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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:32 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:32 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1097-0.txt b/1097-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6882ac6 --- /dev/null +++ b/1097-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4099 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1097 *** + +MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + + +by George Bernard Shaw + + +1894 + + +With The Author’s Apology (1902) + + + + +THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY + + +Mrs Warren’s Profession has been performed at last, after a delay of +only eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the triumphant +amusement of startling all but the strongest-headed of the London +theatre critics clean out of the practice of their profession. No +author who has ever known the exultation of sending the Press into an +hysterical tumult of protest, of moral panic, of involuntary and frantic +confession of sin, of a horror of conscience in which the power of +distinguishing between the work of art on the stage and the real life +of the spectator is confused and overwhelmed, will ever care for the +stereotyped compliments which every successful farce or melodrama +elicits from the newspapers. Give me that critic who rushed from my play +to declare furiously that Sir George Crofts ought to be kicked. What a +triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a jaded London journalist to +the condition of the simple sailor in the Wapping gallery, who shouts +execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello not to believe him! But +dearer still than such simplicity is that sense of the sudden earthquake +shock to the foundations of morality which sends a pallid crowd of +critics into the street shrieking that the pillars of society are +cracking and the ruin of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen champions +of ten years ago remonstrate with me just as the veterans of those brave +days remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast who first +launched my plays on the stage alongside Ghosts and The Wild Duck, +exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his ideals! What +would Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer himself disowns me because I +“cannot touch pitch without wallowing in it”. Truly my play must be more +needed than I knew; and yet I thought I knew how little the others know. + +Do not suppose, however, that the consternation of the Press reflects +any consternation among the general public. Anybody can upset the +theatre critics, in a turn of the wrist, by substituting for the +romantic commonplaces of the stage the moral commonplaces of the pulpit, +platform, or the library. Play Mrs Warren’s Profession to an audience +of clerical members of the Christian Social Union and of women well +experienced in Rescue, Temperance, and Girls’ Club work, and no moral +panic will arise; every man and woman present will know that as long +as poverty makes virtue hideous and the spare pocket-money of rich +bachelordom makes vice dazzling, their daily hand-to-hand fight against +prostitution with prayer and persuasion, shelters and scanty alms, +will be a losing one. There was a time when they were able to urge that +though “the white-lead factory where Anne Jane was poisoned” may be a +far more terrible place than Mrs Warren’s house, yet hell is still more +dreadful. Nowadays they no longer believe in hell; and the girls among +whom they are working know that they do not believe in it, and would +laugh at them if they did. So well have the rescuers learnt that Mrs +Warren’s defence of herself and indictment of society is the thing that +most needs saying, that those who know me personally reproach me, not +for writing this play, but for wasting my energies on “pleasant +plays” for the amusement of frivolous people, when I can build up such +excellent stage sermons on their own work. Mrs Warren’s Profession is +the one play of mine which I could submit to a censorship without doubt +of the result; only, it must not be the censorship of the minor theatre +critic, nor of an innocent court official like the Lord Chamberlain’s +Examiner, much less of people who consciously profit by Mrs Warren’s +profession, or who personally make use of it, or who hold the widely +whispered view that it is an indispensable safety-valve for the +protection of domestic virtue, or, above all, who are smitten with a +sentimental affection for our fallen sister, and would “take her up +tenderly, lift her with care, fashioned so slenderly, young, and SO +fair.” Nor am I prepared to accept the verdict of the medical gentlemen +who would compulsorily sanitate and register Mrs Warren, whilst leaving +Mrs Warren’s patrons, especially her military patrons, free to destroy +her health and anybody else’s without fear of reprisals. But I should be +quite content to have my play judged by, say, a joint committee of +the Central Vigilance Society and the Salvation Army. And the sterner +moralists the members of the committee were, the better. + +Some of the journalists I have shocked reason so unripely that they will +gather nothing from this but a confused notion that I am accusing the +National Vigilance Association and the Salvation Army of complicity in +my own scandalous immorality. It will seem to them that people who would +stand this play would stand anything. They are quite mistaken. Such +an audience as I have described would be revolted by many of our +fashionable plays. They would leave the theatre convinced that the +Plymouth Brother who still regards the playhouse as one of the gates of +hell is perhaps the safest adviser on the subject of which he knows so +little. If I do not draw the same conclusion, it is not because I am one +of those who claim that art is exempt from moral obligations, and deny +that the writing or performance of a play is a moral act, to be treated +on exactly the same footing as theft or murder if it produces equally +mischievous consequences. I am convinced that fine art is the subtlest, +the most seductive, the most effective instrument of moral propaganda in +the world, excepting only the example of personal conduct; and I waive +even this exception in favor of the art of the stage, because it works +by exhibiting examples of personal conduct made intelligible and moving +to crowds of unobservant, unreflecting people to whom real life means +nothing. I have pointed out again and again that the influence of the +theatre in England is growing so great that whilst private conduct, +religion, law, science, politics, and morals are becoming more and +more theatrical, the theatre itself remains impervious to common +sense, religion, science, politics, and morals. That is why I fight the +theatre, not with pamphlets and sermons and treatises, but with plays; +and so effective do I find the dramatic method that I have no doubt I +shall at last persuade even London to take its conscience and its brains +with it when it goes to the theatre, instead of leaving them at home +with its prayer-book as it does at present. Consequently, I am the +last man in the world to deny that if the net effect of performing Mrs +Warren’s Profession were an increase in the number of persons entering +that profession, its performance should be dealt with accordingly. + +Now let us consider how such recruiting can be encouraged by the +theatre. Nothing is easier. Let the King’s Reader of Plays, backed by +the Press, make an unwritten but perfectly well understood regulation +that members of Mrs Warren’s profession shall be tolerated on the stage +only when they are beautiful, exquisitely dressed, and sumptuously +lodged and fed; also that they shall, at the end of the play, die of +consumption to the sympathetic tears of the whole audience, or step +into the next room to commit suicide, or at least be turned out by their +protectors and passed on to be “redeemed” by old and faithful lovers who +have adored them in spite of their levities. Naturally, the poorer girls +in the gallery will believe in the beauty, in the exquisite dresses, and +the luxurious living, and will see that there is no real necessity for +the consumption, the suicide, or the ejectment: mere pious forms, all +of them, to save the Censor’s face. Even if these purely official +catastrophes carried any conviction, the majority of English girls +remain so poor, so dependent, so well aware that the drudgeries of such +honest work as is within their reach are likely enough to lead them +eventually to lung disease, premature death, and domestic desertion or +brutality, that they would still see reason to prefer the primrose path +to the strait path of virtue, since both, vice at worst and virtue at +best, lead to the same end in poverty and overwork. It is true that the +Board School mistress will tell you that only girls of a certain kind +will reason in this way. But alas! that certain kind turns out on +inquiry to be simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only kind +that gets the chance of acting on such reasoning. Read the first report +of the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C +4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacred word, +Home!) issued by the Women’s Industrial Council [Home Industries of +Women in London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street, W. C.]; and ask +yourself whether, if the lot in life therein described were your lot +in life, you would not prefer the lot of Cleopatra, of Theodora, of the +Lady of the Camellias, of Mrs Tanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you can +go deep enough into things to be able to say no, how many ignorant +half-starved girls will believe you are speaking sincerely? To them the +lot of Iris is heavenly in comparison with their own. Yet our King, like +his predecessors, says to the dramatist, “Thus, and thus only, shall +you present Mrs Warren’s profession on the stage, or you shall starve. +Witness Shaw, who told the untempting truth about it, and whom We, by +the Grace of God, accordingly disallow and suppress, and do what in Us +lies to silence.” Fortunately, Shaw cannot be silenced. “The harlot’s +cry from street to street” is louder than the voices of all the kings. +I am not dependent on the theatre, and cannot be starved into making +my play a standing advertisement of the attractive side of Mrs Warren’s +business. + +Here I must guard myself against a misunderstanding. It is not the fault +of their authors that the long string of wanton’s tragedies, from Antony +and Cleopatra to Iris, are snares to poor girls, and are objected to +on that account by many earnest men and women who consider Mrs Warren’s +Profession an excellent sermon. Mr Pinero is in no way bound to suppress +the fact that his Iris is a person to be envied by millions of better +women. If he made his play false to life by inventing fictitious +disadvantages for her, he would be acting as unscrupulously as any tract +writer. If society chooses to provide for its Irises better than for +its working women, it must not expect honest playwrights to manufacture +spurious evidence to save its credit. The mischief lies in the +deliberate suppression of the other side of the case: the refusal to +allow Mrs Warren to expose the drudgery and repulsiveness of plying for +hire among coarse, tedious drunkards; the determination not to let the +Parisian girl in Brieux’s Les Avaries come on the stage and drive into +people’s minds what her diseases mean for her and for themselves. All +that, says the King’s Reader in effect, is horrifying, loathsome. + +Precisely: what does he expect it to be? would he have us represent it +as beautiful and gratifying? The answer to this question, I fear, must +be a blunt Yes; for it seems impossible to root out of an Englishman’s +mind the notion that vice is delightful, and that abstention from it +is privation. At all events, as long as the tempting side of it is kept +towards the public, and softened by plenty of sentiment and sympathy, it +is welcomed by our Censor, whereas the slightest attempt to place it in +the light of the policeman’s lantern or the Salvation Army shelter +is checkmated at once as not merely disgusting, but, if you please, +unnecessary. + +Everybody will, I hope, admit that this state of things is intolerable; +that the subject of Mrs Warren’s profession must be either tapu +altogether, or else exhibited with the warning side as freely displayed +as the tempting side. But many persons will vote for a complete tapu, +and an impartial sweep from the boards of Mrs Warren and Gretchen and +the rest; in short, for banishing the sexual instincts from the stage +altogether. Those who think this impossible can hardly have considered +the number and importance of the subjects which are actually banished +from the stage. Many plays, among them Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, +Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, have no sex complications: the thread of +their action can be followed by children who could not understand a +single scene of Mrs Warren’s Profession or Iris. None of our plays rouse +the sympathy of the audience by an exhibition of the pains of maternity, +as Chinese plays constantly do. Each nation has its own particular set +of tapus in addition to the common human stock; and though each of +these tapus limits the scope of the dramatist, it does not make drama +impossible. If the Examiner were to refuse to license plays with female +characters in them, he would only be doing to the stage what our tribal +customs already do to the pulpit and the bar. I have myself written a +rather entertaining play with only one woman in it, and she is quite +heartwhole; and I could just as easily write a play without a woman in +it at all. I will even go so far as to promise the Mr Redford my support +if he will introduce this limitation for part of the year, say during +Lent, so as to make a close season for that dullest of stock dramatic +subjects, adultery, and force our managers and authors to find out what +all great dramatists find out spontaneously: to wit, that people who +sacrifice every other consideration to love are as hopelessly unheroic +on the stage as lunatics or dipsomaniacs. Hector is the world’s hero; +not Paris nor Antony. + +But though I do not question the possibility of a drama in which love +should be as effectively ignored as cholera is at present, there is not +the slightest chance of that way out of the difficulty being taken by +the Mr Redford. If he attempted it there would be a revolt in which he +would be swept away in spite of my singlehanded efforts to defend him. +A complete tapu is politically impossible. A complete toleration is +equally impossible to Mr Redford, because his occupation would be gone +if there were no tapu to enforce. He is therefore compelled to maintain +the present compromise of a partial tapu, applied, to the best of his +judgement, with a careful respect to persons and to public opinion. And +a very sensible English solution of the difficulty, too, most readers +will say. I should not dispute it if dramatic poets really were what +English public opinion generally assumes them to be during their +lifetime: that is, a licentiously irregular group to be kept in order +in a rough and ready way by a magistrate who will stand no nonsense +from them. But I cannot admit that the class represented by Eschylus, +Sophocles, Aristophanes, Euripides, Shakespear, Goethe, Ibsen, and +Tolstoy, not to mention our own contemporary playwrights, is as much in +place in Mr Redford’s office as a pickpocket is in Bow Street. Further, +it is not true that the Censorship, though it certainly suppresses Ibsen +and Tolstoy, and would suppress Shakespear but for the absurd rule that +a play once licensed is always licensed (so that Wycherly is permitted +and Shelley prohibited), also suppresses unscrupulous playwrights. I +challenge Mr Redford to mention any extremity of sexual misconduct which +any manager in his senses would risk presenting on the London stage that +has not been presented under his license and that of his predecessor. +The compromise, in fact, works out in practice in favor of loose plays +as against earnest ones. + +To carry conviction on this point, I will take the extreme course of +narrating the plots of two plays witnessed within the last ten years +by myself at London West End theatres, one licensed by the late Queen +Victoria’s Reader of Plays, the other by the present Reader to the King. +Both plots conform to the strictest rules of the period when La Dame aux +Camellias was still a forbidden play, and when The Second Mrs Tanqueray +would have been tolerated only on condition that she carefully explained +to the audience that when she met Captain Ardale she sinned “but in +intention.” + +Play number one. A prince is compelled by his parents to marry the +daughter of a neighboring king, but loves another maiden. The scene +represents a hall in the king’s palace at night. The wedding has taken +place that day; and the closed door of the nuptial chamber is in view of +the audience. Inside, the princess awaits her bridegroom. A duenna is in +attendance. The bridegroom enters. His sole desire is to escape from a +marriage which is hateful to him. An idea strikes him. He will assault +the duenna, and get ignominiously expelled from the palace by his +indignant father-in-law. To his horror, when he proceeds to carry out +this stratagem, the duenna, far from raising an alarm, is flattered, +delighted, and compliant. The assaulter becomes the assaulted. He flings +her angrily to the ground, where she remains placidly. He flies. The +father enters; dismisses the duenna; and listens at the keyhole of +his daughter’s nuptial chamber, uttering various pleasantries, and +declaring, with a shiver, that a sound of kissing, which he supposes to +proceed from within, makes him feel young again. + +In deprecation of the scandalized astonishment with which such a story +as this will be read, I can only say that it was not presented on the +stage until its propriety had been certified by the chief officer of the +Queen of England’s household. + +Story number two. A German officer finds himself in an inn with a French +lady who has wounded his national vanity. He resolves to humble her by +committing a rape upon her. He announces his purpose. She remonstrates, +implores, flies to the doors and finds them locked, calls for help +and finds none at hand, runs screaming from side to side, and, after +a harrowing scene, is overpowered and faints. Nothing further being +possible on the stage without actual felony, the officer then relents +and leaves her. When she recovers, she believes that he has carried out +his threat; and during the rest of the play she is represented as vainly +vowing vengeance upon him, whilst she is really falling in love with +him under the influence of his imaginary crime against her. Finally she +consents to marry him; and the curtain falls on their happiness. + +This story was certified by the present King’s Reader, acting for the +Lord Chamberlain, as void in its general tendency of “anything immoral +or otherwise improper for the stage.” But let nobody conclude therefore +that Mr Redford is a monster, whose policy it is to deprave the theatre. +As a matter of fact, both the above stories are strictly in order from +the official point of view. The incidents of sex which they contain, +though carried in both to the extreme point at which another step would +be dealt with, not by the King’s Reader, but by the police, do not +involve adultery, nor any allusion to Mrs Warren’s profession, nor to +the fact that the children of any polyandrous group will, when they grow +up, inevitably be confronted, as those of Mrs Warren’s group are in my +play, with the insoluble problem of their own possible consanguinity. +In short, by depending wholly on the coarse humors and the physical +fascination of sex, they comply with all the formulable requirements of +the Censorship, whereas plays in which these humors and fascinations are +discarded, and the social problems created by sex seriously faced and +dealt with, inevitably ignore the official formula and are suppressed. +If the old rule against the exhibition of illicit sex relations on stage +were revived, and the subject absolutely barred, the only result would +be that Antony and Cleopatra, Othello (because of the Bianca episode), +Troilus and Cressida, Henry IV, Measure for Measure, Timon of Athens, +La Dame aux Camellias, The Profligate, The Second Mrs Tanqueray, The +Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith, The Gay Lord Quex, Mrs Dane’s Defence, and +Iris would be swept from the stage, and placed under the same ban as +Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness and Mrs Warren’s Profession, whilst such +plays as the two described above would have a monopoly of the theatre as +far as sexual interest is concerned. + +What is more, the repulsiveness of the worst of the certified plays +would protect the Censorship against effective exposure and criticism. +Not long ago an American Review of high standing asked me for an article +on the Censorship of the English stage. I replied that such an article +would involve passages too disagreeable for publication in a magazine +for general family reading. The editor persisted nevertheless; but +not until he had declared his readiness to face this, and had pledged +himself to insert the article unaltered (the particularity of the pledge +extending even to a specification of the exact number of words in the +article) did I consent to the proposal. What was the result? + +The editor, confronted with the two stories given above, threw his +pledge to the winds, and, instead of returning the article, printed +it with the illustrative examples omitted, and nothing left but the +argument from political principles against the Censorship. In doing this +he fired my broadside after withdrawing the cannon balls; for neither +the Censor nor any other Englishman, except perhaps Mr Leslie Stephen +and a few other veterans of the dwindling old guard of Benthamism, cares +a dump about political principle. The ordinary Briton thinks that if +every other Briton is not kept under some form of tutelage, the more +childish the better, he will abuse his freedom viciously. As far as its +principle is concerned, the Censorship is the most popular institution +in England; and the playwright who criticizes it is slighted as a +blackguard agitating for impunity. Consequently nothing can really shake +the confidence of the public in the Lord Chamberlain’s department except +a remorseless and unbowdlerized narration of the licentious fictions +which slip through its net, and are hallmarked by it with the approval +of the Throne. But since these narrations cannot be made public without +great difficulty, owing to the obligation an editor is under not to +deal unexpectedly with matters that are not _virginibus puerisque_, the +chances are heavily in favor of the Censor escaping all remonstrance. +With the exception of such comments as I was able to make in my own +critical articles in The World and The Saturday Review when the pieces +I have described were first produced, and a few ignorant protests by +churchmen against much better plays which they confessed they had not +seen nor read, nothing has been said in the press that could seriously +disturb the easygoing notion that the stage would be much worse than it +admittedly is but for the vigilance of the King’s Reader. The truth is, +that no manager would dare produce on his own responsibility the pieces +he can now get royal certificates for at two guineas per piece. + +I hasten to add that I believe these evils to be inherent in the +nature of all censorship, and not merely a consequence of the form the +institution takes in London. No doubt there is a staggering absurdity +in appointing an ordinary clerk to see that the leaders of European +literature do not corrupt the morals of the nation, and to restrain Sir +Henry Irving, as a rogue and a vagabond, from presuming to impersonate +Samson or David on the stage, though any other sort of artist may daub +these scriptural figures on a signboard or carve them on a tombstone +without hindrance. If the General Medical Council, the Royal College of +Physicians, the Royal Academy of Arts, the Incorporated Law Society, and +Convocation were abolished, and their functions handed over to the Mr +Redford, the Concert of Europe would presumably declare England mad, and +treat her accordingly. Yet, though neither medicine nor painting nor +law nor the Church moulds the character of the nation as potently as the +theatre does, nothing can come on the stage unless its dimensions admit +of its passing through Mr Redford’s mind! Pray do not think that I +question Mr Redford’s honesty. I am quite sure that he sincerely thinks +me a blackguard, and my play a grossly improper one, because, like +Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness, it produces, as they are both meant to +produce, a very strong and very painful impression of evil. I do not +doubt for a moment that the rapine play which I have described, and +which he licensed, was quite incapable in manuscript of producing +any particular effect on his mind at all, and that when he was once +satisfied that the ill-conducted hero was a German and not an English +officer, he passed the play without studying its moral tendencies. Even +if he had undertaken that study, there is no more reason to suppose +that he is a competent moralist than there is to suppose that I am a +competent mathematician. But truly it does not matter whether he is a +moralist or not. Let nobody dream for a moment that what is wrong with +the Censorship is the shortcoming of the gentleman who happens at any +moment to be acting as Censor. Replace him to-morrow by an Academy of +Letters and an Academy of Dramatic Poetry, and the new and enlarged +filter will still exclude original and epoch-making work, whilst passing +conventional, old-fashioned, and vulgar work without question. The +conclave which compiles the index of the Roman Catholic Church is the +most august, ancient, learned, famous, and authoritative censorship in +Europe. Is it more enlightened, more liberal, more tolerant that the +comparatively infinitesimal office of the Lord Chamberlain? On the +contrary, it has reduced itself to a degree of absurdity which makes a +Catholic university a contradiction in terms. All censorships exist +to prevent anyone from challenging current conceptions and existing +institutions. All progress is initiated by challenging current concepts, +and executed by supplanting existing institutions. Consequently the +first condition of progress is the removal of censorships. There is the +whole case against censorships in a nutshell. + +It will be asked whether theatrical managers are to be allowed to +produce what they like, without regard to the public interest. But that +is not the alternative. The managers of our London music-halls are not +subject to any censorship. They produce their entertainments on their +own responsibility, and have no two-guinea certificates to plead if +their houses are conducted viciously. They know that if they lose their +character, the County Council will simply refuse to renew their license +at the end of the year; and nothing in the history of popular art +is more amazing than the improvement in music-halls that this simple +arrangement has produced within a few years. Place the theatres on the +same footing, and we shall promptly have a similar revolution: a whole +class of frankly blackguardly plays, in which unscrupulous low comedians +attract crowds to gaze at bevies of girls who have nothing to exhibit +but their prettiness, will vanish like the obscene songs which were +supposed to enliven the squalid dulness, incredible to the younger +generation, of the music-halls fifteen years ago. On the other hand, +plays which treat sex questions as problems for thought instead of as +aphrodisiacs will be freely performed. Gentlemen of Mr Redford’s way of +thinking will have plenty of opportunity of protesting against them +in Council; but the result will be that the Mr Redford will find his +natural level; Ibsen and Tolstoy theirs; so no harm will be done. + +This question of the Censorship reminds me that I have to apologize +to those who went to the recent performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession +expecting to find it what I have just called an aphrodisiac. That was +not my fault; it was Mr Redford’s. After the specimens I have given of +the tolerance of his department, it was natural enough for thoughtless +people to infer that a play which overstepped his indulgence must be a +very exciting play indeed. Accordingly, I find one critic so explicit as +to the nature of his disappointment as to say candidly that “such airy +talk as there is upon the matter is utterly unworthy of acceptance as +being a representation of what people with blood in them think or do on +such occasions.” Thus am I crushed between the upper millstone of the Mr +Redford, who thinks me a libertine, and the nether popular critic, who +thinks me a prude. Critics of all grades and ages, middle-aged fathers +of families no less than ardent young enthusiasts, are equally indignant +with me. They revile me as lacking in passion, in feeling, in manhood. +Some of them even sum the matter up by denying me any dramatic power: a +melancholy betrayal of what dramatic power has come to mean on our stage +under the Censorship! Can I be expected to refrain from laughing at +the spectacle of a number of respectable gentlemen lamenting because a +playwright lures them to the theatre by a promise to excite their senses +in a very special and sensational manner, and then, having successfully +trapped them in exceptional numbers, proceeds to ignore their senses and +ruthlessly improve their minds? But I protest again that the lure was +not mine. The play had been in print for four years; and I have spared +no pains to make known that my plays are built to induce, not voluptuous +reverie but intellectual interest, not romantic rhapsody but humane +concern. Accordingly, I do not find those critics who are gifted with +intellectual appetite and political conscience complaining of want of +dramatic power. Rather do they protest, not altogether unjustly, against +a few relapses into staginess and caricature which betray the young +playwright and the old playgoer in this early work of mine. + +As to the voluptuaries, I can assure them that the playwright, whether +he be myself or another, will always disappoint them. The drama can do +little to delight the senses: all the apparent instances to the contrary +are instances of the personal fascination of the performers. The drama +of pure feeling is no longer in the hands of the playwright: it has been +conquered by the musician, after whose enchantments all the verbal arts +seem cold and tame. Romeo and Juliet with the loveliest Juliet is dry, +tedious, and rhetorical in comparison with Wagner’s Tristan, even though +Isolde be both fourteen stone and forty, as she often is in Germany. +Indeed, it needed no Wagner to convince the public of this. The +voluptuous sentimentality of Gounod’s Faust and Bizet’s Carmen has +captured the common playgoer; and there is, flatly, no future now for +any drama without music except the drama of thought. The attempt to +produce a genus of opera without music (and this absurdity is what +our fashionable theatres have been driving at for a long time without +knowing it) is far less hopeful than my own determination to accept +problem as the normal materiel of the drama. + +That this determination will throw me into a long conflict with our +theatre critics, and with the few playgoers who go to the theatre as +often as the critics, I well know; but I am too well equipped for the +strife to be deterred by it, or to bear malice towards the losing side. +In trying to produce the sensuous effects of opera, the fashionable +drama has become so flaccid in its sentimentality, and the intellect +of its frequenters so atrophied by disuse, that the reintroduction +of problem, with its remorseless logic and iron framework of fact, +inevitably produces at first an overwhelming impression of coldness and +inhuman rationalism. But this will soon pass away. When the intellectual +muscle and moral nerve of the critics has been developed in the struggle +with modern problem plays, the pettish luxuriousness of the clever ones, +and the sulky sense of disadvantaged weakness in the sentimental ones, +will clear away; and it will be seen that only in the problem play is +there any real drama, because drama is no mere setting up of the camera +to nature: it is the presentation in parable of the conflict between +Man’s will and his environment: in a word, of problem. The vapidness of +such drama as the pseudo-operatic plays contain lies in the fact that +in them animal passion, sentimentally diluted, is shewn in conflict, not +with real circumstances, but with a set of conventions and assumptions +half of which do not exist off the stage, whilst the other half can +either be evaded by a pretence of compliance or defied with complete +impunity by any reasonably strong-minded person. Nobody can feel that +such conventions are really compulsory; and consequently nobody can +believe in the stage pathos that accepts them as an inexorable fate, or +in the genuineness of the people who indulge in such pathos. Sitting +at such plays, we do not believe: we make-believe. And the habit of +make-believe becomes at last so rooted that criticism of the theatre +insensibly ceases to be criticism at all, and becomes more and more a +chronicle of the fashionable enterprises of the only realities left on +the stage: that is, the performers in their own persons. In this +phase the playwright who attempts to revive genuine drama produces the +disagreeable impression of the pedant who attempts to start a serious +discussion at a fashionable at-home. Later on, when he has driven the +tea services out and made the people who had come to use the theatre as +a drawing-room understand that it is they and not the dramatist who are +the intruders, he has to face the accusation that his plays ignore human +feeling, an illusion produced by that very resistance of fact and law to +human feeling which creates drama. It is the _deus ex machina_ who, by +suspending that resistance, makes the fall of the curtain an immediate +necessity, since drama ends exactly where resistance ends. Yet the +introduction of this resistance produces so strong an impression of +heartlessness nowadays that a distinguished critic has summed up the +impression made on him by Mrs Warren’s Profession, by declaring that +“the difference between the spirit of Tolstoy and the spirit of Mr +Shaw is the difference between the spirit of Christ and the spirit of +Euclid.” But the epigram would be as good if Tolstoy’s name were put in +place of mine and D’Annunzio’s in place of Tolstoy. At the same time +I accept the enormous compliment to my reasoning powers with sincere +complacency; and I promise my flatterer that when he is sufficiently +accustomed to and therefore undazzled by problem on the stage to be able +to attend to the familiar factor of humanity in it as well as to the +unfamiliar one of a real environment, he will both see and feel that +Mrs Warren’s Profession is no mere theorem, but a play of instincts +and temperaments in conflict with each other and with a flinty social +problem that never yields an inch to mere sentiment. + +I go further than this. I declare that the real secret of the +cynicism and inhumanity of which shallower critics accuse me is the +unexpectedness with which my characters behave like human beings, +instead of conforming to the romantic logic of the stage. The axioms and +postulates of that dreary mimanthropometry are so well known that it is +almost impossible for its slaves to write tolerable last acts to +their plays, so conventionally do their conclusions follow from their +premises. Because I have thrown this logic ruthlessly overboard, I am +accused of ignoring, not stage logic, but, of all things, human feeling. +People with completely theatrified imaginations tell me that no girl +would treat her mother as Vivie Warren does, meaning that no stage +heroine would in a popular sentimental play. They say this just as they +might say that no two straight lines would enclose a space. They do not +see how completely inverted their vision has become even when I throw +its preposterousness in their faces, as I repeatedly do in this very +play. Praed, the sentimental artist (fool that I was not to make him a +theatre critic instead of an architect!) burlesques them by expecting +all through the piece that the feelings of others will be logically +deducible from their family relationships and from his “conventionally +unconventional” social code. The sarcasm is lost on the critics: they, +saturated with the same logic, only think him the sole sensible person +on the stage. Thus it comes about that the more completely the dramatist +is emancipated from the illusion that men and women are primarily +reasonable beings, and the more powerfully he insists on the ruthless +indifference of their great dramatic antagonist, the external world, to +their whims and emotions, the surer he is to be denounced as blind to +the very distinction on which his whole work is built. Far from ignoring +idiosyncrasy, will, passion, impulse, whim, as factors in human action, +I have placed them so nakedly on the stage that the elderly citizen, +accustomed to see them clothed with the veil of manufactured logic about +duty, and to disguise even his own impulses from himself in this way, +finds the picture as unnatural as Carlyle’s suggested painting of +parliament sitting without its clothes. + +I now come to those critics who, intellectually baffled by the problem +in Mrs Warren’s Profession, have made a virtue of running away from it. +I will illustrate their method by quotation from Dickens, taken from the +fifth chapter of Our Mutual Friend: + +“Hem!” began Wegg. “This, Mr Boffin and Lady, is the first chapter of +the first wollume of the Decline and Fall off----” here he looked hard +at the book, and stopped. + +“What’s the matter, Wegg?” + +“Why, it comes into my mind, do you know, sir,” said Wegg with an air of +insinuating frankness (having first again looked hard at the book), “that +you made a little mistake this morning, which I had meant to set you +right in; only something put it out of my head. I think you said Rooshan +Empire, sir?” + +“It is Rooshan; ain’t it, Wegg?” + +“No, sir. Roman. Roman.” + +“What’s the difference, Wegg?” + +“The difference, sir?” Mr Wegg was faltering and in danger of breaking +down, when a bright thought flashed upon him. “The difference, sir? +There you place me in a difficulty, Mr Boffin. Suffice it to observe, +that the difference is best postponed to some other occasion when Mrs +Boffin does not honor us with her company. In Mrs Boffin’s presence, +sir, we had better drop it.” + +Mr Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage with quite a chivalrous air, +and not only that, but by dint of repeating with a manly delicacy, +“In Mrs Boffin’s presence, sir, we had better drop it!” turned the +disadvantage on Boffin, who felt that he had committed himself in a very +painful manner. + +I am willing to let Mr Wegg drop it on these terms, provided I am +allowed to mention here that Mrs Warren’s Profession is a play for +women; that it was written for women; that it has been performed and +produced mainly through the determination of women that it should be +performed and produced; that the enthusiasm of women made its first +performance excitingly successful; and that not one of these women had +any inducement to support it except their belief in the timeliness and +the power of the lesson the play teaches. Those who were “surprised to +see ladies present” were men; and when they proceeded to explain that +the journals they represented could not possibly demoralize the public +by describing such a play, their editors cruelly devoted the space saved +by their delicacy to an elaborate and respectful account of the progress +of a young lord’s attempt to break the bank at Monte Carlo. A few days +sooner Mrs Warren would have been crowded out of their papers by an +exceptionally abominable police case. I do not suggest that the police +case should have been suppressed; but neither do I believe that regard +for public morality had anything to do with their failure to grapple +with the performance by the Stage Society. And, after all, there was no +need to fall back on Silas Wegg’s subterfuge. Several critics saved the +faces of their papers easily enough by the simple expedient of saying +all they had to say in the tone of a shocked governess lecturing a +naughty child. To them I might plead, in Mrs Warren’s words, “Well, +it’s only good manners to be ashamed, dearie;” but it surprises me, +recollecting as I do the effect produced by Miss Fanny Brough’s delivery +of that line, that gentlemen who shivered like violets in a zephyr as +it swept through them, should so completely miss the full width of its +application as to go home and straightway make a public exhibition of +mock modesty. + +My old Independent Theatre manager, Mr Grein, besides that reproach to +me for shattering his ideals, complains that Mrs Warren is not wicked +enough, and names several romancers who would have clothed her black +soul with all the terrors of tragedy. I have no doubt they would; but +if you please, my dear Grein, that is just what I did not want to do. +Nothing would please our sanctimonious British public more than to throw +the whole guilt of Mrs Warren’s profession on Mrs Warren herself. Now +the whole aim of my play is to throw that guilt on the British public +itself. You may remember that when you produced my first play, Widowers’ +Houses, exactly the same misunderstanding arose. When the virtuous young +gentleman rose up in wrath against the slum landlord, the slum +landlord very effectively shewed him that slums are the product, not +of individual Harpagons, but of the indifference of virtuous young +gentlemen to the condition of the city they live in, provided they +live at the west end of it on money earned by someone else’s labor. The +notion that prostitution is created by the wickedness of Mrs Warren +is as silly as the notion--prevalent, nevertheless, to some extent in +Temperance circles--that drunkenness is created by the wickedness of +the publican. Mrs Warren is not a whit a worse woman than the reputable +daughter who cannot endure her. Her indifference to the ultimate social +consequences of her means of making money, and her discovery of that +means by the ordinary method of taking the line of least resistance to +getting it, are too common in English society to call for any special +remark. Her vitality, her thrift, her energy, her outspokenness, her +wise care of her daughter, and the managing capacity which has enabled +her and her sister to climb from the fried fish shop down by the Mint +to the establishments of which she boasts, are all high English social +virtues. Her defence of herself is so overwhelming that it provokes the +St James Gazette to declare that “the tendency of the play is wholly +evil” because “it contains one of the boldest and most specious defences +of an immoral life for poor women that has ever been penned.” Happily +the St James Gazette here speaks in its haste. Mrs Warren’s defence of +herself is not only bold and specious, but valid and unanswerable. +But it is no defence at all of the vice which she organizes. It is +no defence of an immoral life to say that the alternative offered +by society collectively to poor women is a miserable life, starved, +overworked, fetid, ailing, ugly. Though it is quite natural and RIGHT +for Mrs Warren to choose what is, according to her lights, the least +immoral alternative, it is none the less infamous of society to offer +such alternatives. For the alternatives offered are not morality and +immorality, but two sorts of immorality. The man who cannot see +that starvation, overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as +prostitution--that they are the vices and crimes of a nation, and +not merely its misfortunes--is (to put it as politely as possible) a +hopelessly Private Person. + +The notion that Mrs Warren must be a fiend is only an example of the +violence and passion which the slightest reference to sex arouses in +undisciplined minds, and which makes it seem natural for our lawgivers +to punish silly and negligible indecencies with a ferocity unknown in +dealing with, for example, ruinous financial swindling. Had my play been +titled Mr Warren’s Profession, and Mr Warren been a bookmaker, nobody +would have expected me to make him a villain as well. Yet gambling is +a vice, and bookmaking an institution, for which there is absolutely +nothing to be said. The moral and economic evil done by trying to get +other people’s money without working for it (and this is the essence of +gambling) is not only enormous but uncompensated. There are no two sides +to the question of gambling, no circumstances which force us to tolerate +it lest its suppression lead to worse things, no consensus of opinion +among responsible classes, such as magistrates and military commanders, +that it is a necessity, no Athenian records of gambling made splendid by +the talents of its professors, no contention that instead of violating +morals it only violates a legal institution which is in many respects +oppressive and unnatural, no possible plea that the instinct on which it +is founded is a vital one. Prostitution can confuse the issue with all +these excuses: gambling has none of them. Consequently, if Mrs Warren +must needs be a demon, a bookmaker must be a cacodemon. Well, does +anybody who knows the sporting world really believe that bookmakers are +worse than their neighbors? On the contrary, they have to be a good deal +better; for in that world nearly everybody whose social rank does not +exclude such an occupation would be a bookmaker if he could; but the +strength of character for handling large sums of money and for strict +settlements and unflinching payment of losses is so rare that successful +bookmakers are rare too. It may seem that at least public spirit +cannot be one of a bookmaker’s virtues; but I can testify from personal +experience that excellent public work is done with money subscribed +by bookmakers. It is true that there are abysses in bookmaking: for +example, welshing. Mr Grein hints that there are abysses in Mrs Warren’s +profession also. So there are in every profession: the error lies in +supposing that every member of them sounds these depths. I sit on a +public body which prosecutes Mrs Warren zealously; and I can assure Mr +Grein that she is often leniently dealt with because she has conducted +her business “respectably” and held herself above its vilest branches. +The degrees in infamy are as numerous and as scrupulously observed as +the degrees in the peerage: the moralist’s notion that there are depths +at which the moral atmosphere ceases is as delusive as the rich man’s +notion that there are no social jealousies or snobberies among the very +poor. No: had I drawn Mrs Warren as a fiend in human form, the very +people who now rebuke me for flattering her would probably be the +first to deride me for deducing her character logically from occupation +instead of observing it accurately in society. + +One critic is so enslaved by this sort of logic that he calls my +portraiture of the Reverend Samuel Gardner an attack on religion. + +According to this view Subaltern Iago is an attack on the army, Sir +John Falstaff an attack on knighthood, and King Claudius an attack on +royalty. Here again the clamor for naturalness and human feeling, raised +by so many critics when they are confronted by the real thing on the +stage, is really a clamor for the most mechanical and superficial sort +of logic. The dramatic reason for making the clergyman what Mrs Warren +calls “an old stick-in-the-mud,” whose son, in spite of much capacity +and charm, is a cynically worthless member of society, is to set up a +mordant contrast between him and the woman of infamous profession, with +her well brought-up, straightforward, hardworking daughter. The critics +who have missed the contrast have doubtless observed often enough that +many clergymen are in the Church through no genuine calling, but simply +because, in circles which can command preferment, it is the refuge +of “the fool of the family”; and that clergymen’s sons are often +conspicuous reactionists against the restraints imposed on them in +childhood by their father’s profession. These critics must know, too, +from history if not from experience, that women as unscrupulous as Mrs +Warren have distinguished themselves as administrators and rulers, both +commercially and politically. But both observation and knowledge are +left behind when journalists go to the theatre. Once in their stalls, +they assume that it is “natural” for clergymen to be saintly, for +soldiers to be heroic, for lawyers to be hard-hearted, for sailors to +be simple and generous, for doctors to perform miracles with little +bottles, and for Mrs Warren to be a beast and a demon. All this is not +only not natural, but not dramatic. A man’s profession only enters into +the drama of his life when it comes into conflict with his nature. The +result of this conflict is tragic in Mrs Warren’s case, and comic in the +clergyman’s case (at least we are savage enough to laugh at it); but +in both cases it is illogical, and in both cases natural. I repeat, +the critics who accuse me of sacrificing nature to logic are so +sophisticated by their profession that to them logic is nature, and +nature absurdity. + +Many friendly critics are too little skilled in social questions and +moral discussions to be able to conceive that respectable gentlemen like +themselves, who would instantly call the police to remove Mrs Warren if +she ventured to canvass them personally, could possibly be in any way +responsible for her proceedings. They remonstrate sincerely, asking me +what good such painful exposures can possibly do. They might as well ask +what good Lord Shaftesbury did by devoting his life to the exposure +of evils (by no means yet remedied) compared to which the worst things +brought into view or even into surmise by this play are trifles. +The good of mentioning them is that you make people so extremely +uncomfortable about them that they finally stop blaming “human nature” + for them, and begin to support measures for their reform. + +Can anything be more absurd than the copy of The Echo which contains a +notice of the performance of my play? It is edited by a gentleman who, +having devoted his life to work of the Shaftesbury type, exposes social +evils and clamors for their reform in every column except one; and that +one is occupied by the declaration of the paper’s kindly theatre critic, +that the performance left him “wondering what useful purpose the play +was intended to serve.” The balance has to be redressed by the more +fashionable papers, which usually combine capable art criticism with +West-End solecism on politics and sociology. It is very noteworthy, +however, on comparing the press explosion produced by Mrs Warren’s +Profession in 1902 with that produced by Widowers’ Houses about ten +years earlier, that whereas in 1892 the facts were frantically denied +and the persons of the drama flouted as monsters of wickedness, in +1902 the facts are admitted and the characters recognized, though it is +suggested that this is exactly why no gentleman should mention them in +public. Only one writer has ventured to imply this time that the poverty +mentioned by Mrs Warren has since been quietly relieved, and need +not have been dragged back to the footlights. I compliment him on his +splendid mendacity, in which he is unsupported, save by a little plea in +a theatrical paper which is innocent enough to think that ten guineas a +year with board and lodging is an impossibly low wage for a barmaid. It +goes on to cite Mr Charles Booth as having testified that there are +many laborers’ wives who are happy and contented on eighteen shillings +a week. But I can go further than that myself. I have seen an Oxford +agricultural laborer’s wife looking cheerful on eight shillings a week; +but that does not console me for the fact that agriculture in England +is a ruined industry. If poverty does not matter as long as it is +contented, then crime does not matter as long as it is unscrupulous. The +truth is that it is only then that it does matter most desperately. +Many persons are more comfortable when they are dirty than when they are +clean; but that does not recommend dirt as a national policy. + +Here I must for the present break off my arduous work of educating the +Press. We shall resume our studies later on; but just now I am tired of +playing the preceptor; and the eager thirst of my pupils for improvement +does not console me for the slowness of their progress. Besides, I must +reserve space to gratify my own vanity and do justice to the six artists +who acted my play, by placing on record the hitherto unchronicled +success of the first representation. It is not often that an author, +after a couple of hours of those rare alternations of excitement and +intensely attentive silence which only occur in the theatre when actors +and audience are reacting on one another to the utmost, is able to step +on the stage and apply the strong word genius to the representation with +the certainty of eliciting an instant and overwhelming assent from the +audience. That was my good fortune on the afternoon of Sunday, the fifth +of January last. I was certainly extremely fortunate in my interpreters +in the enterprise, and that not alone in respect of their artistic +talent; for had it not been for their superhuman patience, their +imperturbable good humor and good fellowship, there could have been no +performance. The terror of the Censor’s power gave us trouble enough to +break up any ordinary commercial enterprise. Managers promised and even +engaged their theatres to us after the most explicit warnings that the +play was unlicensed, and at the last moment suddenly realized that Mr +Redford had their livelihoods in the hollow of his hand, and backed +out. Over and over again the date and place were fixed and the tickets +printed, only to be canceled, until at last the desperate and overworked +manager of the Stage Society could only laugh, as criminals broken on +the wheel used to laugh at the second stroke. We rehearsed under great +difficulties. Christmas pieces and plays for the new year were being +produced in all directions; and my six actor colleagues were busy +people, with engagements in these pieces in addition to their current +professional work every night. On several raw winter days stages for +rehearsal were unattainable even by the most distinguished applicants; +and we shared corridors and saloons with them whilst the stage was +given over to children in training for Boxing night. At last we had to +rehearse at an hour at which no actor or actress has been out of bed +within the memory of man; and we sardonically congratulated one another +every morning on our rosy matutinal looks and the improvement wrought +by our early rising in our health and characters. And all this, please +observe, for a society without treasury or commercial prestige, for +a play which was being denounced in advance as unmentionable, for an +author without influence at the fashionable theatres! I victoriously +challenge the West End managers to get as much done for interested +motives, if they can. + +Three causes made the production the most notable that has fallen to my +lot. First, the veto of the Censor, which put the supporters of the play +on their mettle. Second, the chivalry of the Stage Society, which, in +spite of my urgent advice to the contrary, and my demonstration of the +difficulties, dangers, and expenses the enterprise would cost, put my +discouragements to shame and resolved to give battle at all costs to +the attempt of the Censorship to suppress the play. Third, the artistic +spirit of the actors, who made the play their own and carried it through +triumphantly in spite of a series of disappointments and annoyances much +more trying to the dramatic temperament than mere difficulties. + +The acting, too, required courage and character as well as skill and +intelligence. The veto of the Censor introduced quite a novel element of +moral responsibility into the undertaking. And the characters were very +unusual on the English stage. The younger heroine is, like her mother, +an Englishwoman to the backbone, and not, like the heroines of our +fashionable drama, a prima donna of Italian origin. Consequently she +was sure to be denounced as unnatural and undramatic by the critics. +The most vicious man in the play is not in the least a stage villain; +indeed, he regards his own moral character with the sincere complacency +of a hero of melodrama. The amiable devotee of romance and beauty is +shewn at an age which brings out the futilization which these worships +are apt to produce if they are made the staple of life instead of +the sauce. The attitude of the clever young people to their elders is +faithfully represented as one of pitiless ridicule and unsympathetic +criticism, and forms a spectacle incredible to those who, when young, +were not cleverer than their nearest elders, and painful to those +sentimental parents who shrink from the cruelty of youth, which pardons +nothing because it knows nothing. In short, the characters and their +relations are of a kind that the routineer critic has not yet learned +to place; so that their misunderstanding was a foregone conclusion. +Nevertheless, there was no hesitation behind the curtain. When it went +up at last, a stage much too small for the company was revealed to an +auditorium much too small for the audience. But the players, though it +was impossible for them to forget their own discomfort, at once made the +spectators forget theirs. It certainly was a model audience, responsive +from the first line to the last; and it got no less than it deserved in +return. + +I grieve to add that the second performance, given for the edification +of the London Press and of those members of the Stage Society who cannot +attend the Sunday performances, was a less inspiriting one than the +first. A solid phalanx of theatre-weary journalists in an afternoon +humor, most of them committed to irreconcilable disparagement of problem +plays, and all of them bound by etiquette to be as undemonstrative +as possible, is not exactly the sort of audience that rises at the +performers and cures them of the inevitable reaction after an excitingly +successful first night. The artist nature is a sensitive and therefore +a vindictive one; and masterful players have a way with recalcitrant +audiences of rubbing a play into them instead of delighting them with +it. I should describe the second performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession, +especially as to its earlier stages, as decidedly a rubbed-in one. The +rubbing was no doubt salutary; but it must have hurt some of the thinner +skins. The charm of the lighter passages fled; and the strong scenes, +though they again carried everything before them, yet discharged that +duty in a grim fashion, doing execution on the enemy rather than moving +them to repentance and confession. Still, to those who had not seen the +first performance, the effect was sufficiently impressive; and they +had the advantage of witnessing a fresh development in Mrs Warren, who, +artistically jealous, as I took it, of the overwhelming effect of the +end of the second act on the previous day, threw herself into the fourth +act in quite a new way, and achieved the apparently impossible feat of +surpassing herself. The compliments paid to Miss Fanny Brough by +the critics, eulogistic as they are, are the compliments of men +three-fourths duped as Partridge was duped by Garrick. By much of her +acting they were so completely taken in that they did not recognize it +as acting at all. Indeed, none of the six players quite escaped this +consequence of their own thoroughness. There was a distinct tendency +among the less experienced critics to complain of their sentiments and +behavior. Naturally, the author does not share that grievance. + +PICCARD’S COTTAGE, JANUARY 1902. + + + + + +MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + + +[Mrs Warren’s Profession was performed for the first time in the theatre +of the New Lyric Club, London, on the 5th and 6th January 1902, with +Madge McIntosh as Vivie, Julius Knight as Praed, Fanny Brough as Mrs +Warren, Charles Goodhart as Crofts, Harley Granville-Barker as Frank, +and Cosmo Stuart as the Reverend Samuel Gardner.] + + + + +ACT I + + +[Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a hill a +little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, the cottage is +seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and +porch, and a large latticed window to the left of the porch. A paling +completely shuts in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The +common rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some folded +canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side bench in the porch. A +lady’s bicycle is propped against the wall, under the window. A little +to the right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big +canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the hammock, +in which a young lady is reading and making notes, her head towards +the cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front of the hammock, +and within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of +serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper on it.] + +[A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind the +cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the artist +about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven +except for a moustache, with an eager susceptible face and very amiable +and considerate manners. He has silky black hair, with waves of grey and +white in it. His eyebrows are white, his moustache black. He seems not +certain of his way. He looks over the palings; takes stock of the place; +and sees the young lady.] + +THE GENTLEMAN [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you direct me +to Hindhead View--Mrs Alison’s? + +THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs Alison’s. [She +resumes her work]. + +THE GENTLEMAN. Indeed! Perhaps--may I ask are you Miss Vivie Warren? + +THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good look at +him] Yes. + +THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I’m afraid I appear intrusive. +My name is Praed. [Vivie at once throws her books upon the chair, and +gets out of the hammock]. Oh, pray don’t let me disturb you. + +VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr Praed. +[He comes in]. Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand and takes his +with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the +sensible, able, highly-educated young middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22. +Prompt, strong, confident, self-possessed. Plain business-like dress, +but not dowdy. She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen +and a paper knife among its pendants]. + +PRAED. Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate with a +vigorous slam. He passes in to the middle of the garden, exercising his +fingers, which are slightly numbed by her greeting]. Has your mother +arrived? + +VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming? + +PRAED [surprised] Didn’t you expect us? + +VIVIE. No. + +PRAED. Now, goodness me, I hope I’ve not mistaken the day. That would be +just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she was to come down +from London and that I was to come over from Horsham to be introduced to +you. + +VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? Hm! My mother has rather a trick of +taking me by surprise--to see how I behave myself while she’s away, I +suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one of +these days, if she makes arrangements that concern me without consulting +me beforehand. She hasnt come. + +PRAED [embarrassed] I’m really very sorry. + +VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It’s not your fault, Mr Praed, is +it? And I’m very glad you’ve come. You are the only one of my mother’s +friends I have ever asked her to bring to see me. + +PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good of you, +Miss Warren! + +VIVIE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here and talk? + +PRAED. It will be nicer out here, don’t you think? + +VIVIE. Then I’ll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch for a +garden chair]. + +PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands on the +chair]. + +VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers; theyre rather +dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair with the books +on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with +one swing]. + +PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now do let me take that +hard chair. I like hard chairs. + +VIVIE. So do I. Sit down, Mr Praed. [This invitation she gives with a +genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as +a sign of weakness of character on his part. But he does not immediately +obey]. + +PRAED. By the way, though, hadnt we better go to the station to meet +your mother? + +VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way. + +PRAED [disconcerted] Er--I suppose she does [he sits down]. + +VIVIE. Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope you are +disposed to be friends with me. + +PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my _dear_ Miss Warren; thank you. Dear +me! I’m so glad your mother hasnt spoilt you! + +VIVIE. How? + +PRAED. Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear Miss +Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils the relations +between parent and child; even between mother and daughter. Now I was +always afraid that your mother would strain her authority to make you +very conventional. It’s such a relief to find that she hasnt. + +VIVIE. