cup from which memory, with its reassuring power, had either evaporated or leaked away, made a crisis—and at just this crisis the letter writer had, knowledgeably, struck.

Mrs. Drover: The hollowness of the house this evening canceled years on years of voices, habits, and steps. Through the shut windows she only heard rain fall on the roofs around. To rally herself, she said she was in a mood—and for two or three seconds shutting her eyes, told herself that she had imagined the letter. But she opened them—there it lay on the bed. 

(Narrator enters on stage left. Ghost is standing at the top of the stairs.)

Ghost: On the supernatural side of the letter’s entrance she was not permitting her mind to dwell. Who, in London, knew she meant to call at the house today? Evidently, however, this had been known.

Narrator: The caretaker—had he come back, had had no cause to expect her. He would have taken the letter in his pocket, to forward it, at his own time, through the post.

(Narrator exits.)

Mrs. Drover:  There was no other sign that the caretaker had been in—but, if not? Letters dropped in at doors of deserted houses do not fly or walk to tables in halls. They do not sit on the dust of empty tables with the air of certainty that they will be found. There is needed some human hand—but nobody but the caretaker had a key. Under circumstances she did not care to consider, a house can be entered without a key. It was possible that she was not alone now. She might be being waited for, downstairs. Waited for—until when? Until “the hour arranged.” At least that was not six o’clock:

(clocks chimes loudly.)

Ghost: Six has struck. (Mrs. Drover stands up and locks the door and walks up the stairs, still concerned) She rose from the chair and went over and locked the door.

The thing was, to get out. To fly? No, not that: She had to catch her train. As a woman whose utter dependability was the keystone of her family life she was not willing to return to the country, to her husband, her little boys, and her sister, without the objects she had come up to fetch.

(Quickly begins to gather parcels and tie them together.)

Ghost (cont’d): Resuming work at the chest she set about making up a number of parcels in a rapid, fumbling-decisive way. These, with her shopping parcels, would be too much to carry; these meant a taxi—at the thought of the taxi her heart went up and her normal breathing resumed.

Mrs. Drover: I will ring up the taxi now; the taxi cannot come too soon: I shall hear the taxi out there running its engine, till I walk calmly down to it through the hall. I’ll ring up—But no…the telephone is cut off …

Ghost: She tugged at a knot she had tied wrong.

Mrs. Drover: The idea of flight . . . He was never kind to me, not really. I don’t remember him kind at all. Mother said he never considered me. He was set on me, that was what it was—not love. Not love, not meaning a person well. What did he do, to make me promise like that? I can’t remember—

Ghost: But she found that she could.


Ghost (cont’d): She remembered with such dreadful acuteness that the twenty-five years since then dissolved like smoke and she instinctively looked for the weal left by the button on the palm of her hand. She remembered not only all that he said and did but the complete suspension of her existence during that August week.

Mrs. Drover: I was not myself—they all told me so at the time.

Ghost (cont’d): She remembered—but with one white burning blank as where acid has dropped on a photograph: Under no conditions could she remember his face.

Mrs. Drover: So, wherever he may be waiting, I shall not know him.

Ghost: You have no time to run from a face you do not expect.

Narrator: The thing was to get to the taxi before any clock struck what could be the hour. She would slip down the street and round the side of the square to where the square gave on the main road. She would return in the taxi, safe, to her own door, and bring the solid driver into the house with her to pick up the parcels from room to room.

(Ghost moves to SR)

Ghost: The idea of the taxi driver made her decisive, bold: She unlocked her door. (unlocks basement door) She heard nothing—but while she was hearing nothing the passé air of the staircase was disturbed by a draft that traveled up to her face. It emanated from the basement: Down there a door or window was being opened by someone who chose this moment to leave the house.

(Rain noise stops. Mrs. Drover slams the door and runs to the front door. Narrator moves upstage.)

Narrator: The rain had stopped; the pavements steamily shone as (Mrs. Drover opens the door and exits) Mrs. Drover let herself out by inches from her own front door into the empty street.

(The screen comes down, showing the same image of a war torn London street.)

Narrator (cont’d): The unoccupied houses opposite continued to meet her look with their damaged stare. Making toward the thoroughfare and the taxi, she tried not to keep looking behind. Indeed, the silence was so intense—one of those creeks of London silence exaggerated this summer by the damage of war—that no tread could have gained on hers unheard. Where her street debouched on the square where people went on living, she grew conscious of, and checked, her unnatural pace.


Across the open end of the square two buses impassively passed each other: Women, a perambulator, cyclists, a man wheeling a barrow signalized, once again, the ordinary flow of life.

At the square’s most populous corner should be—and was—the short taxi rank.

(Mrs. Drover enter stage right and rushes over to stage left and walks off stage.)


This evening, only one taxi—but this, although it presented its blank rump, appeared already to be alertly waiting for her. Indeed, without looking round the driver started his engine as she panted up from behind and put her hand on the door. As she did so, the clock struck seven.

(Clock chimes loudly.)

The taxi faced the main road: To make the trip back to her house it would have to turn—she had settled back on the seat and the taxi had turned before she, surprised by its knowing movement, recollected that she had not “said where.” She leaned forward to scratch at the glass panel that divided the driver’s head from her own.

(Braking noise.)

The driver braked to what was almost a stop, turned round, and slid the glass panel back: The jolt of this flung Mrs. Drover forward till her face was almost into the glass. Through the aperture driver and passenger, not six inches between them, remained for an eternity eye to eye. Mrs. Drover’s mouth hung open for some seconds before she could issue her first scream. After that she continued to scream freely (screams loudly and sustains it) and to beat with her gloved hands on the glass all round as the taxi, (screeching noise) accelerating without mercy, made off with her into the hinterland of deserted streets.




"O where have you been, long, long, love, 
This long seven years and mair? 
O I'm come to seek my former vows- 
Ye granted me before. " 

"O hold your tongue of your former vows 
For they will breed sad strife; 
O hold your tongue of your former vows, 
For I am become a wife." 

He turned him right and round about 
And the tear blinded his e'e. 
"I wad ne'er hae trodden on Irish ground 
Had it not been for love of thee." 

"I might have had a king's daughter 
Far, far beyond the sea; 
I might have had a king's daughter 
Had it not been for love of thee." 

"If ye might have had a king's daughter, 
Yer self ye had to blame; 
Ye might have taken the king's daughter, 
Fer ye kend that I was nane." 

"O false are the vows o' womankind, 
But fair is their false bodie;
I ne'er wad hae trodden on Irish ground 
Had it not been for love o' thee. " 

"If I was to leave my husband dear, 
And my two babes also, 
O what have you to take me to, 
If with you I should go? " 

"I have seven ships upon the sea, 
The eighth brought me to land; 
With four-and-twenty bold mariners 
And music on every hand." 

She has taken up her two little babes, 
Kissed them baith cheek and chin: 
"O fare ye well, my ain two babes, 
For I'll ne'er see you again." 

She set her foot upon the ship, 
No mariners could she behold; 
But the sails were of the taffetie, 
And the masts of the beaten gold. 

She had not sailed a league, a league, 
A league but barely three, 
When dismal grew his countenance 
And drumlie grew his e'e. 

The masts that were like the beaten gold 
Bent not on the heaving seas; 

And the sails that were o'the taffetie 
Filled not in the eastland breeze. 

They had not sailed a league, a league, 
A league but barely three, 
Until she espied his cloven foot, 
And she wept right bitterlie. 

"O hold your tongue of your weeping," 
says he "Of you weeping now let me be; 
I will show you how the lilies grow 
On the banks of Italy." 

"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, 
That the sun shines sweetly on?" 
"O yon are the hills of heaven," he said, 
"There you will never win." 

"O whaten a mountain is yon," she said, 
"All so dreary wi' frost and snow?" 
"O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried, 
"Where you and I will go." 

And aye when she turned her round about, 
Aye, taller he seemed to be; 
Until that the tops of the gallant ship 
Nae taller were than he. 

The clouds grew dark and the wind grew loud, 
And levin filled her e'e; 
And waesome wailed the snow-white sprites 
Upon the girlie sea. 

He strack the tapmast wi' his hand 
The foremast wi' his knee 
And he brake the gallant ship in twain 
And sank her in the sea.

* Original version written for Experimental Theatre Workshop Directed by Dan Wirth in Spring 2014.

* For a brief analysis of the source material, click here.