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally? + +PRAED. Oh no: oh dear no. At least, not conventionally unconventionally, +you understand. [She nods and sits down. He goes on, with a cordial +outburst] But it was so charming of you to say that you were disposed +to be friends with me! You modern young ladies are splendid: perfectly +splendid! + +VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment as to +the quality of his brains and character]. + +PRAED. When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of each +other: there was no good fellowship. Nothing real. Only gallantry copied +out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly +reserve! gentlemanly chivalry! always saying no when you meant yes! +simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls. + +VIVIE. Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of time. +Especially women’s time. + +PRAED. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are improving. +Do you know, I have been in a positive state of excitement about meeting +you ever since your magnificent achievements at Cambridge: a thing +unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid, your tieing with the +third wrangler. Just the right place, you know. The first wrangler +is always a dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the +length of a disease. + +VIVIE. It doesn’t pay. I wouldn’t do it again for the same money. + +PRAED [aghast] The same money! + +VIVIE. Yes. Fifty pounds. Perhaps you don’t know how it was. Mrs Latham, +my tutor at Newnham, told my mother that I could distinguish myself in +the mathematical tripos if I went in for it in earnest. The papers were +full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the senior wrangler. You +remember about it, of course. + +PRAED [shakes his head energetically] !!! + +VIVIE. Well, anyhow, she did; and nothing would please my mother but +that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was not worth +my while to face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; but I +offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts for fifty pounds. She +closed with me at that, after a little grumbling; and I was better than +my bargain. But I wouldn’t do it again for that. Two hundred pounds would +have been nearer the mark. + +PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! Thats a very practical way of looking +at it. + +VIVIE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical person? + +PRAED. But surely it’s practical to consider not only the work these +honors cost, but also the culture they bring. + +VIVIE. Culture! My dear Mr Praed: do you know what the mathematical +tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind for six to eight hours a day +at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics. + +I’m supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing except +the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for engineers, +electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I know next to +nothing about engineering or electricity or insurance. I don’t even know +arithmetic well. Outside mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping, +cycling, and walking, I’m a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could +possibly be who hadn’t gone in for the tripos. + +PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I knew it! +I felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes womanhood +beautiful! + +VIVIE. I don’t object to it on that score in the least. I shall turn it +to very good account, I assure you. + +PRAED. Pooh! In what way? + +VIVIE. I shall set up chambers in the City, and work at actuarial +calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I shall do some law, +with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the time. I’ve come down here by +myself to read law: not for a holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate +holidays. + +PRAED. You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, no beauty +in your life? + +VIVIE. I don’t care for either, I assure you. + +PRAED. You can’t mean that. + +VIVIE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. When I’m +tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a little whisky, +and a novel with a good detective story in it. + +PRAED [rising in a frenzy of repudiation] I don’t believe it. I am an +artist; and I can’t believe it: I refuse to believe it. It’s only that +you havn’t discovered yet what a wonderful world art can open up to you. + +VIVIE. Yes I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with Honoria +Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of sightseeing together; but +I was really at Honoria’s chambers in Chancery Lane every day, working +away at actuarial calculations for her, and helping her as well as a +greenhorn could. In the evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt +of going out except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my +life. + +I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a +fee in the bargain. + +PRAED. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that +discovering art? + +VIVIE. Wait a bit. That wasn’t the beginning. I went up to town on an +invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn’s Avenue: one of the +girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery-- + +PRAED [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved]. + +VIVIE [continuing]--to the Opera-- + +PRAED [still more pleased] Good! + +VIVIE.--and to a concert where the band played all the evening: +Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldn’t go through that experience +again for anything you could offer me. I held out for civility’s sake +until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn’t stand +any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. N o w you know the sort +of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am. How do you think I shall +get on with my mother? + +PRAED [startled] Well, I hope--er-- + +VIVIE. It’s not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want +to know. + +PRAED. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little +disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know: I don’t +mean that. But you are so different from her ideal. + +VIVIE. Her what?! + +PRAED. Her ideal. + +VIVIE. Do you mean her ideal of ME? + +PRAED. Yes. + +VIVIE. What on earth is it like? + +PRAED. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are +dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think that the world +would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently. +Now your mother’s life has been--er--I suppose you know-- + +VIVIE. Don’t suppose anything, Mr Praed. I hardly know my mother. Since +I was a child I have lived in England, at school or at college, or with +people paid to take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my life. +My mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her. +I only see her when she visits England for a few days. I don’t complain: +it’s been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there +has always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But don’t imagine +I know anything about my mother. I know far less than you do. + +PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case--[He stops, quite at a loss. Then, +with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense we are talking! Of +course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and looks +abroad at the view]. What a charming little place you have here! + +VIVIE [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed. Why won’t +my mother’s life bear being talked about? + +PRAED. Oh, you mustn’t say that. Isn’t it natural that I should have a +certain delicacy in talking to my old friend’s daughter about her behind +her back? You and she will have plenty of opportunity of talking about +it when she comes. + +VIVIE. No: she won’t talk about it either. [Rising] However, I daresay +you have good reasons for telling me nothing. Only, mind this, Mr +Praed, I expect there will be a battle royal when my mother hears of my +Chancery Lane project. + +PRAED [ruefully] I’m afraid there will. + +VIVIE. Well, I shall win because I want nothing but my fare to London +to start there to-morrow earning my own living by devilling for Honoria. +Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall +use that advantage over her if necessary. + +PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh no! No, pray. Youd not do such a thing. + +VIVIE. Then tell me why not. + +PRAED. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She smiles at +his sentimentality]. Besides, you may be too bold. Your mother is not to +be trifled with when she’s angry. + +VIVIE. You can’t frighten me, Mr Praed. In that month at Chancery Lane I +had opportunities of taking the measure of one or two women v e r y like +my mother. You may back me to win. But if I hit harder in my ignorance +than I need, remember it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now, let us +drop the subject. [She takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock +with the same vigorous swing as before]. + +PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I had +better tell you. It’s very difficult; but-- + +[Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the gate. Mrs Warren is +between 40 and 50, formerly pretty, showily dressed in a brilliant +hat and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by +fashionable sleeves. Rather spoilt and domineering, and decidedly +vulgar, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old +blackguard of a woman.] + +[Crofts is a tall powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably dressed +in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than might be expected +from his strong frame. Clean-shaven bulldog jaws, large flat ears, and +thick neck: gentlemanly combination of the most brutal types of city +man, sporting man, and man about town.] + +VIVIE. Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden] How do, +mater? Mr Praed’s been here this half hour, waiting for you. + +MRS WARREN. Well, if you’ve been waiting, Praddy, it’s your own fault: +I thought youd have had the gumption to know I was coming by the 3.10 +train. Vivie: put your hat on, dear: youll get sunburnt. Oh, I forgot to +introduce you. Sir George Crofts: my little Vivie. + +[Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly manner. She nods, but +makes no motion to shake hands.] + +CROFTS. May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by +reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends? + +VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like. + +[She takes his tenderly proferred hand and gives it a squeeze that makes +him open his eyes; then turns away, and says to her mother] Will you +come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? [She goes into the porch +for the chairs]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, George, what do you think of her? + +CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands with her, +Praed? + +PRAED. Yes: it will pass off presently. + +CROFTS. I hope so. [Vivie reappears with two more chairs. He hurries to +her assistance]. Allow me. + +MRS WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the chairs, +dear. + +VIVIE [pitching them into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her hands +and turns to Mrs Warren]. Youd like some tea, wouldn’t you? + +MRS WARREN [sitting in Praed’s chair and fanning herself] I’m dying for +a drop to drink. + +VIVIE. I’ll see about it. [She goes into the cottage]. + +[Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant it by +Mrs Warren, on her left. He throws the other on the grass and sits down, +looking dejected and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in +his mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, fidgets around the garden on their +right.] + +MRS WARREN [to Praed, looking at Crofts] Just look at him, Praddy: he +looks cheerful, don’t he? He’s been worrying my life out these three +years to have that little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that Ive +done it, he’s quite out of countenance. [Briskly] Come! sit up, George; +and take your stick out of your mouth. [Crofts sulkily obeys]. + +PRAED. I think, you know--if you don’t mind my saying so--that we had +better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little girl. You see +she has really distinguished herself; and I’m not sure, from what I have +seen of her, that she is not older than any of us. + +MRS WARREN [greatly amused] Only listen to him, George! Older than any +of us! Well she _has_ been stuffing you nicely with her importance. + +PRAED. But young people are particularly sensitive about being treated +in that way. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and young people have to get all that nonsense taken +out of them, and good deal more besides. Don’t you interfere, Praddy: I +know how to treat my own child as well as you do. [Praed, with a grave +shake of his head, walks up the garden with his hands behind his back. +Mrs Warren pretends to laugh, but looks after him with perceptible +concern. Then, she whispers to Crofts] Whats the matter with him? What +does he take it like that for? + +CROFTS [morosely] Youre afraid of Praed. + +MRS WARREN. What! Me! Afraid of dear old Praddy! Why, a fly wouldn’t be +afraid of him. + +CROFTS. _You’re_ afraid of him. + +MRS WARREN [angry] I’ll trouble you to mind your own business, and not +try any of your sulks on me. I’m not afraid of y o u, anyhow. If you +can’t make yourself agreeable, youd better go home. [She gets up, and, +turning her back on him, finds herself face to face with Praed]. Come, +Praddy, I know it was only your tender-heartedness. Youre afraid I’ll +bully her. + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: you think I’m offended. Don’t imagine that: pray +don’t. But you know I often notice things that escape you; and though you +never take my advice, you sometimes admit afterwards that you ought to +have taken it. + +MRS WARREN. Well, what do you notice now? + +PRAED. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray, Kitty, treat her with +every respect. + +MRS WARREN [with genuine amazement] Respect! Treat my own daughter with +respect! What next, pray! + +VIVIE [appearing at the cottage door and calling to Mrs Warren] Mother: +will you come to my room before tea? + +MRS WARREN. Yes, dearie. [She laughs indulgently at Praed’s gravity, and +pats him on the cheek as she passes him on her way to the porch]. Don’t +be cross, Praddy. [She follows Vivie into the cottage]. + +CROFTS [furtively] I say, Praed. + +PRAED. Yes. + +CROFTS. I want to ask you a rather particular question. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He takes Mrs Warren’s chair and sits close to +Crofts]. + +CROFTS. Thats right: they might hear us from the window. Look here: did +Kitty every tell you who that girl’s father is? + +PRAED. Never. + +CROFTS. Have you any suspicion of who it might be? + +PRAED. None. + +CROFTS [not believing him] I know, of course, that you perhaps might +feel bound not to tell if she had said anything to you. But it’s very +awkward to be uncertain about it now that we shall be meeting the girl +every day. We don’t exactly know how we ought to feel towards her. + +PRAED. What difference can that make? We take her on her own merits. +What does it matter who her father was? + +CROFTS [suspiciously] Then you know who he was? + +PRAED [with a touch of temper] I said no just now. Did you not hear me? + +CROFTS. Look here, Praed. I ask you as a particular favor. If you _do_ +know [movement of protest from Praed]--I only say, if you know, +you might at least set my mind at rest about her. The fact is, I fell +attracted. + +PRAED [sternly] What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Oh, don’t be alarmed: it’s quite an innocent feeling. Thats what +puzzles me about it. Why, for all I know, _I_ might be her father. + +PRAED. You! Impossible! + +CROFTS [catching him up cunningly] You know for certain that I’m not? + +PRAED. I know nothing about it, I tell you, any more than you. But +really, Crofts--oh no, it’s out of the question. Theres not the least +resemblance. + +CROFTS. As to that, theres no resemblance between her and her mother +that I can see. I suppose she’s not y o u r daughter, is she? + +PRAED [rising indignantly] Really, Crofts--! + +CROFTS. No offence, Praed. Quite allowable as between two men of the +world. + +PRAED [recovering himself with an effort and speaking gently and +gravely] Now listen to me, my dear Crofts. [He sits down again]. + +I have nothing to do with that side of Mrs Warren’s life, and never had. +She has never spoken to me about it; and of course I have never spoken +to her about it. Your delicacy will tell you that a handsome woman needs +some friends who are not--well, not on that footing with her. The effect +of her own beauty would become a torment to her if she could not escape +from it occasionally. You are probably on much more confidential terms +with Kitty than I am. Surely you can ask her the question yourself. + +CROFTS. I h a v e asked her, often enough. But she’s so determined to +keep the child all to herself that she would deny that it ever had a +father if she could. [Rising] I’m thoroughly uncomfortable about it, +Praed. + +PRAED [rising also] Well, as you are, at all events, old enough to be +her father, I don’t mind agreeing that we both regard Miss Vivie in a +parental way, as a young girl who we are bound to protect and help. What +do you say? + +CROFTS [aggressively] I’m no older than you, if you come to that. + +PRAED. Yes you are, my dear fellow: you were born old. I was born a boy: +Ive never been able to feel the assurance of a grown-up man in my life. +[He folds his chair and carries it to the porch]. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within the cottage] Prad-dee! George! +Tea-ea-ea-ea! + +CROFTS [hastily] She’s calling us. [He hurries in]. + +[Praed shakes his head bodingly, and is following Crofts when he is +hailed by a young gentleman who has just appeared on the common, and is +making for the gate. He is pleasant, pretty, smartly dressed, cleverly +good-for-nothing, not long turned 20, with a charming voice and +agreeably disrespectful manners. He carries a light sporting magazine +rifle.] + +THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed! + +PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands cordially]. +What on earth are you doing here? + +FRANK. Staying with my father. + +PRAED. The Roman father? + +FRANK. He’s rector here. I’m living with my people this autumn for the +sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the Roman father had +to pay my debts. He’s stony broke in consequence; and so am I. What are +you up to in these parts? do you know the people here? + +PRAED. Yes: I’m spending the day with a Miss Warren. + +FRANK [enthusiastically] What! Do you know Vivie? Isn’t she a jolly girl? +I’m teaching her to shoot with this [putting down the rifle]. I’m so +glad she knows you: youre just the sort of fellow she ought to know. +[He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a singing tone as he +exclaims] It’s e v e r so jolly to find you here, Praed. + +PRAED. I’m an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me over to +make her daughter’s acquaintance. + +FRANK. The mother! Is _she_ here? + +PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within] Prad-dee-ee-ee-eee! The tea-cake’ll be +cold. + +PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. I’ve just met a friend +here. + +MRS WARREN. A what? + +PRAED [louder] A friend. + +MRS WARREN. Bring him in. + +PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation? + +FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused] Is that Vivie’s mother? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she’ll like me? + +PRAED. I’ve no doubt youll make yourself popular, as usual. Come in and +try [moving towards the house]. + +FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my confidence. + +PRAED. Pray don’t. It’s only some fresh folly, like the barmaid at +Redhill. + +FRANK. It’s ever so much more serious than that. You say you’ve only just +met Vivie for the first time? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK [rhapsodically] Then you can have no idea what a girl she is. Such +character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my eye, Praed, but I can +tell you she is clever! And--need I add?--she loves me. + +CROFTS [putting his head out of the window] I say, Praed: what are you +about? Do come along. [He disappears]. + +FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog show, ain’t +he? Who’s he? + +PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren’s. I think we had +better come in. + +[On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate. +Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it.] + +THE CLERGYMAN [calling] Frank! + +FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] Yes, +gov’nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: youd better +go in to tea. I’ll join you directly. + +PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage]. + +[The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of +it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established +Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy, +important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the +family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously +asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command +respect in either capacity.] + +REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask? + +FRANK. Oh, it’s all right, gov’nor! Come in. + +REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering. + +FRANK. It’s all right. It’s Miss Warren’s. + +REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. + +FRANK. Of course not: she’s a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took +a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach? + +REV. S. Don’t be disrespectful, sir. + +FRANK. Oh, it don’t matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the gate, +unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden]. I want to +introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me last July, +gov’nor? + +REV. S. [severely] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and +flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on +it and not upon me. + +FRANK. No: thats what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said +was that since I had neither brains nor money, I’d better turn my good +looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss +Warren has brains: you can’t deny that. + +REV. S. Brains are not everything. + +FRANK. No, of course not: theres the money-- + +REV. S. [interrupting him austerely] I was not thinking of money, sir. I +was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance. + +FRANK. I don’t care a rap about that. + +REV. S. But I do, sir. + +FRANK. Well, nobody wants y o u to marry her. Anyhow, she has what +amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money +as she wants. + +REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor] I greatly doubt whether +she has as much money as y o u will want. + +FRANK. Oh, come: I havn’t been so very extravagant. I live ever so +quietly; I don’t drink; I don’t bet much; and I never go regularly to the +razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age. + +REV. S. [booming hollowly] Silence, sir. + +FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass +of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman +fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when-- + +REV. S. [terrified] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! [He looks round +apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom +again, but more subduedly]. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of +what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you +would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father’s +follies, sir; and don’t make them an excuse for your own. + +FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his +letters? + +REV. S. No, sir; and I don’t want to hear it. + +FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn’t throw away fifty pounds: not he. He +just wrote: “Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, +Wellington.” Thats what you should have done. + +REV. S. [piteously] Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put +myself into that woman’s power. When I told you about them I put myself, +to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money +with these words, which I shall never forget. “Knowledge is power” she +said; “and I never sell power.” + +Thats more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her +power or caused me a moment’s uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me +than she did, Frank. + +FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach +at me every day? + +REV. S. [wounded almost to tears] I leave you, sir. You are +incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate]. + +FRANK [utterly unmoved] Tell them I shan’t be home to tea, will you, +gov’nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is +met by Praed and Vivie coming out]. + +VIVIE [to Frank] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him. + +FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov’nor. Youre wanted. [The +parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses +the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities]. +My father: Miss Warren. + +VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand] Very glad to see +you here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come along: youre +wanted. + +[Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed, +recognizing the clergyman.] + +VIVIE [continuing] Let me introduce-- + +MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel] Why it’s Sam Gardner, gone +into the Church! Well, I never! Don’t you know us, Sam? This is George +Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don’t you remember me? + +REV. S. [very red] I really--er-- + +MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters +still: I came across them only the other day. + +REV. S. [miserably confused] Miss Vavasour, I believe. + +MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper] Tch! Nonsense! Mrs +Warren: don’t you see my daughter there? + + + + +ACT II + + +[Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within +instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains +drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with +the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door +leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser +with a candle and matches on it, and Frank’s rifle standing beside them, +with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands +with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie’s books and writing materials are on a +table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on +the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set +right and left of the table.] + +[The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs +Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, +followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had +enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat; +takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the +table.] + +MRS WARREN. O Lord! I don’t know which is the worst of the country, the +walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. I could do with a +whisky and soda now very well, if only they had such a things in this +place. + +FRANK. Perhaps Vivie’s got some. + +MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing with +such things! Never mind: it don’t matter. I wonder how she passes her +time here! I’d a good deal rather be in Vienna. + +FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her shawl, +gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze as he does +so]. + +MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I’m beginning to think youre a chip of the +old block. + +FRANK. Like the gov’nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest chair, +and sits down]. + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things? + +Youre only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from +temptation]. + +FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It’d be ever such larks. + +MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you--at least not +until youre a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize this piece of +advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes. +She looks at him; then comes back to him]. Now, look here, little boy +[taking his face in her hands and turning it up to her]: I know you +through and through by your likeness to your father, better than you +know yourself. Don’t you go taking any silly ideas into your head about +me. Do you hear? + +FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice] Can’t help it, my dear Mrs +Warren: it runs in the family. + +[She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing +upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and +immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.] + +MRS WARREN. There! I shouldn’t have done that. I _am_ wicked. Never you +mind, my dear: it’s only a motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie. + +FRANK. So I have. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her voice] +What! + +FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums. + +MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I won’t have any young scamp +tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I won’t have it. + +FRANK [quite unabashed] My dear Mrs Warren: don’t you be alarmed. My +intentions are honorable: ever so honorable; and your little girl is +jolly well able to take care of herself. She don’t need looking after +half so much as her mother. She ain’t so handsome, you know. + +MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a nice +healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I don’t know where you got it. +Not from your father, anyhow. + +CROFTS [in the garden] The gipsies, I suppose? + +REV. S. [replying] The broomsquires are far worse. + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] S-sh! Remember! you’ve had your warning. + +[Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, the +clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.] + +REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable. + +MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And wheres Praddy and Vivie? + +CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the chimney +corner] They went up the hill. We went to the village. I wanted a drink. +[He sits down on the settle, putting his legs up along the seat]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtn’t to go off like that without telling me. +[To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are your manners? +[Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes +another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the middle, with +his father on his right and Mrs Warren on his left]. George: where are +you going to stay to-night? You can’t stay here. And whats Praddy going +to do? + +CROFTS. Gardner’ll put me up. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt you’ve taken care of yourself! But what about +Praddy? + +CROFTS. Don’t know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn. + +MRS WARREN. Havn’t you room for him, Sam? + +REV. S. Well--er--you see, as rector here, I am not free to do as I +like. Er--what is Mr Praed’s social position? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, he’s all right: he’s an architect. What an old +stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam! + +FRANK. Yes, it’s all right, gov’nor. He built that place down in Wales +for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must have heard of it. +[He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs Warren, and regards his father +blandly]. + +REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. I +suppose he knows the Duke personally. + +FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina’s old room. + +MRS WARREN. Well, thats settled. Now if those two would only come in and +let us have supper. Theyve no right to stay out after dark like this. + +CROFTS [aggressively] What harm are they doing you? + +MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I don’t like it. + +FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay out as +long as possible. He has never known before what it is to stray over the +heath on a summer night with my Vivie. + +CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation] I say, you know! Come! + +REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into real force +and sincerity] Frank, once and for all, it’s out of the question. Mrs +Warren will tell you that it’s not to be thought of. + +CROFTS. Of course not. + +FRANK [with enchanting placidity] Is that so, Mrs Warren? + +MRS WARREN [reflectively] Well, Sam, I don’t know. If the girl wants to +get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried. + +REV. S. [astounded] But married to _him!_--your daughter to my son! Only +think: it’s impossible. + +CROFTS. Of course it’s impossible. Don’t be a fool, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [nettled] Why not? Isn’t my daughter good enough for your son? + +REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons-- + +MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you can tell +them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your congregation, if you like. + +REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair] You know very well that I +couldn’t tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe me when I tell +him there a r e reasons. + +FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy’s conduct ever been +influenced by your reasons? + +CROFTS. You can’t marry her; and thats all about it. [He gets up +and stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, frowning +determinedly]. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply] What have you got to do with it, +pray? + +FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence] Precisely what I was going to +ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion. + +CROFTS [to Mrs Warren] I suppose you don’t want to marry the girl to a +man younger than herself and without either a profession or twopence to +keep her on. Ask Sam, if you don’t believe me. [To the parson] How much +more money are you going to give him? + +REV. S. Not another penny. He has had his patrimony; and he spent the +last of it in July. [Mrs Warren’s face falls]. + +CROFTS [watching her] There! I told you. [He resumes his place on +the settle and puts his legs on the seat again, as if the matter were +finally disposed of]. + +FRANK [plaintively] This is ever so mercenary. Do you suppose Miss +Warren’s going to marry for money? If we love one another-- + +MRS WARREN. Thank you. Your love’s a pretty cheap commodity, my lad. +If you have no means of keeping a wife, that settles it; you can’t have +Vivie. + +FRANK [much amused] What do y o u say, gov’nor, eh? + +REV. S. I agree with Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. And good old Crofts has already expressed his opinion. + +CROFTS [turning angrily on his elbow] Look here: I want none of your +cheek. + +FRANK [pointedly] I’m e v e r so sorry to surprise you, Crofts; but you +allowed yourself the liberty of speaking to me like a father a moment +ago. One father is enough, thank you. + +CROFTS [contemptuously] Yah! [He turns away again]. + +FRANK [rising] Mrs Warren: I cannot give my Vivie up, even for your +sake. + +MRS WARREN [muttering] Young scamp! + +FRANK [continuing] And as you no doubt intend to hold out other +prospects to her, I shall lose no time in placing my case before her. +[They stare at him; and he begins to declaim gracefully] He either fears +his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to +the touch, To gain or lose it all. + +[The cottage doors open whilst he is reciting; and Vivie and Praed +come in. He breaks off. Praed puts his hat on the dresser. There is an +immediate improvement in the company’s behavior. Crofts takes down his +legs from the settle and pulls himself together as Praed joins him at +the fireplace. Mrs Warren loses her ease of manner and takes refuge in +querulousness.] + +MRS WARREN. Wherever have you been, Vivie? + +VIVIE [taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly on the table] On +the hill. + +MRS WARREN. Well, you shouldn’t go off like that without letting me know. +How could I tell what had become of you? And night coming on too! + +VIVIE [going to the door of the kitchen and opening it, ignoring her +mother] Now, about supper? [All rise except Mrs Warren] We shall be +rather crowded in here, I’m afraid. + +MRS WARREN. Did you hear what I said, Vivie? + +VIVIE [quietly] Yes, mother. [Reverting to the supper difficulty] How +many are we? [Counting] One, two, three, four, five, six. Well, two will +have to wait until the rest are done: Mrs Alison has only plates and +knives for four. + +PRAED. Oh, it doesn’t matter about me. I-- + +VIVIE. You have had a long walk and are hungry, Mr Praed: you shall have +your supper at once. I can wait myself. I want one person to wait with +me. Frank: are you hungry? + +FRANK. Not the least in the world. Completely off my peck, in fact. + +MRS WARREN [to Crofts] Neither are you, George. You can wait. + +CROFTS. Oh, hang it, I’ve eaten nothing since tea-time. Can’t Sam do it? + +FRANK. Would you starve my poor father? + +REV. S. [testily] Allow me to speak for myself, sir. I am perfectly +willing to wait. + +VIVIE [decisively] There’s no need. Only two are wanted. [She opens +the door of the kitchen]. Will you take my mother in, Mr Gardner. [The +parson takes Mrs Warren; and they pass into the kitchen. Praed and +Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly disapprove of the arrangement, +but do not know how to resist it. Vivie stands at the door looking in +at them]. Can you squeeze past to that corner, Mr Praed: it’s rather a +tight fit. Take care of your coat against the white-wash: that right. +Now, are you all comfortable? + +PRAED [within] Quite, thank you. + +MRS WARREN [within] Leave the door open, dearie. [Vivie frowns; but +Frank checks her with a gesture, and steals to the cottage door, which +he softly sets wide open]. Oh Lor, what a draught! Youd better shut it, +dear. + +[Vivie shuts it with a slam, and then, noting with disgust that her +mother’s hat and shawl are lying about, takes them tidily to the window +seat, whilst Frank noiselessly shuts the cottage door.] + +FRANK [exulting] Aha! Got rid of em. Well, Vivvums: what do you think of +my governor? + +VIVIE [preoccupied and serious] I’ve hardly spoken to him. He doesn’t +strike me as a particularly able person. + +FRANK. Well, you know, the old man is not altogether such a fool as he +looks. You see, he was shoved into the Church, rather; and in trying to +live up to it he makes a much bigger ass of himself than he really is. I +don’t dislike him as much as you might expect. He means well. How do you +think youll get on with him? + +VIVIE [rather grimly] I don’t think my future life will be much concerned +with him, or with any of that old circle of my mother’s, except perhaps +Praed. [She sits down on the settle] What do you think of my mother? + +FRANK. Really and truly? + +VIVIE. Yes, really and truly. + +FRANK. Well, she’s ever so jolly. But she’s rather a caution, isn’t she? +And Crofts! Oh, my eye, Crofts! [He sits beside her]. + +VIVIE. What a lot, Frank! + +FRANK. What a crew! + +VIVIE [with intense contempt for them] If I thought that _I_ was like +that--that I was going to be a waster, shifting along from one meal to +another with no purpose, and no character, and no grit in me, I’d open +an artery and bleed to death without one moment’s hesitation. + +FRANK. Oh no, you wouldn’t. Why should they take any grind when they can +afford not to? I wish I had their luck. No: what I object to is their +form. It isn’t the thing: it’s slovenly, ever so slovenly. + +VIVIE. Do you think your form will be any better when youre as old as +Crofts, if you don’t work? + +FRANK. Of course I do. Ever so much better. Vivvums mustn’t lecture: her +little boy’s incorrigible. [He attempts to take her face caressingly in +his hands]. + +VIVIE [striking his hands down sharply] Off with you: Vivvums is not in +a humor for petting her little boy this evening. [She rises and comes +forward to the other side of the room]. + +FRANK [following her] How unkind! + +VIVIE [stamping at him] Be serious. I’m serious. + +FRANK. Good. Let us talk learnedly, Miss Warren: do you know that all +the most advanced thinkers are agreed that half the diseases of modern +civilization are due to starvation of the affections of the young. Now, +_I_-- + +VIVIE [cutting him short] You are very tiresome. [She opens the inner +door] Have you room for Frank there? He’s complaining of starvation. + +MRS WARREN [within] Of course there is [clatter of knives and glasses +as she moves the things on the table]. Here! theres room now beside me. +Come along, Mr Frank. + +FRANK. Her little boy will be ever so even with his Vivvums for this. +[He passes into the kitchen]. + +MRS WARREN [within] Here, Vivie: come on you too, child. You must be +famished. [She enters, followed by Crofts, who holds the door open with +marked deference. She goes out without looking at him; and he shuts the +door after her]. Why George, you can’t be done: you’ve eaten nothing. Is +there anything wrong with you? + +CROFTS. Oh, all I wanted was a drink. [He thrusts his hands in his +pockets, and begins prowling about the room, restless and sulky]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I like enough to eat. But a little of that cold +beef and cheese and lettuce goes a long way. [With a sigh of only half +repletion she sits down lazily on the settle]. + +CROFTS. What do you go encouraging that young pup for? + +MRS WARREN [on the alert at once] Now see here, George: what are you +up to about that girl? I’ve been watching your way of looking at her. +Remember: I know you and what your looks mean. + +CROFTS. Theres no harm in looking at her, is there? + +MRS WARREN. I’d put you out and pack you back to London pretty soon if +I saw any of your nonsense. My girl’s little finger is more to me than +your whole body and soul. [Crofts receives this with a sneering grin. +Mrs Warren, flushing a little at her failure to impose on him in the +character of a theatrically devoted mother, adds in a lower key] Make +your mind easy: the young pup has no more chance than you have. + +CROFTS. Mayn’t a man take an interest in a girl? + +MRS WARREN. Not a man like you. + +CROFTS. How old is she? + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind how old she is. + +CROFTS. Why do you make such a secret of it? + +MRS WARREN. Because I choose. + +CROFTS. Well, I’m not fifty yet; and my property is as good as it ever +was-- + +MRS [interrupting him] Yes; because youre as stingy as youre vicious. + +CROFTS [continuing] And a baronet isn’t to be picked up every day. + +No other man in my position would put up with you for a mother-in-law. +Why shouldn’t she marry me? + +MRS WARREN. You! + +CROFTS. We three could live together quite comfortably. I’d die before +her and leave her a bouncing widow with plenty of money. Why not? It’s +been growing in my mind all the time I’ve been walking with that fool +inside there. + +MRS WARREN [revolted] Yes; it’s the sort of thing that _would_ grow in +your mind. + +[He halts in his prowling; and the two look at one another, she +steadfastly, with a sort of awe behind her contemptuous disgust: he +stealthily, with a carnal gleam in his eye and a loose grin.] + +CROFTS [suddenly becoming anxious and urgent as he sees no sign of +sympathy in her] Look here, Kitty: youre a sensible woman: you needn’t +put on any moral airs. I’ll ask no more questions; and you need answer +none. I’ll settle the whole property on her; and if you want a checque +for yourself on the wedding day, you can name any figure you like--in +reason. + +MRS WARREN. So it’s come to that with you, George, like all the other +worn-out old creatures! + +CROFTS [savagely] Damn you! + +[Before she can retort the door of the kitchen is opened; and the +voices of the others are heard returning. Crofts, unable to recover his +presence of mind, hurries out of the cottage. The clergyman appears at +the kitchen door.] + +REV. S. [looking round] Where is Sir George? + +MRS WARREN. Gone out to have a pipe. [The clergyman takes his hat from +the table, and joins Mrs Warren at the fireside. Meanwhile, Vivie comes +in, followed by Frank, who collapses into the nearest chair with an air +of extreme exhaustion. Mrs Warren looks round at Vivie and says, with +her affectation of maternal patronage even more forced than usual] Well, +dearie: have you had a good supper? + +VIVIE. You know what Mrs Alison’s suppers are. [She turns to Frank and +pets him] Poor Frank! was all the beef gone? did it get nothing but +bread and cheese and ginger beer? [Seriously, as if she had done quite +enough trifling for one evening] Her butter is really awful. I must get +some down from the stores. + +FRANK. Do, in Heaven’s name! + +[Vivie goes to the writing-table and makes a memorandum to order the +butter. Praed comes in from the kitchen, putting up his handkerchief, +which he has been using as a napkin.] + +REV. S. Frank, my boy: it is time for us to be thinking of home. + +Your mother does not know yet that we have visitors. + +PRAED. I’m afraid we’re giving trouble. + +FRANK [rising] Not the least in the world: my mother will be delighted +to see you. She’s a genuinely intellectual artistic woman; and she sees +nobody here from one year’s end to another except the gov’nor; so you +can imagine how jolly dull it pans out for her. [To his father] Y o u +r e not intellectual or artistic: are you pater? So take Praed home at +once; and I’ll stay here and entertain Mrs Warren. Youll pick up Crofts +in the garden. He’ll be excellent company for the bull-pup. + +PRAED [taking his hat from the dresser, and coming close to Frank] Come +with us, Frank. Mrs Warren has not seen Miss Vivie for a long time; and +we have prevented them from having a moment together yet. + +FRANK [quite softened, and looking at Praed with romantic admiration] +Of course. I forgot. Ever so thanks for reminding me. Perfect gentleman, +Praddy. Always were. My ideal through life. [He rises to go, but +pauses a moment between the two older men, and puts his hand on Praed’s +shoulder]. Ah, if you had only been my father instead of this unworthy +old man! [He puts his other hand on his father’s shoulder]. + +REV. S. [blustering] Silence, sir, silence: you are profane. + +MRS WARREN [laughing heartily] You should keep him in better order, Sam. +Good-night. Here: take George his hat and stick with my compliments. + +REV. S. [taking them] Good-night. [They shake hands. As he passes Vivie +he shakes hands with her also and bids her good-night. Then, in booming +command, to Frank] Come along, sir, at once. [He goes out]. + +MRS WARREN. Byebye, Praddy. + +PRAED. Byebye, Kitty. + +[They shake hands affectionately and go out together, she accompanying +him to the garden gate.] + +FRANK [to Vivie] Kissums? + +VIVIE [fiercely] No. I hate you. [She takes a couple of books and some +paper from the writing-table, and sits down with them at the middle +table, at the end next the fireplace]. + +FRANK [grimacing] Sorry. [He goes for his cap and rifle. Mrs Warren +returns. He takes her hand] Good-night, dear Mrs Warren. [He kisses her +hand. She snatches it away, her lips tightening, and looks more than +half disposed to box his ears. He laughs mischievously and runs off, +clapping-to the door behind him]. + +MRS WARREN [resigning herself to an evening of boredom now that the men +are gone] Did you ever in your life hear anyone rattle on so? Isn’t he a +tease? [She sits at the table]. Now that I think of it, dearie, don’t you +go encouraging him. I’m sure he’s a regular good-for-nothing. + +VIVIE [rising to fetch more books] I’m afraid so. Poor Frank! I shall +have to get rid of him; but I shall feel sorry for him, though he’s +not worth it. That man Crofts does not seem to me to be good for much +either: is he? [She throws the books on the table rather roughly]. + +MRS WARREN [galled by Vivie’s indifference] What do you know of men, +child, to talk that way of them? Youll have to make up your mind to see +a good deal of Sir George Crofts, as he’s a friend of mine. + +VIVIE [quite unmoved] Why? [She sits down and opens a book]. Do you +expect that we shall be much together? You and I, I mean? + +MRS WARREN [staring at her] Of course: until youre married. Youre not +going back to college again. + +VIVIE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? I doubt it. + +MRS WARREN. Y o u r way of life! What do you mean? + +VIVIE [cutting a page of her book with the paper knife on her +chatelaine] Has it really never occurred to you, mother, that I have a +way of life like other people? + +MRS WARREN. What nonsense is this youre trying to talk? Do you want to +shew your independence, now that youre a great little person at school? +Don’t be a fool, child. + +VIVIE [indulgently] Thats all you have to say on the subject, is it, +mother? + +MRS WARREN [puzzled, then angry] Don’t you keep on asking me questions +like that. [Violently] Hold your tongue. [Vivie works on, losing no +time, and saying nothing]. You and your way of life, indeed! What next? +[She looks at Vivie again. No reply]. + +Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another pause]. +Ive been noticing these airs in you ever since you got that tripos or +whatever you call it. If you think I’m going to put up with them, youre +mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, the better. [Muttering] All I +have to say on the subject, indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily] Do +you know who youre speaking to, Miss? + +VIVIE [looking across at her without raising her head from her book] No. +Who are you? What are you? + +MRS WARREN [rising breathless] You young imp! + +VIVIE. Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and the +profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. What is that +way of life which you invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts, +pray? + +MRS WARREN. Take care. I shall do something I’ll be sorry for after, and +you too. + +VIVIE [putting aside her books with cool decision] Well, let us drop the +subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking critically at her +mother] You want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set you up. +You are shockingly out of condition: you were not able to manage twenty +yards uphill today without stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere +rolls of fat. Look at mine. [She holds out her wrists]. + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper] Vivie-- + +VIVIE [springing up sharply] Now pray don’t begin to cry. Anything but +that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go out of the room if you +do. + +MRS WARREN [piteously] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on me? +Have I no rights over you as your mother? + +VIVIE. A r e you my mother? + +MRS WARREN. _Am_ I your mother? Oh, Vivie! + +VIVIE. Then where are our relatives? my father? our family friends? You +claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me fool and child; to +speak to me as no woman in authority over me at college dare speak to +me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me the acquaintance of +a brute whom anyone can see to be the most vicious sort of London man +about town. Before I give myself the trouble to resist such claims, I +may as well find out whether they have any real existence. + +MRS WARREN [distracted, throwing herself on her knees] Oh no, no. + +Stop, stop. I _am_ your mother: I swear it. Oh, you can’t mean to turn on +me--my own child! it’s not natural. You believe me, don’t you? Say you +believe me. + +VIVIE. Who was my father? + +MRS WARREN. You don’t know what youre asking. I can’t tell you. + +VIVIE [determinedly] Oh yes you can, if you like. I have a right to +know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can refuse +to tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me +tomorrow morning. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s too horrible to hear you talk like that. You +wouldn’t--you _couldn’t_ leave me. + +VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment’s hesitation, if you trifle +with me about this. [Shivering with disgust] How can I feel sure that I +may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins? + +MRS WARREN. No, no. On my oath it’s not he, nor any of the rest that you +have ever met. I’m certain of that, at least. + +[Vivie’s eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this +flashes on her.] + +VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at _least_. Ah! You mean that +that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully] I see. [Mrs Warren buries +her face in her hands]. Don’t do that, mother: you know you don’t feel +it a bit. [Mrs Warren takes down her hands and looks up deplorably +at Vivie, who takes out her watch and says] Well, that is enough for +tonight. At what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too +early for you? + +MRS WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you? + +VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. +Otherwise I don’t understand how it gets its business done. + +Come [taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty +resolutely]: pull yourself together. Thats right. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Youre very rough with me, Vivie. + +VIVIE. Nonsense. What about bed? It’s past ten. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] Whats the use of my going to bed? Do you think +I could sleep? + +VIVIE. Why not? I shall. + +MRS WARREN. You! you’ve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in +her natural tongue--the dialect of a woman of the people--with all her +affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners gone, and an +overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in her] Oh, I wont +bear it: I won’t put up with the injustice of it. What right have you to +set yourself up above me like this? You boast of what you are to me--to +_me_, who gave you a chance of being what you are. What chance had I? +Shame on you for a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude! + +VIVIE [sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her replies, +which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring +rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother] +Don’t think for a moment I set myself above you in any way. You attacked +me with the conventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with +the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not +going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not +expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your right to +your own opinions and your own way of life. + +MRS WARREN. My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to her +talking! Do you think I was brought up like you? able to pick and choose +my own way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I liked it, or +thought it right, or wouldn’t rather have gone to college and been a lady +if I’d had the chance? + +VIVIE. Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl alive may +not be able to choose between being Queen of England or Principal +of Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling, +according to her taste. People are always blaming circumstances for what +they are. I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in +this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they +want, and, if they can’t find them, make them. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s easy to talk, isn’t it? Here! would you like to know +what _my_ circumstances were? + +VIVIE. Yes: you had better tell me. Won’t you sit down? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, I’ll sit down: don’t you be afraid. [She plants her chair +farther forward with brazen energy, and sits down. Vivie is impressed in +spite of herself]. D’you know what your gran’mother was? + +VIVIE. No. + +MRS WARREN. No, you don’t. I do. She called herself a widow and had a +fried-fish shop down by the Mint, and kept herself and four daughters +out of it. Two of us were sisters: that was me and Liz; and we were both +good-looking and well made. I suppose our father was a well-fed man: +mother pretended he was a gentleman; but I don’t know. The other two +were only half sisters: undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, +honest poor creatures: Liz and I would have half-murdered them if +mother hadn’t half-murdered us to keep our hands off them. They were the +respectable ones. Well, what did they get by their respectability? I’ll +tell you. One of them worked in a whitelead factory twelve hours a day +for nine shillings a week until she died of lead poisoning. She only +expected to get her hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other +was always held up to us as a model because she married a Government +laborer in the Deptford victualling yard, and kept his room and the +three children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week--until he took +to drink. That was worth being respectable for, wasn’t it? + +VIVIE [now thoughtfully attentive] Did you and your sister think so? + +MRS WARREN. Liz didn’t, I can tell you: she had more spirit. We both went +to a church school--that was part of the ladylike airs we gave ourselves +to be superior to the children that knew nothing and went nowhere--and +we stayed there until Liz went out one night and never came back. I +know the schoolmistress thought I’d soon follow her example; for +the clergyman was always warning me that Lizzie’d end by jumping off +Waterloo Bridge. Poor fool: that was all he knew about it! But I was +more afraid of the whitelead factory than I was of the river; and so +would you have been in my place. That clergyman got me a situation as +a scullery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent out for +anything you liked. Then I was a waitress; and then I went to the bar +at Waterloo station: fourteen hours a day serving drinks and washing +glasses for four shillings a week and my board. That was considered a +great promotion for me. Well, one cold, wretched night, when I was so +tired I could hardly keep myself awake, who should come up for a half of +Scotch but Lizzie, in a long fur cloak, elegant and comfortable, with a +lot of sovereigns in her purse. + +VIVIE [grimly] My aunt Lizzie! + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and a very good aunt to have, too. She’s living down +at Winchester now, close to the cathedral, one of the most respectable +ladies there. Chaperones girls at the country ball, if you please. +No river for Liz, thank you! You remind me of Liz a little: she was a +first-rate business woman--saved money from the beginning--never let +herself look too like what she was--never lost her head or threw away a +chance. When she saw I’d grown up good-looking she said to me across the +bar “What are you doing there, you little fool? wearing out your health +and your appearance for other people’s profit!” Liz was saving money +then to take a house for herself in Brussels; and she thought we two +could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and gave me a +start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and then went into +business with her as a partner. Why shouldn’t I have done it? The house +in Brussels was real high class: a much better place for a woman to be +in than the factory where Anne Jane got poisoned. None of the girls were +ever treated as I was treated in the scullery of that temperance place, +or at the Waterloo bar, or at home. Would you have had me stay in them +and become a worn out old drudge before I was forty? + +VIVIE [intensely interested by this time] No; but why did you choose +that business? Saving money and good management will succeed in any +business. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the money to +save in any other business? Could y o u save out of four shillings a +week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not you. Of course, if youre +a plain woman and can’t earn anything more; or if you have a turn for +music, or the stage, or newspaper-writing: thats different. But neither +Liz nor I had any turn for such things at all: all we had was our +appearance and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such +fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us +as shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in them +ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation wages? Not +likely. + +VIVIE. You were certainly quite justified--from the business point of +view. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; or any other point of view. What is any respectable +girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man’s fancy and get the +benefit of his money by marrying him?--as if a marriage ceremony +could make any difference in the right or wrong of the thing! Oh, the +hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz and I had to work and save and +calculate just like other people; elseways we should be as poor as any +good-for-nothing drunken waster of a woman that thinks her luck will +last for ever. [With great energy] I despise such people: theyve +no character; and if theres a thing I hate in a woman, it’s want of +character. + +VIVIE. Come now, mother: frankly! Isn’t it part of what you call +character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way of +making money? + +MRS WARREN. Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work and make +money; but they have to do it all the same. I’m sure I’ve often pitied +a poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, having to try to please some +man that she doesn’t care two straws for--some half-drunken fool that +thinks he’s making himself agreeable when he’s teasing and worrying and +disgusting a woman so that hardly any money could pay her for putting up +with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the rough with +the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. It’s not +work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; though to +hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed of roses. + +VIVIE. Still, you consider it worth while. It pays. + +MRS WARREN. Of course it’s worth while to a poor girl, if she can resist +temptation and is good-looking and well conducted and sensible. It’s far +better than any other employment open to her. + +I always thought that it oughtn’t to be. It _can’t_ be right, Vivie, that +there shouldn’t be better opportunities for women. I stick to that: it’s +wrong. But it’s so, right or wrong; and a girl must make the best of it. +But of course it’s not worth while for a lady. If you took to it youd be +a fool; but I should have been a fool if I’d taken to anything else. + +VIVIE [more and more deeply moved] Mother: suppose we were both as poor +as you were in those wretched old days, are you quite sure that you +wouldn’t advise me to try the Waterloo bar, or marry a laborer, or even +go into the factory? + +MRS WARREN [indignantly] Of course not. What sort of mother do you take +me for! How could you keep your self-respect in such starvation +and slavery? And whats a woman worth? whats life worth? without +self-respect! Why am I independent and able to give my daughter +a first-rate education, when other women that had just as good +opportunities are in the gutter? Because I always knew how to respect +myself and control myself. Why is Liz looked up to in a cathedral town? +The same reason. Where would we be now if we’d minded the clergyman’s +foolishness? Scrubbing floors for one and sixpence a day and nothing to +look forward to but the workhouse infirmary. Don’t you be led astray by +people who don’t know the world, my girl. The only way for a woman to +provide for herself decently is for her to be good to some man that can +afford to be good to her. If she’s in his own station of life, let her +make him marry her; but if she’s far beneath him she can’t expect it: why +should she? it wouldn’t be for her own happiness. Ask any lady in London +society that has daughters; and she’ll tell you the same, except that I +tell you straight and she’ll tell you crooked. Thats all the difference. + +VIVIE [fascinated, gazing at her] My dear mother: you are a wonderful +woman: you are stronger than all England. And are you really and truly +not one wee bit doubtful--or--or--ashamed? + +MRS WARREN. Well, of course, dearie, it’s only good manners to be +ashamed of it: it’s expected from a woman. Women have to pretend to +feel a great deal that they don’t feel. Liz used to be angry with me for +plumping out the truth about it. She used to say that when every woman +could learn enough from what was going on in the world before her eyes, +there was no need to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a +perfect lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I was always a bit +of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased when you sent me your photos +to see that you were growing up like Liz: you’ve just her ladylike, +determined way. But I can’t stand saying one thing when everyone knows +I mean another. Whats the use in such hypocrisy? If people arrange the +world that way for women, theres no good pretending it’s arranged the +other way. No: I never was a bit ashamed really. I consider I had a +right to be proud of how we managed everything so respectably, and never +had a word against us, and how the girls were so well taken care of. +Some of them did very well: one of them married an ambassador. But of +course now I daren’t talk about such things: whatever would they think +of us! [She yawns]. Oh dear! I do believe I’m getting sleepy after all. +[She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her explosion, and +placidly ready for her night’s rest]. + +VIVIE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. [She goes +to the dresser and lights the candle. Then she extinguishes the lamp, +darkening the room a good deal]. Better let in some fresh air before +locking up. [She opens the cottage door, and finds that it is broad +moonlight]. What a beautiful night! Look! [She draws the curtains of the +window. The landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon +rising over Blackdown]. + +MRS WARREN [with a perfunctory glance at the scene] Yes, dear; but take +care you don’t catch your death of cold from the night air. + +VIVIE [contemptuously] Nonsense. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Oh yes: everything I say is nonsense, according +to you. + +VIVIE [turning to her quickly] No: really that is not so, mother. + +You have got completely the better of me tonight, though I intended it +to be the other way. Let us be good friends now. + +MRS WARREN [shaking her head a little ruefully] So it _has_ been the +other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got the worst of +it from Liz; and now I suppose it’ll be the same with you. + +VIVIE. Well, never mind. Come: good-night, dear old mother. [She takes +her mother in her arms]. + +MRS WARREN [fondly] I brought you up well, didn’t I, dearie? + +VIVIE. You did. + +MRS WARREN. And youll be good to your poor old mother for it, won’t you? + +VIVIE. I will, dear. [Kissing her] Good-night. + +MRS WARREN [with unction] Blessings on my own dearie darling! a mother’s +blessing! + +[She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward +for divine sanction.] + + + + +ACT III + + +[In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining from a +cloudless sky. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, wide +enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell +on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The carriage +drive comes down the middle of the garden and then swerves to its left, +where it ends in a little gravelled circus opposite the Rectory porch. +Beyond the gate is seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, +bounded on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine +wood. On the lawn, between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew +tree, with a garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden +is shut in by a box hedge; and there is a little sundial on the turf, +with an iron chair near it. A little path leads through the box hedge, +behind the sundial.] + +[Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which he has placed the +morning paper, is reading The Standard. His father comes from the house, +red-eyed and shivery, and meets Frank’s eye with misgiving.] + +FRANK [looking at his watch] Half-past eleven. Nice hour for a rector to +come down to breakfast! + +REV. S. Don’t mock, Frank: don’t mock. I am a little--er--[Shivering]-- + +FRANK. Off color? + +REV. S. [repudiating the expression] No, sir: _unwell_ this morning. +Where’s your mother? + +FRANK. Don’t be alarmed: she’s not here. Gone to town by the 11.13 +with Bessie. She left several messages for you. Do you feel equal to +receiving them now, or shall I wait til you’ve breakfasted? + +REV. S. I h a v e breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at your mother +going to town when we have people staying with us. They’ll think it very +strange. + +FRANK. Possibly she has considered that. At all events, if Crofts is +going to stay here, and you are going to sit up every night with him +until four, recalling the incidents of your fiery youth, it is clearly +my mother’s duty, as a prudent housekeeper, to go up to the stores and +order a barrel of whisky and a few hundred siphons. + +REV. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank excessively. + +FRANK. You were not in a condition to, gov’nor. + +REV. S. Do you mean to say that _I_--? + +FRANK [calmly] I never saw a beneficed clergyman less sober. The +anecdotes you told about your past career were so awful that I really +don’t think Praed would have passed the night under your roof if it hadnt +been for the way my mother and he took to one another. + +REV. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts’ host. I must talk to him +about something; and he has only one subject. Where is Mr Praed now? + +FRANK. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the station. + +REV. S. Is Crofts up yet? + +FRANK. Oh, long ago. He hasn’t turned a hair: he’s in much better +practice than you. Has kept it up ever since, probably. He’s taken +himself off somewhere to smoke. + +[Frank resumes his paper. The parson turns disconsolately towards the +gate; then comes back irresolutely.] + +REV. S. Er--Frank. + +FRANK. Yes. + +REV. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be asked here after +yesterday afternoon? + +FRANK. Theyve been asked already. + +REV. S. [appalled] What!!! + +FRANK. Crofts informed us at breakfast that you told him to bring Mrs +Warren and Vivie over here to-day, and to invite them to make this house +their home. My mother then found she must go to town by the 11.13 train. + +REV. S. [with despairing vehemence] I never gave any such invitation. I +never thought of such a thing. + +FRANK [compassionately] How do you know, gov’nor, what you said and +thought last night? + +PRAED [coming in through the hedge] Good morning. + +REV. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not having met you at +breakfast. I have a touch of--of-- + +FRANK. Clergyman’s sore throat, Praed. Fortunately not chronic. + +PRAED [changing the subject] Well I must say your house is in a charming +spot here. Really most charming. + +REV. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for a walk, Mr Praed, +if you like. I’ll ask you to excuse me: I must take the opportunity +to write my sermon while Mrs Gardner is away and you are all amusing +yourselves. You won’t mind, will you? + +PRAED. Certainly not. Don’t stand on the slightest ceremony with me. + +REV. S. Thank you. I’ll--er--er--[He stammers his way to the porch and +vanishes into the house]. + +PRAED. Curious thing it must be writing a sermon every week. + +FRANK. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys em. He’s gone for some +soda water. + +PRAED. My dear boy: I wish you would be more respectful to your father. +You know you can be so nice when you like. + +FRANK. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to live with the governor. +When two people live together--it don’t matter whether theyre father and +son or husband and wife or brother and sister--they can’t keep up the +polite humbug thats so easy for ten minutes on an afternoon call. +Now the governor, who unites to many admirable domestic qualities the +irresoluteness of a sheep and the pompousness and aggressiveness of a +jackass-- + +PRAED. No, pray, pray, my dear Frank, remember! He is your father. + +FRANK. I give him due credit for that. [Rising and flinging down his +paper] But just imagine his telling Crofts to bring the Warrens over +here! He must have been ever so drunk. You know, my dear Praddy, my +mother wouldn’t stand Mrs Warren for a moment. Vivie mustn’t come here +until she’s gone back to town. + +PRAED. But your mother doesn’t know anything about Mrs Warren, does she? +[He picks up the paper and sits down to read it]. + +FRANK. I don’t know. Her journey to town looks as if she did. Not that +my mother would mind in the ordinary way: she has stuck like a brick to +lots of women who had got into trouble. But they were all nice women. +Thats what makes the real difference. Mrs Warren, no doubt, has her +merits; but she’s ever so rowdy; and my mother simply wouldn’t put up +with her. So--hallo! [This exclamation is provoked by the reappearance +of the clergyman, who comes out of the house in haste and dismay]. + +REV. S. Frank: Mrs Warren and her daughter are coming across the heath +with Crofts: I saw them from the study windows. What _am_ I to say about +your mother? + +FRANK. Stick on your hat and go out and say how delighted you are to see +them; and that Frank’s in the garden; and that mother and Bessie have +been called to the bedside of a sick relative, and were ever so +sorry they couldn’t stop; and that you hope Mrs Warren slept well; +and--and--say any blessed thing except the truth, and leave the rest to +Providence. + +REV. S. But how are we to get rid of them afterwards? + +FRANK. Theres no time to think of that now. Here! [He bounds into the +house]. + +REV. S. He’s so impetuous. I don’t know what to do with him, Mr Praed. + +FRANK [returning with a clerical felt hat, which he claps on his +father’s head]. Now: off with you. [Rushing him through the gate]. +Praed and I’ll wait here, to give the thing an unpremeditated air. [The +clergyman, dazed but obedient, hurries off]. + +FRANK. We must get the old girl back to town somehow, Praed. Come! +Honestly, dear Praddy, do you like seeing them together? + +PRAED. Oh, why not? + +FRANK [his teeth on edge] Don’t it make your flesh creep ever so little? +that wicked old devil, up to every villainy under the sun, I’ll swear, +and Vivie--ugh! + +PRAED. Hush, pray. Theyre coming. + +[The clergyman and Crofts are seen coming along the road, followed by +Mrs Warren and Vivie walking affectionately together.] + +FRANK. Look: she actually has her arm round the old woman’s waist. It’s +her right arm: she began it. She’s gone sentimental, by God! Ugh! ugh! +Now do you feel the creeps? [The clergyman opens the gate: and Mrs +Warren and Vivie pass him and stand in the middle of the garden looking +at the house. Frank, in an ecstasy of dissimulation, turns gaily to Mrs +Warren, exclaiming] Ever so delighted to see you, Mrs Warren. This quiet +old rectory garden becomes you perfectly. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I never! Did you hear that, George? He says I look +well in a quiet old rectory garden. + +REV. S. [still holding the gate for Crofts, who loafs through it, +heavily bored] You look well everywhere, Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. Bravo, gov’nor! Now look here: lets have a treat before lunch. +First lets see the church. Everyone has to do that. It’s a regular old +thirteenth century church, you know: the gov’nor’s ever so fond of it, +because he got up a restoration fund and had it completely rebuilt six +years ago. Praed will be able to shew its points. + +PRAED [rising] Certainly, if the restoration has left any to shew. + +REV. S. [mooning hospitably at them] I shall be pleased, I’m sure, if +Sir George and Mrs Warren really care about it. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, come along and get it over. + +CROFTS [turning back toward the gate] I’ve no objection. + +REV. S. Not that way. We go through the fields, if you don’t mind. Round +here. [He leads the way by the little path through the box hedge]. + +CROFTS. Oh, all right. [He goes with the parson]. + +[Praed follows with Mrs Warren. Vivie does not stir: she watches them +until they have gone, with all the lines of purpose in her face marking +it strongly.] + +FRANK. Ain’t you coming? + +VIVIE. No. I want to give you a warning, Frank. You were making fun of +my mother just now when you said that about the rectory garden. That is +barred in the future. Please treat my mother with as much respect as you +treat your own. + +FRANK. My dear Viv: she wouldn’t appreciate it: the two cases require +different treatment. But what on earth has happened to you? Last night +we were perfectly agreed as to your mother and her set. This morning I +find you attitudinizing sentimentally with your arm around your parent’s +waist. + +VIVIE [flushing] Attitudinizing! + +FRANK. That was how it struck me. First time I ever saw you do a +second-rate thing. + +VIVIE [controlling herself] Yes, Frank: there has been a change: but I +don’t think it a change for the worse. Yesterday I was a little prig. + +FRANK. And today? + +VIVIE [wincing; then looking at him steadily] Today I know my mother +better than you do. + +FRANK. Heaven forbid! + +VIVIE. What do you mean? + +FRANK. Viv: theres a freemasonry among thoroughly immoral people that +you know nothing of. You’ve too much character. _That’s_ the bond +between your mother and me: that’s why I know her better than youll ever +know her. + +VIVIE. You are wrong: you know nothing about her. If you knew the +circumstances against which my mother had to struggle-- + +FRANK [adroitly finishing the sentence for her] I should know why she is +what she is, shouldn’t I? What difference would that make? + +Circumstances or no circumstances, Viv, you won’t be able to stand your +mother. + +VIVIE [very angry] Why not? + +FRANK. Because she’s an old wretch, Viv. If you ever put your arm around +her waist in my presence again, I’ll shoot myself there and then as a +protest against an exhibition which revolts me. + +VIVIE. Must I choose between dropping your acquaintance and dropping my +mother’s? + +FRANK [gracefully] That would put the old lady at ever such a +disadvantage. No, Viv: your infatuated little boy will have to stick to +you in any case. But he’s all the more anxious that you shouldn’t make +mistakes. It’s no use, Viv: your mother’s impossible. She may be a good +sort; but she’s a bad lot, a very bad lot. + +VIVIE [hotly] Frank--! [He stands his ground. She turns away and +sits down on the bench under the yew tree, struggling to recover her +self-command. Then she says] Is she to be deserted by the world because +she’s what you call a bad lot? Has she no right to live? + +FRANK. No fear of that, Viv: _she_ won’t ever be deserted. [He sits on +the bench beside her]. + +VIVIE. But I am to desert her, I suppose. + +FRANK [babyishly, lulling her and making love to her with his voice] +Mustn’t go live with her. Little family group of mother and daughter +wouldn’t be a success. Spoil o u r little group. + +VIVIE [falling under the spell] What little group? + +FRANK. The babes in the wood: Vivie and little Frank. [He nestles +against her like a weary child]. Lets go and get covered up with leaves. + +VIVIE [rhythmically, rocking him like a nurse] Fast asleep, hand in +hand, under the trees. + +FRANK. The wise little girl with her silly little boy. + +VIVIE. The dear little boy with his dowdy little girl. + +FRANK. Ever so peaceful, and relieved from the imbecility of the little +boy’s father and the questionableness of the little girl’s-- + +VIVIE [smothering the word against her breast] Sh-sh-sh-sh! little girl +wants to forget all about her mother. [They are silent for some moments, +rocking one another. Then Vivie wakes up with a shock, exclaiming] What +a pair of fools we are! Come: sit up. Gracious! your hair. [She smooths +it]. I wonder do all grown up people play in that childish way when +nobody is looking. + +I never did it when I was a child. + +FRANK. Neither did I. You are my first playmate. [He catches her hand to +kiss it, but checks himself to look around first. Very unexpectedly, he +sees Crofts emerging from the box hedge]. Oh damn! + +VIVIE. Why damn, dear? + +FRANK [whispering] Sh! Here’s this brute Crofts. [He sits farther away +from her with an unconcerned air]. + +CROFTS. Could I have a few words with you, Miss Vivie? + +VIVIE. Certainly. + +CROFTS [to Frank] Youll excuse me, Gardner. Theyre waiting for you in +the church, if you don’t mind. + +FRANK [rising] Anything to oblige you, Crofts--except church. If you +should happen to want me, Vivvums, ring the gate bell. [He goes into the +house with unruffled suavity]. + +CROFTS [watching him with a crafty air as he disappears, and speaking to +Vivie with an assumption of being on privileged terms with her] Pleasant +young fellow that, Miss Vivie. Pity he has no money, isn’t it? + +VIVIE. Do you think so? + +CROFTS. Well, whats he to do? No profession. No property. Whats he good +for? + +VIVIE. I realize his disadvantages, Sir George. + +CROFTS [a little taken aback at being so precisely interpreted] Oh, it’s +not that. But while we’re in this world we’re in it; and money’s money. +[Vivie does not answer]. Nice day, isn’t it? + +VIVIE [with scarcely veiled contempt for this effort at conversation] +Very. + +CROFTS [with brutal good humor, as if he liked her pluck] Well thats not +what I came to say. [Sitting down beside her] Now listen, Miss Vivie. +I’m quite aware that I’m not a young lady’s man. + +VIVIE. Indeed, Sir George? + +CROFTS. No; and to tell you the honest truth I don’t want to be either. +But when I say a thing I mean it; and when I feel a sentiment I feel it +in earnest; and what I value I pay hard money for. Thats the sort of man +I am. + +VIVIE. It does you great credit, I’m sure. + +CROFTS. Oh, I don’t mean to praise myself. I have my faults, Heaven +knows: no man is more sensible of that than I am. I know I’m not +perfect: thats one of the advantages of being a middle-aged man; for +I’m not a young man, and I know it. But my code is a simple one, and, I +think, a good one. Honor between man and man; fidelity between man and +woman; and no can’t about this religion or that religion, but an honest +belief that things are making for good on the whole. + +VIVIE [with biting irony] “A power, not ourselves, that makes for +righteousness,” eh? + +CROFTS [taking her seriously] Oh certainly. Not ourselves, of course. Y +o u understand what I mean. Well, now as to practical matters. You may +have an idea that I’ve flung my money about; but I havn’t: I’m richer +today than when I first came into the property. I’ve used my knowledge of +the world to invest my money in ways that other men have overlooked; and +whatever else I may be, I’m a safe man from the money point of view. + +VIVIE. It’s very kind of you to tell me all this. + +CROFTS. Oh well, come, Miss Vivie: you needn’t pretend you don’t see what +I’m driving at. I want to settle down with a Lady Crofts. I suppose you +think me very blunt, eh? + +VIVIE. Not at all: I am very much obliged to you for being so definite +and business-like. I quite appreciate the offer: the money, the +position, _Lady Crofts_, and so on. But I think I will say no, if you +don’t mind, I’d rather not. [She rises, and strolls across to the +sundial to get out of his immediate neighborhood]. + +CROFTS [not at all discouraged, and taking advantage of the additional +room left him on the seat to spread himself comfortably, as if a few +preliminary refusals were part of the inevitable routine of courtship] +I’m in no hurry. It was only just to let you know in case young Gardner +should try to trap you. Leave the question open. + +VIVIE [sharply] My no is final. I won’t go back from it. + +[Crofts is not impressed. He grins; leans forward with his elbows on his +knees to prod with his stick at some unfortunate insect in the grass; +and looks cunningly at her. She turns away impatiently.] + +CROFTS. I’m a good deal older than you. Twenty-five years: quarter of +a century. I shan’t live for ever; and I’ll take care that you shall be +well off when I’m gone. + +VIVIE. I am proof against even that inducement, Sir George. Don’t you +think youd better take your answer? There is not the slightest chance of +my altering it. + +CROFTS [rising, after a final slash at a daisy, and coming nearer to +her] Well, no matter. I could tell you some things that would change +your mind fast enough; but I wont, because I’d rather win you by honest +affection. I was a good friend to your mother: ask her whether I wasn’t. +She’d never have make the money that paid for your education if it hadnt +been for my advice and help, not to mention the money I advanced her. +There are not many men who would have stood by her as I have. I put not +less than forty thousand pounds into it, from first to last. + +VIVIE [staring at him] Do you mean to say that you were my mother’s +business partner? + +CROFTS. Yes. Now just think of all the trouble and the explanations +it would save if we were to keep the whole thing in the family, so to +speak. Ask your mother whether she’d like to have to explain all her +affairs to a perfect stranger. + +VIVIE. I see no difficulty, since I understand that the business is +wound up, and the money invested. + +CROFTS [stopping short, amazed] Wound up! Wind up a business thats +paying 35 per cent in the worst years! Not likely. Who told you that? + +VIVIE [her color quite gone] Do you mean that it is still--? [She stops +abruptly, and puts her hand on the sundial to support herself. Then she +gets quickly to the iron chair and sits down]. + +What business are you talking about? + +CROFTS. Well, the fact is it’s not what would considered exactly a +high-class business in my set--the country set, you know--o u r set it +will be if you think better of my offer. Not that theres any mystery +about it: don’t think that. Of course you know by your mother’s being +in it that it’s perfectly straight and honest. I’ve known her for many +years; and I can say of her that she’d cut off her hands sooner than +touch anything that was not what it ought to be. I’ll tell you all about +it if you like. I don’t know whether you’ve found in travelling how hard +it is to find a really comfortable private hotel. + +VIVIE [sickened, averting her face] Yes: go on. + +CROFTS. Well, thats all it is. Your mother has got a genius for managing +such things. We’ve got two in Brussels, one in Ostend, one in Vienna, +and two in Budapest. Of course there are others besides ourselves in +it; but we hold most of the capital; and your mother’s indispensable +as managing director. You’ve noticed, I daresay, that she travels a good +deal. But you see you can’t mention such things in society. Once let out +the word hotel and everybody thinks you keep a public-house. You wouldn’t +like people to say that of your mother, would you? Thats why we’re so +reserved about it. By the way, youll keep it to yourself, won’t you? +Since it’s been a secret so long, it had better remain so. + +VIVIE. And this is the business you invite me to join you in? + +CROFTS. Oh no. My wife shan’t be troubled with business. Youll not be in +it more than you’ve always been. + +VIVIE. _I_ always been! What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Only that you’ve always lived on it. It paid for your education +and the dress you have on your back. Don’t turn up your nose at business, +Miss Vivie: where would your Newnhams and Girtons be without it? + +VIVIE [rising, almost beside herself] Take care. I know what this +business is. + +CROFTS [starting, with a suppressed oath] Who told you? + +VIVIE. Your partner. My mother. + +CROFTS [black with rage] The old-- + +VIVIE. Just so. + +[He swallows the epithet and stands for a moment swearing and raging +foully to himself. But he knows that his cue is to be sympathetic. He +takes refuge in generous indignation.] + +CROFTS. She ought to have had more consideration for you. _I’d_ never +have told you. + +VIVIE. I think you would probably have told me when we were married: it +would have been a convenient weapon to break me in with. + +CROFTS [quite sincerely] I never intended that. On my word as a +gentleman I didn’t. + +[Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his protest cools and +braces her. She replies with contemptuous self-possession.] + +VIVIE. It does not matter. I suppose you understand that when we leave +here today our acquaintance ceases. + +CROFTS. Why? Is it for helping your mother? + +VIVIE. My mother was a very poor woman who had no reasonable choice but +to do as she did. You were a rich gentleman; and you did the same for +the sake of 35 per cent. You are a pretty common sort of scoundrel, I +think. That is my opinion of you. + +CROFTS [after a stare: not at all displeased, and much more at his ease +on these frank terms than on their former ceremonious ones] Ha! ha! ha! +ha! Go it, little missie, go it: it doesn’t hurt me and it amuses you. +Why the devil shouldn’t I invest my money that way? I take the interest +on my capital like other people: I hope you don’t think I dirty my own +hands with the work. + +Come! you wouldn’t refuse the acquaintance of my mother’s cousin the Duke +of Belgravia because some of the rents he gets are earned in queer ways. +You wouldn’t cut the Archbishop of Canterbury, I suppose, because the +Ecclesiastical Commissioners have a few publicans and sinners among +their tenants. Do you remember your Crofts scholarship at Newnham? Well, +that was founded by my brother the M.P. He gets his 22 per cent out of +a factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting wages enough +to live on. How d’ye suppose they manage when they have no family to +fall back on? Ask your mother. And do you expect me to turn my back on +35 per cent when all the rest are pocketing what they can, like sensible +men? No such fool! If youre going to pick and choose your acquaintances +on moral principles, youd better clear out of this country, unless you +want to cut yourself out of all decent society. + +VIVIE [conscience stricken] You might go on to point out that I myself +never asked where the money I spent came from. I believe I am just as +bad as you. + +CROFTS [greatly reassured] Of course you are; and a very good thing too! +What harm does it do after all? [Rallying her jocularly] So you don’t +think me such a scoundrel now you come to think it over. Eh? + +VIVIE. I have shared profits with you: and I admitted you just now to +the familiarity of knowing what I think of you. + +CROFTS [with serious friendliness] To be sure you did. You won’t find +me a bad sort: I don’t go in for being superfine intellectually; but Ive +plenty of honest human feeling; and the old Crofts breed comes out in +a sort of instinctive hatred of anything low, in which I’m sure youll +sympathize with me. Believe me, Miss Vivie, the world isn’t such a bad +place as the croakers make out. As long as you don’t fly openly in the +face of society, society doesn’t ask any inconvenient questions; and +it makes precious short work of the cads who do. There are no secrets +better kept than the secrets everybody guesses. In the class of people +I can introduce you to, no lady or gentleman would so far forget +themselves as to discuss my business affairs or your mothers. No man can +offer you a safer position. + +VIVIE [studying him curiously] I suppose you really think youre getting +on famously with me. + +CROFTS. Well, I hope I may flatter myself that you think better of me +than you did at first. + +VIVIE [quietly] I hardly find you worth thinking about at all now. When +I think of the society that tolerates you, and the laws that protect +you! when I think of how helpless nine out of ten young girls would +be in the hands of you and my mother! the unmentionable woman and her +capitalist bully-- + +CROFTS [livid] Damn you! + +VIVIE. You need not. I feel among the damned already. + +[She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. He follows her +and puts his hand heavily on the top bar to prevent its opening.] + +CROFTS [panting with fury] Do you think I’ll put up with this from you, +you young devil? + +VIVIE [unmoved] Be quiet. Some one will answer the bell. [Without +flinching a step she strikes the bell with the back of her hand. It +clangs harshly; and he starts back involuntarily. Almost immediately +Frank appears at the porch with his rifle]. + +FRANK [with cheerful politeness] Will you have the rifle, Viv; or shall +I operate? + +VIVIE. Frank: have you been listening? + +FRANK [coming down into the garden] Only for the bell, I assure you; so +that you shouldn’t have to wait. I think I shewed great insight into your +character, Crofts. + +CROFTS. For two pins I’d take that gun from you and break it across your +head. + +FRANK [stalking him cautiously] Pray don’t. I’m ever so careless in +handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal accident, with a reprimand from +the coroner’s jury for my negligence. + +VIVIE. Put the rifle away, Frank: it’s quite unnecessary. + +FRANK. Quite right, Viv. Much more sportsmanlike to catch him in a +trap. [Crofts, understanding the insult, makes a threatening movement]. +Crofts: there are fifteen cartridges in the magazine here; and I am a +dead shot at the present distance and at an object of your size. + +CROFTS. Oh, you needn’t be afraid. I’m not going to touch you. + +FRANK. Ever so magnanimous of you under the circumstances! Thank you. + +CROFTS. I’ll just tell you this before I go. It may interest you, since +youre so fond of one another. Allow me, Mister Frank, to introduce you +to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. +Miss Vivie: you half-brother. Good morning! [He goes out through the +gate and along the road]. + +FRANK [after a pause of stupefaction, raising the rifle] Youll testify +before the coroner that it’s an accident, Viv. [He takes aim at the +retreating figure of Crofts. Vivie seizes the muzzle and pulls it round +against her breast]. + +VIVIE. Fire now. You may. + +FRANK [dropping his end of the rifle hastily] Stop! take care. [She lets +it go. It falls on the turf]. Oh, you’ve given your little boy such +a turn. Suppose it had gone off! ugh! [He sinks on the garden seat, +overcome]. + +VIVIE. Suppose it had: do you think it would not have been a relief to +have some sharp physical pain tearing through me? + +FRANK [coaxingly] Take it ever so easy, dear Viv. Remember: even if the +rifle scared that fellow into telling the truth for the first time in +his life, that only makes us the babes in the woods in earnest. [He +holds out his arms to her]. Come and be covered up with leaves again. + +VIVIE [with a cry of disgust] Ah, not that, not that. You make all my +flesh creep. + +FRANK. Why, whats the matter? + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [She makes for the gate]. + +FRANK [jumping up] Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! [She turns in the gateway] +Where are you going to? Where shall we find you? + +VIVIE. At Honoria Fraser’s chambers, 67 Chancery Lane, for the rest of +my life. [She goes off quickly in the opposite direction to that taken +by Crofts]. + +FRANK. But I say--wait--dash it! [He runs after her]. + + + + +ACT IV + + +[Honoria Fraser’s chambers in Chancery Lane. An office at the top of New +Stone Buildings, with a plate-glass window, distempered walls, electric +light, and a patent stove. Saturday afternoon. The chimneys of Lincoln’s +Inn and the western sky beyond are seen through the window. There is a +double writing table in the middle of the room, with a cigar box, ash +pans, and a portable electric reading lamp almost snowed up in heaps of +papers and books. This table has knee holes and chairs right and left +and is very untidy. The clerk’s desk, closed and tidy, with its high +stool, is against the wall, near a door communicating with the inner +rooms. In the opposite wall is the door leading to the public corridor. +Its upper panel is of opaque glass, lettered in black on the outside, +FRASER AND WARREN. A baize screen hides the corner between this door and +the window.] + +[Frank, in a fashionable light-colored coaching suit, with his stick, +gloves, and white hat in his hands, is pacing up and down in the office. +Somebody tries the door with a key.] + +FRANK [calling] Come in. It’s not locked. + +[Vivie comes in, in her hat and jacket. She stops and stares at him.] + +VIVIE [sternly] What are you doing here? + +FRANK. Waiting to see you. I’ve been here for hours. Is this the way you +attend to your business? [He puts his hat and stick on the table, and +perches himself with a vault on the clerk’s stool, looking at her with +every appearance of being in a specially restless, teasing, flippant +mood]. + +VIVIE. I’ve been away exactly twenty minutes for a cup of tea. [She takes +off her hat and jacket and hangs them behind the screen]. How did you +get in? + +FRANK. The staff had not left when I arrived. He’s gone to play cricket +on Primrose Hill. Why don’t you employ a woman, and give your sex a +chance? + +VIVIE. What have you come for? + +FRANK [springing off the stool and coming close to her] Viv: lets go and +enjoy the Saturday half-holiday somewhere, like the staff. + +What do you say to Richmond, and then a music hall, and a jolly supper? + +VIVIE. Can’t afford it. I shall put in another six hours work before I go +to bed. + +FRANK. Can’t afford it, can’t we? Aha! Look here. [He takes out a handful +of sovereigns and makes them chink]. Gold, Viv: gold! + +VIVIE. Where did you get it? + +FRANK. Gambling, Viv: gambling. Poker. + +VIVIE. Pah! It’s meaner than stealing it. No: I’m not coming. [She sits +down to work at the table, with her back to the glass door, and begins +turning over the papers]. + +FRANK [remonstrating piteously] But, my dear Viv, I want to talk to you +ever so seriously. + +VIVIE. Very well: sit down in Honoria’s chair and talk here. I like ten +minutes chat after tea. [He murmurs]. No use groaning: I’m inexorable. +[He takes the opposite seat disconsolately]. Pass that cigar box, will +you? + +FRANK [pushing the cigar box across] Nasty womanly habit. Nice men don’t +do it any longer. + +VIVIE. Yes: they object to the smell in the office; and we’ve had to take +to cigarets. See! [She opens the box and takes out a cigaret, which she +lights. She offers him one; but he shakes his head with a wry face. She +settles herself comfortably in her chair, smoking]. Go ahead. + +FRANK. Well, I want to know what you’ve done--what arrangements you’ve +made. + +VIVIE. Everything was settled twenty minutes after I arrived here. +Honoria has found the business too much for her this year; and she was +on the point of sending for me and proposing a partnership when I walked +in and told her I hadn’t a farthing in the world. So I installed myself +and packed her off for a fortnight’s holiday. What happened at Haslemere +when I left? + +FRANK. Nothing at all. I said youd gone to town on particular business. + +VIVIE. Well? + +FRANK. Well, either they were too flabbergasted to say anything, or else +Crofts had prepared your mother. Anyhow, she didn’t say anything; and +Crofts didn’t say anything; and Praddy only stared. After tea they got up +and went; and I’ve not seen them since. + +VIVIE [nodding placidly with one eye on a wreath of smoke] Thats all +right. + +FRANK [looking round disparagingly] Do you intend to stick in this +confounded place? + +VIVIE [blowing the wreath decisively away, and sitting straight up] Yes. +These two days have given me back all my strength and self-possession. I +will never take a holiday again as long as I live. + +FRANK [with a very wry face] Mps! You look quite happy. And as hard as +nails. + +VIVIE [grimly] Well for me that I am! + +FRANK [rising] Look here, Viv: we must have an explanation. We parted +the other day under a complete misunderstanding. [He sits on the table, +close to her]. + +VIVIE [putting away the cigaret] Well: clear it up. + +FRANK. You remember what Crofts said. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. That revelation was supposed to bring about a complete change in +the nature of our feeling for one another. It placed us on the footing +of brother and sister. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. Have you ever had a brother? + +VIVIE. No. + +FRANK. Then you don’t know what being brother and sister feels like? Now +I have lots of sisters; and the fraternal feeling is quite familiar to +me. I assure you my feeling for you is not the least in the world like +it. The girls will go _their_ way; I will go mine; and we shan’t care +if we never see one another again. Thats brother and sister. But as to +you, I can’t be easy if I have to pass a week without seeing you. Thats +not brother and sister. Its exactly what I felt an hour before Crofts +made his revelation. In short, dear Viv, it’s love’s young dream. + +VIVIE [bitingly] The same feeling, Frank, that brought your father to my +mother’s feet. Is that it? + +FRANK [so revolted that he slips off the table for a moment] I very +strongly object, Viv, to have my feelings compared to any which the +Reverend Samuel is capable of harboring; and I object still more to a +comparison of you to your mother. [Resuming his perch] Besides, I don’t +believe the story. I have taxed my father with it, and obtained from him +what I consider tantamount to a denial. + +VIVIE. What did he say? + +FRANK. He said he was sure there must be some mistake. + +VIVIE. Do you believe him? + +FRANK. I am prepared to take his word against Crofts’. + +VIVIE. Does it make any difference? I mean in your imagination or +conscience; for of course it makes no real difference. + +FRANK [shaking his head] None whatever to _me_. + +VIVIE. Nor to me. + +FRANK [staring] But this is ever so surprising! [He goes back to his +chair]. I thought our whole relations were altered in your imagination +and conscience, as you put it, the moment those words were out of that +brute’s muzzle. + +VIVIE. No: it was not that. I didn’t believe him. I only wish I could. + +FRANK. Eh? + +VIVIE. I think brother and sister would be a very suitable relation for +us. + +FRANK. You really mean that? + +VIVIE. Yes. It’s the only relation I care for, even if we could afford +any other. I mean that. + +FRANK [raising his eyebrows like one on whom a new light has dawned, and +rising with quite an effusion of chivalrous sentiment] My dear Viv: +why didn’t you say so before? I am ever so sorry for persecuting you. I +understand, of course. + +VIVIE [puzzled] Understand what? + +FRANK. Oh, I’m not a fool in the ordinary sense: only in the Scriptural +sense of doing all the things the wise man declared to be folly, after +trying them himself on the most extensive scale. I see I am no longer +Vivvums’s little boy. Don’t be alarmed: I shall never call you Vivvums +again--at least unless you get tired of your new little boy, whoever he +may be. + +VIVIE. My new little boy! + +FRANK [with conviction] Must be a new little boy. Always happens that +way. No other way, in fact. + +VIVIE. None that you know of, fortunately for you. + +[Someone knocks at the door.] + +FRANK. My curse upon yon caller, whoe’er he be! + +VIVIE. It’s Praed. He’s going to Italy and wants to say goodbye. I asked +him to call this afternoon. Go and let him in. + +FRANK. We can continue our conversation after his departure for Italy. +I’ll stay him out. [He goes to the door and opens it]. How are you, +Praddy? Delighted to see you. Come in. + +[Praed, dressed for travelling, comes in, in high spirits.] + +PRAED. How do you do, Miss Warren? [She presses his hand cordially, +though a certain sentimentality in his high spirits jars upon her]. I +start in an hour from Holborn Viaduct. I wish I could persuade you to +try Italy. + +VIVIE. What for? + +PRAED. Why, to saturate yourself with beauty and romance, of course. + +[Vivie, with a shudder, turns her chair to the table, as if the work +waiting for her there were a support to her. Praed sits opposite to her. +Frank places a chair near Vivie, and drops lazily and carelessly into +it, talking at her over his shoulder.] + +FRANK. No use, Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. She is indifferent to +_my_ romance, and insensible to _my_ beauty. + +VIVIE. Mr Praed: once for all, there is no beauty and no romance in life +for me. Life is what it is; and I am prepared to take it as it is. + +PRAED [enthusiastically] You will not say that if you come with me to +Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with delight at living in such a +beautiful world. + +FRANK. This is most eloquent, Praddy. Keep it up. + +PRAED. Oh, I assure you _I_ have cried--I shall cry again, I hope--at +fifty! At your age, Miss Warren, you would not need to go so far as +Verona. Your spirits would absolutely fly up at the mere sight of +Ostend. You would be charmed with the gaiety, the vivacity, the happy +air of Brussels. + +VIVIE [springing up with an exclamation of loathing] Agh! + +PRAED [rising] Whats the matter? + +FRANK [rising] Hallo, Viv! + +VIVIE [to Praed, with deep reproach] Can you find no better example of +your beauty and romance than Brussels to talk to me about? + +PRAED [puzzled] Of course it’s very different from Verona. I don’t +suggest for a moment that-- + +VIVIE [bitterly] Probably the beauty and romance come to much the same +in both places. + +PRAED [completely sobered and much concerned] My dear Miss Warren: +I--[looking enquiringly at Frank] Is anything the matter? + +FRANK. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous, Praddy. She’s had ever such +a serious call. + +VIVIE [sharply] Hold your tongue, Frank. Don’t be silly. + +FRANK [sitting down] Do you call this good manners, Praed? + +PRAED [anxious and considerate] Shall I take him away, Miss Warren? I +feel sure we have disturbed you at your work. + +VIVIE. Sit down: I’m not ready to go back to work yet. [Praed sits]. You +both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of it. But there are +two subjects I want dropped, if you don’t mind. + +One of them [to Frank] is love’s young dream in any shape or form: the +other [to Praed] is the romance and beauty of life, especially Ostend +and the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to any illusions you may +have left on these subjects: I have none. If we three are to remain +friends, I must be treated as a woman of business, permanently single +[to Frank] and permanently unromantic [to Praed]. + +FRANK. I also shall remain permanently single until you change your +mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be eloquent about something else. + +PRAED [diffidently] I’m afraid theres nothing else in the world that I +_can_ talk about. The Gospel of Art is the only one I can preach. I know +Miss Warren is a great devotee of the Gospel of Getting On; but we +can’t discuss that without hurting your feelings, Frank, since you are +determined not to get on. + +FRANK. Oh, don’t mind my feelings. Give me some improving advice by +all means: it does me ever so much good. Have another try to make a +successful man of me, Viv. Come: lets have it all: energy, thrift, +foresight, self-respect, character. Don’t you hate people who have no +character, Viv? + +VIVIE [wincing] Oh, stop, stop. Let us have no more of that horrible +cant. Mr Praed: if there are really only those two gospels in the world, +we had better all kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through +and through. + +FRANK [looking critically at her] There is a touch of poetry about you +today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking. + +PRAED [remonstrating] My dear Frank: aren’t you a little unsympathetic? + +VIVIE [merciless to herself] No: it’s good for me. It keeps me from +being sentimental. + +FRANK [bantering her] Checks your strong natural propensity that way, +don’t it? + +VIVIE [almost hysterically] Oh yes: go on: don’t spare me. I was +sentimental for one moment in my life--beautifully sentimental--by +moonlight; and now-- + +FRANK [quickly] I say, Viv: take care. Don’t give yourself away. + +VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr Praed does not know all about my mother? +[Turning on Praed] You had better have told me that morning, Mr Praed. +You are very old fashioned in your delicacies, after all. + +PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your +prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as an +artist, and believing that the most intimate human relationships are +far beyond and above the scope of the law, that though I know that your +mother is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on that +account. I respect her more. + +FRANK [airily] Hear! hear! + +VIVIE [staring at him] Is that _all_ you know? + +PRAED. Certainly that is all. + +VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are innocence +itself compared with the truth. + +PRAED [rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his politeness +with an effort] I hope not. [More emphatically] I hope not, Miss Warren. + +FRANK [whistles] Whew! + +VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr Praed. + +PRAED [his chivalry drooping before their conviction] If there is +anything worse--that is, anything else--are you sure you are right to +tell us, Miss Warren? + +VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the rest of my +life in telling everybody--stamping and branding it into them until they +all felt their part in its abomination as I feel mine. There is nothing +I despise more than the wicked convention that protects these things +by forbidding a woman to mention them. And yet I can’t tell you. The two +infamous words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my ears +and struggling on my tongue; but I can’t utter them: the shame of them +is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The two men, +astonished, stare at one another and then at her. She raises her head +again desperately and snatches a sheet of paper and a pen]. Here: let me +draft you a prospectus. + +FRANK. Oh, she’s mad. Do you hear, Viv? mad. Come! pull yourself +together. + +VIVIE. You shall see. [She writes]. “Paid up capital: not less than +forty thousand pounds standing in the name of Sir George Crofts, +Baronet, the chief shareholder. Premises at Brussels, Ostend, Vienna, +and Budapest. Managing director: Mrs Warren”; and now don’t let us forget +h e r qualifications: the two words. [She writes the words and pushes +the paper to them]. There! Oh no: don’t read it: don’t! [She snatches it +back and tears it to pieces; then seizes her head in her hands and hides +her face on the table]. + +[Frank, who has watched the writing over her shoulder, and opened his +eyes very widely at it, takes a card from his pocket; scribbles the +two words on it; and silently hands it to Praed, who reads it with +amazement, and hides it hastily in his pocket.] + +FRANK [whispering tenderly] Viv, dear: thats all right. I read what you +wrote: so did Praddy. We understand. And we remain, as this leaves us at +present, yours ever so devotedly. + +PRAED. We do indeed, Miss Warren. I declare you are the most splendidly +courageous woman I ever met. + +[This sentimental compliment braces Vivie. She throws it away from her +with an impatient shake, and forces herself to stand up, though not +without some support from the table.] + +FRANK. Don’t stir, Viv, if you don’t want to. Take it easy. + +VIVIE. Thank you. You an always depend on me for two things: not to cry +and not to faint. [She moves a few steps towards the door of the inner +room, and stops close to Praed to say] I shall need much more courage +than that when I tell my mother that we have come to a parting of the +ways. Now I must go into the next room for a moment to make myself neat +again, if you don’t mind. + +PRAED. Shall we go away? + +VIVIE. No: I’ll be back presently. Only for a moment. [She goes into the +other room, Praed opening the door for her]. + +PRAED. What an amazing revelation! I’m extremely disappointed in Crofts: +I am indeed. + +FRANK. I’m not in the least. I feel he’s perfectly accounted for at +last. But what a facer for me, Praddy! I can’t marry her now. + +PRAED [sternly] Frank! [The two look at one another, Frank unruffled, +Praed deeply indignant]. Let me tell you, Gardner, that if you desert +her now you will behave very despicably. + +FRANK. Good old Praddy! Ever chivalrous! But you mistake: it’s not the +moral aspect of the case: it’s the money aspect. I really can’t bring +myself to touch the old woman’s money now. + +PRAED. And was that what you were going to marry on? + +FRANK. What else? _I_ havn’t any money, nor the smallest turn for making +it. If I married Viv now she would have to support me; and I should cost +her more than I am worth. + +PRAED. But surely a clever bright fellow like you can make something by +your own brains. + +FRANK. Oh yes, a little. [He takes out his money again]. I made all that +yesterday in an hour and a half. But I made it in a highly speculative +business. No, dear Praddy: even if Bessie and Georgina marry +millionaires and the governor dies after cutting them off with a +shilling, I shall have only four hundred a year. And he won’t die until +he’s three score and ten: he hasn’t originality enough. I shall be on +short allowance for the next twenty years. No short allowance for Viv, +if I can help it. I withdraw gracefully and leave the field to the +gilded youth of England. So that settled. I shan’t worry her about it: +I’ll just send her a little note after we’re gone. She’ll understand. + +PRAED [grasping his hand] Good fellow, Frank! I heartily beg your +pardon. But must you never see her again? + +FRANK. Never see her again! Hang it all, be reasonable. I shall come +along as often as possible, and be her brother. I can _not_ understand +the absurd consequences you romantic people expect from the most +ordinary transactions. [A knock at the door]. I wonder who this is. +Would you mind opening the door? If it’s a client it will look more +respectable than if I appeared. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He goes to the door and opens it. Frank sits down in +Vivie’s chair to scribble a note]. My dear Kitty: come in: come in. + +[Mrs Warren comes in, looking apprehensively around for Vivie. She has +done her best to make herself matronly and dignified. The brilliant hat +is replaced by a sober bonnet, and the gay blouse covered by a costly +black silk mantle. She is pitiably anxious and ill at ease: evidently +panic-stricken.] + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] What! Y o u r e here, are you? + +FRANK [turning in his chair from his writing, but not rising] Here, and +charmed to see you. You come like a breath of spring. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, get out with your nonsense. [In a low voice] Where’s +Vivie? + +[Frank points expressively to the door of the inner room, but says +nothing.] + +MRS WARREN [sitting down suddenly and almost beginning to cry] Praddy: +won’t she see me, don’t you think? + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: don’t distress yourself. Why should she not? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, you never can see why not: youre too innocent. Mr Frank: +did she say anything to you? + +FRANK [folding his note] She _must_ see you, if [very expressively] you +wait til she comes in. + +MRS WARREN [frightened] Why shouldn’t I wait? + +[Frank looks quizzically at her; puts his note carefully on the +ink-bottle, so that Vivie cannot fail to find it when next she dips her +pen; then rises and devotes his attention entirely to her.] + +FRANK. My dear Mrs Warren: suppose you were a sparrow--ever so tiny +and pretty a sparrow hopping in the roadway--and you saw a steam roller +coming in your direction, would you wait for it? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, don’t bother me with your sparrows. What did she run away +from Haslemere like that for? + +FRANK. I’m afraid she’ll tell you if you rashly await her return. + +MRS WARREN. Do you want me to go away? + +FRANK. No: I always want you to stay. But I _advise_ you to go away. + +MRS WARREN. What! And never see her again! + +FRANK. Precisely. + +MRS WARREN [crying again] Praddy: don’t let him be cruel to me. [She +hastily checks her tears and wipes her eyes]. She’ll be so angry if she +sees I’ve been crying. + +FRANK [with a touch of real compassion in his airy tenderness] You know +that Praddy is the soul of kindness, Mrs Warren. Praddy: what do you +say? Go or stay? + +PRAED [to Mrs Warren] I really should be very sorry to cause you +unnecessary pain; but I think perhaps you had better not wait. The fact +is--[Vivie is heard at the inner door]. + +FRANK. Sh! Too late. She’s coming. + +MRS WARREN. Don’t tell her I was crying. [Vivie comes in. She +stops gravely on seeing Mrs Warren, who greets her with hysterical +cheerfulness]. Well, dearie. So here you are at last. + +VIVIE. I am glad you have come: I want to speak to you. You said you +were going, Frank, I think. + +FRANK. Yes. Will you come with me, Mrs Warren? What do you say to a +trip to Richmond, and the theatre in the evening? There is safety in +Richmond. No steam roller there. + +VIVIE. Nonsense, Frank. My mother will stay here. + +MRS WARREN [scared] I don’t know: perhaps I’d better go. We’re disturbing +you at your work. + +VIVIE [with quiet decision] Mr Praed: please take Frank away. Sit down, +mother. [Mrs Warren obeys helplessly]. + +PRAED. Come, Frank. Goodbye, Miss Vivie. + +VIVIE [shaking hands] Goodbye. A pleasant trip. + +PRAED. Thank you: thank you. I hope so. + +FRANK [to Mrs Warren] Goodbye: youd ever so much better have taken my +advice. [He shakes hands with her. Then airily to Vivie] Byebye, Viv. + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [He goes out gaily without shaking hands with her]. + +PRAED [sadly] Goodbye, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [snivelling]--oobye! + +[Praed goes. Vivie, composed and extremely grave, sits down in Honoria’s +chair, and waits for her mother to speak. Mrs Warren, dreading a pause, +loses no time in beginning.] + +MRS WARREN. Well, Vivie, what did you go away like that for without +saying a word to me! How could you do such a thing! And what have you +done to poor George? I wanted him to come with me; but he shuffled +out of it. I could see that he was quite afraid of you. Only fancy: +he wanted me not to come. As if [trembling] I should be afraid of you, +dearie. [Vivie’s gravity deepens]. But of course I told him it was all +settled and comfortable between us, and that we were on the best +of terms. [She breaks down]. Vivie: whats the meaning of this? [She +produces a commercial envelope, and fumbles at the enclosure with +trembling fingers]. I got it from the bank this morning. + +VIVIE. It is my month’s allowance. They sent it to me as usual the other +day. I simply sent it back to be placed to your credit, and asked them +to send you the lodgment receipt. In future I shall support myself. + +MRS WARREN [not daring to understand] Wasn’t it enough? Why didn’t +you tell me? [With a cunning gleam in her eye] I’ll double it: I was +intending to double it. Only let me know how much you want. + +VIVIE. You know very well that that has nothing to do with it. From this +time I go my own way in my own business and among my own friends. And +you will go yours. [She rises]. Goodbye. + +MRS WARREN [rising, appalled] Goodbye? + +VIVIE. Yes: goodbye. Come: don’t let us make a useless scene: you +understand perfectly well. Sir George Crofts has told me the whole +business. + +MRS WARREN [angrily] Silly old--[She swallows an epithet, and then turns +white at the narrowness of her escape from uttering it]. + +VIVIE. Just so. + +MRS WARREN. He ought to have his tongue cut out. But I thought it was +ended: you said you didn’t mind. + +VIVIE [steadfastly] Excuse me: I _do_ mind. + +MRS WARREN. But I explained-- + +VIVIE. You explained how it came about. You did not tell me that it is +still going on [She sits]. + +[Mrs Warren, silenced for a moment, looks forlornly at Vivie, who waits, +secretly hoping that the combat is over. But the cunning expression +comes back into Mrs Warren’s face; and she bends across the table, sly +and urgent, half whispering.] + +MRS WARREN. Vivie: do you know how rich I am? + +VIVIE. I have no doubt you are very rich. + +MRS WARREN. But you don’t know all that that means; youre too young. It +means a new dress every day; it means theatres and balls every night; +it means having the pick of all the gentlemen in Europe at your feet; +it means a lovely house and plenty of servants; it means the choicest of +eating and drinking; it means everything you like, everything you want, +everything you can think of. And what are you here? A mere drudge, +toiling and moiling early and late for your bare living and two cheap +dresses a year. Think over it. [Soothingly] Youre shocked, I know. I can +enter into your feelings; and I think they do you credit; but trust me, +nobody will blame you: you may take my word for that. I know what young +girls are; and I know youll think better of it when you’ve turned it over +in your mind. + +VIVIE. So that’s how it is done, is it? You must have said all that to +many a woman, to have it so pat. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] What harm am I asking you to do? [Vivie turns +away contemptuously. Mrs Warren continues desperately] Vivie: listen to +me: you don’t understand: you were taught wrong on purpose: you don’t know +what the world is really like. + +VIVIE [arrested] Taught wrong on purpose! What do you mean? + +MRS WARREN. I mean that youre throwing away all your chances for +nothing. You think that people are what they pretend to be: that the way +you were taught at school and college to think right and proper is the +way things really are. But it’s not: it’s all only a pretence, to keep +the cowardly slavish common run of people quiet. Do you want to find +that out, like other women, at forty, when you’ve thrown yourself away +and lost your chances; or won’t you take it in good time now from your +own mother, that loves you and swears to you that it’s truth: gospel +truth? [Urgently] Vivie: the big people, the clever people, the managing +people, all know it. They do as I do, and think what I think. I know +plenty of them. I know them to speak to, to introduce you to, to make +friends of for you. I don’t mean anything wrong: thats what you don’t +understand: your head is full of ignorant ideas about me. What do the +people that taught you know about life or about people like me? When did +they ever meet me, or speak to me, or let anyone tell them about me? the +fools! Would they ever have done anything for you if I hadn’t paid them? +Havn’t I told you that I want you to be respectable? Havn’t I brought you +up to be respectable? And how can you keep it up without my money and my +influence and Lizzie’s friends? Can’t you see that youre cutting your own +throat as well as breaking my heart in turning your back on me? + +VIVIE. I recognize the Crofts philosophy of life, mother. I heard it all +from him that day at the Gardners’. + +MRS WARREN. You think I want to force that played-out old sot on you! I +don’t, Vivie: on my oath I don’t. + +VIVIE. It would not matter if you did: you would not succeed. [Mrs +Warren winces, deeply hurt by the implied indifference towards her +affectionate intention. Vivie, neither understanding this nor concerning +herself about it, goes on calmly] Mother: you don’t at all know the sort +of person I am. I don’t object to Crofts more than to any other coarsely +built man of his class. To tell you the truth, I rather admire him +for being strongminded enough to enjoy himself in his own way and +make plenty of money instead of living the usual shooting, hunting, +dining-out, tailoring, loafing life of his set merely because all +the rest do it. And I’m perfectly aware that if I’d been in the same +circumstances as my aunt Liz, I’d have done exactly what she did. + +I don’t think I’m more prejudiced or straitlaced than you: I think +I’m less. I’m certain I’m less sentimental. I know very well that +fashionable morality is all a pretence, and that if I took your money +and devoted the rest of my life to spending it fashionably, I might be +as worthless and vicious as the silliest woman could possibly be without +having a word said to me about it. But I don’t want to be worthless. I +shouldn’t enjoy trotting about the park to advertize my dressmaker +and carriage builder, or being bored at the opera to shew off a +shopwindowful of diamonds. + +MRS WARREN [bewildered] But-- + +VIVIE. Wait a moment: I’ve not done. Tell me why you continue your +business now that you are independent of it. Your sister, you told me, +has left all that behind her. Why don’t you do the same? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s all very easy for Liz: she likes good society, and +has the air of being a lady. Imagine _me_ in a cathedral town! Why, the +very rooks in the trees would find me out even if I could stand +the dulness of it. I must have work and excitement, or I should go +melancholy mad. And what else is there for me to do? The life suits me: +I’m fit for it and not for anything else. If I didn’t do it somebody else +would; so I don’t do any real harm by it. And then it brings in money; +and I like making money. No: it’s no use: I can’t give it up--not for +anybody. But what need you know about it? I’ll never mention it. I’ll +keep Crofts away. I’ll not trouble you much: you see I have to be +constantly running about from one place to another. Youll be quit of me +altogether when I die. + +VIVIE. No: I am my mother’s daughter. I am like you: I must have work, +and must make more money than I spend. But my work is not your work, and +my way is not your way. We must part. It will not make much difference +to us: instead of meeting one another for perhaps a few months in twenty +years, we shall never meet: thats all. + +MRS WARREN [her voice stifled in tears] Vivie: I meant to have been more +with you: I did indeed. + +VIVIE. It’s no use, mother: I am not to be changed by a few cheap tears +and entreaties any more than you are, I daresay. + +MRS WARREN [wildly] Oh, you call a mother’s tears cheap. + +VIVIE. They cost you nothing; and you ask me to give you the peace +and quietness of my whole life in exchange for them. What use would my +company be to you if you could get it? What have we two in common that +could make either of us happy together? + +MRS WARREN [lapsing recklessly into her dialect] We’re mother and +daughter. I want my daughter. I’ve a right to you. Who is to care for me +when I’m old? Plenty of girls have taken to me like daughters and cried +at leaving me; but I let them all go because I had you to look forward +to. I kept myself lonely for you. You’ve no right to turn on me now and +refuse to do your duty as a daughter. + +VIVIE [jarred and antagonized by the echo of the slums in her mother’s +voice] My duty as a daughter! I thought we should come to that +presently. Now once for all, mother, you want a daughter and Frank wants +a wife. I don’t want a mother; and I don’t want a husband. I have spared +neither Frank nor myself in sending him about his business. Do you think +I will spare you? + +MRS WARREN [violently] Oh, I know the sort you are: no mercy for +yourself or anyone else. _I_ know. My experience has done that for me +anyhow: I can tell the pious, canting, hard, selfish woman when I meet +her. Well, keep yourself to yourself: _I_ don’t want you. But listen to +this. Do you know what I would do with you if you were a baby again? +aye, as sure as there’s a Heaven above us. + +VIVIE. Strangle me, perhaps. + +MRS WARREN. No: I’d bring you up to be a real daughter to me, and not +what you are now, with your pride and your prejudices and the college +education you stole from me: yes, stole: deny it if you can: what was it +but stealing? I’d bring you up in my own house, I would. + +VIVIE [quietly] In one of your own houses. + +MRS WARREN [screaming] Listen to her! listen to how she spits on her +mother’s grey hairs! Oh, may you live to have your own daughter tear and +trample on you as you have trampled on me. And you will: you will. No +woman ever had luck with a mother’s curse on her. + +VIVIE. I wish you wouldn’t rant, mother. It only hardens me. Come: I +suppose I am the only young woman you ever had in your power that you +did good to. Don’t spoil it all now. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, Heaven forgive me, it’s true; and you are the only +one that ever turned on me. Oh, the injustice of it! the injustice! the +injustice! I always wanted to be a good woman. I tried honest work; and +I was slave-driven until I cursed the day I ever heard of honest work. I +was a good mother; and because I made my daughter a good woman she turns +me out as if I were a leper. Oh, if I only had my life to live over +again! I’d talk to that lying clergyman in the school. From this time +forth, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I’ll do wrong and nothing but +wrong. And I’ll prosper on it. + +VIVIE. Yes: it’s better to choose your line and go through with it. If +I had been you, mother, I might have done as you did; but I should not +have lived one life and believed in another. You are a conventional +woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you goodbye now. I am right, am +I not? + +MRS WARREN [taken aback] Right to throw away all my money! + +VIVIE. No: right to get rid of you? I should be a fool not to. Isn’t that +so? + +MRS WARREN [sulkily] Oh well, yes, if you come to that, I suppose you +are. But Lord help the world if everybody took to doing the right thing! +And now I’d better go than stay where I’m not wanted. [She turns to the +door]. + +VIVIE [kindly] Won’t you shake hands? + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her fiercely for a moment with a savage +impulse to strike her] No, thank you. Goodbye. + +VIVIE [matter-of-factly] Goodbye. [Mrs Warren goes out, slamming +the door behind her. The strain on Vivie’s face relaxes; her grave +expression breaks up into one of joyous content; her breath goes out +in a half sob, half laugh of intense relief. She goes buoyantly to her +place at the writing table; pushes the electric lamp out of the way; +pulls over a great sheaf of papers; and is in the act of dipping her pen +in the ink when she finds Frank’s note. She opens it unconcernedly +and reads it quickly, giving a little laugh at some quaint turn of +expression in it]. And goodbye, Frank. [She tears the note up and tosses +the pieces into the wastepaper basket without a second thought. Then +she goes at her work with a plunge, and soon becomes absorbed in its +figures]. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1097 *** diff --git a/1097-h/1097-h.htm b/1097-h/1097-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c602e3b --- /dev/null +++ b/1097-h/1097-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5073 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Mrs Warren's Profession, by George Bernard Shaw + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1097 ***</div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by George Bernard Shaw + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1894 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + With The Author’s Apology (1902) + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ACT III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ACT IV </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY + </h2> + <p> + Mrs Warren’s Profession has been performed at last, after a delay of only + eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the triumphant + amusement of startling all but the strongest-headed of the London theatre + critics clean out of the practice of their profession. No author who has + ever known the exultation of sending the Press into an hysterical tumult + of protest, of moral panic, of involuntary and frantic confession of sin, + of a horror of conscience in which the power of distinguishing between the + work of art on the stage and the real life of the spectator is confused + and overwhelmed, will ever care for the stereotyped compliments which + every successful farce or melodrama elicits from the newspapers. Give me + that critic who rushed from my play to declare furiously that Sir George + Crofts ought to be kicked. What a triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a + jaded London journalist to the condition of the simple sailor in the + Wapping gallery, who shouts execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello + not to believe him! But dearer still than such simplicity is that sense of + the sudden earthquake shock to the foundations of morality which sends a + pallid crowd of critics into the street shrieking that the pillars of + society are cracking and the ruin of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen + champions of ten years ago remonstrate with me just as the veterans of + those brave days remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast + who first launched my plays on the stage alongside Ghosts and The Wild + Duck, exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his ideals! + What would Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer himself disowns me + because I “cannot touch pitch without wallowing in it”. Truly my play must + be more needed than I knew; and yet I thought I knew how little the others + know. + </p> + <p> + Do not suppose, however, that the consternation of the Press reflects any + consternation among the general public. Anybody can upset the theatre + critics, in a turn of the wrist, by substituting for the romantic + commonplaces of the stage the moral commonplaces of the pulpit, platform, + or the library. Play Mrs Warren’s Profession to an audience of clerical + members of the Christian Social Union and of women well experienced in + Rescue, Temperance, and Girls’ Club work, and no moral panic will arise; + every man and woman present will know that as long as poverty makes virtue + hideous and the spare pocket-money of rich bachelordom makes vice + dazzling, their daily hand-to-hand fight against prostitution with prayer + and persuasion, shelters and scanty alms, will be a losing one. There was + a time when they were able to urge that though “the white-lead factory + where Anne Jane was poisoned” may be a far more terrible place than Mrs + Warren’s house, yet hell is still more dreadful. Nowadays they no longer + believe in hell; and the girls among whom they are working know that they + do not believe in it, and would laugh at them if they did. So well have + the rescuers learnt that Mrs Warren’s defence of herself and indictment of + society is the thing that most needs saying, that those who know me + personally reproach me, not for writing this play, but for wasting my + energies on “pleasant plays” for the amusement of frivolous people, when I + can build up such excellent stage sermons on their own work. Mrs Warren’s + Profession is the one play of mine which I could submit to a censorship + without doubt of the result; only, it must not be the censorship of the + minor theatre critic, nor of an innocent court official like the Lord + Chamberlain’s Examiner, much less of people who consciously profit by Mrs + Warren’s profession, or who personally make use of it, or who hold the + widely whispered view that it is an indispensable safety-valve for the + protection of domestic virtue, or, above all, who are smitten with a + sentimental affection for our fallen sister, and would “take her up + tenderly, lift her with care, fashioned so slenderly, young, and SO fair.” + Nor am I prepared to accept the verdict of the medical gentlemen who would + compulsorily sanitate and register Mrs Warren, whilst leaving Mrs Warren’s + patrons, especially her military patrons, free to destroy her health and + anybody else’s without fear of reprisals. But I should be quite content to + have my play judged by, say, a joint committee of the Central Vigilance + Society and the Salvation Army. And the sterner moralists the members of + the committee were, the better. + </p> + <p> + Some of the journalists I have shocked reason so unripely that they will + gather nothing from this but a confused notion that I am accusing the + National Vigilance Association and the Salvation Army of complicity in my + own scandalous immorality. It will seem to them that people who would + stand this play would stand anything. They are quite mistaken. Such an + audience as I have described would be revolted by many of our fashionable + plays. They would leave the theatre convinced that the Plymouth Brother + who still regards the playhouse as one of the gates of hell is perhaps the + safest adviser on the subject of which he knows so little. If I do not + draw the same conclusion, it is not because I am one of those who claim + that art is exempt from moral obligations, and deny that the writing or + performance of a play is a moral act, to be treated on exactly the same + footing as theft or murder if it produces equally mischievous + consequences. I am convinced that fine art is the subtlest, the most + seductive, the most effective instrument of moral propaganda in the world, + excepting only the example of personal conduct; and I waive even this + exception in favor of the art of the stage, because it works by exhibiting + examples of personal conduct made intelligible and moving to crowds of + unobservant, unreflecting people to whom real life means nothing. I have + pointed out again and again that the influence of the theatre in England + is growing so great that whilst private conduct, religion, law, science, + politics, and morals are becoming more and more theatrical, the theatre + itself remains impervious to common sense, religion, science, politics, + and morals. That is why I fight the theatre, not with pamphlets and + sermons and treatises, but with plays; and so effective do I find the + dramatic method that I have no doubt I shall at last persuade even London + to take its conscience and its brains with it when it goes to the theatre, + instead of leaving them at home with its prayer-book as it does at + present. Consequently, I am the last man in the world to deny that if the + net effect of performing Mrs Warren’s Profession were an increase in the + number of persons entering that profession, its performance should be + dealt with accordingly. + </p> + <p> + Now let us consider how such recruiting can be encouraged by the theatre. + Nothing is easier. Let the King’s Reader of Plays, backed by the Press, + make an unwritten but perfectly well understood regulation that members of + Mrs Warren’s profession shall be tolerated on the stage only when they are + beautiful, exquisitely dressed, and sumptuously lodged and fed; also that + they shall, at the end of the play, die of consumption to the sympathetic + tears of the whole audience, or step into the next room to commit suicide, + or at least be turned out by their protectors and passed on to be + “redeemed” by old and faithful lovers who have adored them in spite of + their levities. Naturally, the poorer girls in the gallery will believe in + the beauty, in the exquisite dresses, and the luxurious living, and will + see that there is no real necessity for the consumption, the suicide, or + the ejectment: mere pious forms, all of them, to save the Censor’s face. + Even if these purely official catastrophes carried any conviction, the + majority of English girls remain so poor, so dependent, so well aware that + the drudgeries of such honest work as is within their reach are likely + enough to lead them eventually to lung disease, premature death, and + domestic desertion or brutality, that they would still see reason to + prefer the primrose path to the strait path of virtue, since both, vice at + worst and virtue at best, lead to the same end in poverty and overwork. It + is true that the Board School mistress will tell you that only girls of a + certain kind will reason in this way. But alas! that certain kind turns + out on inquiry to be simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only + kind that gets the chance of acting on such reasoning. Read the first + report of the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C + 4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacred word, Home!) + issued by the Women’s Industrial Council [Home Industries of Women in + London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street, W. C.]; and ask yourself whether, + if the lot in life therein described were your lot in life, you would not + prefer the lot of Cleopatra, of Theodora, of the Lady of the Camellias, of + Mrs Tanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you can go deep enough into things to + be able to say no, how many ignorant half-starved girls will believe you + are speaking sincerely? To them the lot of Iris is heavenly in comparison + with their own. Yet our King, like his predecessors, says to the + dramatist, “Thus, and thus only, shall you present Mrs Warren’s profession + on the stage, or you shall starve. Witness Shaw, who told the untempting + truth about it, and whom We, by the Grace of God, accordingly disallow and + suppress, and do what in Us lies to silence.” Fortunately, Shaw cannot be + silenced. “The harlot’s cry from street to street” is louder than the + voices of all the kings. I am not dependent on the theatre, and cannot be + starved into making my play a standing advertisement of the attractive + side of Mrs Warren’s business. + </p> + <p> + Here I must guard myself against a misunderstanding. It is not the fault + of their authors that the long string of wanton’s tragedies, from Antony + and Cleopatra to Iris, are snares to poor girls, and are objected to on + that account by many earnest men and women who consider Mrs Warren’s + Profession an excellent sermon. Mr Pinero is in no way bound to suppress + the fact that his Iris is a person to be envied by millions of better + women. If he made his play false to life by inventing fictitious + disadvantages for her, he would be acting as unscrupulously as any tract + writer. If society chooses to provide for its Irises better than for its + working women, it must not expect honest playwrights to manufacture + spurious evidence to save its credit. The mischief lies in the deliberate + suppression of the other side of the case: the refusal to allow Mrs Warren + to expose the drudgery and repulsiveness of plying for hire among coarse, + tedious drunkards; the determination not to let the Parisian girl in + Brieux’s Les Avaries come on the stage and drive into people’s minds what + her diseases mean for her and for themselves. All that, says the King’s + Reader in effect, is horrifying, loathsome. + </p> + <p> + Precisely: what does he expect it to be? would he have us represent it as + beautiful and gratifying? The answer to this question, I fear, must be a + blunt Yes; for it seems impossible to root out of an Englishman’s mind the + notion that vice is delightful, and that abstention from it is privation. + At all events, as long as the tempting side of it is kept towards the + public, and softened by plenty of sentiment and sympathy, it is welcomed + by our Censor, whereas the slightest attempt to place it in the light of + the policeman’s lantern or the Salvation Army shelter is checkmated at + once as not merely disgusting, but, if you please, unnecessary. + </p> + <p> + Everybody will, I hope, admit that this state of things is intolerable; + that the subject of Mrs Warren’s profession must be either tapu + altogether, or else exhibited with the warning side as freely displayed as + the tempting side. But many persons will vote for a complete tapu, and an + impartial sweep from the boards of Mrs Warren and Gretchen and the rest; + in short, for banishing the sexual instincts from the stage altogether. + Those who think this impossible can hardly have considered the number and + importance of the subjects which are actually banished from the stage. + Many plays, among them Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, + have no sex complications: the thread of their action can be followed by + children who could not understand a single scene of Mrs Warren’s + Profession or Iris. None of our plays rouse the sympathy of the audience + by an exhibition of the pains of maternity, as Chinese plays constantly + do. Each nation has its own particular set of tapus in addition to the + common human stock; and though each of these tapus limits the scope of the + dramatist, it does not make drama impossible. If the Examiner were to + refuse to license plays with female characters in them, he would only be + doing to the stage what our tribal customs already do to the pulpit and + the bar. I have myself written a rather entertaining play with only one + woman in it, and she is quite heartwhole; and I could just as easily write + a play without a woman in it at all. I will even go so far as to promise + the Mr Redford my support if he will introduce this limitation for part of + the year, say during Lent, so as to make a close season for that dullest + of stock dramatic subjects, adultery, and force our managers and authors + to find out what all great dramatists find out spontaneously: to wit, that + people who sacrifice every other consideration to love are as hopelessly + unheroic on the stage as lunatics or dipsomaniacs. Hector is the world’s + hero; not Paris nor Antony. + </p> + <p> + But though I do not question the possibility of a drama in which love + should be as effectively ignored as cholera is at present, there is not + the slightest chance of that way out of the difficulty being taken by the + Mr Redford. If he attempted it there would be a revolt in which he would + be swept away in spite of my singlehanded efforts to defend him. A + complete tapu is politically impossible. A complete toleration is equally + impossible to Mr Redford, because his occupation would be gone if there + were no tapu to enforce. He is therefore compelled to maintain the present + compromise of a partial tapu, applied, to the best of his judgement, with + a careful respect to persons and to public opinion. And a very sensible + English solution of the difficulty, too, most readers will say. I should + not dispute it if dramatic poets really were what English public opinion + generally assumes them to be during their lifetime: that is, a + licentiously irregular group to be kept in order in a rough and ready way + by a magistrate who will stand no nonsense from them. But I cannot admit + that the class represented by Eschylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes, + Euripides, Shakespear, Goethe, Ibsen, and Tolstoy, not to mention our own + contemporary playwrights, is as much in place in Mr Redford’s office as a + pickpocket is in Bow Street. Further, it is not true that the Censorship, + though it certainly suppresses Ibsen and Tolstoy, and would suppress + Shakespear but for the absurd rule that a play once licensed is always + licensed (so that Wycherly is permitted and Shelley prohibited), also + suppresses unscrupulous playwrights. I challenge Mr Redford to mention any + extremity of sexual misconduct which any manager in his senses would risk + presenting on the London stage that has not been presented under his + license and that of his predecessor. The compromise, in fact, works out in + practice in favor of loose plays as against earnest ones. + </p> + <p> + To carry conviction on this point, I will take the extreme course of + narrating the plots of two plays witnessed within the last ten years by + myself at London West End theatres, one licensed by the late Queen + Victoria’s Reader of Plays, the other by the present Reader to the King. + Both plots conform to the strictest rules of the period when La Dame aux + Camellias was still a forbidden play, and when The Second Mrs Tanqueray + would have been tolerated only on condition that she carefully explained + to the audience that when she met Captain Ardale she sinned “but in + intention.” + </p> + <p> + Play number one. A prince is compelled by his parents to marry the + daughter of a neighboring king, but loves another maiden. The scene + represents a hall in the king’s palace at night. The wedding has taken + place that day; and the closed door of the nuptial chamber is in view of + the audience. Inside, the princess awaits her bridegroom. A duenna is in + attendance. The bridegroom enters. His sole desire is to escape from a + marriage which is hateful to him. An idea strikes him. He will assault the + duenna, and get ignominiously expelled from the palace by his indignant + father-in-law. To his horror, when he proceeds to carry out this + stratagem, the duenna, far from raising an alarm, is flattered, delighted, + and compliant. The assaulter becomes the assaulted. He flings her angrily + to the ground, where she remains placidly. He flies. The father enters; + dismisses the duenna; and listens at the keyhole of his daughter’s nuptial + chamber, uttering various pleasantries, and declaring, with a shiver, that + a sound of kissing, which he supposes to proceed from within, makes him + feel young again. + </p> + <p> + In deprecation of the scandalized astonishment with which such a story as + this will be read, I can only say that it was not presented on the stage + until its propriety had been certified by the chief officer of the Queen + of England’s household. + </p> + <p> + Story number two. A German officer finds himself in an inn with a French + lady who has wounded his national vanity. He resolves to humble her by + committing a rape upon her. He announces his purpose. She remonstrates, + implores, flies to the doors and finds them locked, calls for help and + finds none at hand, runs screaming from side to side, and, after a + harrowing scene, is overpowered and faints. Nothing further being possible + on the stage without actual felony, the officer then relents and leaves + her. When she recovers, she believes that he has carried out his threat; + and during the rest of the play she is represented as vainly vowing + vengeance upon him, whilst she is really falling in love with him under + the influence of his imaginary crime against her. Finally she consents to + marry him; and the curtain falls on their happiness. + </p> + <p> + This story was certified by the present King’s Reader, acting for the Lord + Chamberlain, as void in its general tendency of “anything immoral or + otherwise improper for the stage.” But let nobody conclude therefore that + Mr Redford is a monster, whose policy it is to deprave the theatre. As a + matter of fact, both the above stories are strictly in order from the + official point of view. The incidents of sex which they contain, though + carried in both to the extreme point at which another step would be dealt + with, not by the King’s Reader, but by the police, do not involve + adultery, nor any allusion to Mrs Warren’s profession, nor to the fact + that the children of any polyandrous group will, when they grow up, + inevitably be confronted, as those of Mrs Warren’s group are in my play, + with the insoluble problem of their own possible consanguinity. In short, + by depending wholly on the coarse humors and the physical fascination of + sex, they comply with all the formulable requirements of the Censorship, + whereas plays in which these humors and fascinations are discarded, and + the social problems created by sex seriously faced and dealt with, + inevitably ignore the official formula and are suppressed. If the old rule + against the exhibition of illicit sex relations on stage were revived, and + the subject absolutely barred, the only result would be that Antony and + Cleopatra, Othello (because of the Bianca episode), Troilus and Cressida, + Henry IV, Measure for Measure, Timon of Athens, La Dame aux Camellias, The + Profligate, The Second Mrs Tanqueray, The Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith, The Gay + Lord Quex, Mrs Dane’s Defence, and Iris would be swept from the stage, and + placed under the same ban as Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness and Mrs + Warren’s Profession, whilst such plays as the two described above would + have a monopoly of the theatre as far as sexual interest is concerned. + </p> + <p> + What is more, the repulsiveness of the worst of the certified plays would + protect the Censorship against effective exposure and criticism. Not long + ago an American Review of high standing asked me for an article on the + Censorship of the English stage. I replied that such an article would + involve passages too disagreeable for publication in a magazine for + general family reading. The editor persisted nevertheless; but not until + he had declared his readiness to face this, and had pledged himself to + insert the article unaltered (the particularity of the pledge extending + even to a specification of the exact number of words in the article) did I + consent to the proposal. What was the result? + </p> + <p> + The editor, confronted with the two stories given above, threw his pledge + to the winds, and, instead of returning the article, printed it with the + illustrative examples omitted, and nothing left but the argument from + political principles against the Censorship. In doing this he fired my + broadside after withdrawing the cannon balls; for neither the Censor nor + any other Englishman, except perhaps Mr Leslie Stephen and a few other + veterans of the dwindling old guard of Benthamism, cares a dump about + political principle. The ordinary Briton thinks that if every other Briton + is not kept under some form of tutelage, the more childish the better, he + will abuse his freedom viciously. As far as its principle is concerned, + the Censorship is the most popular institution in England; and the + playwright who criticizes it is slighted as a blackguard agitating for + impunity. Consequently nothing can really shake the confidence of the + public in the Lord Chamberlain’s department except a remorseless and + unbowdlerized narration of the licentious fictions which slip through its + net, and are hallmarked by it with the approval of the Throne. But since + these narrations cannot be made public without great difficulty, owing to + the obligation an editor is under not to deal unexpectedly with matters + that are not <i>virginibus puerisque</i>, the chances are heavily in favor + of the Censor escaping all remonstrance. With the exception of such + comments as I was able to make in my own critical articles in The World + and The Saturday Review when the pieces I have described were first + produced, and a few ignorant protests by churchmen against much better + plays which they confessed they had not seen nor read, nothing has been + said in the press that could seriously disturb the easygoing notion that + the stage would be much worse than it admittedly is but for the vigilance + of the King’s Reader. The truth is, that no manager would dare produce on + his own responsibility the pieces he can now get royal certificates for at + two guineas per piece. + </p> + <p> + I hasten to add that I believe these evils to be inherent in the nature of + all censorship, and not merely a consequence of the form the institution + takes in London. No doubt there is a staggering absurdity in appointing an + ordinary clerk to see that the leaders of European literature do not + corrupt the morals of the nation, and to restrain Sir Henry Irving, as a + rogue and a vagabond, from presuming to impersonate Samson or David on the + stage, though any other sort of artist may daub these scriptural figures + on a signboard or carve them on a tombstone without hindrance. If the + General Medical Council, the Royal College of Physicians, the Royal + Academy of Arts, the Incorporated Law Society, and Convocation were + abolished, and their functions handed over to the Mr Redford, the Concert + of Europe would presumably declare England mad, and treat her accordingly. + Yet, though neither medicine nor painting nor law nor the Church moulds + the character of the nation as potently as the theatre does, nothing can + come on the stage unless its dimensions admit of its passing through Mr + Redford’s mind! Pray do not think that I question Mr Redford’s honesty. I + am quite sure that he sincerely thinks me a blackguard, and my play a + grossly improper one, because, like Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness, it + produces, as they are both meant to produce, a very strong and very + painful impression of evil. I do not doubt for a moment that the rapine + play which I have described, and which he licensed, was quite incapable in + manuscript of producing any particular effect on his mind at all, and that + when he was once satisfied that the ill-conducted hero was a German and + not an English officer, he passed the play without studying its moral + tendencies. Even if he had undertaken that study, there is no more reason + to suppose that he is a competent moralist than there is to suppose that I + am a competent mathematician. But truly it does not matter whether he is a + moralist or not. Let nobody dream for a moment that what is wrong with the + Censorship is the shortcoming of the gentleman who happens at any moment + to be acting as Censor. Replace him to-morrow by an Academy of Letters and + an Academy of Dramatic Poetry, and the new and enlarged filter will still + exclude original and epoch-making work, whilst passing conventional, + old-fashioned, and vulgar work without question. The conclave which + compiles the index of the Roman Catholic Church is the most august, + ancient, learned, famous, and authoritative censorship in Europe. Is it + more enlightened, more liberal, more tolerant that the comparatively + infinitesimal office of the Lord Chamberlain? On the contrary, it has + reduced itself to a degree of absurdity which makes a Catholic university + a contradiction in terms. All censorships exist to prevent anyone from + challenging current conceptions and existing institutions. All progress is + initiated by challenging current concepts, and executed by supplanting + existing institutions. Consequently the first condition of progress is the + removal of censorships. There is the whole case against censorships in a + nutshell. + </p> + <p> + It will be asked whether theatrical managers are to be allowed to produce + what they like, without regard to the public interest. But that is not the + alternative. The managers of our London music-halls are not subject to any + censorship. They produce their entertainments on their own responsibility, + and have no two-guinea certificates to plead if their houses are conducted + viciously. They know that if they lose their character, the County Council + will simply refuse to renew their license at the end of the year; and + nothing in the history of popular art is more amazing than the improvement + in music-halls that this simple arrangement has produced within a few + years. Place the theatres on the same footing, and we shall promptly have + a similar revolution: a whole class of frankly blackguardly plays, in + which unscrupulous low comedians attract crowds to gaze at bevies of girls + who have nothing to exhibit but their prettiness, will vanish like the + obscene songs which were supposed to enliven the squalid dulness, + incredible to the younger generation, of the music-halls fifteen years + ago. On the other hand, plays which treat sex questions as problems for + thought instead of as aphrodisiacs will be freely performed. Gentlemen of + Mr Redford’s way of thinking will have plenty of opportunity of protesting + against them in Council; but the result will be that the Mr Redford will + find his natural level; Ibsen and Tolstoy theirs; so no harm will be done. + </p> + <p> + This question of the Censorship reminds me that I have to apologize to + those who went to the recent performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession + expecting to find it what I have just called an aphrodisiac. That was not + my fault; it was Mr Redford’s. After the specimens I have given of the + tolerance of his department, it was natural enough for thoughtless people + to infer that a play which overstepped his indulgence must be a very + exciting play indeed. Accordingly, I find one critic so explicit as to the + nature of his disappointment as to say candidly that “such airy talk as + there is upon the matter is utterly unworthy of acceptance as being a + representation of what people with blood in them think or do on such + occasions.” Thus am I crushed between the upper millstone of the Mr + Redford, who thinks me a libertine, and the nether popular critic, who + thinks me a prude. Critics of all grades and ages, middle-aged fathers of + families no less than ardent young enthusiasts, are equally indignant with + me. They revile me as lacking in passion, in feeling, in manhood. Some of + them even sum the matter up by denying me any dramatic power: a melancholy + betrayal of what dramatic power has come to mean on our stage under the + Censorship! Can I be expected to refrain from laughing at the spectacle of + a number of respectable gentlemen lamenting because a playwright lures + them to the theatre by a promise to excite their senses in a very special + and sensational manner, and then, having successfully trapped them in + exceptional numbers, proceeds to ignore their senses and ruthlessly + improve their minds? But I protest again that the lure was not mine. The + play had been in print for four years; and I have spared no pains to make + known that my plays are built to induce, not voluptuous reverie but + intellectual interest, not romantic rhapsody but humane concern. + Accordingly, I do not find those critics who are gifted with intellectual + appetite and political conscience complaining of want of dramatic power. + Rather do they protest, not altogether unjustly, against a few relapses + into staginess and caricature which betray the young playwright and the + old playgoer in this early work of mine. + </p> + <p> + As to the voluptuaries, I can assure them that the playwright, whether he + be myself or another, will always disappoint them. The drama can do little + to delight the senses: all the apparent instances to the contrary are + instances of the personal fascination of the performers. The drama of pure + feeling is no longer in the hands of the playwright: it has been conquered + by the musician, after whose enchantments all the verbal arts seem cold + and tame. Romeo and Juliet with the loveliest Juliet is dry, tedious, and + rhetorical in comparison with Wagner’s Tristan, even though Isolde be both + fourteen stone and forty, as she often is in Germany. Indeed, it needed no + Wagner to convince the public of this. The voluptuous sentimentality of + Gounod’s Faust and Bizet’s Carmen has captured the common playgoer; and + there is, flatly, no future now for any drama without music except the + drama of thought. The attempt to produce a genus of opera without music + (and this absurdity is what our fashionable theatres have been driving at + for a long time without knowing it) is far less hopeful than my own + determination to accept problem as the normal materiel of the drama. + </p> + <p> + That this determination will throw me into a long conflict with our + theatre critics, and with the few playgoers who go to the theatre as often + as the critics, I well know; but I am too well equipped for the strife to + be deterred by it, or to bear malice towards the losing side. In trying to + produce the sensuous effects of opera, the fashionable drama has become so + flaccid in its sentimentality, and the intellect of its frequenters so + atrophied by disuse, that the reintroduction of problem, with its + remorseless logic and iron framework of fact, inevitably produces at first + an overwhelming impression of coldness and inhuman rationalism. But this + will soon pass away. When the intellectual muscle and moral nerve of the + critics has been developed in the struggle with modern problem plays, the + pettish luxuriousness of the clever ones, and the sulky sense of + disadvantaged weakness in the sentimental ones, will clear away; and it + will be seen that only in the problem play is there any real drama, + because drama is no mere setting up of the camera to nature: it is the + presentation in parable of the conflict between Man’s will and his + environment: in a word, of problem. The vapidness of such drama as the + pseudo-operatic plays contain lies in the fact that in them animal + passion, sentimentally diluted, is shewn in conflict, not with real + circumstances, but with a set of conventions and assumptions half of which + do not exist off the stage, whilst the other half can either be evaded by + a pretence of compliance or defied with complete impunity by any + reasonably strong-minded person. Nobody can feel that such conventions are + really compulsory; and consequently nobody can believe in the stage pathos + that accepts them as an inexorable fate, or in the genuineness of the + people who indulge in such pathos. Sitting at such plays, we do not + believe: we make-believe. And the habit of make-believe becomes at last so + rooted that criticism of the theatre insensibly ceases to be criticism at + all, and becomes more and more a chronicle of the fashionable enterprises + of the only realities left on the stage: that is, the performers in their + own persons. In this phase the playwright who attempts to revive genuine + drama produces the disagreeable impression of the pedant who attempts to + start a serious discussion at a fashionable at-home. Later on, when he has + driven the tea services out and made the people who had come to use the + theatre as a drawing-room understand that it is they and not the dramatist + who are the intruders, he has to face the accusation that his plays ignore + human feeling, an illusion produced by that very resistance of fact and + law to human feeling which creates drama. It is the <i>deus ex machina</i> + who, by suspending that resistance, makes the fall of the curtain an + immediate necessity, since drama ends exactly where resistance ends. Yet + the introduction of this resistance produces so strong an impression of + heartlessness nowadays that a distinguished critic has summed up the + impression made on him by Mrs Warren’s Profession, by declaring that “the + difference between the spirit of Tolstoy and the spirit of Mr Shaw is the + difference between the spirit of Christ and the spirit of Euclid.” But the + epigram would be as good if Tolstoy’s name were put in place of mine and + D’Annunzio’s in place of Tolstoy. At the same time I accept the enormous + compliment to my reasoning powers with sincere complacency; and I promise + my flatterer that when he is sufficiently accustomed to and therefore + undazzled by problem on the stage to be able to attend to the familiar + factor of humanity in it as well as to the unfamiliar one of a real + environment, he will both see and feel that Mrs Warren’s Profession is no + mere theorem, but a play of instincts and temperaments in conflict with + each other and with a flinty social problem that never yields an inch to + mere sentiment. + </p> + <p> + I go further than this. I declare that the real secret of the cynicism and + inhumanity of which shallower critics accuse me is the unexpectedness with + which my characters behave like human beings, instead of conforming to the + romantic logic of the stage. The axioms and postulates of that dreary + mimanthropometry are so well known that it is almost impossible for its + slaves to write tolerable last acts to their plays, so conventionally do + their conclusions follow from their premises. Because I have thrown this + logic ruthlessly overboard, I am accused of ignoring, not stage logic, + but, of all things, human feeling. People with completely theatrified + imaginations tell me that no girl would treat her mother as Vivie Warren + does, meaning that no stage heroine would in a popular sentimental play. + They say this just as they might say that no two straight lines would + enclose a space. They do not see how completely inverted their vision has + become even when I throw its preposterousness in their faces, as I + repeatedly do in this very play. Praed, the sentimental artist (fool that + I was not to make him a theatre critic instead of an architect!) + burlesques them by expecting all through the piece that the feelings of + others will be logically deducible from their family relationships and + from his “conventionally unconventional” social code. The sarcasm is lost + on the critics: they, saturated with the same logic, only think him the + sole sensible person on the stage. Thus it comes about that the more + completely the dramatist is emancipated from the illusion that men and + women are primarily reasonable beings, and the more powerfully he insists + on the ruthless indifference of their great dramatic antagonist, the + external world, to their whims and emotions, the surer he is to be + denounced as blind to the very distinction on which his whole work is + built. Far from ignoring idiosyncrasy, will, passion, impulse, whim, as + factors in human action, I have placed them so nakedly on the stage that + the elderly citizen, accustomed to see them clothed with the veil of + manufactured logic about duty, and to disguise even his own impulses from + himself in this way, finds the picture as unnatural as Carlyle’s suggested + painting of parliament sitting without its clothes. + </p> + <p> + I now come to those critics who, intellectually baffled by the problem in + Mrs Warren’s Profession, have made a virtue of running away from it. I + will illustrate their method by quotation from Dickens, taken from the + fifth chapter of Our Mutual Friend: + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” began Wegg. “This, Mr Boffin and Lady, is the first chapter of the + first wollume of the Decline and Fall off——” here he looked + hard at the book, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Wegg?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it comes into my mind, do you know, sir,” said Wegg with an air of + insinuating frankness (having first again looked hard at the book), “that + you made a little mistake this morning, which I had meant to set you right + in; only something put it out of my head. I think you said Rooshan Empire, + sir?” + </p> + <p> + “It is Rooshan; ain’t it, Wegg?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. Roman. Roman.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the difference, Wegg?” + </p> + <p> + “The difference, sir?” Mr Wegg was faltering and in danger of breaking + down, when a bright thought flashed upon him. “The difference, sir? There + you place me in a difficulty, Mr Boffin. Suffice it to observe, that the + difference is best postponed to some other occasion when Mrs Boffin does + not honor us with her company. In Mrs Boffin’s presence, sir, we had + better drop it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage with quite a chivalrous air, and + not only that, but by dint of repeating with a manly delicacy, “In Mrs + Boffin’s presence, sir, we had better drop it!” turned the disadvantage on + Boffin, who felt that he had committed himself in a very painful manner. + </p> + <p> + I am willing to let Mr Wegg drop it on these terms, provided I am allowed + to mention here that Mrs Warren’s Profession is a play for women; that it + was written for women; that it has been performed and produced mainly + through the determination of women that it should be performed and + produced; that the enthusiasm of women made its first performance + excitingly successful; and that not one of these women had any inducement + to support it except their belief in the timeliness and the power of the + lesson the play teaches. Those who were “surprised to see ladies present” + were men; and when they proceeded to explain that the journals they + represented could not possibly demoralize the public by describing such a + play, their editors cruelly devoted the space saved by their delicacy to + an elaborate and respectful account of the progress of a young lord’s + attempt to break the bank at Monte Carlo. A few days sooner Mrs Warren + would have been crowded out of their papers by an exceptionally abominable + police case. I do not suggest that the police case should have been + suppressed; but neither do I believe that regard for public morality had + anything to do with their failure to grapple with the performance by the + Stage Society. And, after all, there was no need to fall back on Silas + Wegg’s subterfuge. Several critics saved the faces of their papers easily + enough by the simple expedient of saying all they had to say in the tone + of a shocked governess lecturing a naughty child. To them I might plead, + in Mrs Warren’s words, “Well, it’s only good manners to be ashamed, + dearie;” but it surprises me, recollecting as I do the effect produced by + Miss Fanny Brough’s delivery of that line, that gentlemen who shivered + like violets in a zephyr as it swept through them, should so completely + miss the full width of its application as to go home and straightway make + a public exhibition of mock modesty. + </p> + <p> + My old Independent Theatre manager, Mr Grein, besides that reproach to me + for shattering his ideals, complains that Mrs Warren is not wicked enough, + and names several romancers who would have clothed her black soul with all + the terrors of tragedy. I have no doubt they would; but if you please, my + dear Grein, that is just what I did not want to do. Nothing would please + our sanctimonious British public more than to throw the whole guilt of Mrs + Warren’s profession on Mrs Warren herself. Now the whole aim of my play is + to throw that guilt on the British public itself. You may remember that + when you produced my first play, Widowers’ Houses, exactly the same + misunderstanding arose. When the virtuous young gentleman rose up in wrath + against the slum landlord, the slum landlord very effectively shewed him + that slums are the product, not of individual Harpagons, but of the + indifference of virtuous young gentlemen to the condition of the city they + live in, provided they live at the west end of it on money earned by + someone else’s labor. The notion that prostitution is created by the + wickedness of Mrs Warren is as silly as the notion—prevalent, + nevertheless, to some extent in Temperance circles—that drunkenness + is created by the wickedness of the publican. Mrs Warren is not a whit a + worse woman than the reputable daughter who cannot endure her. Her + indifference to the ultimate social consequences of her means of making + money, and her discovery of that means by the ordinary method of taking + the line of least resistance to getting it, are too common in English + society to call for any special remark. Her vitality, her thrift, her + energy, her outspokenness, her wise care of her daughter, and the managing + capacity which has enabled her and her sister to climb from the fried fish + shop down by the Mint to the establishments of which she boasts, are all + high English social virtues. Her defence of herself is so overwhelming + that it provokes the St James Gazette to declare that “the tendency of the + play is wholly evil” because “it contains one of the boldest and most + specious defences of an immoral life for poor women that has ever been + penned.” Happily the St James Gazette here speaks in its haste. Mrs + Warren’s defence of herself is not only bold and specious, but valid and + unanswerable. But it is no defence at all of the vice which she organizes. + It is no defence of an immoral life to say that the alternative offered by + society collectively to poor women is a miserable life, starved, + overworked, fetid, ailing, ugly. Though it is quite natural and RIGHT for + Mrs Warren to choose what is, according to her lights, the least immoral + alternative, it is none the less infamous of society to offer such + alternatives. For the alternatives offered are not morality and + immorality, but two sorts of immorality. The man who cannot see that + starvation, overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as prostitution—that + they are the vices and crimes of a nation, and not merely its misfortunes—is + (to put it as politely as possible) a hopelessly Private Person. + </p> + <p> + The notion that Mrs Warren must be a fiend is only an example of the + violence and passion which the slightest reference to sex arouses in + undisciplined minds, and which makes it seem natural for our lawgivers to + punish silly and negligible indecencies with a ferocity unknown in dealing + with, for example, ruinous financial swindling. Had my play been titled Mr + Warren’s Profession, and Mr Warren been a bookmaker, nobody would have + expected me to make him a villain as well. Yet gambling is a vice, and + bookmaking an institution, for which there is absolutely nothing to be + said. The moral and economic evil done by trying to get other people’s + money without working for it (and this is the essence of gambling) is not + only enormous but uncompensated. There are no two sides to the question of + gambling, no circumstances which force us to tolerate it lest its + suppression lead to worse things, no consensus of opinion among + responsible classes, such as magistrates and military commanders, that it + is a necessity, no Athenian records of gambling made splendid by the + talents of its professors, no contention that instead of violating morals + it only violates a legal institution which is in many respects oppressive + and unnatural, no possible plea that the instinct on which it is founded + is a vital one. Prostitution can confuse the issue with all these excuses: + gambling has none of them. Consequently, if Mrs Warren must needs be a + demon, a bookmaker must be a cacodemon. Well, does anybody who knows the + sporting world really believe that bookmakers are worse than their + neighbors? On the contrary, they have to be a good deal better; for in + that world nearly everybody whose social rank does not exclude such an + occupation would be a bookmaker if he could; but the strength of character + for handling large sums of money and for strict settlements and + unflinching payment of losses is so rare that successful bookmakers are + rare too. It may seem that at least public spirit cannot be one of a + bookmaker’s virtues; but I can testify from personal experience that + excellent public work is done with money subscribed by bookmakers. It is + true that there are abysses in bookmaking: for example, welshing. Mr Grein + hints that there are abysses in Mrs Warren’s profession also. So there are + in every profession: the error lies in supposing that every member of them + sounds these depths. I sit on a public body which prosecutes Mrs Warren + zealously; and I can assure Mr Grein that she is often leniently dealt + with because she has conducted her business “respectably” and held herself + above its vilest branches. The degrees in infamy are as numerous and as + scrupulously observed as the degrees in the peerage: the moralist’s notion + that there are depths at which the moral atmosphere ceases is as delusive + as the rich man’s notion that there are no social jealousies or snobberies + among the very poor. No: had I drawn Mrs Warren as a fiend in human form, + the very people who now rebuke me for flattering her would probably be the + first to deride me for deducing her character logically from occupation + instead of observing it accurately in society. + </p> + <p> + One critic is so enslaved by this sort of logic that he calls my + portraiture of the Reverend Samuel Gardner an attack on religion. + </p> + <p> + According to this view Subaltern Iago is an attack on the army, Sir John + Falstaff an attack on knighthood, and King Claudius an attack on royalty. + Here again the clamor for naturalness and human feeling, raised by so many + critics when they are confronted by the real thing on the stage, is really + a clamor for the most mechanical and superficial sort of logic. The + dramatic reason for making the clergyman what Mrs Warren calls “an old + stick-in-the-mud,” whose son, in spite of much capacity and charm, is a + cynically worthless member of society, is to set up a mordant contrast + between him and the woman of infamous profession, with her well + brought-up, straightforward, hardworking daughter. The critics who have + missed the contrast have doubtless observed often enough that many + clergymen are in the Church through no genuine calling, but simply + because, in circles which can command preferment, it is the refuge of “the + fool of the family”; and that clergymen’s sons are often conspicuous + reactionists against the restraints imposed on them in childhood by their + father’s profession. These critics must know, too, from history if not + from experience, that women as unscrupulous as Mrs Warren have + distinguished themselves as administrators and rulers, both commercially + and politically. But both observation and knowledge are left behind when + journalists go to the theatre. Once in their stalls, they assume that it + is “natural” for clergymen to be saintly, for soldiers to be heroic, for + lawyers to be hard-hearted, for sailors to be simple and generous, for + doctors to perform miracles with little bottles, and for Mrs Warren to be + a beast and a demon. All this is not only not natural, but not dramatic. A + man’s profession only enters into the drama of his life when it comes into + conflict with his nature. The result of this conflict is tragic in Mrs + Warren’s case, and comic in the clergyman’s case (at least we are savage + enough to laugh at it); but in both cases it is illogical, and in both + cases natural. I repeat, the critics who accuse me of sacrificing nature + to logic are so sophisticated by their profession that to them logic is + nature, and nature absurdity. + </p> + <p> + Many friendly critics are too little skilled in social questions and moral + discussions to be able to conceive that respectable gentlemen like + themselves, who would instantly call the police to remove Mrs Warren if + she ventured to canvass them personally, could possibly be in any way + responsible for her proceedings. They remonstrate sincerely, asking me + what good such painful exposures can possibly do. They might as well ask + what good Lord Shaftesbury did by devoting his life to the exposure of + evils (by no means yet remedied) compared to which the worst things + brought into view or even into surmise by this play are trifles. The good + of mentioning them is that you make people so extremely uncomfortable + about them that they finally stop blaming “human nature” for them, and + begin to support measures for their reform. + </p> + <p> + Can anything be more absurd than the copy of The Echo which contains a + notice of the performance of my play? It is edited by a gentleman who, + having devoted his life to work of the Shaftesbury type, exposes social + evils and clamors for their reform in every column except one; and that + one is occupied by the declaration of the paper’s kindly theatre critic, + that the performance left him “wondering what useful purpose the play was + intended to serve.” The balance has to be redressed by the more + fashionable papers, which usually combine capable art criticism with + West-End solecism on politics and sociology. It is very noteworthy, + however, on comparing the press explosion produced by Mrs Warren’s + Profession in 1902 with that produced by Widowers’ Houses about ten years + earlier, that whereas in 1892 the facts were frantically denied and the + persons of the drama flouted as monsters of wickedness, in 1902 the facts + are admitted and the characters recognized, though it is suggested that + this is exactly why no gentleman should mention them in public. Only one + writer has ventured to imply this time that the poverty mentioned by Mrs + Warren has since been quietly relieved, and need not have been dragged + back to the footlights. I compliment him on his splendid mendacity, in + which he is unsupported, save by a little plea in a theatrical paper which + is innocent enough to think that ten guineas a year with board and lodging + is an impossibly low wage for a barmaid. It goes on to cite Mr Charles + Booth as having testified that there are many laborers’ wives who are + happy and contented on eighteen shillings a week. But I can go further + than that myself. I have seen an Oxford agricultural laborer’s wife + looking cheerful on eight shillings a week; but that does not console me + for the fact that agriculture in England is a ruined industry. If poverty + does not matter as long as it is contented, then crime does not matter as + long as it is unscrupulous. The truth is that it is only then that it does + matter most desperately. Many persons are more comfortable when they are + dirty than when they are clean; but that does not recommend dirt as a + national policy. + </p> + <p> + Here I must for the present break off my arduous work of educating the + Press. We shall resume our studies later on; but just now I am tired of + playing the preceptor; and the eager thirst of my pupils for improvement + does not console me for the slowness of their progress. Besides, I must + reserve space to gratify my own vanity and do justice to the six artists + who acted my play, by placing on record the hitherto unchronicled success + of the first representation. It is not often that an author, after a + couple of hours of those rare alternations of excitement and intensely + attentive silence which only occur in the theatre when actors and audience + are reacting on one another to the utmost, is able to step on the stage + and apply the strong word genius to the representation with the certainty + of eliciting an instant and overwhelming assent from the audience. That + was my good fortune on the afternoon of Sunday, the fifth of January last. + I was certainly extremely fortunate in my interpreters in the enterprise, + and that not alone in respect of their artistic talent; for had it not + been for their superhuman patience, their imperturbable good humor and + good fellowship, there could have been no performance. The terror of the + Censor’s power gave us trouble enough to break up any ordinary commercial + enterprise. Managers promised and even engaged their theatres to us after + the most explicit warnings that the play was unlicensed, and at the last + moment suddenly realized that Mr Redford had their livelihoods in the + hollow of his hand, and backed out. Over and over again the date and place + were fixed and the tickets printed, only to be canceled, until at last the + desperate and overworked manager of the Stage Society could only laugh, as + criminals broken on the wheel used to laugh at the second stroke. We + rehearsed under great difficulties. Christmas pieces and plays for the new + year were being produced in all directions; and my six actor colleagues + were busy people, with engagements in these pieces in addition to their + current professional work every night. On several raw winter days stages + for rehearsal were unattainable even by the most distinguished applicants; + and we shared corridors and saloons with them whilst the stage was given + over to children in training for Boxing night. At last we had to rehearse + at an hour at which no actor or actress has been out of bed within the + memory of man; and we sardonically congratulated one another every morning + on our rosy matutinal looks and the improvement wrought by our early + rising in our health and characters. And all this, please observe, for a + society without treasury or commercial prestige, for a play which was + being denounced in advance as unmentionable, for an author without + influence at the fashionable theatres! I victoriously challenge the West + End managers to get as much done for interested motives, if they can. + </p> + <p> + Three causes made the production the most notable that has fallen to my + lot. First, the veto of the Censor, which put the supporters of the play + on their mettle. Second, the chivalry of the Stage Society, which, in + spite of my urgent advice to the contrary, and my demonstration of the + difficulties, dangers, and expenses the enterprise would cost, put my + discouragements to shame and resolved to give battle at all costs to the + attempt of the Censorship to suppress the play. Third, the artistic spirit + of the actors, who made the play their own and carried it through + triumphantly in spite of a series of disappointments and annoyances much + more trying to the dramatic temperament than mere difficulties. + </p> + <p> + The acting, too, required courage and character as well as skill and + intelligence. The veto of the Censor introduced quite a novel element of + moral responsibility into the undertaking. And the characters were very + unusual on the English stage. The younger heroine is, like her mother, an + Englishwoman to the backbone, and not, like the heroines of our + fashionable drama, a prima donna of Italian origin. Consequently she was + sure to be denounced as unnatural and undramatic by the critics. The most + vicious man in the play is not in the least a stage villain; indeed, he + regards his own moral character with the sincere complacency of a hero of + melodrama. The amiable devotee of romance and beauty is shewn at an age + which brings out the futilization which these worships are apt to produce + if they are made the staple of life instead of the sauce. The attitude of + the clever young people to their elders is faithfully represented as one + of pitiless ridicule and unsympathetic criticism, and forms a spectacle + incredible to those who, when young, were not cleverer than their nearest + elders, and painful to those sentimental parents who shrink from the + cruelty of youth, which pardons nothing because it knows nothing. In + short, the characters and their relations are of a kind that the routineer + critic has not yet learned to place; so that their misunderstanding was a + foregone conclusion. Nevertheless, there was no hesitation behind the + curtain. When it went up at last, a stage much too small for the company + was revealed to an auditorium much too small for the audience. But the + players, though it was impossible for them to forget their own discomfort, + at once made the spectators forget theirs. It certainly was a model + audience, responsive from the first line to the last; and it got no less + than it deserved in return. + </p> + <p> + I grieve to add that the second performance, given for the edification of + the London Press and of those members of the Stage Society who cannot + attend the Sunday performances, was a less inspiriting one than the first. + A solid phalanx of theatre-weary journalists in an afternoon humor, most + of them committed to irreconcilable disparagement of problem plays, and + all of them bound by etiquette to be as undemonstrative as possible, is + not exactly the sort of audience that rises at the performers and cures + them of the inevitable reaction after an excitingly successful first + night. The artist nature is a sensitive and therefore a vindictive one; + and masterful players have a way with recalcitrant audiences of rubbing a + play into them instead of delighting them with it. I should describe the + second performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession, especially as to its + earlier stages, as decidedly a rubbed-in one. The rubbing was no doubt + salutary; but it must have hurt some of the thinner skins. The charm of + the lighter passages fled; and the strong scenes, though they again + carried everything before them, yet discharged that duty in a grim + fashion, doing execution on the enemy rather than moving them to + repentance and confession. Still, to those who had not seen the first + performance, the effect was sufficiently impressive; and they had the + advantage of witnessing a fresh development in Mrs Warren, who, + artistically jealous, as I took it, of the overwhelming effect of the end + of the second act on the previous day, threw herself into the fourth act + in quite a new way, and achieved the apparently impossible feat of + surpassing herself. The compliments paid to Miss Fanny Brough by the + critics, eulogistic as they are, are the compliments of men three-fourths + duped as Partridge was duped by Garrick. By much of her acting they were + so completely taken in that they did not recognize it as acting at all. + Indeed, none of the six players quite escaped this consequence of their + own thoroughness. There was a distinct tendency among the less experienced + critics to complain of their sentiments and behavior. Naturally, the + author does not share that grievance. + </p> + <p> + PICCARD’S COTTAGE, JANUARY 1902. <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + </h2> + <p> + [Mrs Warren’s Profession was performed for the first time in the theatre + of the New Lyric Club, London, on the 5th and 6th January 1902, with Madge + McIntosh as Vivie, Julius Knight as Praed, Fanny Brough as Mrs Warren, + Charles Goodhart as Crofts, Harley Granville-Barker as Frank, and Cosmo + Stuart as the Reverend Samuel Gardner.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="margin:20%;"> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + <p> + [Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a hill a + little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, the cottage is + seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and + porch, and a large latticed window to the left of the porch. A paling + completely shuts in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The + common rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some folded + canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side bench in the porch. A + lady’s bicycle is propped against the wall, under the window. A little + to the right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big + canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the hammock, in + which a young lady is reading and making notes, her head towards the + cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front of the hammock, and + within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of + serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper on it.] + </p> + <p> + [A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind the + cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the artist + about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven + except for a moustache, with an eager susceptible face and very amiable + and considerate manners. He has silky black hair, with waves of grey and + white in it. His eyebrows are white, his moustache black. He seems not + certain of his way. He looks over the palings; takes stock of the place; + and sees the young lady.] + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you direct me + to Hindhead View—Mrs Alison’s? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs Alison’s. [She + resumes her work]. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. Indeed! Perhaps—may I ask are you Miss Vivie + Warren? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good look at + him] Yes. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I’m afraid I appear intrusive. + My name is Praed. [Vivie at once throws her books upon the chair, and + gets out of the hammock]. Oh, pray don’t let me disturb you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr Praed. + [He comes in]. Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand and takes his + with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the + sensible, able, highly-educated young middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22. + Prompt, strong, confident, self-possessed. Plain business-like dress, + but not dowdy. She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen + and a paper knife among its pendants]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate with a + vigorous slam. He passes in to the middle of the garden, exercising his + fingers, which are slightly numbed by her greeting]. Has your mother + arrived? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [surprised] Didn’t you expect us? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Now, goodness me, I hope I’ve not mistaken the day. That would be + just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she was to come down + from London and that I was to come over from Horsham to be introduced to + you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? Hm! My mother has rather a trick of + taking me by surprise—to see how I behave myself while she’s away, + I suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one of + these days, if she makes arrangements that concern me without consulting + me beforehand. She hasnt come. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [embarrassed] I’m really very sorry. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It’s not your fault, Mr Praed, is + it? And I’m very glad you’ve come. You are the only one of my mother’s + friends I have ever asked her to bring to see me. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good of you, + Miss Warren! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here and talk? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. It will be nicer out here, don’t you think? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then I’ll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch for a + garden chair]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands on the + chair]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers; theyre rather + dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair with the books + on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with + one swing]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now do let me take that hard + chair. I like hard chairs. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. So do I. Sit down, Mr Praed. [This invitation she gives with a + genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as + a sign of weakness of character on his part. But he does not immediately + obey]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. By the way, though, hadnt we better go to the station to meet + your mother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [disconcerted] Er—I suppose she does [he sits down]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope you are + disposed to be friends with me. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my <i>dear</i> Miss Warren; thank you. + Dear me! I’m so glad your mother hasnt spoilt you! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. How? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear Miss + Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils the relations + between parent and child; even between mother and daughter. Now I was + always afraid that your mother would strain her authority to make you + very conventional. It’s such a relief to find that she hasnt. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh no: oh dear no. At least, not conventionally unconventionally, + you understand. [She nods and sits down. He goes on, with a cordial + outburst] But it was so charming of you to say that you were disposed to + be friends with me! You modern young ladies are splendid: perfectly + splendid! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment as to + the quality of his brains and character]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of each + other: there was no good fellowship. Nothing real. Only gallantry copied + out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly + reserve! gentlemanly chivalry! always saying no when you meant yes! + simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of time. + Especially women’s time. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are improving. + Do you know, I have been in a positive state of excitement about meeting + you ever since your magnificent achievements at Cambridge: a thing + unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid, your tieing with the + third wrangler. Just the right place, you know. The first wrangler is + always a dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the + length of a disease. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It doesn’t pay. I wouldn’t do it again for the same money. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [aghast] The same money! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. Fifty pounds. Perhaps you don’t know how it was. Mrs Latham, + my tutor at Newnham, told my mother that I could distinguish myself in + the mathematical tripos if I went in for it in earnest. The papers were + full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the senior wrangler. You + remember about it, of course. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [shakes his head energetically] !!! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well, anyhow, she did; and nothing would please my mother but + that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was not worth my + while to face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; but I + offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts for fifty pounds. She + closed with me at that, after a little grumbling; and I was better than + my bargain. But I wouldn’t do it again for that. Two hundred pounds + would have been nearer the mark. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! Thats a very practical way of looking + at it. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical person? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But surely it’s practical to consider not only the work these + honors cost, but also the culture they bring. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Culture! My dear Mr Praed: do you know what the mathematical + tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind for six to eight hours a day + at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics. + </p> + <p> + I’m supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing except + the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for engineers, + electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I know next to nothing + about engineering or electricity or insurance. I don’t even know + arithmetic well. Outside mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping, + cycling, and walking, I’m a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could + possibly be who hadn’t gone in for the tripos. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I knew it! I + felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes womanhood + beautiful! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I don’t object to it on that score in the least. I shall turn it + to very good account, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Pooh! In what way? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I shall set up chambers in the City, and work at actuarial + calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I shall do some law, + with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the time. I’ve come down here by + myself to read law: not for a holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate + holidays. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, no beauty + in your life? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I don’t care for either, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. You can’t mean that. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. When I’m + tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a little whisky, + and a novel with a good detective story in it. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising in a frenzy of repudiation] I don’t believe it. I am an + artist; and I can’t believe it: I refuse to believe it. It’s only that + you havn’t discovered yet what a wonderful world art can open up to you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with Honoria + Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of sightseeing together; but + I was really at Honoria’s chambers in Chancery Lane every day, working + away at actuarial calculations for her, and helping her as well as a + greenhorn could. In the evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt + of going out except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my + life. + </p> + <p> + I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a + fee in the bargain. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that + discovering art? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Wait a bit. That wasn’t the beginning. I went up to town on an + invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn’s Avenue: one of the + girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery— + </p> + <p> + PRAED [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [continuing]—to the Opera— + </p> + <p> + PRAED [still more pleased] Good! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE.—and to a concert where the band played all the evening: + Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldn’t go through that experience + again for anything you could offer me. I held out for civility’s sake + until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn’t stand + any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. N o w you know the sort + of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am. How do you think I shall + get on with my mother? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [startled] Well, I hope—er— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want + to know. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little + disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know: I don’t + mean that. But you are so different from her ideal. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Her what?! + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Her ideal. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you mean her ideal of ME? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What on earth is it like? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are + dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think that the world + would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently. + Now your mother’s life has been—er—I suppose you know— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Don’t suppose anything, Mr Praed. I hardly know my mother. Since + I was a child I have lived in England, at school or at college, or with + people paid to take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my life. + My mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her. I + only see her when she visits England for a few days. I don’t complain: + it’s been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there + has always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But don’t imagine + I know anything about my mother. I know far less than you do. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case—[He stops, quite at a loss. + Then, with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense we are talking! + Of course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and + looks abroad at the view]. What a charming little place you have here! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed. Why won’t + my mother’s life bear being talked about? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, you mustn’t say that. Isn’t it natural that I should have a + certain delicacy in talking to my old friend’s daughter about her behind + her back? You and she will have plenty of opportunity of talking about + it when she comes. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: she won’t talk about it either. [Rising] However, I daresay + you have good reasons for telling me nothing. Only, mind this, Mr Praed, + I expect there will be a battle royal when my mother hears of my + Chancery Lane project. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [ruefully] I’m afraid there will. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well, I shall win because I want nothing but my fare to London to + start there to-morrow earning my own living by devilling for Honoria. + Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall + use that advantage over her if necessary. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh no! No, pray. Youd not do such a thing. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then tell me why not. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She smiles at + his sentimentality]. Besides, you may be too bold. Your mother is not to + be trifled with when she’s angry. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You can’t frighten me, Mr Praed. In that month at Chancery Lane I + had opportunities of taking the measure of one or two women v e r y like + my mother. You may back me to win. But if I hit harder in my ignorance + than I need, remember it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now, let us + drop the subject. [She takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock + with the same vigorous swing as before]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I had + better tell you. It’s very difficult; but— + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the gate. Mrs Warren is + between 40 and 50, formerly pretty, showily dressed in a brilliant hat + and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by + fashionable sleeves. Rather spoilt and domineering, and decidedly + vulgar, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old + blackguard of a woman.] + </p> + <p> + [Crofts is a tall powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably dressed + in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than might be expected + from his strong frame. Clean-shaven bulldog jaws, large flat ears, and + thick neck: gentlemanly combination of the most brutal types of city + man, sporting man, and man about town.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden] How do, + mater? Mr Praed’s been here this half hour, waiting for you. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, if you’ve been waiting, Praddy, it’s your own fault: I + thought youd have had the gumption to know I was coming by the 3.10 + train. Vivie: put your hat on, dear: youll get sunburnt. Oh, I forgot to + introduce you. Sir George Crofts: my little Vivie. + </p> + <p> + [Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly manner. She nods, but + makes no motion to shake hands.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by + reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like. + </p> + <p> + [She takes his tenderly proferred hand and gives it a squeeze that makes + him open his eyes; then turns away, and says to her mother] Will you + come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? [She goes into the porch + for the chairs]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, George, what do you think of her? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands with her, + Praed? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes: it will pass off presently. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I hope so. [Vivie reappears with two more chairs. He hurries to + her assistance]. Allow me. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the chairs, + dear. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [pitching them into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her hands + and turns to Mrs Warren]. Youd like some tea, wouldn’t you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [sitting in Praed’s chair and fanning herself] I’m dying for + a drop to drink. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I’ll see about it. [She goes into the cottage]. + </p> + <p> + [Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant it by + Mrs Warren, on her left. He throws the other on the grass and sits down, + looking dejected and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in his + mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, fidgets around the garden on their + right.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Praed, looking at Crofts] Just look at him, Praddy: he + looks cheerful, don’t he? He’s been worrying my life out these three + years to have that little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that Ive + done it, he’s quite out of countenance. [Briskly] Come! sit up, George; + and take your stick out of your mouth. [Crofts sulkily obeys]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I think, you know—if you don’t mind my saying so—that + we had better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little girl. + You see she has really distinguished herself; and I’m not sure, from + what I have seen of her, that she is not older than any of us. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [greatly amused] Only listen to him, George! Older than any + of us! Well she <i>has</i> been stuffing you nicely with her importance. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But young people are particularly sensitive about being treated + in that way. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes; and young people have to get all that nonsense taken + out of them, and good deal more besides. Don’t you interfere, Praddy: I + know how to treat my own child as well as you do. [Praed, with a grave + shake of his head, walks up the garden with his hands behind his back. + Mrs Warren pretends to laugh, but looks after him with perceptible + concern. Then, she whispers to Crofts] Whats the matter with him? What + does he take it like that for? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [morosely] Youre afraid of Praed. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What! Me! Afraid of dear old Praddy! Why, a fly wouldn’t be + afraid of him. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. <i>You’re</i> afraid of him. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [angry] I’ll trouble you to mind your own business, and not + try any of your sulks on me. I’m not afraid of y o u, anyhow. If you + can’t make yourself agreeable, youd better go home. [She gets up, and, + turning her back on him, finds herself face to face with Praed]. Come, + Praddy, I know it was only your tender-heartedness. Youre afraid I’ll + bully her. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. My dear Kitty: you think I’m offended. Don’t imagine that: pray + don’t. But you know I often notice things that escape you; and though + you never take my advice, you sometimes admit afterwards that you ought + to have taken it. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, what do you notice now? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray, Kitty, treat her with + every respect. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [with genuine amazement] Respect! Treat my own daughter with + respect! What next, pray! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [appearing at the cottage door and calling to Mrs Warren] Mother: + will you come to my room before tea? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes, dearie. [She laughs indulgently at Praed’s gravity, and + pats him on the cheek as she passes him on her way to the porch]. Don’t + be cross, Praddy. [She follows Vivie into the cottage]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [furtively] I say, Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I want to ask you a rather particular question. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly. [He takes Mrs Warren’s chair and sits close to + Crofts]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Thats right: they might hear us from the window. Look here: did + Kitty every tell you who that girl’s father is? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Never. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Have you any suspicion of who it might be? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. None. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [not believing him] I know, of course, that you perhaps might + feel bound not to tell if she had said anything to you. But it’s very + awkward to be uncertain about it now that we shall be meeting the girl + every day. We don’t exactly know how we ought to feel towards her. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. What difference can that make? We take her on her own merits. + What does it matter who her father was? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [suspiciously] Then you know who he was? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [with a touch of temper] I said no just now. Did you not hear me? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Look here, Praed. I ask you as a particular favor. If you <i>do</i> + know [movement of protest from Praed]—I only say, if you know, you + might at least set my mind at rest about her. The fact is, I fell + attracted. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [sternly] What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, don’t be alarmed: it’s quite an innocent feeling. Thats what + puzzles me about it. Why, for all I know, <i>I</i> might be her father. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. You! Impossible! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [catching him up cunningly] You know for certain that I’m not? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I know nothing about it, I tell you, any more than you. But + really, Crofts—oh no, it’s out of the question. Theres not the + least resemblance. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. As to that, theres no resemblance between her and her mother + that I can see. I suppose she’s not y o u r daughter, is she? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising indignantly] Really, Crofts—! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. No offence, Praed. Quite allowable as between two men of the + world. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [recovering himself with an effort and speaking gently and + gravely] Now listen to me, my dear Crofts. [He sits down again]. + </p> + <p> + I have nothing to do with that side of Mrs Warren’s life, and never had. + She has never spoken to me about it; and of course I have never spoken + to her about it. Your delicacy will tell you that a handsome woman needs + some friends who are not—well, not on that footing with her. The + effect of her own beauty would become a torment to her if she could not + escape from it occasionally. You are probably on much more confidential + terms with Kitty than I am. Surely you can ask her the question + yourself. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I h a v e asked her, often enough. But she’s so determined to + keep the child all to herself that she would deny that it ever had a + father if she could. [Rising] I’m thoroughly uncomfortable about it, + Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising also] Well, as you are, at all events, old enough to be + her father, I don’t mind agreeing that we both regard Miss Vivie in a + parental way, as a young girl who we are bound to protect and help. What + do you say? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [aggressively] I’m no older than you, if you come to that. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes you are, my dear fellow: you were born old. I was born a boy: + Ive never been able to feel the assurance of a grown-up man in my life. + [He folds his chair and carries it to the porch]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [calling from within the cottage] Prad-dee! George! + Tea-ea-ea-ea! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [hastily] She’s calling us. [He hurries in]. + </p> + <p> + [Praed shakes his head bodingly, and is following Crofts when he is + hailed by a young gentleman who has just appeared on the common, and is + making for the gate. He is pleasant, pretty, smartly dressed, cleverly + good-for-nothing, not long turned 20, with a charming voice and + agreeably disrespectful manners. He carries a light sporting magazine + rifle.] + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed! + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands cordially]. + What on earth are you doing here? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Staying with my father. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. The Roman father? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. He’s rector here. I’m living with my people this autumn for the + sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the Roman father had + to pay my debts. He’s stony broke in consequence; and so am I. What are + you up to in these parts? do you know the people here? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes: I’m spending the day with a Miss Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [enthusiastically] What! Do you know Vivie? Isn’t she a jolly + girl? I’m teaching her to shoot with this [putting down the rifle]. I’m + so glad she knows you: youre just the sort of fellow she ought to know. + [He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a singing tone as he + exclaims] It’s e v e r so jolly to find you here, Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I’m an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me over to + make her daughter’s acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The mother! Is <i>she</i> here? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [calling from within] Prad-dee-ee-ee-eee! The tea-cake’ll be + cold. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. I’ve just met a friend + here. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. A what? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [louder] A friend. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Bring him in. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused] Is that Vivie’s mother? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she’ll like me? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I’ve no doubt youll make yourself popular, as usual. Come in and + try [moving towards the house]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my confidence. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Pray don’t. It’s only some fresh folly, like the barmaid at + Redhill. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. It’s ever so much more serious than that. You say you’ve only + just met Vivie for the first time? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rhapsodically] Then you can have no idea what a girl she is. Such + character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my eye, Praed, but I can + tell you she is clever! And—need I add?—she loves me. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [putting his head out of the window] I say, Praed: what are you + about? Do come along. [He disappears]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog show, ain’t + he? Who’s he? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren’s. I think we had + better come in. + </p> + <p> + [On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate. + Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it.] + </p> + <p> + THE CLERGYMAN [calling] Frank! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] Yes, + gov’nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: youd better + go in to tea. I’ll join you directly. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage]. + </p> + <p> + [The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of + it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established + Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy, + important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the + family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously + asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command + respect in either capacity.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, it’s all right, gov’nor! Come in. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. It’s all right. It’s Miss Warren’s. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Of course not: she’s a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took + a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Don’t be disrespectful, sir. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, it don’t matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the + gate, unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden]. I + want to introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me + last July, gov’nor? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [severely] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and + flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on + it and not upon me. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No: thats what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said + was that since I had neither brains nor money, I’d better turn my good + looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss + Warren has brains: you can’t deny that. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Brains are not everything. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No, of course not: theres the money— + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [interrupting him austerely] I was not thinking of money, sir. I + was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I don’t care a rap about that. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. But I do, sir. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, nobody wants y o u to marry her. Anyhow, she has what + amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money + as she wants. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor] I greatly doubt whether + she has as much money as y o u will want. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, come: I havn’t been so very extravagant. I live ever so + quietly; I don’t drink; I don’t bet much; and I never go regularly to + the razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [booming hollowly] Silence, sir. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass + of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman + fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when— + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [terrified] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! [He looks round + apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom + again, but more subduedly]. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of + what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you + would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father’s + follies, sir; and don’t make them an excuse for your own. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his + letters? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. No, sir; and I don’t want to hear it. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn’t throw away fifty pounds: not he. He just + wrote: “Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, + Wellington.” Thats what you should have done. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [piteously] Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put + myself into that woman’s power. When I told you about them I put myself, + to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money + with these words, which I shall never forget. “Knowledge is power” she + said; “and I never sell power.” + </p> + <p> + Thats more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her + power or caused me a moment’s uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me + than she did, Frank. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach + at me every day? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [wounded almost to tears] I leave you, sir. You are + incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [utterly unmoved] Tell them I shan’t be home to tea, will you, + gov’nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is + met by Praed and Vivie coming out]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [to Frank] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov’nor. Youre wanted. [The + parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses + the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities]. + My father: Miss Warren. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand] Very glad to see you + here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come along: youre + wanted. + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed, + recognizing the clergyman.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [continuing] Let me introduce— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel] Why it’s Sam Gardner, gone + into the Church! Well, I never! Don’t you know us, Sam? This is George + Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don’t you remember me? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [very red] I really—er— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters + still: I came across them only the other day. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [miserably confused] Miss Vavasour, I believe. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper] Tch! Nonsense! Mrs + Warren: don’t you see my daughter there? + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> + <p> + [Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within + instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains + drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with + the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door + leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser + with a candle and matches on it, and Frank’s rifle standing beside them, + with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands + with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie’s books and writing materials are on a + table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on + the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set + right and left of the table.] + </p> + <p> + [The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs + Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, + followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had + enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat; + takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the + table.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. O Lord! I don’t know which is the worst of the country, the + walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. I could do with a + whisky and soda now very well, if only they had such a things in this + place. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Perhaps Vivie’s got some. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing with + such things! Never mind: it don’t matter. I wonder how she passes her + time here! I’d a good deal rather be in Vienna. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her shawl, + gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze as he does + so]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I’m beginning to think youre a chip of the + old block. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Like the gov’nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest chair, + and sits down]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things? + </p> + <p> + Youre only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from + temptation]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It’d be ever such larks. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you—at least not + until youre a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize this piece of + advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes. She + looks at him; then comes back to him]. Now, look here, little boy + [taking his face in her hands and turning it up to her]: I know you + through and through by your likeness to your father, better than you + know yourself. Don’t you go taking any silly ideas into your head about + me. Do you hear? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice] Can’t help it, my dear Mrs + Warren: it runs in the family. + </p> + <p> + [She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing + upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and + immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. There! I shouldn’t have done that. I <i>am</i> wicked. Never + you mind, my dear: it’s only a motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. So I have. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her voice] + What! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I won’t have any young scamp + tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I won’t have it. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [quite unabashed] My dear Mrs Warren: don’t you be alarmed. My + intentions are honorable: ever so honorable; and your little girl is + jolly well able to take care of herself. She don’t need looking after + half so much as her mother. She ain’t so handsome, you know. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a nice + healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I don’t know where you got it. + Not from your father, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [in the garden] The gipsies, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [replying] The broomsquires are far worse. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Frank] S-sh! Remember! you’ve had your warning. + </p> + <p> + [Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, the + clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And wheres Praddy and Vivie? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the chimney + corner] They went up the hill. We went to the village. I wanted a drink. + [He sits down on the settle, putting his legs up along the seat]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtn’t to go off like that without telling me. + [To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are your manners? + [Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes + another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the middle, with + his father on his right and Mrs Warren on his left]. George: where are + you going to stay to-night? You can’t stay here. And whats Praddy going + to do? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Gardner’ll put me up. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt you’ve taken care of yourself! But what about + Praddy? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Don’t know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Havn’t you room for him, Sam? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Well—er—you see, as rector here, I am not free to do + as I like. Er—what is Mr Praed’s social position? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, he’s all right: he’s an architect. What an old + stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Yes, it’s all right, gov’nor. He built that place down in Wales + for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must have heard of it. + [He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs Warren, and regards his father + blandly]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. I + suppose he knows the Duke personally. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina’s old room. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, thats settled. Now if those two would only come in and + let us have supper. Theyve no right to stay out after dark like this. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [aggressively] What harm are they doing you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I don’t like it. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay out as long + as possible. He has never known before what it is to stray over the + heath on a summer night with my Vivie. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation] I say, you know! Come! + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into real force + and sincerity] Frank, once and for all, it’s out of the question. Mrs + Warren will tell you that it’s not to be thought of. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Of course not. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with enchanting placidity] Is that so, Mrs Warren? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [reflectively] Well, Sam, I don’t know. If the girl wants to + get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [astounded] But married to <i>him!</i>—your daughter to my + son! Only think: it’s impossible. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Of course it’s impossible. Don’t be a fool, Kitty. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [nettled] Why not? Isn’t my daughter good enough for your + son? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you can tell + them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your congregation, if you like. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair] You know very well that I + couldn’t tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe me when I tell + him there a r e reasons. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy’s conduct ever been + influenced by your reasons? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. You can’t marry her; and thats all about it. [He gets up and + stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, frowning + determinedly]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply] What have you got to do with it, + pray? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence] Precisely what I was going to + ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [to Mrs Warren] I suppose you don’t want to marry the girl to a + man younger than herself and without either a profession or twopence to + keep her on. Ask Sam, if you don’t believe me. [To the parson] How much + more money are you going to give him? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Not another penny. He has had his patrimony; and he spent the + last of it in July. [Mrs Warren’s face falls]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [watching her] There! I told you. [He resumes his place on the + settle and puts his legs on the seat again, as if the matter were + finally disposed of]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [plaintively] This is ever so mercenary. Do you suppose Miss + Warren’s going to marry for money? If we love one another— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Thank you. Your love’s a pretty cheap commodity, my lad. If + you have no means of keeping a wife, that settles it; you can’t have + Vivie. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [much amused] What do y o u say, gov’nor, eh? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I agree with Mrs Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. And good old Crofts has already expressed his opinion. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [turning angrily on his elbow] Look here: I want none of your + cheek. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [pointedly] I’m e v e r so sorry to surprise you, Crofts; but you + allowed yourself the liberty of speaking to me like a father a moment + ago. One father is enough, thank you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [contemptuously] Yah! [He turns away again]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Mrs Warren: I cannot give my Vivie up, even for your + sake. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [muttering] Young scamp! + </p> + <p> + FRANK [continuing] And as you no doubt intend to hold out other + prospects to her, I shall lose no time in placing my case before her. + [They stare at him; and he begins to declaim gracefully] He either fears + his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to + the touch, To gain or lose it all. + </p> + <p> + [The cottage doors open whilst he is reciting; and Vivie and Praed come + in. He breaks off. Praed puts his hat on the dresser. There is an + immediate improvement in the company’s behavior. Crofts takes down his + legs from the settle and pulls himself together as Praed joins him at + the fireplace. Mrs Warren loses her ease of manner and takes refuge in + querulousness.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Wherever have you been, Vivie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly on the table] On + the hill. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, you shouldn’t go off like that without letting me + know. How could I tell what had become of you? And night coming on too! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [going to the door of the kitchen and opening it, ignoring her + mother] Now, about supper? [All rise except Mrs Warren] We shall be + rather crowded in here, I’m afraid. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Did you hear what I said, Vivie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quietly] Yes, mother. [Reverting to the supper difficulty] How + many are we? [Counting] One, two, three, four, five, six. Well, two will + have to wait until the rest are done: Mrs Alison has only plates and + knives for four. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, it doesn’t matter about me. I— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You have had a long walk and are hungry, Mr Praed: you shall have + your supper at once. I can wait myself. I want one person to wait with + me. Frank: are you hungry? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Not the least in the world. Completely off my peck, in fact. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Crofts] Neither are you, George. You can wait. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, hang it, I’ve eaten nothing since tea-time. Can’t Sam do it? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Would you starve my poor father? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [testily] Allow me to speak for myself, sir. I am perfectly + willing to wait. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [decisively] There’s no need. Only two are wanted. [She opens the + door of the kitchen]. Will you take my mother in, Mr Gardner. [The + parson takes Mrs Warren; and they pass into the kitchen. Praed and + Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly disapprove of the arrangement, + but do not know how to resist it. Vivie stands at the door looking in at + them]. Can you squeeze past to that corner, Mr Praed: it’s rather a + tight fit. Take care of your coat against the white-wash: that right. + Now, are you all comfortable? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [within] Quite, thank you. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [within] Leave the door open, dearie. [Vivie frowns; but + Frank checks her with a gesture, and steals to the cottage door, which + he softly sets wide open]. Oh Lor, what a draught! Youd better shut it, + dear. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie shuts it with a slam, and then, noting with disgust that her + mother’s hat and shawl are lying about, takes them tidily to the window + seat, whilst Frank noiselessly shuts the cottage door.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [exulting] Aha! Got rid of em. Well, Vivvums: what do you think of + my governor? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [preoccupied and serious] I’ve hardly spoken to him. He doesn’t + strike me as a particularly able person. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, you know, the old man is not altogether such a fool as he + looks. You see, he was shoved into the Church, rather; and in trying to + live up to it he makes a much bigger ass of himself than he really is. I + don’t dislike him as much as you might expect. He means well. How do you + think youll get on with him? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rather grimly] I don’t think my future life will be much + concerned with him, or with any of that old circle of my mother’s, + except perhaps Praed. [She sits down on the settle] What do you think of + my mother? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Really and truly? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes, really and truly. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, she’s ever so jolly. But she’s rather a caution, isn’t she? + And Crofts! Oh, my eye, Crofts! [He sits beside her]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What a lot, Frank! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. What a crew! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with intense contempt for them] If I thought that <i>I</i> was + like that—that I was going to be a waster, shifting along from one + meal to another with no purpose, and no character, and no grit in me, + I’d open an artery and bleed to death without one moment’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh no, you wouldn’t. Why should they take any grind when they can + afford not to? I wish I had their luck. No: what I object to is their + form. It isn’t the thing: it’s slovenly, ever so slovenly. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you think your form will be any better when youre as old as + Crofts, if you don’t work? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Of course I do. Ever so much better. Vivvums mustn’t lecture: her + little boy’s incorrigible. [He attempts to take her face caressingly in + his hands]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [striking his hands down sharply] Off with you: Vivvums is not in + a humor for petting her little boy this evening. [She rises and comes + forward to the other side of the room]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [following her] How unkind! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [stamping at him] Be serious. I’m serious. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Good. Let us talk learnedly, Miss Warren: do you know that all + the most advanced thinkers are agreed that half the diseases of modern + civilization are due to starvation of the affections of the young. Now, + <i>I</i>— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [cutting him short] You are very tiresome. [She opens the inner + door] Have you room for Frank there? He’s complaining of starvation. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [within] Of course there is [clatter of knives and glasses as + she moves the things on the table]. Here! theres room now beside me. + Come along, Mr Frank. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Her little boy will be ever so even with his Vivvums for this. + [He passes into the kitchen]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [within] Here, Vivie: come on you too, child. You must be + famished. [She enters, followed by Crofts, who holds the door open with + marked deference. She goes out without looking at him; and he shuts the + door after her]. Why George, you can’t be done: you’ve eaten nothing. Is + there anything wrong with you? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, all I wanted was a drink. [He thrusts his hands in his + pockets, and begins prowling about the room, restless and sulky]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, I like enough to eat. But a little of that cold beef + and cheese and lettuce goes a long way. [With a sigh of only half + repletion she sits down lazily on the settle]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. What do you go encouraging that young pup for? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [on the alert at once] Now see here, George: what are you up + to about that girl? I’ve been watching your way of looking at her. + Remember: I know you and what your looks mean. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Theres no harm in looking at her, is there? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. I’d put you out and pack you back to London pretty soon if I + saw any of your nonsense. My girl’s little finger is more to me than + your whole body and soul. [Crofts receives this with a sneering grin. + Mrs Warren, flushing a little at her failure to impose on him in the + character of a theatrically devoted mother, adds in a lower key] Make + your mind easy: the young pup has no more chance than you have. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Mayn’t a man take an interest in a girl? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Not a man like you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. How old is she? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Never you mind how old she is. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Why do you make such a secret of it? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Because I choose. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, I’m not fifty yet; and my property is as good as it ever + was— + </p> + <p> + MRS [interrupting him] Yes; because youre as stingy as youre vicious. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [continuing] And a baronet isn’t to be picked up every day. + </p> + <p> + No other man in my position would put up with you for a mother-in-law. + Why shouldn’t she marry me? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. We three could live together quite comfortably. I’d die before + her and leave her a bouncing widow with plenty of money. Why not? It’s + been growing in my mind all the time I’ve been walking with that fool + inside there. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [revolted] Yes; it’s the sort of thing that <i>would</i> grow + in your mind. + </p> + <p> + [He halts in his prowling; and the two look at one another, she + steadfastly, with a sort of awe behind her contemptuous disgust: he + stealthily, with a carnal gleam in his eye and a loose grin.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [suddenly becoming anxious and urgent as he sees no sign of + sympathy in her] Look here, Kitty: youre a sensible woman: you needn’t + put on any moral airs. I’ll ask no more questions; and you need answer + none. I’ll settle the whole property on her; and if you want a checque + for yourself on the wedding day, you can name any figure you like—in + reason. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. So it’s come to that with you, George, like all the other + worn-out old creatures! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [savagely] Damn you! + </p> + <p> + [Before she can retort the door of the kitchen is opened; and the voices + of the others are heard returning. Crofts, unable to recover his + presence of mind, hurries out of the cottage. The clergyman appears at + the kitchen door.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [looking round] Where is Sir George? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Gone out to have a pipe. [The clergyman takes his hat from + the table, and joins Mrs Warren at the fireside. Meanwhile, Vivie comes + in, followed by Frank, who collapses into the nearest chair with an air + of extreme exhaustion. Mrs Warren looks round at Vivie and says, with + her affectation of maternal patronage even more forced than usual] Well, + dearie: have you had a good supper? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You know what Mrs Alison’s suppers are. [She turns to Frank and + pets him] Poor Frank! was all the beef gone? did it get nothing but + bread and cheese and ginger beer? [Seriously, as if she had done quite + enough trifling for one evening] Her butter is really awful. I must get + some down from the stores. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Do, in Heaven’s name! + </p> + <p> + [Vivie goes to the writing-table and makes a memorandum to order the + butter. Praed comes in from the kitchen, putting up his handkerchief, + which he has been using as a napkin.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Frank, my boy: it is time for us to be thinking of home. + </p> + <p> + Your mother does not know yet that we have visitors. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I’m afraid we’re giving trouble. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Not the least in the world: my mother will be delighted + to see you. She’s a genuinely intellectual artistic woman; and she sees + nobody here from one year’s end to another except the gov’nor; so you + can imagine how jolly dull it pans out for her. [To his father] Y o u r + e not intellectual or artistic: are you pater? So take Praed home at + once; and I’ll stay here and entertain Mrs Warren. Youll pick up Crofts + in the garden. He’ll be excellent company for the bull-pup. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [taking his hat from the dresser, and coming close to Frank] Come + with us, Frank. Mrs Warren has not seen Miss Vivie for a long time; and + we have prevented them from having a moment together yet. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [quite softened, and looking at Praed with romantic admiration] Of + course. I forgot. Ever so thanks for reminding me. Perfect gentleman, + Praddy. Always were. My ideal through life. [He rises to go, but pauses + a moment between the two older men, and puts his hand on Praed’s + shoulder]. Ah, if you had only been my father instead of this unworthy + old man! [He puts his other hand on his father’s shoulder]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [blustering] Silence, sir, silence: you are profane. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [laughing heartily] You should keep him in better order, Sam. + Good-night. Here: take George his hat and stick with my compliments. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [taking them] Good-night. [They shake hands. As he passes Vivie + he shakes hands with her also and bids her good-night. Then, in booming + command, to Frank] Come along, sir, at once. [He goes out]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Byebye, Praddy. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Byebye, Kitty. + </p> + <p> + [They shake hands affectionately and go out together, she accompanying + him to the garden gate.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [to Vivie] Kissums? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [fiercely] No. I hate you. [She takes a couple of books and some + paper from the writing-table, and sits down with them at the middle + table, at the end next the fireplace]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [grimacing] Sorry. [He goes for his cap and rifle. Mrs Warren + returns. He takes her hand] Good-night, dear Mrs Warren. [He kisses her + hand. She snatches it away, her lips tightening, and looks more than + half disposed to box his ears. He laughs mischievously and runs off, + clapping-to the door behind him]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [resigning herself to an evening of boredom now that the men + are gone] Did you ever in your life hear anyone rattle on so? Isn’t he a + tease? [She sits at the table]. Now that I think of it, dearie, don’t + you go encouraging him. I’m sure he’s a regular good-for-nothing. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rising to fetch more books] I’m afraid so. Poor Frank! I shall + have to get rid of him; but I shall feel sorry for him, though he’s not + worth it. That man Crofts does not seem to me to be good for much + either: is he? [She throws the books on the table rather roughly]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [galled by Vivie’s indifference] What do you know of men, + child, to talk that way of them? Youll have to make up your mind to see + a good deal of Sir George Crofts, as he’s a friend of mine. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quite unmoved] Why? [She sits down and opens a book]. Do you + expect that we shall be much together? You and I, I mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [staring at her] Of course: until youre married. Youre not + going back to college again. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? I doubt it. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Y o u r way of life! What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [cutting a page of her book with the paper knife on her + chatelaine] Has it really never occurred to you, mother, that I have a + way of life like other people? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What nonsense is this youre trying to talk? Do you want to + shew your independence, now that youre a great little person at school? + Don’t be a fool, child. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [indulgently] Thats all you have to say on the subject, is it, + mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [puzzled, then angry] Don’t you keep on asking me questions + like that. [Violently] Hold your tongue. [Vivie works on, losing no + time, and saying nothing]. You and your way of life, indeed! What next? + [She looks at Vivie again. No reply]. + </p> + <p> + Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another pause]. Ive + been noticing these airs in you ever since you got that tripos or + whatever you call it. If you think I’m going to put up with them, youre + mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, the better. [Muttering] All I + have to say on the subject, indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily] Do + you know who youre speaking to, Miss? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [looking across at her without raising her head from her book] No. + Who are you? What are you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [rising breathless] You young imp! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and the + profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. What is that + way of life which you invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts, + pray? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Take care. I shall do something I’ll be sorry for after, and + you too. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [putting aside her books with cool decision] Well, let us drop the + subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking critically at her + mother] You want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set you up. + You are shockingly out of condition: you were not able to manage twenty + yards uphill today without stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere + rolls of fat. Look at mine. [She holds out her wrists]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [after looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper] Vivie— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [springing up sharply] Now pray don’t begin to cry. Anything but + that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go out of the room if you + do. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [piteously] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on me? + Have I no rights over you as your mother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. A r e you my mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. <i>Am</i> I your mother? Oh, Vivie! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then where are our relatives? my father? our family friends? You + claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me fool and child; to + speak to me as no woman in authority over me at college dare speak to + me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me the acquaintance of a + brute whom anyone can see to be the most vicious sort of London man + about town. Before I give myself the trouble to resist such claims, I + may as well find out whether they have any real existence. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [distracted, throwing herself on her knees] Oh no, no. + </p> + <p> + Stop, stop. I <i>am</i> your mother: I swear it. Oh, you can’t mean to + turn on me—my own child! it’s not natural. You believe me, don’t + you? Say you believe me. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Who was my father? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You don’t know what youre asking. I can’t tell you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [determinedly] Oh yes you can, if you like. I have a right to + know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can refuse to + tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me + tomorrow morning. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s too horrible to hear you talk like that. You + wouldn’t—you <i>couldn’t</i> leave me. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment’s hesitation, if you trifle + with me about this. [Shivering with disgust] How can I feel sure that I + may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No, no. On my oath it’s not he, nor any of the rest that you + have ever met. I’m certain of that, at least. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie’s eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this + flashes on her.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at <i>least</i>. Ah! You mean + that that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully] I see. [Mrs Warren + buries her face in her hands]. Don’t do that, mother: you know you don’t + feel it a bit. [Mrs Warren takes down her hands and looks up deplorably + at Vivie, who takes out her watch and says] Well, that is enough for + tonight. At what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too + early for you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. + Otherwise I don’t understand how it gets its business done. + </p> + <p> + Come [taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty + resolutely]: pull yourself together. Thats right. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [querulously] Youre very rough with me, Vivie. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Nonsense. What about bed? It’s past ten. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [passionately] Whats the use of my going to bed? Do you think + I could sleep? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Why not? I shall. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You! you’ve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in + her natural tongue—the dialect of a woman of the people—with + all her affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners + gone, and an overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in + her] Oh, I wont bear it: I won’t put up with the injustice of it. What + right have you to set yourself up above me like this? You boast of what + you are to me—to <i>me</i>, who gave you a chance of being what + you are. What chance had I? Shame on you for a bad daughter and a + stuck-up prude! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her replies, + which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring + rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother] + Don’t think for a moment I set myself above you in any way. You attacked + me with the conventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with + the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not + going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not + expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your right to + your own opinions and your own way of life. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to her + talking! Do you think I was brought up like you? able to pick and choose + my own way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I liked it, or + thought it right, or wouldn’t rather have gone to college and been a + lady if I’d had the chance? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl alive may not + be able to choose between being Queen of England or Principal of + Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling, + according to her taste. People are always blaming circumstances for what + they are. I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in + this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they + want, and, if they can’t find them, make them. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s easy to talk, isn’t it? Here! would you like to + know what <i>my</i> circumstances were? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: you had better tell me. Won’t you sit down? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, I’ll sit down: don’t you be afraid. [She plants her + chair farther forward with brazen energy, and sits down. Vivie is + impressed in spite of herself]. D’you know what your gran’mother was? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No, you don’t. I do. She called herself a widow and had a + fried-fish shop down by the Mint, and kept herself and four daughters + out of it. Two of us were sisters: that was me and Liz; and we were both + good-looking and well made. I suppose our father was a well-fed man: + mother pretended he was a gentleman; but I don’t know. The other two + were only half sisters: undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, + honest poor creatures: Liz and I would have half-murdered them if mother + hadn’t half-murdered us to keep our hands off them. They were the + respectable ones. Well, what did they get by their respectability? I’ll + tell you. One of them worked in a whitelead factory twelve hours a day + for nine shillings a week until she died of lead poisoning. She only + expected to get her hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other + was always held up to us as a model because she married a Government + laborer in the Deptford victualling yard, and kept his room and the + three children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week—until he + took to drink. That was worth being respectable for, wasn’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [now thoughtfully attentive] Did you and your sister think so? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Liz didn’t, I can tell you: she had more spirit. We both + went to a church school—that was part of the ladylike airs we gave + ourselves to be superior to the children that knew nothing and went + nowhere—and we stayed there until Liz went out one night and never + came back. I know the schoolmistress thought I’d soon follow her + example; for the clergyman was always warning me that Lizzie’d end by + jumping off Waterloo Bridge. Poor fool: that was all he knew about it! + But I was more afraid of the whitelead factory than I was of the river; + and so would you have been in my place. That clergyman got me a + situation as a scullery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent + out for anything you liked. Then I was a waitress; and then I went to + the bar at Waterloo station: fourteen hours a day serving drinks and + washing glasses for four shillings a week and my board. That was + considered a great promotion for me. Well, one cold, wretched night, + when I was so tired I could hardly keep myself awake, who should come up + for a half of Scotch but Lizzie, in a long fur cloak, elegant and + comfortable, with a lot of sovereigns in her purse. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [grimly] My aunt Lizzie! + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes; and a very good aunt to have, too. She’s living down at + Winchester now, close to the cathedral, one of the most respectable + ladies there. Chaperones girls at the country ball, if you please. No + river for Liz, thank you! You remind me of Liz a little: she was a + first-rate business woman—saved money from the beginning—never + let herself look too like what she was—never lost her head or + threw away a chance. When she saw I’d grown up good-looking she said to + me across the bar “What are you doing there, you little fool? wearing + out your health and your appearance for other people’s profit!” Liz was + saving money then to take a house for herself in Brussels; and she + thought we two could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and + gave me a start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and then + went into business with her as a partner. Why shouldn’t I have done it? + The house in Brussels was real high class: a much better place for a + woman to be in than the factory where Anne Jane got poisoned. None of + the girls were ever treated as I was treated in the scullery of that + temperance place, or at the Waterloo bar, or at home. Would you have had + me stay in them and become a worn out old drudge before I was forty? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [intensely interested by this time] No; but why did you choose + that business? Saving money and good management will succeed in any + business. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the money to + save in any other business? Could y o u save out of four shillings a + week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not you. Of course, if youre a + plain woman and can’t earn anything more; or if you have a turn for + music, or the stage, or newspaper-writing: thats different. But neither + Liz nor I had any turn for such things at all: all we had was our + appearance and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such + fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us as + shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in them + ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation wages? Not + likely. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You were certainly quite justified—from the business point + of view. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes; or any other point of view. What is any respectable + girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man’s fancy and get the + benefit of his money by marrying him?—as if a marriage ceremony + could make any difference in the right or wrong of the thing! Oh, the + hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz and I had to work and save and + calculate just like other people; elseways we should be as poor as any + good-for-nothing drunken waster of a woman that thinks her luck will + last for ever. [With great energy] I despise such people: theyve no + character; and if theres a thing I hate in a woman, it’s want of + character. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Come now, mother: frankly! Isn’t it part of what you call + character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way of + making money? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work and make + money; but they have to do it all the same. I’m sure I’ve often pitied a + poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, having to try to please some + man that she doesn’t care two straws for—some half-drunken fool + that thinks he’s making himself agreeable when he’s teasing and worrying + and disgusting a woman so that hardly any money could pay her for + putting up with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the + rough with the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. + It’s not work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; + though to hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed of + roses. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Still, you consider it worth while. It pays. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Of course it’s worth while to a poor girl, if she can resist + temptation and is good-looking and well conducted and sensible. It’s far + better than any other employment open to her. + </p> + <p> + I always thought that it oughtn’t to be. It <i>can’t</i> be right, + Vivie, that there shouldn’t be better opportunities for women. I stick + to that: it’s wrong. But it’s so, right or wrong; and a girl must make + the best of it. But of course it’s not worth while for a lady. If you + took to it youd be a fool; but I should have been a fool if I’d taken to + anything else. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [more and more deeply moved] Mother: suppose we were both as poor + as you were in those wretched old days, are you quite sure that you + wouldn’t advise me to try the Waterloo bar, or marry a laborer, or even + go into the factory? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [indignantly] Of course not. What sort of mother do you take + me for! How could you keep your self-respect in such starvation and + slavery? And whats a woman worth? whats life worth? without + self-respect! Why am I independent and able to give my daughter a + first-rate education, when other women that had just as good + opportunities are in the gutter? Because I always knew how to respect + myself and control myself. Why is Liz looked up to in a cathedral town? + The same reason. Where would we be now if we’d minded the clergyman’s + foolishness? Scrubbing floors for one and sixpence a day and nothing to + look forward to but the workhouse infirmary. Don’t you be led astray by + people who don’t know the world, my girl. The only way for a woman to + provide for herself decently is for her to be good to some man that can + afford to be good to her. If she’s in his own station of life, let her + make him marry her; but if she’s far beneath him she can’t expect it: + why should she? it wouldn’t be for her own happiness. Ask any lady in + London society that has daughters; and she’ll tell you the same, except + that I tell you straight and she’ll tell you crooked. Thats all the + difference. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [fascinated, gazing at her] My dear mother: you are a wonderful + woman: you are stronger than all England. And are you really and truly + not one wee bit doubtful—or—or—ashamed? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, of course, dearie, it’s only good manners to be + ashamed of it: it’s expected from a woman. Women have to pretend to feel + a great deal that they don’t feel. Liz used to be angry with me for + plumping out the truth about it. She used to say that when every woman + could learn enough from what was going on in the world before her eyes, + there was no need to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a + perfect lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I was always a bit + of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased when you sent me your photos to + see that you were growing up like Liz: you’ve just her ladylike, + determined way. But I can’t stand saying one thing when everyone knows I + mean another. Whats the use in such hypocrisy? If people arrange the + world that way for women, theres no good pretending it’s arranged the + other way. No: I never was a bit ashamed really. I consider I had a + right to be proud of how we managed everything so respectably, and never + had a word against us, and how the girls were so well taken care of. + Some of them did very well: one of them married an ambassador. But of + course now I daren’t talk about such things: whatever would they think + of us! [She yawns]. Oh dear! I do believe I’m getting sleepy after all. + [She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her explosion, and + placidly ready for her night’s rest]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. [She goes to + the dresser and lights the candle. Then she extinguishes the lamp, + darkening the room a good deal]. Better let in some fresh air before + locking up. [She opens the cottage door, and finds that it is broad + moonlight]. What a beautiful night! Look! [She draws the curtains of the + window. The landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon + rising over Blackdown]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [with a perfunctory glance at the scene] Yes, dear; but take + care you don’t catch your death of cold from the night air. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [contemptuously] Nonsense. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [querulously] Oh yes: everything I say is nonsense, according + to you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [turning to her quickly] No: really that is not so, mother. + </p> + <p> + You have got completely the better of me tonight, though I intended it + to be the other way. Let us be good friends now. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [shaking her head a little ruefully] So it <i>has</i> been + the other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got the + worst of it from Liz; and now I suppose it’ll be the same with you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well, never mind. Come: good-night, dear old mother. [She takes + her mother in her arms]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [fondly] I brought you up well, didn’t I, dearie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You did. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. And youll be good to your poor old mother for it, won’t you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I will, dear. [Kissing her] Good-night. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [with unction] Blessings on my own dearie darling! a mother’s + blessing! + </p> + <p> + [She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward + for divine sanction.] + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + [In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining from a + cloudless sky. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, wide + enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell + on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The carriage + drive comes down the middle of the garden and then swerves to its left, + where it ends in a little gravelled circus opposite the Rectory porch. + Beyond the gate is seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, + bounded on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine + wood. On the lawn, between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew + tree, with a garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden + is shut in by a box hedge; and there is a little sundial on the turf, + with an iron chair near it. A little path leads through the box hedge, + behind the sundial.] + </p> + <p> + [Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which he has placed the + morning paper, is reading The Standard. His father comes from the house, + red-eyed and shivery, and meets Frank’s eye with misgiving.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [looking at his watch] Half-past eleven. Nice hour for a rector to + come down to breakfast! + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Don’t mock, Frank: don’t mock. I am a little—er—[Shivering]— + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Off color? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [repudiating the expression] No, sir: <i>unwell</i> this + morning. Where’s your mother? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Don’t be alarmed: she’s not here. Gone to town by the 11.13 with + Bessie. She left several messages for you. Do you feel equal to + receiving them now, or shall I wait til you’ve breakfasted? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I h a v e breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at your mother going + to town when we have people staying with us. They’ll think it very + strange. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Possibly she has considered that. At all events, if Crofts is + going to stay here, and you are going to sit up every night with him + until four, recalling the incidents of your fiery youth, it is clearly + my mother’s duty, as a prudent housekeeper, to go up to the stores and + order a barrel of whisky and a few hundred siphons. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank excessively. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. You were not in a condition to, gov’nor. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Do you mean to say that <i>I</i>—? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [calmly] I never saw a beneficed clergyman less sober. The + anecdotes you told about your past career were so awful that I really + don’t think Praed would have passed the night under your roof if it + hadnt been for the way my mother and he took to one another. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts’ host. I must talk to him + about something; and he has only one subject. Where is Mr Praed now? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the station. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Is Crofts up yet? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, long ago. He hasn’t turned a hair: he’s in much better + practice than you. Has kept it up ever since, probably. He’s taken + himself off somewhere to smoke. + </p> + <p> + [Frank resumes his paper. The parson turns disconsolately towards the + gate; then comes back irresolutely.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Er—Frank. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Yes. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be asked here after + yesterday afternoon? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Theyve been asked already. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [appalled] What!!! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Crofts informed us at breakfast that you told him to bring Mrs + Warren and Vivie over here to-day, and to invite them to make this house + their home. My mother then found she must go to town by the 11.13 train. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [with despairing vehemence] I never gave any such invitation. I + never thought of such a thing. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [compassionately] How do you know, gov’nor, what you said and + thought last night? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [coming in through the hedge] Good morning. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not having met you at + breakfast. I have a touch of—of— + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Clergyman’s sore throat, Praed. Fortunately not chronic. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [changing the subject] Well I must say your house is in a charming + spot here. Really most charming. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for a walk, Mr Praed, if + you like. I’ll ask you to excuse me: I must take the opportunity to + write my sermon while Mrs Gardner is away and you are all amusing + yourselves. You won’t mind, will you? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly not. Don’t stand on the slightest ceremony with me. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Thank you. I’ll—er—er—[He stammers his way to + the porch and vanishes into the house]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Curious thing it must be writing a sermon every week. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys em. He’s gone for some + soda water. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. My dear boy: I wish you would be more respectful to your father. + You know you can be so nice when you like. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to live with the governor. + When two people live together—it don’t matter whether theyre + father and son or husband and wife or brother and sister—they + can’t keep up the polite humbug thats so easy for ten minutes on an + afternoon call. Now the governor, who unites to many admirable domestic + qualities the irresoluteness of a sheep and the pompousness and + aggressiveness of a jackass— + </p> + <p> + PRAED. No, pray, pray, my dear Frank, remember! He is your father. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I give him due credit for that. [Rising and flinging down his + paper] But just imagine his telling Crofts to bring the Warrens over + here! He must have been ever so drunk. You know, my dear Praddy, my + mother wouldn’t stand Mrs Warren for a moment. Vivie mustn’t come here + until she’s gone back to town. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But your mother doesn’t know anything about Mrs Warren, does she? + [He picks up the paper and sits down to read it]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I don’t know. Her journey to town looks as if she did. Not that + my mother would mind in the ordinary way: she has stuck like a brick to + lots of women who had got into trouble. But they were all nice women. + Thats what makes the real difference. Mrs Warren, no doubt, has her + merits; but she’s ever so rowdy; and my mother simply wouldn’t put up + with her. So—hallo! [This exclamation is provoked by the + reappearance of the clergyman, who comes out of the house in haste and + dismay]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Frank: Mrs Warren and her daughter are coming across the heath + with Crofts: I saw them from the study windows. What <i>am</i> I to say + about your mother? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Stick on your hat and go out and say how delighted you are to see + them; and that Frank’s in the garden; and that mother and Bessie have + been called to the bedside of a sick relative, and were ever so sorry + they couldn’t stop; and that you hope Mrs Warren slept well; and—and—say + any blessed thing except the truth, and leave the rest to Providence. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. But how are we to get rid of them afterwards? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Theres no time to think of that now. Here! [He bounds into the + house]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. He’s so impetuous. I don’t know what to do with him, Mr Praed. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [returning with a clerical felt hat, which he claps on his + father’s head]. Now: off with you. [Rushing him through the gate]. Praed + and I’ll wait here, to give the thing an unpremeditated air. [The + clergyman, dazed but obedient, hurries off]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. We must get the old girl back to town somehow, Praed. Come! + Honestly, dear Praddy, do you like seeing them together? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, why not? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [his teeth on edge] Don’t it make your flesh creep ever so little? + that wicked old devil, up to every villainy under the sun, I’ll swear, + and Vivie—ugh! + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Hush, pray. Theyre coming. + </p> + <p> + [The clergyman and Crofts are seen coming along the road, followed by + Mrs Warren and Vivie walking affectionately together.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Look: she actually has her arm round the old woman’s waist. It’s + her right arm: she began it. She’s gone sentimental, by God! Ugh! ugh! + Now do you feel the creeps? [The clergyman opens the gate: and Mrs + Warren and Vivie pass him and stand in the middle of the garden looking + at the house. Frank, in an ecstasy of dissimulation, turns gaily to Mrs + Warren, exclaiming] Ever so delighted to see you, Mrs Warren. This quiet + old rectory garden becomes you perfectly. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, I never! Did you hear that, George? He says I look + well in a quiet old rectory garden. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [still holding the gate for Crofts, who loafs through it, + heavily bored] You look well everywhere, Mrs Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Bravo, gov’nor! Now look here: lets have a treat before lunch. + First lets see the church. Everyone has to do that. It’s a regular old + thirteenth century church, you know: the gov’nor’s ever so fond of it, + because he got up a restoration fund and had it completely rebuilt six + years ago. Praed will be able to shew its points. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising] Certainly, if the restoration has left any to shew. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [mooning hospitably at them] I shall be pleased, I’m sure, if + Sir George and Mrs Warren really care about it. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, come along and get it over. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [turning back toward the gate] I’ve no objection. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Not that way. We go through the fields, if you don’t mind. Round + here. [He leads the way by the little path through the box hedge]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, all right. [He goes with the parson]. + </p> + <p> + [Praed follows with Mrs Warren. Vivie does not stir: she watches them + until they have gone, with all the lines of purpose in her face marking + it strongly.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ain’t you coming? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. I want to give you a warning, Frank. You were making fun of + my mother just now when you said that about the rectory garden. That is + barred in the future. Please treat my mother with as much respect as you + treat your own. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My dear Viv: she wouldn’t appreciate it: the two cases require + different treatment. But what on earth has happened to you? Last night + we were perfectly agreed as to your mother and her set. This morning I + find you attitudinizing sentimentally with your arm around your parent’s + waist. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [flushing] Attitudinizing! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. That was how it struck me. First time I ever saw you do a + second-rate thing. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [controlling herself] Yes, Frank: there has been a change: but I + don’t think it a change for the worse. Yesterday I was a little prig. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. And today? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [wincing; then looking at him steadily] Today I know my mother + better than you do. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Heaven forbid! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Viv: theres a freemasonry among thoroughly immoral people that + you know nothing of. You’ve too much character. <i>That’s</i> the bond + between your mother and me: that’s why I know her better than youll ever + know her. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You are wrong: you know nothing about her. If you knew the + circumstances against which my mother had to struggle— + </p> + <p> + FRANK [adroitly finishing the sentence for her] I should know why she is + what she is, shouldn’t I? What difference would that make? + </p> + <p> + Circumstances or no circumstances, Viv, you won’t be able to stand your + mother. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [very angry] Why not? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Because she’s an old wretch, Viv. If you ever put your arm around + her waist in my presence again, I’ll shoot myself there and then as a + protest against an exhibition which revolts me. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Must I choose between dropping your acquaintance and dropping my + mother’s? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [gracefully] That would put the old lady at ever such a + disadvantage. No, Viv: your infatuated little boy will have to stick to + you in any case. But he’s all the more anxious that you shouldn’t make + mistakes. It’s no use, Viv: your mother’s impossible. She may be a good + sort; but she’s a bad lot, a very bad lot. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [hotly] Frank—! [He stands his ground. She turns away and + sits down on the bench under the yew tree, struggling to recover her + self-command. Then she says] Is she to be deserted by the world because + she’s what you call a bad lot? Has she no right to live? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No fear of that, Viv: <i>she</i> won’t ever be deserted. [He sits + on the bench beside her]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. But I am to desert her, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [babyishly, lulling her and making love to her with his voice] + Mustn’t go live with her. Little family group of mother and daughter + wouldn’t be a success. Spoil o u r little group. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [falling under the spell] What little group? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The babes in the wood: Vivie and little Frank. [He nestles + against her like a weary child]. Lets go and get covered up with leaves. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rhythmically, rocking him like a nurse] Fast asleep, hand in + hand, under the trees. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The wise little girl with her silly little boy. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. The dear little boy with his dowdy little girl. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ever so peaceful, and relieved from the imbecility of the little + boy’s father and the questionableness of the little girl’s— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [smothering the word against her breast] Sh-sh-sh-sh! little girl + wants to forget all about her mother. [They are silent for some moments, + rocking one another. Then Vivie wakes up with a shock, exclaiming] What + a pair of fools we are! Come: sit up. Gracious! your hair. [She smooths + it]. I wonder do all grown up people play in that childish way when + nobody is looking. + </p> + <p> + I never did it when I was a child. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Neither did I. You are my first playmate. [He catches her hand to + kiss it, but checks himself to look around first. Very unexpectedly, he + sees Crofts emerging from the box hedge]. Oh damn! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Why damn, dear? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [whispering] Sh! Here’s this brute Crofts. [He sits farther away + from her with an unconcerned air]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Could I have a few words with you, Miss Vivie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Certainly. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [to Frank] Youll excuse me, Gardner. Theyre waiting for you in + the church, if you don’t mind. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Anything to oblige you, Crofts—except church. If + you should happen to want me, Vivvums, ring the gate bell. [He goes into + the house with unruffled suavity]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [watching him with a crafty air as he disappears, and speaking to + Vivie with an assumption of being on privileged terms with her] Pleasant + young fellow that, Miss Vivie. Pity he has no money, isn’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you think so? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, whats he to do? No profession. No property. Whats he good + for? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I realize his disadvantages, Sir George. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [a little taken aback at being so precisely interpreted] Oh, it’s + not that. But while we’re in this world we’re in it; and money’s money. + [Vivie does not answer]. Nice day, isn’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with scarcely veiled contempt for this effort at conversation] + Very. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [with brutal good humor, as if he liked her pluck] Well thats not + what I came to say. [Sitting down beside her] Now listen, Miss Vivie. + I’m quite aware that I’m not a young lady’s man. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Indeed, Sir George? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. No; and to tell you the honest truth I don’t want to be either. + But when I say a thing I mean it; and when I feel a sentiment I feel it + in earnest; and what I value I pay hard money for. Thats the sort of man + I am. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It does you great credit, I’m sure. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, I don’t mean to praise myself. I have my faults, Heaven + knows: no man is more sensible of that than I am. I know I’m not + perfect: thats one of the advantages of being a middle-aged man; for I’m + not a young man, and I know it. But my code is a simple one, and, I + think, a good one. Honor between man and man; fidelity between man and + woman; and no can’t about this religion or that religion, but an honest + belief that things are making for good on the whole. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with biting irony] “A power, not ourselves, that makes for + righteousness,” eh? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [taking her seriously] Oh certainly. Not ourselves, of course. Y + o u understand what I mean. Well, now as to practical matters. You may + have an idea that I’ve flung my money about; but I havn’t: I’m richer + today than when I first came into the property. I’ve used my knowledge + of the world to invest my money in ways that other men have overlooked; + and whatever else I may be, I’m a safe man from the money point of view. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s very kind of you to tell me all this. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh well, come, Miss Vivie: you needn’t pretend you don’t see + what I’m driving at. I want to settle down with a Lady Crofts. I suppose + you think me very blunt, eh? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Not at all: I am very much obliged to you for being so definite + and business-like. I quite appreciate the offer: the money, the + position, <i>Lady Crofts</i>, and so on. But I think I will say no, if + you don’t mind, I’d rather not. [She rises, and strolls across to the + sundial to get out of his immediate neighborhood]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [not at all discouraged, and taking advantage of the additional + room left him on the seat to spread himself comfortably, as if a few + preliminary refusals were part of the inevitable routine of courtship] + I’m in no hurry. It was only just to let you know in case young Gardner + should try to trap you. Leave the question open. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sharply] My no is final. I won’t go back from it. + </p> + <p> + [Crofts is not impressed. He grins; leans forward with his elbows on his + knees to prod with his stick at some unfortunate insect in the grass; + and looks cunningly at her. She turns away impatiently.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I’m a good deal older than you. Twenty-five years: quarter of a + century. I shan’t live for ever; and I’ll take care that you shall be + well off when I’m gone. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I am proof against even that inducement, Sir George. Don’t you + think youd better take your answer? There is not the slightest chance of + my altering it. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [rising, after a final slash at a daisy, and coming nearer to + her] Well, no matter. I could tell you some things that would change + your mind fast enough; but I wont, because I’d rather win you by honest + affection. I was a good friend to your mother: ask her whether I wasn’t. + She’d never have make the money that paid for your education if it hadnt + been for my advice and help, not to mention the money I advanced her. + There are not many men who would have stood by her as I have. I put not + less than forty thousand pounds into it, from first to last. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [staring at him] Do you mean to say that you were my mother’s + business partner? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Yes. Now just think of all the trouble and the explanations it + would save if we were to keep the whole thing in the family, so to + speak. Ask your mother whether she’d like to have to explain all her + affairs to a perfect stranger. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I see no difficulty, since I understand that the business is + wound up, and the money invested. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [stopping short, amazed] Wound up! Wind up a business thats + paying 35 per cent in the worst years! Not likely. Who told you that? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [her color quite gone] Do you mean that it is still—? [She + stops abruptly, and puts her hand on the sundial to support herself. + Then she gets quickly to the iron chair and sits down]. + </p> + <p> + What business are you talking about? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, the fact is it’s not what would considered exactly a + high-class business in my set—the country set, you know—o u + r set it will be if you think better of my offer. Not that theres any + mystery about it: don’t think that. Of course you know by your mother’s + being in it that it’s perfectly straight and honest. I’ve known her for + many years; and I can say of her that she’d cut off her hands sooner + than touch anything that was not what it ought to be. I’ll tell you all + about it if you like. I don’t know whether you’ve found in travelling + how hard it is to find a really comfortable private hotel. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sickened, averting her face] Yes: go on. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, thats all it is. Your mother has got a genius for managing + such things. We’ve got two in Brussels, one in Ostend, one in Vienna, + and two in Budapest. Of course there are others besides ourselves in it; + but we hold most of the capital; and your mother’s indispensable as + managing director. You’ve noticed, I daresay, that she travels a good + deal. But you see you can’t mention such things in society. Once let out + the word hotel and everybody thinks you keep a public-house. You + wouldn’t like people to say that of your mother, would you? Thats why + we’re so reserved about it. By the way, youll keep it to yourself, won’t + you? Since it’s been a secret so long, it had better remain so. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. And this is the business you invite me to join you in? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh no. My wife shan’t be troubled with business. Youll not be in + it more than you’ve always been. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. <i>I</i> always been! What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Only that you’ve always lived on it. It paid for your education + and the dress you have on your back. Don’t turn up your nose at + business, Miss Vivie: where would your Newnhams and Girtons be without + it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rising, almost beside herself] Take care. I know what this + business is. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [starting, with a suppressed oath] Who told you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Your partner. My mother. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [black with rage] The old— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Just so. + </p> + <p> + [He swallows the epithet and stands for a moment swearing and raging + foully to himself. But he knows that his cue is to be sympathetic. He + takes refuge in generous indignation.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. She ought to have had more consideration for you. <i>I’d</i> + never have told you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I think you would probably have told me when we were married: it + would have been a convenient weapon to break me in with. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [quite sincerely] I never intended that. On my word as a + gentleman I didn’t. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his protest cools and + braces her. She replies with contemptuous self-possession.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It does not matter. I suppose you understand that when we leave + here today our acquaintance ceases. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Why? Is it for helping your mother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. My mother was a very poor woman who had no reasonable choice but + to do as she did. You were a rich gentleman; and you did the same for + the sake of 35 per cent. You are a pretty common sort of scoundrel, I + think. That is my opinion of you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [after a stare: not at all displeased, and much more at his ease + on these frank terms than on their former ceremonious ones] Ha! ha! ha! + ha! Go it, little missie, go it: it doesn’t hurt me and it amuses you. + Why the devil shouldn’t I invest my money that way? I take the interest + on my capital like other people: I hope you don’t think I dirty my own + hands with the work. + </p> + <p> + Come! you wouldn’t refuse the acquaintance of my mother’s cousin the + Duke of Belgravia because some of the rents he gets are earned in queer + ways. You wouldn’t cut the Archbishop of Canterbury, I suppose, because + the Ecclesiastical Commissioners have a few publicans and sinners among + their tenants. Do you remember your Crofts scholarship at Newnham? Well, + that was founded by my brother the M.P. He gets his 22 per cent out of a + factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting wages enough + to live on. How d’ye suppose they manage when they have no family to + fall back on? Ask your mother. And do you expect me to turn my back on + 35 per cent when all the rest are pocketing what they can, like sensible + men? No such fool! If youre going to pick and choose your acquaintances + on moral principles, youd better clear out of this country, unless you + want to cut yourself out of all decent society. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [conscience stricken] You might go on to point out that I myself + never asked where the money I spent came from. I believe I am just as + bad as you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [greatly reassured] Of course you are; and a very good thing too! + What harm does it do after all? [Rallying her jocularly] So you don’t + think me such a scoundrel now you come to think it over. Eh? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I have shared profits with you: and I admitted you just now to + the familiarity of knowing what I think of you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [with serious friendliness] To be sure you did. You won’t find me + a bad sort: I don’t go in for being superfine intellectually; but Ive + plenty of honest human feeling; and the old Crofts breed comes out in a + sort of instinctive hatred of anything low, in which I’m sure youll + sympathize with me. Believe me, Miss Vivie, the world isn’t such a bad + place as the croakers make out. As long as you don’t fly openly in the + face of society, society doesn’t ask any inconvenient questions; and it + makes precious short work of the cads who do. There are no secrets + better kept than the secrets everybody guesses. In the class of people I + can introduce you to, no lady or gentleman would so far forget + themselves as to discuss my business affairs or your mothers. No man can + offer you a safer position. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [studying him curiously] I suppose you really think youre getting + on famously with me. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, I hope I may flatter myself that you think better of me + than you did at first. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quietly] I hardly find you worth thinking about at all now. When + I think of the society that tolerates you, and the laws that protect + you! when I think of how helpless nine out of ten young girls would be + in the hands of you and my mother! the unmentionable woman and her + capitalist bully— + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [livid] Damn you! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You need not. I feel among the damned already. + </p> + <p> + [She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. He follows her + and puts his hand heavily on the top bar to prevent its opening.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [panting with fury] Do you think I’ll put up with this from you, + you young devil? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [unmoved] Be quiet. Some one will answer the bell. [Without + flinching a step she strikes the bell with the back of her hand. It + clangs harshly; and he starts back involuntarily. Almost immediately + Frank appears at the porch with his rifle]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with cheerful politeness] Will you have the rifle, Viv; or shall + I operate? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Frank: have you been listening? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [coming down into the garden] Only for the bell, I assure you; so + that you shouldn’t have to wait. I think I shewed great insight into + your character, Crofts. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. For two pins I’d take that gun from you and break it across your + head. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [stalking him cautiously] Pray don’t. I’m ever so careless in + handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal accident, with a reprimand from + the coroner’s jury for my negligence. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Put the rifle away, Frank: it’s quite unnecessary. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Quite right, Viv. Much more sportsmanlike to catch him in a trap. + [Crofts, understanding the insult, makes a threatening movement]. + Crofts: there are fifteen cartridges in the magazine here; and I am a + dead shot at the present distance and at an object of your size. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, you needn’t be afraid. I’m not going to touch you. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ever so magnanimous of you under the circumstances! Thank you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I’ll just tell you this before I go. It may interest you, since + youre so fond of one another. Allow me, Mister Frank, to introduce you + to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. + Miss Vivie: you half-brother. Good morning! [He goes out through the + gate and along the road]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [after a pause of stupefaction, raising the rifle] Youll testify + before the coroner that it’s an accident, Viv. [He takes aim at the + retreating figure of Crofts. Vivie seizes the muzzle and pulls it round + against her breast]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Fire now. You may. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [dropping his end of the rifle hastily] Stop! take care. [She lets + it go. It falls on the turf]. Oh, you’ve given your little boy such a + turn. Suppose it had gone off! ugh! [He sinks on the garden seat, + overcome]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Suppose it had: do you think it would not have been a relief to + have some sharp physical pain tearing through me? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [coaxingly] Take it ever so easy, dear Viv. Remember: even if the + rifle scared that fellow into telling the truth for the first time in + his life, that only makes us the babes in the woods in earnest. [He + holds out his arms to her]. Come and be covered up with leaves again. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with a cry of disgust] Ah, not that, not that. You make all my + flesh creep. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Why, whats the matter? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Goodbye. [She makes for the gate]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [jumping up] Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! [She turns in the gateway] + Where are you going to? Where shall we find you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. At Honoria Fraser’s chambers, 67 Chancery Lane, for the rest of + my life. [She goes off quickly in the opposite direction to that taken + by Crofts]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. But I say—wait—dash it! [He runs after her]. + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT IV + </h2> + <p> + [Honoria Fraser’s chambers in Chancery Lane. An office at the top of New + Stone Buildings, with a plate-glass window, distempered walls, electric + light, and a patent stove. Saturday afternoon. The chimneys of Lincoln’s + Inn and the western sky beyond are seen through the window. There is a + double writing table in the middle of the room, with a cigar box, ash + pans, and a portable electric reading lamp almost snowed up in heaps of + papers and books. This table has knee holes and chairs right and left + and is very untidy. The clerk’s desk, closed and tidy, with its high + stool, is against the wall, near a door communicating with the inner + rooms. In the opposite wall is the door leading to the public corridor. + Its upper panel is of opaque glass, lettered in black on the outside, + FRASER AND WARREN. A baize screen hides the corner between this door and + the window.] + </p> + <p> + [Frank, in a fashionable light-colored coaching suit, with his stick, + gloves, and white hat in his hands, is pacing up and down in the office. + Somebody tries the door with a key.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [calling] Come in. It’s not locked. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie comes in, in her hat and jacket. She stops and stares at him.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sternly] What are you doing here? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Waiting to see you. I’ve been here for hours. Is this the way you + attend to your business? [He puts his hat and stick on the table, and + perches himself with a vault on the clerk’s stool, looking at her with + every appearance of being in a specially restless, teasing, flippant + mood]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I’ve been away exactly twenty minutes for a cup of tea. [She + takes off her hat and jacket and hangs them behind the screen]. How did + you get in? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The staff had not left when I arrived. He’s gone to play cricket + on Primrose Hill. Why don’t you employ a woman, and give your sex a + chance? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What have you come for? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [springing off the stool and coming close to her] Viv: lets go and + enjoy the Saturday half-holiday somewhere, like the staff. + </p> + <p> + What do you say to Richmond, and then a music hall, and a jolly supper? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Can’t afford it. I shall put in another six hours work before I + go to bed. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Can’t afford it, can’t we? Aha! Look here. [He takes out a + handful of sovereigns and makes them chink]. Gold, Viv: gold! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Where did you get it? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Gambling, Viv: gambling. Poker. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Pah! It’s meaner than stealing it. No: I’m not coming. [She sits + down to work at the table, with her back to the glass door, and begins + turning over the papers]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [remonstrating piteously] But, my dear Viv, I want to talk to you + ever so seriously. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Very well: sit down in Honoria’s chair and talk here. I like ten + minutes chat after tea. [He murmurs]. No use groaning: I’m inexorable. + [He takes the opposite seat disconsolately]. Pass that cigar box, will + you? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [pushing the cigar box across] Nasty womanly habit. Nice men don’t + do it any longer. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: they object to the smell in the office; and we’ve had to + take to cigarets. See! [She opens the box and takes out a cigaret, which + she lights. She offers him one; but he shakes his head with a wry face. + She settles herself comfortably in her chair, smoking]. Go ahead. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, I want to know what you’ve done—what arrangements + you’ve made. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Everything was settled twenty minutes after I arrived here. + Honoria has found the business too much for her this year; and she was + on the point of sending for me and proposing a partnership when I walked + in and told her I hadn’t a farthing in the world. So I installed myself + and packed her off for a fortnight’s holiday. What happened at Haslemere + when I left? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Nothing at all. I said youd gone to town on particular business. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, either they were too flabbergasted to say anything, or else + Crofts had prepared your mother. Anyhow, she didn’t say anything; and + Crofts didn’t say anything; and Praddy only stared. After tea they got + up and went; and I’ve not seen them since. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [nodding placidly with one eye on a wreath of smoke] Thats all + right. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [looking round disparagingly] Do you intend to stick in this + confounded place? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [blowing the wreath decisively away, and sitting straight up] Yes. + These two days have given me back all my strength and self-possession. I + will never take a holiday again as long as I live. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with a very wry face] Mps! You look quite happy. And as hard as + nails. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [grimly] Well for me that I am! + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Look here, Viv: we must have an explanation. We parted + the other day under a complete misunderstanding. [He sits on the table, + close to her]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [putting away the cigaret] Well: clear it up. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. You remember what Crofts said. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. That revelation was supposed to bring about a complete change in + the nature of our feeling for one another. It placed us on the footing + of brother and sister. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Have you ever had a brother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Then you don’t know what being brother and sister feels like? Now + I have lots of sisters; and the fraternal feeling is quite familiar to + me. I assure you my feeling for you is not the least in the world like + it. The girls will go <i>their</i> way; I will go mine; and we shan’t + care if we never see one another again. Thats brother and sister. But as + to you, I can’t be easy if I have to pass a week without seeing you. + Thats not brother and sister. Its exactly what I felt an hour before + Crofts made his revelation. In short, dear Viv, it’s love’s young dream. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [bitingly] The same feeling, Frank, that brought your father to my + mother’s feet. Is that it? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [so revolted that he slips off the table for a moment] I very + strongly object, Viv, to have my feelings compared to any which the + Reverend Samuel is capable of harboring; and I object still more to a + comparison of you to your mother. [Resuming his perch] Besides, I don’t + believe the story. I have taxed my father with it, and obtained from him + what I consider tantamount to a denial. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What did he say? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. He said he was sure there must be some mistake. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you believe him? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I am prepared to take his word against Crofts’. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Does it make any difference? I mean in your imagination or + conscience; for of course it makes no real difference. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [shaking his head] None whatever to <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Nor to me. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [staring] But this is ever so surprising! [He goes back to his + chair]. I thought our whole relations were altered in your imagination + and conscience, as you put it, the moment those words were out of that + brute’s muzzle. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: it was not that. I didn’t believe him. I only wish I could. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Eh? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I think brother and sister would be a very suitable relation for + us. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. You really mean that? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. It’s the only relation I care for, even if we could afford + any other. I mean that. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [raising his eyebrows like one on whom a new light has dawned, and + rising with quite an effusion of chivalrous sentiment] My dear Viv: why + didn’t you say so before? I am ever so sorry for persecuting you. I + understand, of course. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [puzzled] Understand what? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, I’m not a fool in the ordinary sense: only in the Scriptural + sense of doing all the things the wise man declared to be folly, after + trying them himself on the most extensive scale. I see I am no longer + Vivvums’s little boy. Don’t be alarmed: I shall never call you Vivvums + again—at least unless you get tired of your new little boy, + whoever he may be. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. My new little boy! + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with conviction] Must be a new little boy. Always happens that + way. No other way, in fact. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. None that you know of, fortunately for you. + </p> + <p> + [Someone knocks at the door.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My curse upon yon caller, whoe’er he be! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s Praed. He’s going to Italy and wants to say goodbye. I asked + him to call this afternoon. Go and let him in. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. We can continue our conversation after his departure for Italy. + I’ll stay him out. [He goes to the door and opens it]. How are you, + Praddy? Delighted to see you. Come in. + </p> + <p> + [Praed, dressed for travelling, comes in, in high spirits.] + </p> + <p> + PRAED. How do you do, Miss Warren? [She presses his hand cordially, + though a certain sentimentality in his high spirits jars upon her]. I + start in an hour from Holborn Viaduct. I wish I could persuade you to + try Italy. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What for? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Why, to saturate yourself with beauty and romance, of course. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie, with a shudder, turns her chair to the table, as if the work + waiting for her there were a support to her. Praed sits opposite to her. + Frank places a chair near Vivie, and drops lazily and carelessly into + it, talking at her over his shoulder.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No use, Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. She is indifferent to + <i>my</i> romance, and insensible to <i>my</i> beauty. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Mr Praed: once for all, there is no beauty and no romance in life + for me. Life is what it is; and I am prepared to take it as it is. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [enthusiastically] You will not say that if you come with me to + Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with delight at living in such a + beautiful world. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. This is most eloquent, Praddy. Keep it up. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, I assure you <i>I</i> have cried—I shall cry again, I + hope—at fifty! At your age, Miss Warren, you would not need to go + so far as Verona. Your spirits would absolutely fly up at the mere sight + of Ostend. You would be charmed with the gaiety, the vivacity, the happy + air of Brussels. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [springing up with an exclamation of loathing] Agh! + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising] Whats the matter? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Hallo, Viv! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [to Praed, with deep reproach] Can you find no better example of + your beauty and romance than Brussels to talk to me about? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [puzzled] Of course it’s very different from Verona. I don’t + suggest for a moment that— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [bitterly] Probably the beauty and romance come to much the same + in both places. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [completely sobered and much concerned] My dear Miss Warren: I—[looking + enquiringly at Frank] Is anything the matter? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous, Praddy. She’s had ever such + a serious call. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sharply] Hold your tongue, Frank. Don’t be silly. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [sitting down] Do you call this good manners, Praed? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [anxious and considerate] Shall I take him away, Miss Warren? I + feel sure we have disturbed you at your work. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Sit down: I’m not ready to go back to work yet. [Praed sits]. You + both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of it. But there are + two subjects I want dropped, if you don’t mind. + </p> + <p> + One of them [to Frank] is love’s young dream in any shape or form: the + other [to Praed] is the romance and beauty of life, especially Ostend + and the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to any illusions you may + have left on these subjects: I have none. If we three are to remain + friends, I must be treated as a woman of business, permanently single + [to Frank] and permanently unromantic [to Praed]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I also shall remain permanently single until you change your + mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be eloquent about something else. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [diffidently] I’m afraid theres nothing else in the world that I + <i>can</i> talk about. The Gospel of Art is the only one I can preach. I + know Miss Warren is a great devotee of the Gospel of Getting On; but we + can’t discuss that without hurting your feelings, Frank, since you are + determined not to get on. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, don’t mind my feelings. Give me some improving advice by all + means: it does me ever so much good. Have another try to make a + successful man of me, Viv. Come: lets have it all: energy, thrift, + foresight, self-respect, character. Don’t you hate people who have no + character, Viv? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [wincing] Oh, stop, stop. Let us have no more of that horrible + cant. Mr Praed: if there are really only those two gospels in the world, + we had better all kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through + and through. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [looking critically at her] There is a touch of poetry about you + today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [remonstrating] My dear Frank: aren’t you a little unsympathetic? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [merciless to herself] No: it’s good for me. It keeps me from + being sentimental. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [bantering her] Checks your strong natural propensity that way, + don’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [almost hysterically] Oh yes: go on: don’t spare me. I was + sentimental for one moment in my life—beautifully sentimental—by + moonlight; and now— + </p> + <p> + FRANK [quickly] I say, Viv: take care. Don’t give yourself away. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr Praed does not know all about my mother? + [Turning on Praed] You had better have told me that morning, Mr Praed. + You are very old fashioned in your delicacies, after all. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your + prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as an + artist, and believing that the most intimate human relationships are far + beyond and above the scope of the law, that though I know that your + mother is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on that + account. I respect her more. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [airily] Hear! hear! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [staring at him] Is that <i>all</i> you know? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly that is all. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are innocence + itself compared with the truth. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his politeness + with an effort] I hope not. [More emphatically] I hope not, Miss Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [whistles] Whew! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [his chivalry drooping before their conviction] If there is + anything worse—that is, anything else—are you sure you are + right to tell us, Miss Warren? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the rest of my + life in telling everybody—stamping and branding it into them until + they all felt their part in its abomination as I feel mine. There is + nothing I despise more than the wicked convention that protects these + things by forbidding a woman to mention them. And yet I can’t tell you. + The two infamous words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my + ears and struggling on my tongue; but I can’t utter them: the shame of + them is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The two + men, astonished, stare at one another and then at her. She raises her + head again desperately and snatches a sheet of paper and a pen]. Here: + let me draft you a prospectus. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, she’s mad. Do you hear, Viv? mad. Come! pull yourself + together. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You shall see. [She writes]. “Paid up capital: not less than + forty thousand pounds standing in the name of Sir George Crofts, + Baronet, the chief shareholder. Premises at Brussels, Ostend, Vienna, + and Budapest. Managing director: Mrs Warren”; and now don’t let us + forget h e r qualifications: the two words. [She writes the words and + pushes the paper to them]. There! Oh no: don’t read it: don’t! [She + snatches it back and tears it to pieces; then seizes her head in her + hands and hides her face on the table]. + </p> + <p> + [Frank, who has watched the writing over her shoulder, and opened his + eyes very widely at it, takes a card from his pocket; scribbles the two + words on it; and silently hands it to Praed, who reads it with + amazement, and hides it hastily in his pocket.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [whispering tenderly] Viv, dear: thats all right. I read what you + wrote: so did Praddy. We understand. And we remain, as this leaves us at + present, yours ever so devotedly. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. We do indeed, Miss Warren. I declare you are the most splendidly + courageous woman I ever met. + </p> + <p> + [This sentimental compliment braces Vivie. She throws it away from her + with an impatient shake, and forces herself to stand up, though not + without some support from the table.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Don’t stir, Viv, if you don’t want to. Take it easy. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Thank you. You an always depend on me for two things: not to cry + and not to faint. [She moves a few steps towards the door of the inner + room, and stops close to Praed to say] I shall need much more courage + than that when I tell my mother that we have come to a parting of the + ways. Now I must go into the next room for a moment to make myself neat + again, if you don’t mind. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Shall we go away? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: I’ll be back presently. Only for a moment. [She goes into the + other room, Praed opening the door for her]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. What an amazing revelation! I’m extremely disappointed in Crofts: + I am indeed. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I’m not in the least. I feel he’s perfectly accounted for at + last. But what a facer for me, Praddy! I can’t marry her now. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [sternly] Frank! [The two look at one another, Frank unruffled, + Praed deeply indignant]. Let me tell you, Gardner, that if you desert + her now you will behave very despicably. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Good old Praddy! Ever chivalrous! But you mistake: it’s not the + moral aspect of the case: it’s the money aspect. I really can’t bring + myself to touch the old woman’s money now. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. And was that what you were going to marry on? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. What else? <i>I</i> havn’t any money, nor the smallest turn for + making it. If I married Viv now she would have to support me; and I + should cost her more than I am worth. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But surely a clever bright fellow like you can make something by + your own brains. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh yes, a little. [He takes out his money again]. I made all that + yesterday in an hour and a half. But I made it in a highly speculative + business. No, dear Praddy: even if Bessie and Georgina marry + millionaires and the governor dies after cutting them off with a + shilling, I shall have only four hundred a year. And he won’t die until + he’s three score and ten: he hasn’t originality enough. I shall be on + short allowance for the next twenty years. No short allowance for Viv, + if I can help it. I withdraw gracefully and leave the field to the + gilded youth of England. So that settled. I shan’t worry her about it: + I’ll just send her a little note after we’re gone. She’ll understand. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [grasping his hand] Good fellow, Frank! I heartily beg your + pardon. But must you never see her again? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Never see her again! Hang it all, be reasonable. I shall come + along as often as possible, and be her brother. I can <i>not</i> + understand the absurd consequences you romantic people expect from the + most ordinary transactions. [A knock at the door]. I wonder who this is. + Would you mind opening the door? If it’s a client it will look more + respectable than if I appeared. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly. [He goes to the door and opens it. Frank sits down in + Vivie’s chair to scribble a note]. My dear Kitty: come in: come in. + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren comes in, looking apprehensively around for Vivie. She has + done her best to make herself matronly and dignified. The brilliant hat + is replaced by a sober bonnet, and the gay blouse covered by a costly + black silk mantle. She is pitiably anxious and ill at ease: evidently + panic-stricken.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Frank] What! Y o u r e here, are you? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [turning in his chair from his writing, but not rising] Here, and + charmed to see you. You come like a breath of spring. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, get out with your nonsense. [In a low voice] Where’s + Vivie? + </p> + <p> + [Frank points expressively to the door of the inner room, but says + nothing.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [sitting down suddenly and almost beginning to cry] Praddy: + won’t she see me, don’t you think? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. My dear Kitty: don’t distress yourself. Why should she not? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, you never can see why not: youre too innocent. Mr Frank: + did she say anything to you? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [folding his note] She <i>must</i> see you, if [very expressively] + you wait til she comes in. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [frightened] Why shouldn’t I wait? + </p> + <p> + [Frank looks quizzically at her; puts his note carefully on the + ink-bottle, so that Vivie cannot fail to find it when next she dips her + pen; then rises and devotes his attention entirely to her.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My dear Mrs Warren: suppose you were a sparrow—ever so tiny + and pretty a sparrow hopping in the roadway—and you saw a steam + roller coming in your direction, would you wait for it? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, don’t bother me with your sparrows. What did she run + away from Haslemere like that for? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I’m afraid she’ll tell you if you rashly await her return. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Do you want me to go away? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No: I always want you to stay. But I <i>advise</i> you to go + away. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What! And never see her again! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Precisely. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [crying again] Praddy: don’t let him be cruel to me. [She + hastily checks her tears and wipes her eyes]. She’ll be so angry if she + sees I’ve been crying. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with a touch of real compassion in his airy tenderness] You know + that Praddy is the soul of kindness, Mrs Warren. Praddy: what do you + say? Go or stay? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [to Mrs Warren] I really should be very sorry to cause you + unnecessary pain; but I think perhaps you had better not wait. The fact + is—[Vivie is heard at the inner door]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Sh! Too late. She’s coming. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Don’t tell her I was crying. [Vivie comes in. She stops + gravely on seeing Mrs Warren, who greets her with hysterical + cheerfulness]. Well, dearie. So here you are at last. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I am glad you have come: I want to speak to you. You said you + were going, Frank, I think. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Yes. Will you come with me, Mrs Warren? What do you say to a trip + to Richmond, and the theatre in the evening? There is safety in + Richmond. No steam roller there. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Nonsense, Frank. My mother will stay here. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [scared] I don’t know: perhaps I’d better go. We’re + disturbing you at your work. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with quiet decision] Mr Praed: please take Frank away. Sit down, + mother. [Mrs Warren obeys helplessly]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Come, Frank. Goodbye, Miss Vivie. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [shaking hands] Goodbye. A pleasant trip. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Thank you: thank you. I hope so. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [to Mrs Warren] Goodbye: youd ever so much better have taken my + advice. [He shakes hands with her. Then airily to Vivie] Byebye, Viv. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Goodbye. [He goes out gaily without shaking hands with her]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [sadly] Goodbye, Kitty. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [snivelling]—oobye! + </p> + <p> + [Praed goes. Vivie, composed and extremely grave, sits down in Honoria’s + chair, and waits for her mother to speak. Mrs Warren, dreading a pause, + loses no time in beginning.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, Vivie, what did you go away like that for without + saying a word to me! How could you do such a thing! And what have you + done to poor George? I wanted him to come with me; but he shuffled out + of it. I could see that he was quite afraid of you. Only fancy: he + wanted me not to come. As if [trembling] I should be afraid of you, + dearie. [Vivie’s gravity deepens]. But of course I told him it was all + settled and comfortable between us, and that we were on the best of + terms. [She breaks down]. Vivie: whats the meaning of this? [She + produces a commercial envelope, and fumbles at the enclosure with + trembling fingers]. I got it from the bank this morning. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It is my month’s allowance. They sent it to me as usual the other + day. I simply sent it back to be placed to your credit, and asked them + to send you the lodgment receipt. In future I shall support myself. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [not daring to understand] Wasn’t it enough? Why didn’t you + tell me? [With a cunning gleam in her eye] I’ll double it: I was + intending to double it. Only let me know how much you want. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You know very well that that has nothing to do with it. From this + time I go my own way in my own business and among my own friends. And + you will go yours. [She rises]. Goodbye. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [rising, appalled] Goodbye? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: goodbye. Come: don’t let us make a useless scene: you + understand perfectly well. Sir George Crofts has told me the whole + business. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [angrily] Silly old—[She swallows an epithet, and then + turns white at the narrowness of her escape from uttering it]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Just so. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. He ought to have his tongue cut out. But I thought it was + ended: you said you didn’t mind. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [steadfastly] Excuse me: I <i>do</i> mind. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. But I explained— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You explained how it came about. You did not tell me that it is + still going on [She sits]. + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren, silenced for a moment, looks forlornly at Vivie, who waits, + secretly hoping that the combat is over. But the cunning expression + comes back into Mrs Warren’s face; and she bends across the table, sly + and urgent, half whispering.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Vivie: do you know how rich I am? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I have no doubt you are very rich. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. But you don’t know all that that means; youre too young. It + means a new dress every day; it means theatres and balls every night; it + means having the pick of all the gentlemen in Europe at your feet; it + means a lovely house and plenty of servants; it means the choicest of + eating and drinking; it means everything you like, everything you want, + everything you can think of. And what are you here? A mere drudge, + toiling and moiling early and late for your bare living and two cheap + dresses a year. Think over it. [Soothingly] Youre shocked, I know. I can + enter into your feelings; and I think they do you credit; but trust me, + nobody will blame you: you may take my word for that. I know what young + girls are; and I know youll think better of it when you’ve turned it + over in your mind. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. So that’s how it is done, is it? You must have said all that to + many a woman, to have it so pat. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [passionately] What harm am I asking you to do? [Vivie turns + away contemptuously. Mrs Warren continues desperately] Vivie: listen to + me: you don’t understand: you were taught wrong on purpose: you don’t + know what the world is really like. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [arrested] Taught wrong on purpose! What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. I mean that youre throwing away all your chances for + nothing. You think that people are what they pretend to be: that the way + you were taught at school and college to think right and proper is the + way things really are. But it’s not: it’s all only a pretence, to keep + the cowardly slavish common run of people quiet. Do you want to find + that out, like other women, at forty, when you’ve thrown yourself away + and lost your chances; or won’t you take it in good time now from your + own mother, that loves you and swears to you that it’s truth: gospel + truth? [Urgently] Vivie: the big people, the clever people, the managing + people, all know it. They do as I do, and think what I think. I know + plenty of them. I know them to speak to, to introduce you to, to make + friends of for you. I don’t mean anything wrong: thats what you don’t + understand: your head is full of ignorant ideas about me. What do the + people that taught you know about life or about people like me? When did + they ever meet me, or speak to me, or let anyone tell them about me? the + fools! Would they ever have done anything for you if I hadn’t paid them? + Havn’t I told you that I want you to be respectable? Havn’t I brought + you up to be respectable? And how can you keep it up without my money + and my influence and Lizzie’s friends? Can’t you see that youre cutting + your own throat as well as breaking my heart in turning your back on me? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I recognize the Crofts philosophy of life, mother. I heard it all + from him that day at the Gardners’. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You think I want to force that played-out old sot on you! I + don’t, Vivie: on my oath I don’t. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It would not matter if you did: you would not succeed. [Mrs + Warren winces, deeply hurt by the implied indifference towards her + affectionate intention. Vivie, neither understanding this nor concerning + herself about it, goes on calmly] Mother: you don’t at all know the sort + of person I am. I don’t object to Crofts more than to any other coarsely + built man of his class. To tell you the truth, I rather admire him for + being strongminded enough to enjoy himself in his own way and make + plenty of money instead of living the usual shooting, hunting, + dining-out, tailoring, loafing life of his set merely because all the + rest do it. And I’m perfectly aware that if I’d been in the same + circumstances as my aunt Liz, I’d have done exactly what she did. + </p> + <p> + I don’t think I’m more prejudiced or straitlaced than you: I think I’m + less. I’m certain I’m less sentimental. I know very well that + fashionable morality is all a pretence, and that if I took your money + and devoted the rest of my life to spending it fashionably, I might be + as worthless and vicious as the silliest woman could possibly be without + having a word said to me about it. But I don’t want to be worthless. I + shouldn’t enjoy trotting about the park to advertize my dressmaker and + carriage builder, or being bored at the opera to shew off a + shopwindowful of diamonds. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [bewildered] But— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Wait a moment: I’ve not done. Tell me why you continue your + business now that you are independent of it. Your sister, you told me, + has left all that behind her. Why don’t you do the same? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s all very easy for Liz: she likes good society, and + has the air of being a lady. Imagine <i>me</i> in a cathedral town! Why, + the very rooks in the trees would find me out even if I could stand the + dulness of it. I must have work and excitement, or I should go + melancholy mad. And what else is there for me to do? The life suits me: + I’m fit for it and not for anything else. If I didn’t do it somebody + else would; so I don’t do any real harm by it. And then it brings in + money; and I like making money. No: it’s no use: I can’t give it up—not + for anybody. But what need you know about it? I’ll never mention it. + I’ll keep Crofts away. I’ll not trouble you much: you see I have to be + constantly running about from one place to another. Youll be quit of me + altogether when I die. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: I am my mother’s daughter. I am like you: I must have work, + and must make more money than I spend. But my work is not your work, and + my way is not your way. We must part. It will not make much difference + to us: instead of meeting one another for perhaps a few months in twenty + years, we shall never meet: thats all. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [her voice stifled in tears] Vivie: I meant to have been more + with you: I did indeed. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s no use, mother: I am not to be changed by a few cheap tears + and entreaties any more than you are, I daresay. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [wildly] Oh, you call a mother’s tears cheap. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. They cost you nothing; and you ask me to give you the peace and + quietness of my whole life in exchange for them. What use would my + company be to you if you could get it? What have we two in common that + could make either of us happy together? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [lapsing recklessly into her dialect] We’re mother and + daughter. I want my daughter. I’ve a right to you. Who is to care for me + when I’m old? Plenty of girls have taken to me like daughters and cried + at leaving me; but I let them all go because I had you to look forward + to. I kept myself lonely for you. You’ve no right to turn on me now and + refuse to do your duty as a daughter. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [jarred and antagonized by the echo of the slums in her mother’s + voice] My duty as a daughter! I thought we should come to that + presently. Now once for all, mother, you want a daughter and Frank wants + a wife. I don’t want a mother; and I don’t want a husband. I have spared + neither Frank nor myself in sending him about his business. Do you think + I will spare you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [violently] Oh, I know the sort you are: no mercy for + yourself or anyone else. <i>I</i> know. My experience has done that for + me anyhow: I can tell the pious, canting, hard, selfish woman when I + meet her. Well, keep yourself to yourself: <i>I</i> don’t want you. But + listen to this. Do you know what I would do with you if you were a baby + again? aye, as sure as there’s a Heaven above us. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Strangle me, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No: I’d bring you up to be a real daughter to me, and not + what you are now, with your pride and your prejudices and the college + education you stole from me: yes, stole: deny it if you can: what was it + but stealing? I’d bring you up in my own house, I would. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quietly] In one of your own houses. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [screaming] Listen to her! listen to how she spits on her + mother’s grey hairs! Oh, may you live to have your own daughter tear and + trample on you as you have trampled on me. And you will: you will. No + woman ever had luck with a mother’s curse on her. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I wish you wouldn’t rant, mother. It only hardens me. Come: I + suppose I am the only young woman you ever had in your power that you + did good to. Don’t spoil it all now. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes, Heaven forgive me, it’s true; and you are the only one + that ever turned on me. Oh, the injustice of it! the injustice! the + injustice! I always wanted to be a good woman. I tried honest work; and + I was slave-driven until I cursed the day I ever heard of honest work. I + was a good mother; and because I made my daughter a good woman she turns + me out as if I were a leper. Oh, if I only had my life to live over + again! I’d talk to that lying clergyman in the school. From this time + forth, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I’ll do wrong and nothing but + wrong. And I’ll prosper on it. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: it’s better to choose your line and go through with it. If I + had been you, mother, I might have done as you did; but I should not + have lived one life and believed in another. You are a conventional + woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you goodbye now. I am right, am + I not? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [taken aback] Right to throw away all my money! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: right to get rid of you? I should be a fool not to. Isn’t + that so? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [sulkily] Oh well, yes, if you come to that, I suppose you + are. But Lord help the world if everybody took to doing the right thing! + And now I’d better go than stay where I’m not wanted. [She turns to the + door]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [kindly] Won’t you shake hands? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [after looking at her fiercely for a moment with a savage + impulse to strike her] No, thank you. Goodbye. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [matter-of-factly] Goodbye. [Mrs Warren goes out, slamming the + door behind her. The strain on Vivie’s face relaxes; her grave + expression breaks up into one of joyous content; her breath goes out in + a half sob, half laugh of intense relief. She goes buoyantly to her + place at the writing table; pushes the electric lamp out of the way; + pulls over a great sheaf of papers; and is in the act of dipping her pen + in the ink when she finds Frank’s note. She opens it unconcernedly and + reads it quickly, giving a little laugh at some quaint turn of + expression in it]. And goodbye, Frank. [She tears the note up and tosses + the pieces into the wastepaper basket without a second thought. Then she + goes at her work with a plunge, and soon becomes absorbed in its + figures]. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1097 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb74d51 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1097 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1097) diff --git a/old/1097-0.txt b/old/1097-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..49c78cc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1097-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4485 @@ +Project Gutenberg’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, by George Bernard Shaw + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mrs. Warren’s Profession + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: February 11, 2006 [EBook #1097] +Last Updated: September 21, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. WARREN’S PROFESSION *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + + + + + +MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + + +by George Bernard Shaw + + +1894 + + +With The Author’s Apology (1902) + + + + +THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY + + +Mrs Warren’s Profession has been performed at last, after a delay of +only eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the triumphant +amusement of startling all but the strongest-headed of the London +theatre critics clean out of the practice of their profession. No +author who has ever known the exultation of sending the Press into an +hysterical tumult of protest, of moral panic, of involuntary and frantic +confession of sin, of a horror of conscience in which the power of +distinguishing between the work of art on the stage and the real life +of the spectator is confused and overwhelmed, will ever care for the +stereotyped compliments which every successful farce or melodrama +elicits from the newspapers. Give me that critic who rushed from my play +to declare furiously that Sir George Crofts ought to be kicked. What a +triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a jaded London journalist to +the condition of the simple sailor in the Wapping gallery, who shouts +execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello not to believe him! But +dearer still than such simplicity is that sense of the sudden earthquake +shock to the foundations of morality which sends a pallid crowd of +critics into the street shrieking that the pillars of society are +cracking and the ruin of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen champions +of ten years ago remonstrate with me just as the veterans of those brave +days remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast who first +launched my plays on the stage alongside Ghosts and The Wild Duck, +exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his ideals! What +would Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer himself disowns me because I +“cannot touch pitch without wallowing in it”. Truly my play must be more +needed than I knew; and yet I thought I knew how little the others know. + +Do not suppose, however, that the consternation of the Press reflects +any consternation among the general public. Anybody can upset the +theatre critics, in a turn of the wrist, by substituting for the +romantic commonplaces of the stage the moral commonplaces of the pulpit, +platform, or the library. Play Mrs Warren’s Profession to an audience +of clerical members of the Christian Social Union and of women well +experienced in Rescue, Temperance, and Girls’ Club work, and no moral +panic will arise; every man and woman present will know that as long +as poverty makes virtue hideous and the spare pocket-money of rich +bachelordom makes vice dazzling, their daily hand-to-hand fight against +prostitution with prayer and persuasion, shelters and scanty alms, +will be a losing one. There was a time when they were able to urge that +though “the white-lead factory where Anne Jane was poisoned” may be a +far more terrible place than Mrs Warren’s house, yet hell is still more +dreadful. Nowadays they no longer believe in hell; and the girls among +whom they are working know that they do not believe in it, and would +laugh at them if they did. So well have the rescuers learnt that Mrs +Warren’s defence of herself and indictment of society is the thing that +most needs saying, that those who know me personally reproach me, not +for writing this play, but for wasting my energies on “pleasant +plays” for the amusement of frivolous people, when I can build up such +excellent stage sermons on their own work. Mrs Warren’s Profession is +the one play of mine which I could submit to a censorship without doubt +of the result; only, it must not be the censorship of the minor theatre +critic, nor of an innocent court official like the Lord Chamberlain’s +Examiner, much less of people who consciously profit by Mrs Warren’s +profession, or who personally make use of it, or who hold the widely +whispered view that it is an indispensable safety-valve for the +protection of domestic virtue, or, above all, who are smitten with a +sentimental affection for our fallen sister, and would “take her up +tenderly, lift her with care, fashioned so slenderly, young, and SO +fair.” Nor am I prepared to accept the verdict of the medical gentlemen +who would compulsorily sanitate and register Mrs Warren, whilst leaving +Mrs Warren’s patrons, especially her military patrons, free to destroy +her health and anybody else’s without fear of reprisals. But I should be +quite content to have my play judged by, say, a joint committee of +the Central Vigilance Society and the Salvation Army. And the sterner +moralists the members of the committee were, the better. + +Some of the journalists I have shocked reason so unripely that they will +gather nothing from this but a confused notion that I am accusing the +National Vigilance Association and the Salvation Army of complicity in +my own scandalous immorality. It will seem to them that people who would +stand this play would stand anything. They are quite mistaken. Such +an audience as I have described would be revolted by many of our +fashionable plays. They would leave the theatre convinced that the +Plymouth Brother who still regards the playhouse as one of the gates of +hell is perhaps the safest adviser on the subject of which he knows so +little. If I do not draw the same conclusion, it is not because I am one +of those who claim that art is exempt from moral obligations, and deny +that the writing or performance of a play is a moral act, to be treated +on exactly the same footing as theft or murder if it produces equally +mischievous consequences. I am convinced that fine art is the subtlest, +the most seductive, the most effective instrument of moral propaganda in +the world, excepting only the example of personal conduct; and I waive +even this exception in favor of the art of the stage, because it works +by exhibiting examples of personal conduct made intelligible and moving +to crowds of unobservant, unreflecting people to whom real life means +nothing. I have pointed out again and again that the influence of the +theatre in England is growing so great that whilst private conduct, +religion, law, science, politics, and morals are becoming more and +more theatrical, the theatre itself remains impervious to common +sense, religion, science, politics, and morals. That is why I fight the +theatre, not with pamphlets and sermons and treatises, but with plays; +and so effective do I find the dramatic method that I have no doubt I +shall at last persuade even London to take its conscience and its brains +with it when it goes to the theatre, instead of leaving them at home +with its prayer-book as it does at present. Consequently, I am the +last man in the world to deny that if the net effect of performing Mrs +Warren’s Profession were an increase in the number of persons entering +that profession, its performance should be dealt with accordingly. + +Now let us consider how such recruiting can be encouraged by the +theatre. Nothing is easier. Let the King’s Reader of Plays, backed by +the Press, make an unwritten but perfectly well understood regulation +that members of Mrs Warren’s profession shall be tolerated on the stage +only when they are beautiful, exquisitely dressed, and sumptuously +lodged and fed; also that they shall, at the end of the play, die of +consumption to the sympathetic tears of the whole audience, or step +into the next room to commit suicide, or at least be turned out by their +protectors and passed on to be “redeemed” by old and faithful lovers who +have adored them in spite of their levities. Naturally, the poorer girls +in the gallery will believe in the beauty, in the exquisite dresses, and +the luxurious living, and will see that there is no real necessity for +the consumption, the suicide, or the ejectment: mere pious forms, all +of them, to save the Censor’s face. Even if these purely official +catastrophes carried any conviction, the majority of English girls +remain so poor, so dependent, so well aware that the drudgeries of such +honest work as is within their reach are likely enough to lead them +eventually to lung disease, premature death, and domestic desertion or +brutality, that they would still see reason to prefer the primrose path +to the strait path of virtue, since both, vice at worst and virtue at +best, lead to the same end in poverty and overwork. It is true that the +Board School mistress will tell you that only girls of a certain kind +will reason in this way. But alas! that certain kind turns out on +inquiry to be simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only kind +that gets the chance of acting on such reasoning. Read the first report +of the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C +4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacred word, +Home!) issued by the Women’s Industrial Council [Home Industries of +Women in London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street, W. C.]; and ask +yourself whether, if the lot in life therein described were your lot +in life, you would not prefer the lot of Cleopatra, of Theodora, of the +Lady of the Camellias, of Mrs Tanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you can +go deep enough into things to be able to say no, how many ignorant +half-starved girls will believe you are speaking sincerely? To them the +lot of Iris is heavenly in comparison with their own. Yet our King, like +his predecessors, says to the dramatist, “Thus, and thus only, shall +you present Mrs Warren’s profession on the stage, or you shall starve. +Witness Shaw, who told the untempting truth about it, and whom We, by +the Grace of God, accordingly disallow and suppress, and do what in Us +lies to silence.” Fortunately, Shaw cannot be silenced. “The harlot’s +cry from street to street” is louder than the voices of all the kings. +I am not dependent on the theatre, and cannot be starved into making +my play a standing advertisement of the attractive side of Mrs Warren’s +business. + +Here I must guard myself against a misunderstanding. It is not the fault +of their authors that the long string of wanton’s tragedies, from Antony +and Cleopatra to Iris, are snares to poor girls, and are objected to +on that account by many earnest men and women who consider Mrs Warren’s +Profession an excellent sermon. Mr Pinero is in no way bound to suppress +the fact that his Iris is a person to be envied by millions of better +women. If he made his play false to life by inventing fictitious +disadvantages for her, he would be acting as unscrupulously as any tract +writer. If society chooses to provide for its Irises better than for +its working women, it must not expect honest playwrights to manufacture +spurious evidence to save its credit. The mischief lies in the +deliberate suppression of the other side of the case: the refusal to +allow Mrs Warren to expose the drudgery and repulsiveness of plying for +hire among coarse, tedious drunkards; the determination not to let the +Parisian girl in Brieux’s Les Avaries come on the stage and drive into +people’s minds what her diseases mean for her and for themselves. All +that, says the King’s Reader in effect, is horrifying, loathsome. + +Precisely: what does he expect it to be? would he have us represent it +as beautiful and gratifying? The answer to this question, I fear, must +be a blunt Yes; for it seems impossible to root out of an Englishman’s +mind the notion that vice is delightful, and that abstention from it +is privation. At all events, as long as the tempting side of it is kept +towards the public, and softened by plenty of sentiment and sympathy, it +is welcomed by our Censor, whereas the slightest attempt to place it in +the light of the policeman’s lantern or the Salvation Army shelter +is checkmated at once as not merely disgusting, but, if you please, +unnecessary. + +Everybody will, I hope, admit that this state of things is intolerable; +that the subject of Mrs Warren’s profession must be either tapu +altogether, or else exhibited with the warning side as freely displayed +as the tempting side. But many persons will vote for a complete tapu, +and an impartial sweep from the boards of Mrs Warren and Gretchen and +the rest; in short, for banishing the sexual instincts from the stage +altogether. Those who think this impossible can hardly have considered +the number and importance of the subjects which are actually banished +from the stage. Many plays, among them Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, +Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, have no sex complications: the thread of +their action can be followed by children who could not understand a +single scene of Mrs Warren’s Profession or Iris. None of our plays rouse +the sympathy of the audience by an exhibition of the pains of maternity, +as Chinese plays constantly do. Each nation has its own particular set +of tapus in addition to the common human stock; and though each of +these tapus limits the scope of the dramatist, it does not make drama +impossible. If the Examiner were to refuse to license plays with female +characters in them, he would only be doing to the stage what our tribal +customs already do to the pulpit and the bar. I have myself written a +rather entertaining play with only one woman in it, and she is quite +heartwhole; and I could just as easily write a play without a woman in +it at all. I will even go so far as to promise the Mr Redford my support +if he will introduce this limitation for part of the year, say during +Lent, so as to make a close season for that dullest of stock dramatic +subjects, adultery, and force our managers and authors to find out what +all great dramatists find out spontaneously: to wit, that people who +sacrifice every other consideration to love are as hopelessly unheroic +on the stage as lunatics or dipsomaniacs. Hector is the world’s hero; +not Paris nor Antony. + +But though I do not question the possibility of a drama in which love +should be as effectively ignored as cholera is at present, there is not +the slightest chance of that way out of the difficulty being taken by +the Mr Redford. If he attempted it there would be a revolt in which he +would be swept away in spite of my singlehanded efforts to defend him. +A complete tapu is politically impossible. A complete toleration is +equally impossible to Mr Redford, because his occupation would be gone +if there were no tapu to enforce. He is therefore compelled to maintain +the present compromise of a partial tapu, applied, to the best of his +judgement, with a careful respect to persons and to public opinion. And +a very sensible English solution of the difficulty, too, most readers +will say. I should not dispute it if dramatic poets really were what +English public opinion generally assumes them to be during their +lifetime: that is, a licentiously irregular group to be kept in order +in a rough and ready way by a magistrate who will stand no nonsense +from them. But I cannot admit that the class represented by Eschylus, +Sophocles, Aristophanes, Euripides, Shakespear, Goethe, Ibsen, and +Tolstoy, not to mention our own contemporary playwrights, is as much in +place in Mr Redford’s office as a pickpocket is in Bow Street. Further, +it is not true that the Censorship, though it certainly suppresses Ibsen +and Tolstoy, and would suppress Shakespear but for the absurd rule that +a play once licensed is always licensed (so that Wycherly is permitted +and Shelley prohibited), also suppresses unscrupulous playwrights. I +challenge Mr Redford to mention any extremity of sexual misconduct which +any manager in his senses would risk presenting on the London stage that +has not been presented under his license and that of his predecessor. +The compromise, in fact, works out in practice in favor of loose plays +as against earnest ones. + +To carry conviction on this point, I will take the extreme course of +narrating the plots of two plays witnessed within the last ten years +by myself at London West End theatres, one licensed by the late Queen +Victoria’s Reader of Plays, the other by the present Reader to the King. +Both plots conform to the strictest rules of the period when La Dame aux +Camellias was still a forbidden play, and when The Second Mrs Tanqueray +would have been tolerated only on condition that she carefully explained +to the audience that when she met Captain Ardale she sinned “but in +intention.” + +Play number one. A prince is compelled by his parents to marry the +daughter of a neighboring king, but loves another maiden. The scene +represents a hall in the king’s palace at night. The wedding has taken +place that day; and the closed door of the nuptial chamber is in view of +the audience. Inside, the princess awaits her bridegroom. A duenna is in +attendance. The bridegroom enters. His sole desire is to escape from a +marriage which is hateful to him. An idea strikes him. He will assault +the duenna, and get ignominiously expelled from the palace by his +indignant father-in-law. To his horror, when he proceeds to carry out +this stratagem, the duenna, far from raising an alarm, is flattered, +delighted, and compliant. The assaulter becomes the assaulted. He flings +her angrily to the ground, where she remains placidly. He flies. The +father enters; dismisses the duenna; and listens at the keyhole of +his daughter’s nuptial chamber, uttering various pleasantries, and +declaring, with a shiver, that a sound of kissing, which he supposes to +proceed from within, makes him feel young again. + +In deprecation of the scandalized astonishment with which such a story +as this will be read, I can only say that it was not presented on the +stage until its propriety had been certified by the chief officer of the +Queen of England’s household. + +Story number two. A German officer finds himself in an inn with a French +lady who has wounded his national vanity. He resolves to humble her by +committing a rape upon her. He announces his purpose. She remonstrates, +implores, flies to the doors and finds them locked, calls for help +and finds none at hand, runs screaming from side to side, and, after +a harrowing scene, is overpowered and faints. Nothing further being +possible on the stage without actual felony, the officer then relents +and leaves her. When she recovers, she believes that he has carried out +his threat; and during the rest of the play she is represented as vainly +vowing vengeance upon him, whilst she is really falling in love with +him under the influence of his imaginary crime against her. Finally she +consents to marry him; and the curtain falls on their happiness. + +This story was certified by the present King’s Reader, acting for the +Lord Chamberlain, as void in its general tendency of “anything immoral +or otherwise improper for the stage.” But let nobody conclude therefore +that Mr Redford is a monster, whose policy it is to deprave the theatre. +As a matter of fact, both the above stories are strictly in order from +the official point of view. The incidents of sex which they contain, +though carried in both to the extreme point at which another step would +be dealt with, not by the King’s Reader, but by the police, do not +involve adultery, nor any allusion to Mrs Warren’s profession, nor to +the fact that the children of any polyandrous group will, when they grow +up, inevitably be confronted, as those of Mrs Warren’s group are in my +play, with the insoluble problem of their own possible consanguinity. +In short, by depending wholly on the coarse humors and the physical +fascination of sex, they comply with all the formulable requirements of +the Censorship, whereas plays in which these humors and fascinations are +discarded, and the social problems created by sex seriously faced and +dealt with, inevitably ignore the official formula and are suppressed. +If the old rule against the exhibition of illicit sex relations on stage +were revived, and the subject absolutely barred, the only result would +be that Antony and Cleopatra, Othello (because of the Bianca episode), +Troilus and Cressida, Henry IV, Measure for Measure, Timon of Athens, +La Dame aux Camellias, The Profligate, The Second Mrs Tanqueray, The +Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith, The Gay Lord Quex, Mrs Dane’s Defence, and +Iris would be swept from the stage, and placed under the same ban as +Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness and Mrs Warren’s Profession, whilst such +plays as the two described above would have a monopoly of the theatre as +far as sexual interest is concerned. + +What is more, the repulsiveness of the worst of the certified plays +would protect the Censorship against effective exposure and criticism. +Not long ago an American Review of high standing asked me for an article +on the Censorship of the English stage. I replied that such an article +would involve passages too disagreeable for publication in a magazine +for general family reading. The editor persisted nevertheless; but +not until he had declared his readiness to face this, and had pledged +himself to insert the article unaltered (the particularity of the pledge +extending even to a specification of the exact number of words in the +article) did I consent to the proposal. What was the result? + +The editor, confronted with the two stories given above, threw his +pledge to the winds, and, instead of returning the article, printed +it with the illustrative examples omitted, and nothing left but the +argument from political principles against the Censorship. In doing this +he fired my broadside after withdrawing the cannon balls; for neither +the Censor nor any other Englishman, except perhaps Mr Leslie Stephen +and a few other veterans of the dwindling old guard of Benthamism, cares +a dump about political principle. The ordinary Briton thinks that if +every other Briton is not kept under some form of tutelage, the more +childish the better, he will abuse his freedom viciously. As far as its +principle is concerned, the Censorship is the most popular institution +in England; and the playwright who criticizes it is slighted as a +blackguard agitating for impunity. Consequently nothing can really shake +the confidence of the public in the Lord Chamberlain’s department except +a remorseless and unbowdlerized narration of the licentious fictions +which slip through its net, and are hallmarked by it with the approval +of the Throne. But since these narrations cannot be made public without +great difficulty, owing to the obligation an editor is under not to +deal unexpectedly with matters that are not _virginibus puerisque_, the +chances are heavily in favor of the Censor escaping all remonstrance. +With the exception of such comments as I was able to make in my own +critical articles in The World and The Saturday Review when the pieces +I have described were first produced, and a few ignorant protests by +churchmen against much better plays which they confessed they had not +seen nor read, nothing has been said in the press that could seriously +disturb the easygoing notion that the stage would be much worse than it +admittedly is but for the vigilance of the King’s Reader. The truth is, +that no manager would dare produce on his own responsibility the pieces +he can now get royal certificates for at two guineas per piece. + +I hasten to add that I believe these evils to be inherent in the +nature of all censorship, and not merely a consequence of the form the +institution takes in London. No doubt there is a staggering absurdity +in appointing an ordinary clerk to see that the leaders of European +literature do not corrupt the morals of the nation, and to restrain Sir +Henry Irving, as a rogue and a vagabond, from presuming to impersonate +Samson or David on the stage, though any other sort of artist may daub +these scriptural figures on a signboard or carve them on a tombstone +without hindrance. If the General Medical Council, the Royal College of +Physicians, the Royal Academy of Arts, the Incorporated Law Society, and +Convocation were abolished, and their functions handed over to the Mr +Redford, the Concert of Europe would presumably declare England mad, and +treat her accordingly. Yet, though neither medicine nor painting nor +law nor the Church moulds the character of the nation as potently as the +theatre does, nothing can come on the stage unless its dimensions admit +of its passing through Mr Redford’s mind! Pray do not think that I +question Mr Redford’s honesty. I am quite sure that he sincerely thinks +me a blackguard, and my play a grossly improper one, because, like +Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness, it produces, as they are both meant to +produce, a very strong and very painful impression of evil. I do not +doubt for a moment that the rapine play which I have described, and +which he licensed, was quite incapable in manuscript of producing +any particular effect on his mind at all, and that when he was once +satisfied that the ill-conducted hero was a German and not an English +officer, he passed the play without studying its moral tendencies. Even +if he had undertaken that study, there is no more reason to suppose +that he is a competent moralist than there is to suppose that I am a +competent mathematician. But truly it does not matter whether he is a +moralist or not. Let nobody dream for a moment that what is wrong with +the Censorship is the shortcoming of the gentleman who happens at any +moment to be acting as Censor. Replace him to-morrow by an Academy of +Letters and an Academy of Dramatic Poetry, and the new and enlarged +filter will still exclude original and epoch-making work, whilst passing +conventional, old-fashioned, and vulgar work without question. The +conclave which compiles the index of the Roman Catholic Church is the +most august, ancient, learned, famous, and authoritative censorship in +Europe. Is it more enlightened, more liberal, more tolerant that the +comparatively infinitesimal office of the Lord Chamberlain? On the +contrary, it has reduced itself to a degree of absurdity which makes a +Catholic university a contradiction in terms. All censorships exist +to prevent anyone from challenging current conceptions and existing +institutions. All progress is initiated by challenging current concepts, +and executed by supplanting existing institutions. Consequently the +first condition of progress is the removal of censorships. There is the +whole case against censorships in a nutshell. + +It will be asked whether theatrical managers are to be allowed to +produce what they like, without regard to the public interest. But that +is not the alternative. The managers of our London music-halls are not +subject to any censorship. They produce their entertainments on their +own responsibility, and have no two-guinea certificates to plead if +their houses are conducted viciously. They know that if they lose their +character, the County Council will simply refuse to renew their license +at the end of the year; and nothing in the history of popular art +is more amazing than the improvement in music-halls that this simple +arrangement has produced within a few years. Place the theatres on the +same footing, and we shall promptly have a similar revolution: a whole +class of frankly blackguardly plays, in which unscrupulous low comedians +attract crowds to gaze at bevies of girls who have nothing to exhibit +but their prettiness, will vanish like the obscene songs which were +supposed to enliven the squalid dulness, incredible to the younger +generation, of the music-halls fifteen years ago. On the other hand, +plays which treat sex questions as problems for thought instead of as +aphrodisiacs will be freely performed. Gentlemen of Mr Redford’s way of +thinking will have plenty of opportunity of protesting against them +in Council; but the result will be that the Mr Redford will find his +natural level; Ibsen and Tolstoy theirs; so no harm will be done. + +This question of the Censorship reminds me that I have to apologize +to those who went to the recent performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession +expecting to find it what I have just called an aphrodisiac. That was +not my fault; it was Mr Redford’s. After the specimens I have given of +the tolerance of his department, it was natural enough for thoughtless +people to infer that a play which overstepped his indulgence must be a +very exciting play indeed. Accordingly, I find one critic so explicit as +to the nature of his disappointment as to say candidly that “such airy +talk as there is upon the matter is utterly unworthy of acceptance as +being a representation of what people with blood in them think or do on +such occasions.” Thus am I crushed between the upper millstone of the Mr +Redford, who thinks me a libertine, and the nether popular critic, who +thinks me a prude. Critics of all grades and ages, middle-aged fathers +of families no less than ardent young enthusiasts, are equally indignant +with me. They revile me as lacking in passion, in feeling, in manhood. +Some of them even sum the matter up by denying me any dramatic power: a +melancholy betrayal of what dramatic power has come to mean on our stage +under the Censorship! Can I be expected to refrain from laughing at +the spectacle of a number of respectable gentlemen lamenting because a +playwright lures them to the theatre by a promise to excite their senses +in a very special and sensational manner, and then, having successfully +trapped them in exceptional numbers, proceeds to ignore their senses and +ruthlessly improve their minds? But I protest again that the lure was +not mine. The play had been in print for four years; and I have spared +no pains to make known that my plays are built to induce, not voluptuous +reverie but intellectual interest, not romantic rhapsody but humane +concern. Accordingly, I do not find those critics who are gifted with +intellectual appetite and political conscience complaining of want of +dramatic power. Rather do they protest, not altogether unjustly, against +a few relapses into staginess and caricature which betray the young +playwright and the old playgoer in this early work of mine. + +As to the voluptuaries, I can assure them that the playwright, whether +he be myself or another, will always disappoint them. The drama can do +little to delight the senses: all the apparent instances to the contrary +are instances of the personal fascination of the performers. The drama +of pure feeling is no longer in the hands of the playwright: it has been +conquered by the musician, after whose enchantments all the verbal arts +seem cold and tame. Romeo and Juliet with the loveliest Juliet is dry, +tedious, and rhetorical in comparison with Wagner’s Tristan, even though +Isolde be both fourteen stone and forty, as she often is in Germany. +Indeed, it needed no Wagner to convince the public of this. The +voluptuous sentimentality of Gounod’s Faust and Bizet’s Carmen has +captured the common playgoer; and there is, flatly, no future now for +any drama without music except the drama of thought. The attempt to +produce a genus of opera without music (and this absurdity is what +our fashionable theatres have been driving at for a long time without +knowing it) is far less hopeful than my own determination to accept +problem as the normal materiel of the drama. + +That this determination will throw me into a long conflict with our +theatre critics, and with the few playgoers who go to the theatre as +often as the critics, I well know; but I am too well equipped for the +strife to be deterred by it, or to bear malice towards the losing side. +In trying to produce the sensuous effects of opera, the fashionable +drama has become so flaccid in its sentimentality, and the intellect +of its frequenters so atrophied by disuse, that the reintroduction +of problem, with its remorseless logic and iron framework of fact, +inevitably produces at first an overwhelming impression of coldness and +inhuman rationalism. But this will soon pass away. When the intellectual +muscle and moral nerve of the critics has been developed in the struggle +with modern problem plays, the pettish luxuriousness of the clever ones, +and the sulky sense of disadvantaged weakness in the sentimental ones, +will clear away; and it will be seen that only in the problem play is +there any real drama, because drama is no mere setting up of the camera +to nature: it is the presentation in parable of the conflict between +Man’s will and his environment: in a word, of problem. The vapidness of +such drama as the pseudo-operatic plays contain lies in the fact that +in them animal passion, sentimentally diluted, is shewn in conflict, not +with real circumstances, but with a set of conventions and assumptions +half of which do not exist off the stage, whilst the other half can +either be evaded by a pretence of compliance or defied with complete +impunity by any reasonably strong-minded person. Nobody can feel that +such conventions are really compulsory; and consequently nobody can +believe in the stage pathos that accepts them as an inexorable fate, or +in the genuineness of the people who indulge in such pathos. Sitting +at such plays, we do not believe: we make-believe. And the habit of +make-believe becomes at last so rooted that criticism of the theatre +insensibly ceases to be criticism at all, and becomes more and more a +chronicle of the fashionable enterprises of the only realities left on +the stage: that is, the performers in their own persons. In this +phase the playwright who attempts to revive genuine drama produces the +disagreeable impression of the pedant who attempts to start a serious +discussion at a fashionable at-home. Later on, when he has driven the +tea services out and made the people who had come to use the theatre as +a drawing-room understand that it is they and not the dramatist who are +the intruders, he has to face the accusation that his plays ignore human +feeling, an illusion produced by that very resistance of fact and law to +human feeling which creates drama. It is the _deus ex machina_ who, by +suspending that resistance, makes the fall of the curtain an immediate +necessity, since drama ends exactly where resistance ends. Yet the +introduction of this resistance produces so strong an impression of +heartlessness nowadays that a distinguished critic has summed up the +impression made on him by Mrs Warren’s Profession, by declaring that +“the difference between the spirit of Tolstoy and the spirit of Mr +Shaw is the difference between the spirit of Christ and the spirit of +Euclid.” But the epigram would be as good if Tolstoy’s name were put in +place of mine and D’Annunzio’s in place of Tolstoy. At the same time +I accept the enormous compliment to my reasoning powers with sincere +complacency; and I promise my flatterer that when he is sufficiently +accustomed to and therefore undazzled by problem on the stage to be able +to attend to the familiar factor of humanity in it as well as to the +unfamiliar one of a real environment, he will both see and feel that +Mrs Warren’s Profession is no mere theorem, but a play of instincts +and temperaments in conflict with each other and with a flinty social +problem that never yields an inch to mere sentiment. + +I go further than this. I declare that the real secret of the +cynicism and inhumanity of which shallower critics accuse me is the +unexpectedness with which my characters behave like human beings, +instead of conforming to the romantic logic of the stage. The axioms and +postulates of that dreary mimanthropometry are so well known that it is +almost impossible for its slaves to write tolerable last acts to +their plays, so conventionally do their conclusions follow from their +premises. Because I have thrown this logic ruthlessly overboard, I am +accused of ignoring, not stage logic, but, of all things, human feeling. +People with completely theatrified imaginations tell me that no girl +would treat her mother as Vivie Warren does, meaning that no stage +heroine would in a popular sentimental play. They say this just as they +might say that no two straight lines would enclose a space. They do not +see how completely inverted their vision has become even when I throw +its preposterousness in their faces, as I repeatedly do in this very +play. Praed, the sentimental artist (fool that I was not to make him a +theatre critic instead of an architect!) burlesques them by expecting +all through the piece that the feelings of others will be logically +deducible from their family relationships and from his “conventionally +unconventional” social code. The sarcasm is lost on the critics: they, +saturated with the same logic, only think him the sole sensible person +on the stage. Thus it comes about that the more completely the dramatist +is emancipated from the illusion that men and women are primarily +reasonable beings, and the more powerfully he insists on the ruthless +indifference of their great dramatic antagonist, the external world, to +their whims and emotions, the surer he is to be denounced as blind to +the very distinction on which his whole work is built. Far from ignoring +idiosyncrasy, will, passion, impulse, whim, as factors in human action, +I have placed them so nakedly on the stage that the elderly citizen, +accustomed to see them clothed with the veil of manufactured logic about +duty, and to disguise even his own impulses from himself in this way, +finds the picture as unnatural as Carlyle’s suggested painting of +parliament sitting without its clothes. + +I now come to those critics who, intellectually baffled by the problem +in Mrs Warren’s Profession, have made a virtue of running away from it. +I will illustrate their method by quotation from Dickens, taken from the +fifth chapter of Our Mutual Friend: + +“Hem!” began Wegg. “This, Mr Boffin and Lady, is the first chapter of +the first wollume of the Decline and Fall off----” here he looked hard +at the book, and stopped. + +“What’s the matter, Wegg?” + +“Why, it comes into my mind, do you know, sir,” said Wegg with an air of +insinuating frankness (having first again looked hard at the book), “that +you made a little mistake this morning, which I had meant to set you +right in; only something put it out of my head. I think you said Rooshan +Empire, sir?” + +“It is Rooshan; ain’t it, Wegg?” + +“No, sir. Roman. Roman.” + +“What’s the difference, Wegg?” + +“The difference, sir?” Mr Wegg was faltering and in danger of breaking +down, when a bright thought flashed upon him. “The difference, sir? +There you place me in a difficulty, Mr Boffin. Suffice it to observe, +that the difference is best postponed to some other occasion when Mrs +Boffin does not honor us with her company. In Mrs Boffin’s presence, +sir, we had better drop it.” + +Mr Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage with quite a chivalrous air, +and not only that, but by dint of repeating with a manly delicacy, +“In Mrs Boffin’s presence, sir, we had better drop it!” turned the +disadvantage on Boffin, who felt that he had committed himself in a very +painful manner. + +I am willing to let Mr Wegg drop it on these terms, provided I am +allowed to mention here that Mrs Warren’s Profession is a play for +women; that it was written for women; that it has been performed and +produced mainly through the determination of women that it should be +performed and produced; that the enthusiasm of women made its first +performance excitingly successful; and that not one of these women had +any inducement to support it except their belief in the timeliness and +the power of the lesson the play teaches. Those who were “surprised to +see ladies present” were men; and when they proceeded to explain that +the journals they represented could not possibly demoralize the public +by describing such a play, their editors cruelly devoted the space saved +by their delicacy to an elaborate and respectful account of the progress +of a young lord’s attempt to break the bank at Monte Carlo. A few days +sooner Mrs Warren would have been crowded out of their papers by an +exceptionally abominable police case. I do not suggest that the police +case should have been suppressed; but neither do I believe that regard +for public morality had anything to do with their failure to grapple +with the performance by the Stage Society. And, after all, there was no +need to fall back on Silas Wegg’s subterfuge. Several critics saved the +faces of their papers easily enough by the simple expedient of saying +all they had to say in the tone of a shocked governess lecturing a +naughty child. To them I might plead, in Mrs Warren’s words, “Well, +it’s only good manners to be ashamed, dearie;” but it surprises me, +recollecting as I do the effect produced by Miss Fanny Brough’s delivery +of that line, that gentlemen who shivered like violets in a zephyr as +it swept through them, should so completely miss the full width of its +application as to go home and straightway make a public exhibition of +mock modesty. + +My old Independent Theatre manager, Mr Grein, besides that reproach to +me for shattering his ideals, complains that Mrs Warren is not wicked +enough, and names several romancers who would have clothed her black +soul with all the terrors of tragedy. I have no doubt they would; but +if you please, my dear Grein, that is just what I did not want to do. +Nothing would please our sanctimonious British public more than to throw +the whole guilt of Mrs Warren’s profession on Mrs Warren herself. Now +the whole aim of my play is to throw that guilt on the British public +itself. You may remember that when you produced my first play, Widowers’ +Houses, exactly the same misunderstanding arose. When the virtuous young +gentleman rose up in wrath against the slum landlord, the slum +landlord very effectively shewed him that slums are the product, not +of individual Harpagons, but of the indifference of virtuous young +gentlemen to the condition of the city they live in, provided they +live at the west end of it on money earned by someone else’s labor. The +notion that prostitution is created by the wickedness of Mrs Warren +is as silly as the notion--prevalent, nevertheless, to some extent in +Temperance circles--that drunkenness is created by the wickedness of +the publican. Mrs Warren is not a whit a worse woman than the reputable +daughter who cannot endure her. Her indifference to the ultimate social +consequences of her means of making money, and her discovery of that +means by the ordinary method of taking the line of least resistance to +getting it, are too common in English society to call for any special +remark. Her vitality, her thrift, her energy, her outspokenness, her +wise care of her daughter, and the managing capacity which has enabled +her and her sister to climb from the fried fish shop down by the Mint +to the establishments of which she boasts, are all high English social +virtues. Her defence of herself is so overwhelming that it provokes the +St James Gazette to declare that “the tendency of the play is wholly +evil” because “it contains one of the boldest and most specious defences +of an immoral life for poor women that has ever been penned.” Happily +the St James Gazette here speaks in its haste. Mrs Warren’s defence of +herself is not only bold and specious, but valid and unanswerable. +But it is no defence at all of the vice which she organizes. It is +no defence of an immoral life to say that the alternative offered +by society collectively to poor women is a miserable life, starved, +overworked, fetid, ailing, ugly. Though it is quite natural and RIGHT +for Mrs Warren to choose what is, according to her lights, the least +immoral alternative, it is none the less infamous of society to offer +such alternatives. For the alternatives offered are not morality and +immorality, but two sorts of immorality. The man who cannot see +that starvation, overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as +prostitution--that they are the vices and crimes of a nation, and +not merely its misfortunes--is (to put it as politely as possible) a +hopelessly Private Person. + +The notion that Mrs Warren must be a fiend is only an example of the +violence and passion which the slightest reference to sex arouses in +undisciplined minds, and which makes it seem natural for our lawgivers +to punish silly and negligible indecencies with a ferocity unknown in +dealing with, for example, ruinous financial swindling. Had my play been +titled Mr Warren’s Profession, and Mr Warren been a bookmaker, nobody +would have expected me to make him a villain as well. Yet gambling is +a vice, and bookmaking an institution, for which there is absolutely +nothing to be said. The moral and economic evil done by trying to get +other people’s money without working for it (and this is the essence of +gambling) is not only enormous but uncompensated. There are no two sides +to the question of gambling, no circumstances which force us to tolerate +it lest its suppression lead to worse things, no consensus of opinion +among responsible classes, such as magistrates and military commanders, +that it is a necessity, no Athenian records of gambling made splendid by +the talents of its professors, no contention that instead of violating +morals it only violates a legal institution which is in many respects +oppressive and unnatural, no possible plea that the instinct on which it +is founded is a vital one. Prostitution can confuse the issue with all +these excuses: gambling has none of them. Consequently, if Mrs Warren +must needs be a demon, a bookmaker must be a cacodemon. Well, does +anybody who knows the sporting world really believe that bookmakers are +worse than their neighbors? On the contrary, they have to be a good deal +better; for in that world nearly everybody whose social rank does not +exclude such an occupation would be a bookmaker if he could; but the +strength of character for handling large sums of money and for strict +settlements and unflinching payment of losses is so rare that successful +bookmakers are rare too. It may seem that at least public spirit +cannot be one of a bookmaker’s virtues; but I can testify from personal +experience that excellent public work is done with money subscribed +by bookmakers. It is true that there are abysses in bookmaking: for +example, welshing. Mr Grein hints that there are abysses in Mrs Warren’s +profession also. So there are in every profession: the error lies in +supposing that every member of them sounds these depths. I sit on a +public body which prosecutes Mrs Warren zealously; and I can assure Mr +Grein that she is often leniently dealt with because she has conducted +her business “respectably” and held herself above its vilest branches. +The degrees in infamy are as numerous and as scrupulously observed as +the degrees in the peerage: the moralist’s notion that there are depths +at which the moral atmosphere ceases is as delusive as the rich man’s +notion that there are no social jealousies or snobberies among the very +poor. No: had I drawn Mrs Warren as a fiend in human form, the very +people who now rebuke me for flattering her would probably be the +first to deride me for deducing her character logically from occupation +instead of observing it accurately in society. + +One critic is so enslaved by this sort of logic that he calls my +portraiture of the Reverend Samuel Gardner an attack on religion. + +According to this view Subaltern Iago is an attack on the army, Sir +John Falstaff an attack on knighthood, and King Claudius an attack on +royalty. Here again the clamor for naturalness and human feeling, raised +by so many critics when they are confronted by the real thing on the +stage, is really a clamor for the most mechanical and superficial sort +of logic. The dramatic reason for making the clergyman what Mrs Warren +calls “an old stick-in-the-mud,” whose son, in spite of much capacity +and charm, is a cynically worthless member of society, is to set up a +mordant contrast between him and the woman of infamous profession, with +her well brought-up, straightforward, hardworking daughter. The critics +who have missed the contrast have doubtless observed often enough that +many clergymen are in the Church through no genuine calling, but simply +because, in circles which can command preferment, it is the refuge +of “the fool of the family”; and that clergymen’s sons are often +conspicuous reactionists against the restraints imposed on them in +childhood by their father’s profession. These critics must know, too, +from history if not from experience, that women as unscrupulous as Mrs +Warren have distinguished themselves as administrators and rulers, both +commercially and politically. But both observation and knowledge are +left behind when journalists go to the theatre. Once in their stalls, +they assume that it is “natural” for clergymen to be saintly, for +soldiers to be heroic, for lawyers to be hard-hearted, for sailors to +be simple and generous, for doctors to perform miracles with little +bottles, and for Mrs Warren to be a beast and a demon. All this is not +only not natural, but not dramatic. A man’s profession only enters into +the drama of his life when it comes into conflict with his nature. The +result of this conflict is tragic in Mrs Warren’s case, and comic in the +clergyman’s case (at least we are savage enough to laugh at it); but +in both cases it is illogical, and in both cases natural. I repeat, +the critics who accuse me of sacrificing nature to logic are so +sophisticated by their profession that to them logic is nature, and +nature absurdity. + +Many friendly critics are too little skilled in social questions and +moral discussions to be able to conceive that respectable gentlemen like +themselves, who would instantly call the police to remove Mrs Warren if +she ventured to canvass them personally, could possibly be in any way +responsible for her proceedings. They remonstrate sincerely, asking me +what good such painful exposures can possibly do. They might as well ask +what good Lord Shaftesbury did by devoting his life to the exposure +of evils (by no means yet remedied) compared to which the worst things +brought into view or even into surmise by this play are trifles. +The good of mentioning them is that you make people so extremely +uncomfortable about them that they finally stop blaming “human nature” + for them, and begin to support measures for their reform. + +Can anything be more absurd than the copy of The Echo which contains a +notice of the performance of my play? It is edited by a gentleman who, +having devoted his life to work of the Shaftesbury type, exposes social +evils and clamors for their reform in every column except one; and that +one is occupied by the declaration of the paper’s kindly theatre critic, +that the performance left him “wondering what useful purpose the play +was intended to serve.” The balance has to be redressed by the more +fashionable papers, which usually combine capable art criticism with +West-End solecism on politics and sociology. It is very noteworthy, +however, on comparing the press explosion produced by Mrs Warren’s +Profession in 1902 with that produced by Widowers’ Houses about ten +years earlier, that whereas in 1892 the facts were frantically denied +and the persons of the drama flouted as monsters of wickedness, in +1902 the facts are admitted and the characters recognized, though it is +suggested that this is exactly why no gentleman should mention them in +public. Only one writer has ventured to imply this time that the poverty +mentioned by Mrs Warren has since been quietly relieved, and need +not have been dragged back to the footlights. I compliment him on his +splendid mendacity, in which he is unsupported, save by a little plea in +a theatrical paper which is innocent enough to think that ten guineas a +year with board and lodging is an impossibly low wage for a barmaid. It +goes on to cite Mr Charles Booth as having testified that there are +many laborers’ wives who are happy and contented on eighteen shillings +a week. But I can go further than that myself. I have seen an Oxford +agricultural laborer’s wife looking cheerful on eight shillings a week; +but that does not console me for the fact that agriculture in England +is a ruined industry. If poverty does not matter as long as it is +contented, then crime does not matter as long as it is unscrupulous. The +truth is that it is only then that it does matter most desperately. +Many persons are more comfortable when they are dirty than when they are +clean; but that does not recommend dirt as a national policy. + +Here I must for the present break off my arduous work of educating the +Press. We shall resume our studies later on; but just now I am tired of +playing the preceptor; and the eager thirst of my pupils for improvement +does not console me for the slowness of their progress. Besides, I must +reserve space to gratify my own vanity and do justice to the six artists +who acted my play, by placing on record the hitherto unchronicled +success of the first representation. It is not often that an author, +after a couple of hours of those rare alternations of excitement and +intensely attentive silence which only occur in the theatre when actors +and audience are reacting on one another to the utmost, is able to step +on the stage and apply the strong word genius to the representation with +the certainty of eliciting an instant and overwhelming assent from the +audience. That was my good fortune on the afternoon of Sunday, the fifth +of January last. I was certainly extremely fortunate in my interpreters +in the enterprise, and that not alone in respect of their artistic +talent; for had it not been for their superhuman patience, their +imperturbable good humor and good fellowship, there could have been no +performance. The terror of the Censor’s power gave us trouble enough to +break up any ordinary commercial enterprise. Managers promised and even +engaged their theatres to us after the most explicit warnings that the +play was unlicensed, and at the last moment suddenly realized that Mr +Redford had their livelihoods in the hollow of his hand, and backed +out. Over and over again the date and place were fixed and the tickets +printed, only to be canceled, until at last the desperate and overworked +manager of the Stage Society could only laugh, as criminals broken on +the wheel used to laugh at the second stroke. We rehearsed under great +difficulties. Christmas pieces and plays for the new year were being +produced in all directions; and my six actor colleagues were busy +people, with engagements in these pieces in addition to their current +professional work every night. On several raw winter days stages for +rehearsal were unattainable even by the most distinguished applicants; +and we shared corridors and saloons with them whilst the stage was +given over to children in training for Boxing night. At last we had to +rehearse at an hour at which no actor or actress has been out of bed +within the memory of man; and we sardonically congratulated one another +every morning on our rosy matutinal looks and the improvement wrought +by our early rising in our health and characters. And all this, please +observe, for a society without treasury or commercial prestige, for +a play which was being denounced in advance as unmentionable, for an +author without influence at the fashionable theatres! I victoriously +challenge the West End managers to get as much done for interested +motives, if they can. + +Three causes made the production the most notable that has fallen to my +lot. First, the veto of the Censor, which put the supporters of the play +on their mettle. Second, the chivalry of the Stage Society, which, in +spite of my urgent advice to the contrary, and my demonstration of the +difficulties, dangers, and expenses the enterprise would cost, put my +discouragements to shame and resolved to give battle at all costs to +the attempt of the Censorship to suppress the play. Third, the artistic +spirit of the actors, who made the play their own and carried it through +triumphantly in spite of a series of disappointments and annoyances much +more trying to the dramatic temperament than mere difficulties. + +The acting, too, required courage and character as well as skill and +intelligence. The veto of the Censor introduced quite a novel element of +moral responsibility into the undertaking. And the characters were very +unusual on the English stage. The younger heroine is, like her mother, +an Englishwoman to the backbone, and not, like the heroines of our +fashionable drama, a prima donna of Italian origin. Consequently she +was sure to be denounced as unnatural and undramatic by the critics. +The most vicious man in the play is not in the least a stage villain; +indeed, he regards his own moral character with the sincere complacency +of a hero of melodrama. The amiable devotee of romance and beauty is +shewn at an age which brings out the futilization which these worships +are apt to produce if they are made the staple of life instead of +the sauce. The attitude of the clever young people to their elders is +faithfully represented as one of pitiless ridicule and unsympathetic +criticism, and forms a spectacle incredible to those who, when young, +were not cleverer than their nearest elders, and painful to those +sentimental parents who shrink from the cruelty of youth, which pardons +nothing because it knows nothing. In short, the characters and their +relations are of a kind that the routineer critic has not yet learned +to place; so that their misunderstanding was a foregone conclusion. +Nevertheless, there was no hesitation behind the curtain. When it went +up at last, a stage much too small for the company was revealed to an +auditorium much too small for the audience. But the players, though it +was impossible for them to forget their own discomfort, at once made the +spectators forget theirs. It certainly was a model audience, responsive +from the first line to the last; and it got no less than it deserved in +return. + +I grieve to add that the second performance, given for the edification +of the London Press and of those members of the Stage Society who cannot +attend the Sunday performances, was a less inspiriting one than the +first. A solid phalanx of theatre-weary journalists in an afternoon +humor, most of them committed to irreconcilable disparagement of problem +plays, and all of them bound by etiquette to be as undemonstrative +as possible, is not exactly the sort of audience that rises at the +performers and cures them of the inevitable reaction after an excitingly +successful first night. The artist nature is a sensitive and therefore +a vindictive one; and masterful players have a way with recalcitrant +audiences of rubbing a play into them instead of delighting them with +it. I should describe the second performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession, +especially as to its earlier stages, as decidedly a rubbed-in one. The +rubbing was no doubt salutary; but it must have hurt some of the thinner +skins. The charm of the lighter passages fled; and the strong scenes, +though they again carried everything before them, yet discharged that +duty in a grim fashion, doing execution on the enemy rather than moving +them to repentance and confession. Still, to those who had not seen the +first performance, the effect was sufficiently impressive; and they +had the advantage of witnessing a fresh development in Mrs Warren, who, +artistically jealous, as I took it, of the overwhelming effect of the +end of the second act on the previous day, threw herself into the fourth +act in quite a new way, and achieved the apparently impossible feat of +surpassing herself. The compliments paid to Miss Fanny Brough by +the critics, eulogistic as they are, are the compliments of men +three-fourths duped as Partridge was duped by Garrick. By much of her +acting they were so completely taken in that they did not recognize it +as acting at all. Indeed, none of the six players quite escaped this +consequence of their own thoroughness. There was a distinct tendency +among the less experienced critics to complain of their sentiments and +behavior. Naturally, the author does not share that grievance. + +PICCARD’S COTTAGE, JANUARY 1902. + + + + + +MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + + +[Mrs Warren’s Profession was performed for the first time in the theatre +of the New Lyric Club, London, on the 5th and 6th January 1902, with +Madge McIntosh as Vivie, Julius Knight as Praed, Fanny Brough as Mrs +Warren, Charles Goodhart as Crofts, Harley Granville-Barker as Frank, +and Cosmo Stuart as the Reverend Samuel Gardner.] + + + + +ACT I + + +[Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a hill a +little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, the cottage is +seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and +porch, and a large latticed window to the left of the porch. A paling +completely shuts in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The +common rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some folded +canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side bench in the porch. A +lady’s bicycle is propped against the wall, under the window. A little +to the right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big +canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the hammock, +in which a young lady is reading and making notes, her head towards +the cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front of the hammock, +and within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of +serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper on it.] + +[A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind the +cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the artist +about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven +except for a moustache, with an eager susceptible face and very amiable +and considerate manners. He has silky black hair, with waves of grey and +white in it. His eyebrows are white, his moustache black. He seems not +certain of his way. He looks over the palings; takes stock of the place; +and sees the young lady.] + +THE GENTLEMAN [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you direct me +to Hindhead View--Mrs Alison’s? + +THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs Alison’s. [She +resumes her work]. + +THE GENTLEMAN. Indeed! Perhaps--may I ask are you Miss Vivie Warren? + +THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good look at +him] Yes. + +THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I’m afraid I appear intrusive. +My name is Praed. [Vivie at once throws her books upon the chair, and +gets out of the hammock]. Oh, pray don’t let me disturb you. + +VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr Praed. +[He comes in]. Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand and takes his +with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the +sensible, able, highly-educated young middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22. +Prompt, strong, confident, self-possessed. Plain business-like dress, +but not dowdy. She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen +and a paper knife among its pendants]. + +PRAED. Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate with a +vigorous slam. He passes in to the middle of the garden, exercising his +fingers, which are slightly numbed by her greeting]. Has your mother +arrived? + +VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming? + +PRAED [surprised] Didn’t you expect us? + +VIVIE. No. + +PRAED. Now, goodness me, I hope I’ve not mistaken the day. That would be +just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she was to come down +from London and that I was to come over from Horsham to be introduced to +you. + +VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? Hm! My mother has rather a trick of +taking me by surprise--to see how I behave myself while she’s away, I +suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one of +these days, if she makes arrangements that concern me without consulting +me beforehand. She hasnt come. + +PRAED [embarrassed] I’m really very sorry. + +VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It’s not your fault, Mr Praed, is +it? And I’m very glad you’ve come. You are the only one of my mother’s +friends I have ever asked her to bring to see me. + +PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good of you, +Miss Warren! + +VIVIE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here and talk? + +PRAED. It will be nicer out here, don’t you think? + +VIVIE. Then I’ll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch for a +garden chair]. + +PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands on the +chair]. + +VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers; theyre rather +dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair with the books +on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with +one swing]. + +PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now do let me take that +hard chair. I like hard chairs. + +VIVIE. So do I. Sit down, Mr Praed. [This invitation she gives with a +genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as +a sign of weakness of character on his part. But he does not immediately +obey]. + +PRAED. By the way, though, hadnt we better go to the station to meet +your mother? + +VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way. + +PRAED [disconcerted] Er--I suppose she does [he sits down]. + +VIVIE. Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope you are +disposed to be friends with me. + +PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my _dear_ Miss Warren; thank you. Dear +me! I’m so glad your mother hasnt spoilt you! + +VIVIE. How? + +PRAED. Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear Miss +Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils the relations +between parent and child; even between mother and daughter. Now I was +always afraid that your mother would strain her authority to make you +very conventional. It’s such a relief to find that she hasnt. + +VIVIE. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally? + +PRAED. Oh no: oh dear no. At least, not conventionally unconventionally, +you understand. [She nods and sits down. He goes on, with a cordial +outburst] But it was so charming of you to say that you were disposed +to be friends with me! You modern young ladies are splendid: perfectly +splendid! + +VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment as to +the quality of his brains and character]. + +PRAED. When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of each +other: there was no good fellowship. Nothing real. Only gallantry copied +out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly +reserve! gentlemanly chivalry! always saying no when you meant yes! +simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls. + +VIVIE. Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of time. +Especially women’s time. + +PRAED. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are improving. +Do you know, I have been in a positive state of excitement about meeting +you ever since your magnificent achievements at Cambridge: a thing +unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid, your tieing with the +third wrangler. Just the right place, you know. The first wrangler +is always a dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the +length of a disease. + +VIVIE. It doesn’t pay. I wouldn’t do it again for the same money. + +PRAED [aghast] The same money! + +VIVIE. Yes. Fifty pounds. Perhaps you don’t know how it was. Mrs Latham, +my tutor at Newnham, told my mother that I could distinguish myself in +the mathematical tripos if I went in for it in earnest. The papers were +full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the senior wrangler. You +remember about it, of course. + +PRAED [shakes his head energetically] !!! + +VIVIE. Well, anyhow, she did; and nothing would please my mother but +that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was not worth +my while to face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; but I +offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts for fifty pounds. She +closed with me at that, after a little grumbling; and I was better than +my bargain. But I wouldn’t do it again for that. Two hundred pounds would +have been nearer the mark. + +PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! Thats a very practical way of looking +at it. + +VIVIE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical person? + +PRAED. But surely it’s practical to consider not only the work these +honors cost, but also the culture they bring. + +VIVIE. Culture! My dear Mr Praed: do you know what the mathematical +tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind for six to eight hours a day +at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics. + +I’m supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing except +the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for engineers, +electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I know next to +nothing about engineering or electricity or insurance. I don’t even know +arithmetic well. Outside mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping, +cycling, and walking, I’m a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could +possibly be who hadn’t gone in for the tripos. + +PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I knew it! +I felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes womanhood +beautiful! + +VIVIE. I don’t object to it on that score in the least. I shall turn it +to very good account, I assure you. + +PRAED. Pooh! In what way? + +VIVIE. I shall set up chambers in the City, and work at actuarial +calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I shall do some law, +with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the time. I’ve come down here by +myself to read law: not for a holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate +holidays. + +PRAED. You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, no beauty +in your life? + +VIVIE. I don’t care for either, I assure you. + +PRAED. You can’t mean that. + +VIVIE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. When I’m +tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a little whisky, +and a novel with a good detective story in it. + +PRAED [rising in a frenzy of repudiation] I don’t believe it. I am an +artist; and I can’t believe it: I refuse to believe it. It’s only that +you havn’t discovered yet what a wonderful world art can open up to you. + +VIVIE. Yes I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with Honoria +Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of sightseeing together; but +I was really at Honoria’s chambers in Chancery Lane every day, working +away at actuarial calculations for her, and helping her as well as a +greenhorn could. In the evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt +of going out except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my +life. + +I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a +fee in the bargain. + +PRAED. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that +discovering art? + +VIVIE. Wait a bit. That wasn’t the beginning. I went up to town on an +invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn’s Avenue: one of the +girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery-- + +PRAED [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved]. + +VIVIE [continuing]--to the Opera-- + +PRAED [still more pleased] Good! + +VIVIE.--and to a concert where the band played all the evening: +Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldn’t go through that experience +again for anything you could offer me. I held out for civility’s sake +until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn’t stand +any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. N o w you know the sort +of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am. How do you think I shall +get on with my mother? + +PRAED [startled] Well, I hope--er-- + +VIVIE. It’s not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want +to know. + +PRAED. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little +disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know: I don’t +mean that. But you are so different from her ideal. + +VIVIE. Her what?! + +PRAED. Her ideal. + +VIVIE. Do you mean her ideal of ME? + +PRAED. Yes. + +VIVIE. What on earth is it like? + +PRAED. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are +dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think that the world +would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently. +Now your mother’s life has been--er--I suppose you know-- + +VIVIE. Don’t suppose anything, Mr Praed. I hardly know my mother. Since +I was a child I have lived in England, at school or at college, or with +people paid to take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my life. +My mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her. +I only see her when she visits England for a few days. I don’t complain: +it’s been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there +has always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But don’t imagine +I know anything about my mother. I know far less than you do. + +PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case--[He stops, quite at a loss. Then, +with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense we are talking! Of +course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and looks +abroad at the view]. What a charming little place you have here! + +VIVIE [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed. Why won’t +my mother’s life bear being talked about? + +PRAED. Oh, you mustn’t say that. Isn’t it natural that I should have a +certain delicacy in talking to my old friend’s daughter about her behind +her back? You and she will have plenty of opportunity of talking about +it when she comes. + +VIVIE. No: she won’t talk about it either. [Rising] However, I daresay +you have good reasons for telling me nothing. Only, mind this, Mr +Praed, I expect there will be a battle royal when my mother hears of my +Chancery Lane project. + +PRAED [ruefully] I’m afraid there will. + +VIVIE. Well, I shall win because I want nothing but my fare to London +to start there to-morrow earning my own living by devilling for Honoria. +Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall +use that advantage over her if necessary. + +PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh no! No, pray. Youd not do such a thing. + +VIVIE. Then tell me why not. + +PRAED. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She smiles at +his sentimentality]. Besides, you may be too bold. Your mother is not to +be trifled with when she’s angry. + +VIVIE. You can’t frighten me, Mr Praed. In that month at Chancery Lane I +had opportunities of taking the measure of one or two women v e r y like +my mother. You may back me to win. But if I hit harder in my ignorance +than I need, remember it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now, let us +drop the subject. [She takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock +with the same vigorous swing as before]. + +PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I had +better tell you. It’s very difficult; but-- + +[Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the gate. Mrs Warren is +between 40 and 50, formerly pretty, showily dressed in a brilliant +hat and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by +fashionable sleeves. Rather spoilt and domineering, and decidedly +vulgar, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old +blackguard of a woman.] + +[Crofts is a tall powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably dressed +in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than might be expected +from his strong frame. Clean-shaven bulldog jaws, large flat ears, and +thick neck: gentlemanly combination of the most brutal types of city +man, sporting man, and man about town.] + +VIVIE. Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden] How do, +mater? Mr Praed’s been here this half hour, waiting for you. + +MRS WARREN. Well, if you’ve been waiting, Praddy, it’s your own fault: +I thought youd have had the gumption to know I was coming by the 3.10 +train. Vivie: put your hat on, dear: youll get sunburnt. Oh, I forgot to +introduce you. Sir George Crofts: my little Vivie. + +[Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly manner. She nods, but +makes no motion to shake hands.] + +CROFTS. May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by +reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends? + +VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like. + +[She takes his tenderly proferred hand and gives it a squeeze that makes +him open his eyes; then turns away, and says to her mother] Will you +come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? [She goes into the porch +for the chairs]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, George, what do you think of her? + +CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands with her, +Praed? + +PRAED. Yes: it will pass off presently. + +CROFTS. I hope so. [Vivie reappears with two more chairs. He hurries to +her assistance]. Allow me. + +MRS WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the chairs, +dear. + +VIVIE [pitching them into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her hands +and turns to Mrs Warren]. Youd like some tea, wouldn’t you? + +MRS WARREN [sitting in Praed’s chair and fanning herself] I’m dying for +a drop to drink. + +VIVIE. I’ll see about it. [She goes into the cottage]. + +[Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant it by +Mrs Warren, on her left. He throws the other on the grass and sits down, +looking dejected and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in +his mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, fidgets around the garden on their +right.] + +MRS WARREN [to Praed, looking at Crofts] Just look at him, Praddy: he +looks cheerful, don’t he? He’s been worrying my life out these three +years to have that little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that Ive +done it, he’s quite out of countenance. [Briskly] Come! sit up, George; +and take your stick out of your mouth. [Crofts sulkily obeys]. + +PRAED. I think, you know--if you don’t mind my saying so--that we had +better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little girl. You see +she has really distinguished herself; and I’m not sure, from what I have +seen of her, that she is not older than any of us. + +MRS WARREN [greatly amused] Only listen to him, George! Older than any +of us! Well she _has_ been stuffing you nicely with her importance. + +PRAED. But young people are particularly sensitive about being treated +in that way. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and young people have to get all that nonsense taken +out of them, and good deal more besides. Don’t you interfere, Praddy: I +know how to treat my own child as well as you do. [Praed, with a grave +shake of his head, walks up the garden with his hands behind his back. +Mrs Warren pretends to laugh, but looks after him with perceptible +concern. Then, she whispers to Crofts] Whats the matter with him? What +does he take it like that for? + +CROFTS [morosely] Youre afraid of Praed. + +MRS WARREN. What! Me! Afraid of dear old Praddy! Why, a fly wouldn’t be +afraid of him. + +CROFTS. _You’re_ afraid of him. + +MRS WARREN [angry] I’ll trouble you to mind your own business, and not +try any of your sulks on me. I’m not afraid of y o u, anyhow. If you +can’t make yourself agreeable, youd better go home. [She gets up, and, +turning her back on him, finds herself face to face with Praed]. Come, +Praddy, I know it was only your tender-heartedness. Youre afraid I’ll +bully her. + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: you think I’m offended. Don’t imagine that: pray +don’t. But you know I often notice things that escape you; and though you +never take my advice, you sometimes admit afterwards that you ought to +have taken it. + +MRS WARREN. Well, what do you notice now? + +PRAED. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray, Kitty, treat her with +every respect. + +MRS WARREN [with genuine amazement] Respect! Treat my own daughter with +respect! What next, pray! + +VIVIE [appearing at the cottage door and calling to Mrs Warren] Mother: +will you come to my room before tea? + +MRS WARREN. Yes, dearie. [She laughs indulgently at Praed’s gravity, and +pats him on the cheek as she passes him on her way to the porch]. Don’t +be cross, Praddy. [She follows Vivie into the cottage]. + +CROFTS [furtively] I say, Praed. + +PRAED. Yes. + +CROFTS. I want to ask you a rather particular question. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He takes Mrs Warren’s chair and sits close to +Crofts]. + +CROFTS. Thats right: they might hear us from the window. Look here: did +Kitty every tell you who that girl’s father is? + +PRAED. Never. + +CROFTS. Have you any suspicion of who it might be? + +PRAED. None. + +CROFTS [not believing him] I know, of course, that you perhaps might +feel bound not to tell if she had said anything to you. But it’s very +awkward to be uncertain about it now that we shall be meeting the girl +every day. We don’t exactly know how we ought to feel towards her. + +PRAED. What difference can that make? We take her on her own merits. +What does it matter who her father was? + +CROFTS [suspiciously] Then you know who he was? + +PRAED [with a touch of temper] I said no just now. Did you not hear me? + +CROFTS. Look here, Praed. I ask you as a particular favor. If you _do_ +know [movement of protest from Praed]--I only say, if you know, +you might at least set my mind at rest about her. The fact is, I fell +attracted. + +PRAED [sternly] What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Oh, don’t be alarmed: it’s quite an innocent feeling. Thats what +puzzles me about it. Why, for all I know, _I_ might be her father. + +PRAED. You! Impossible! + +CROFTS [catching him up cunningly] You know for certain that I’m not? + +PRAED. I know nothing about it, I tell you, any more than you. But +really, Crofts--oh no, it’s out of the question. Theres not the least +resemblance. + +CROFTS. As to that, theres no resemblance between her and her mother +that I can see. I suppose she’s not y o u r daughter, is she? + +PRAED [rising indignantly] Really, Crofts--! + +CROFTS. No offence, Praed. Quite allowable as between two men of the +world. + +PRAED [recovering himself with an effort and speaking gently and +gravely] Now listen to me, my dear Crofts. [He sits down again]. + +I have nothing to do with that side of Mrs Warren’s life, and never had. +She has never spoken to me about it; and of course I have never spoken +to her about it. Your delicacy will tell you that a handsome woman needs +some friends who are not--well, not on that footing with her. The effect +of her own beauty would become a torment to her if she could not escape +from it occasionally. You are probably on much more confidential terms +with Kitty than I am. Surely you can ask her the question yourself. + +CROFTS. I h a v e asked her, often enough. But she’s so determined to +keep the child all to herself that she would deny that it ever had a +father if she could. [Rising] I’m thoroughly uncomfortable about it, +Praed. + +PRAED [rising also] Well, as you are, at all events, old enough to be +her father, I don’t mind agreeing that we both regard Miss Vivie in a +parental way, as a young girl who we are bound to protect and help. What +do you say? + +CROFTS [aggressively] I’m no older than you, if you come to that. + +PRAED. Yes you are, my dear fellow: you were born old. I was born a boy: +Ive never been able to feel the assurance of a grown-up man in my life. +[He folds his chair and carries it to the porch]. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within the cottage] Prad-dee! George! +Tea-ea-ea-ea! + +CROFTS [hastily] She’s calling us. [He hurries in]. + +[Praed shakes his head bodingly, and is following Crofts when he is +hailed by a young gentleman who has just appeared on the common, and is +making for the gate. He is pleasant, pretty, smartly dressed, cleverly +good-for-nothing, not long turned 20, with a charming voice and +agreeably disrespectful manners. He carries a light sporting magazine +rifle.] + +THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed! + +PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands cordially]. +What on earth are you doing here? + +FRANK. Staying with my father. + +PRAED. The Roman father? + +FRANK. He’s rector here. I’m living with my people this autumn for the +sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the Roman father had +to pay my debts. He’s stony broke in consequence; and so am I. What are +you up to in these parts? do you know the people here? + +PRAED. Yes: I’m spending the day with a Miss Warren. + +FRANK [enthusiastically] What! Do you know Vivie? Isn’t she a jolly girl? +I’m teaching her to shoot with this [putting down the rifle]. I’m so +glad she knows you: youre just the sort of fellow she ought to know. +[He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a singing tone as he +exclaims] It’s e v e r so jolly to find you here, Praed. + +PRAED. I’m an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me over to +make her daughter’s acquaintance. + +FRANK. The mother! Is _she_ here? + +PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within] Prad-dee-ee-ee-eee! The tea-cake’ll be +cold. + +PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. I’ve just met a friend +here. + +MRS WARREN. A what? + +PRAED [louder] A friend. + +MRS WARREN. Bring him in. + +PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation? + +FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused] Is that Vivie’s mother? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she’ll like me? + +PRAED. I’ve no doubt youll make yourself popular, as usual. Come in and +try [moving towards the house]. + +FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my confidence. + +PRAED. Pray don’t. It’s only some fresh folly, like the barmaid at +Redhill. + +FRANK. It’s ever so much more serious than that. You say you’ve only just +met Vivie for the first time? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK [rhapsodically] Then you can have no idea what a girl she is. Such +character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my eye, Praed, but I can +tell you she is clever! And--need I add?--she loves me. + +CROFTS [putting his head out of the window] I say, Praed: what are you +about? Do come along. [He disappears]. + +FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog show, ain’t +he? Who’s he? + +PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren’s. I think we had +better come in. + +[On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate. +Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it.] + +THE CLERGYMAN [calling] Frank! + +FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] Yes, +gov’nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: youd better +go in to tea. I’ll join you directly. + +PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage]. + +[The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of +it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established +Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy, +important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the +family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously +asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command +respect in either capacity.] + +REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask? + +FRANK. Oh, it’s all right, gov’nor! Come in. + +REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering. + +FRANK. It’s all right. It’s Miss Warren’s. + +REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. + +FRANK. Of course not: she’s a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took +a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach? + +REV. S. Don’t be disrespectful, sir. + +FRANK. Oh, it don’t matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the gate, +unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden]. I want to +introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me last July, +gov’nor? + +REV. S. [severely] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and +flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on +it and not upon me. + +FRANK. No: thats what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said +was that since I had neither brains nor money, I’d better turn my good +looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss +Warren has brains: you can’t deny that. + +REV. S. Brains are not everything. + +FRANK. No, of course not: theres the money-- + +REV. S. [interrupting him austerely] I was not thinking of money, sir. I +was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance. + +FRANK. I don’t care a rap about that. + +REV. S. But I do, sir. + +FRANK. Well, nobody wants y o u to marry her. Anyhow, she has what +amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money +as she wants. + +REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor] I greatly doubt whether +she has as much money as y o u will want. + +FRANK. Oh, come: I havn’t been so very extravagant. I live ever so +quietly; I don’t drink; I don’t bet much; and I never go regularly to the +razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age. + +REV. S. [booming hollowly] Silence, sir. + +FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass +of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman +fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when-- + +REV. S. [terrified] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! [He looks round +apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom +again, but more subduedly]. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of +what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you +would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father’s +follies, sir; and don’t make them an excuse for your own. + +FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his +letters? + +REV. S. No, sir; and I don’t want to hear it. + +FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn’t throw away fifty pounds: not he. He +just wrote: “Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, +Wellington.” Thats what you should have done. + +REV. S. [piteously] Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put +myself into that woman’s power. When I told you about them I put myself, +to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money +with these words, which I shall never forget. “Knowledge is power” she +said; “and I never sell power.” + +Thats more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her +power or caused me a moment’s uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me +than she did, Frank. + +FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach +at me every day? + +REV. S. [wounded almost to tears] I leave you, sir. You are +incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate]. + +FRANK [utterly unmoved] Tell them I shan’t be home to tea, will you, +gov’nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is +met by Praed and Vivie coming out]. + +VIVIE [to Frank] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him. + +FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov’nor. Youre wanted. [The +parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses +the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities]. +My father: Miss Warren. + +VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand] Very glad to see +you here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come along: youre +wanted. + +[Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed, +recognizing the clergyman.] + +VIVIE [continuing] Let me introduce-- + +MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel] Why it’s Sam Gardner, gone +into the Church! Well, I never! Don’t you know us, Sam? This is George +Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don’t you remember me? + +REV. S. [very red] I really--er-- + +MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters +still: I came across them only the other day. + +REV. S. [miserably confused] Miss Vavasour, I believe. + +MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper] Tch! Nonsense! Mrs +Warren: don’t you see my daughter there? + + + + +ACT II + + +[Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within +instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains +drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with +the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door +leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser +with a candle and matches on it, and Frank’s rifle standing beside them, +with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands +with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie’s books and writing materials are on a +table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on +the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set +right and left of the table.] + +[The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs +Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, +followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had +enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat; +takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the +table.] + +MRS WARREN. O Lord! I don’t know which is the worst of the country, the +walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. I could do with a +whisky and soda now very well, if only they had such a things in this +place. + +FRANK. Perhaps Vivie’s got some. + +MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing with +such things! Never mind: it don’t matter. I wonder how she passes her +time here! I’d a good deal rather be in Vienna. + +FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her shawl, +gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze as he does +so]. + +MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I’m beginning to think youre a chip of the +old block. + +FRANK. Like the gov’nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest chair, +and sits down]. + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things? + +Youre only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from +temptation]. + +FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It’d be ever such larks. + +MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you--at least not +until youre a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize this piece of +advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes. +She looks at him; then comes back to him]. Now, look here, little boy +[taking his face in her hands and turning it up to her]: I know you +through and through by your likeness to your father, better than you +know yourself. Don’t you go taking any silly ideas into your head about +me. Do you hear? + +FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice] Can’t help it, my dear Mrs +Warren: it runs in the family. + +[She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing +upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and +immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.] + +MRS WARREN. There! I shouldn’t have done that. I _am_ wicked. Never you +mind, my dear: it’s only a motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie. + +FRANK. So I have. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her voice] +What! + +FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums. + +MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I won’t have any young scamp +tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I won’t have it. + +FRANK [quite unabashed] My dear Mrs Warren: don’t you be alarmed. My +intentions are honorable: ever so honorable; and your little girl is +jolly well able to take care of herself. She don’t need looking after +half so much as her mother. She ain’t so handsome, you know. + +MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a nice +healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I don’t know where you got it. +Not from your father, anyhow. + +CROFTS [in the garden] The gipsies, I suppose? + +REV. S. [replying] The broomsquires are far worse. + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] S-sh! Remember! you’ve had your warning. + +[Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, the +clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.] + +REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable. + +MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And wheres Praddy and Vivie? + +CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the chimney +corner] They went up the hill. We went to the village. I wanted a drink. +[He sits down on the settle, putting his legs up along the seat]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtn’t to go off like that without telling me. +[To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are your manners? +[Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes +another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the middle, with +his father on his right and Mrs Warren on his left]. George: where are +you going to stay to-night? You can’t stay here. And whats Praddy going +to do? + +CROFTS. Gardner’ll put me up. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt you’ve taken care of yourself! But what about +Praddy? + +CROFTS. Don’t know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn. + +MRS WARREN. Havn’t you room for him, Sam? + +REV. S. Well--er--you see, as rector here, I am not free to do as I +like. Er--what is Mr Praed’s social position? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, he’s all right: he’s an architect. What an old +stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam! + +FRANK. Yes, it’s all right, gov’nor. He built that place down in Wales +for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must have heard of it. +[He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs Warren, and regards his father +blandly]. + +REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. I +suppose he knows the Duke personally. + +FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina’s old room. + +MRS WARREN. Well, thats settled. Now if those two would only come in and +let us have supper. Theyve no right to stay out after dark like this. + +CROFTS [aggressively] What harm are they doing you? + +MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I don’t like it. + +FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay out as +long as possible. He has never known before what it is to stray over the +heath on a summer night with my Vivie. + +CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation] I say, you know! Come! + +REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into real force +and sincerity] Frank, once and for all, it’s out of the question. Mrs +Warren will tell you that it’s not to be thought of. + +CROFTS. Of course not. + +FRANK [with enchanting placidity] Is that so, Mrs Warren? + +MRS WARREN [reflectively] Well, Sam, I don’t know. If the girl wants to +get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried. + +REV. S. [astounded] But married to _him!_--your daughter to my son! Only +think: it’s impossible. + +CROFTS. Of course it’s impossible. Don’t be a fool, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [nettled] Why not? Isn’t my daughter good enough for your son? + +REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons-- + +MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you can tell +them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your congregation, if you like. + +REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair] You know very well that I +couldn’t tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe me when I tell +him there a r e reasons. + +FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy’s conduct ever been +influenced by your reasons? + +CROFTS. You can’t marry her; and thats all about it. [He gets up +and stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, frowning +determinedly]. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply] What have you got to do with it, +pray? + +FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence] Precisely what I was going to +ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion. + +CROFTS [to Mrs Warren] I suppose you don’t want to marry the girl to a +man younger than herself and without either a profession or twopence to +keep her on. Ask Sam, if you don’t believe me. [To the parson] How much +more money are you going to give him? + +REV. S. Not another penny. He has had his patrimony; and he spent the +last of it in July. [Mrs Warren’s face falls]. + +CROFTS [watching her] There! I told you. [He resumes his place on +the settle and puts his legs on the seat again, as if the matter were +finally disposed of]. + +FRANK [plaintively] This is ever so mercenary. Do you suppose Miss +Warren’s going to marry for money? If we love one another-- + +MRS WARREN. Thank you. Your love’s a pretty cheap commodity, my lad. +If you have no means of keeping a wife, that settles it; you can’t have +Vivie. + +FRANK [much amused] What do y o u say, gov’nor, eh? + +REV. S. I agree with Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. And good old Crofts has already expressed his opinion. + +CROFTS [turning angrily on his elbow] Look here: I want none of your +cheek. + +FRANK [pointedly] I’m e v e r so sorry to surprise you, Crofts; but you +allowed yourself the liberty of speaking to me like a father a moment +ago. One father is enough, thank you. + +CROFTS [contemptuously] Yah! [He turns away again]. + +FRANK [rising] Mrs Warren: I cannot give my Vivie up, even for your +sake. + +MRS WARREN [muttering] Young scamp! + +FRANK [continuing] And as you no doubt intend to hold out other +prospects to her, I shall lose no time in placing my case before her. +[They stare at him; and he begins to declaim gracefully] He either fears +his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to +the touch, To gain or lose it all. + +[The cottage doors open whilst he is reciting; and Vivie and Praed +come in. He breaks off. Praed puts his hat on the dresser. There is an +immediate improvement in the company’s behavior. Crofts takes down his +legs from the settle and pulls himself together as Praed joins him at +the fireplace. Mrs Warren loses her ease of manner and takes refuge in +querulousness.] + +MRS WARREN. Wherever have you been, Vivie? + +VIVIE [taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly on the table] On +the hill. + +MRS WARREN. Well, you shouldn’t go off like that without letting me know. +How could I tell what had become of you? And night coming on too! + +VIVIE [going to the door of the kitchen and opening it, ignoring her +mother] Now, about supper? [All rise except Mrs Warren] We shall be +rather crowded in here, I’m afraid. + +MRS WARREN. Did you hear what I said, Vivie? + +VIVIE [quietly] Yes, mother. [Reverting to the supper difficulty] How +many are we? [Counting] One, two, three, four, five, six. Well, two will +have to wait until the rest are done: Mrs Alison has only plates and +knives for four. + +PRAED. Oh, it doesn’t matter about me. I-- + +VIVIE. You have had a long walk and are hungry, Mr Praed: you shall have +your supper at once. I can wait myself. I want one person to wait with +me. Frank: are you hungry? + +FRANK. Not the least in the world. Completely off my peck, in fact. + +MRS WARREN [to Crofts] Neither are you, George. You can wait. + +CROFTS. Oh, hang it, I’ve eaten nothing since tea-time. Can’t Sam do it? + +FRANK. Would you starve my poor father? + +REV. S. [testily] Allow me to speak for myself, sir. I am perfectly +willing to wait. + +VIVIE [decisively] There’s no need. Only two are wanted. [She opens +the door of the kitchen]. Will you take my mother in, Mr Gardner. [The +parson takes Mrs Warren; and they pass into the kitchen. Praed and +Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly disapprove of the arrangement, +but do not know how to resist it. Vivie stands at the door looking in +at them]. Can you squeeze past to that corner, Mr Praed: it’s rather a +tight fit. Take care of your coat against the white-wash: that right. +Now, are you all comfortable? + +PRAED [within] Quite, thank you. + +MRS WARREN [within] Leave the door open, dearie. [Vivie frowns; but +Frank checks her with a gesture, and steals to the cottage door, which +he softly sets wide open]. Oh Lor, what a draught! Youd better shut it, +dear. + +[Vivie shuts it with a slam, and then, noting with disgust that her +mother’s hat and shawl are lying about, takes them tidily to the window +seat, whilst Frank noiselessly shuts the cottage door.] + +FRANK [exulting] Aha! Got rid of em. Well, Vivvums: what do you think of +my governor? + +VIVIE [preoccupied and serious] I’ve hardly spoken to him. He doesn’t +strike me as a particularly able person. + +FRANK. Well, you know, the old man is not altogether such a fool as he +looks. You see, he was shoved into the Church, rather; and in trying to +live up to it he makes a much bigger ass of himself than he really is. I +don’t dislike him as much as you might expect. He means well. How do you +think youll get on with him? + +VIVIE [rather grimly] I don’t think my future life will be much concerned +with him, or with any of that old circle of my mother’s, except perhaps +Praed. [She sits down on the settle] What do you think of my mother? + +FRANK. Really and truly? + +VIVIE. Yes, really and truly. + +FRANK. Well, she’s ever so jolly. But she’s rather a caution, isn’t she? +And Crofts! Oh, my eye, Crofts! [He sits beside her]. + +VIVIE. What a lot, Frank! + +FRANK. What a crew! + +VIVIE [with intense contempt for them] If I thought that _I_ was like +that--that I was going to be a waster, shifting along from one meal to +another with no purpose, and no character, and no grit in me, I’d open +an artery and bleed to death without one moment’s hesitation. + +FRANK. Oh no, you wouldn’t. Why should they take any grind when they can +afford not to? I wish I had their luck. No: what I object to is their +form. It isn’t the thing: it’s slovenly, ever so slovenly. + +VIVIE. Do you think your form will be any better when youre as old as +Crofts, if you don’t work? + +FRANK. Of course I do. Ever so much better. Vivvums mustn’t lecture: her +little boy’s incorrigible. [He attempts to take her face caressingly in +his hands]. + +VIVIE [striking his hands down sharply] Off with you: Vivvums is not in +a humor for petting her little boy this evening. [She rises and comes +forward to the other side of the room]. + +FRANK [following her] How unkind! + +VIVIE [stamping at him] Be serious. I’m serious. + +FRANK. Good. Let us talk learnedly, Miss Warren: do you know that all +the most advanced thinkers are agreed that half the diseases of modern +civilization are due to starvation of the affections of the young. Now, +_I_-- + +VIVIE [cutting him short] You are very tiresome. [She opens the inner +door] Have you room for Frank there? He’s complaining of starvation. + +MRS WARREN [within] Of course there is [clatter of knives and glasses +as she moves the things on the table]. Here! theres room now beside me. +Come along, Mr Frank. + +FRANK. Her little boy will be ever so even with his Vivvums for this. +[He passes into the kitchen]. + +MRS WARREN [within] Here, Vivie: come on you too, child. You must be +famished. [She enters, followed by Crofts, who holds the door open with +marked deference. She goes out without looking at him; and he shuts the +door after her]. Why George, you can’t be done: you’ve eaten nothing. Is +there anything wrong with you? + +CROFTS. Oh, all I wanted was a drink. [He thrusts his hands in his +pockets, and begins prowling about the room, restless and sulky]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I like enough to eat. But a little of that cold +beef and cheese and lettuce goes a long way. [With a sigh of only half +repletion she sits down lazily on the settle]. + +CROFTS. What do you go encouraging that young pup for? + +MRS WARREN [on the alert at once] Now see here, George: what are you +up to about that girl? I’ve been watching your way of looking at her. +Remember: I know you and what your looks mean. + +CROFTS. Theres no harm in looking at her, is there? + +MRS WARREN. I’d put you out and pack you back to London pretty soon if +I saw any of your nonsense. My girl’s little finger is more to me than +your whole body and soul. [Crofts receives this with a sneering grin. +Mrs Warren, flushing a little at her failure to impose on him in the +character of a theatrically devoted mother, adds in a lower key] Make +your mind easy: the young pup has no more chance than you have. + +CROFTS. Mayn’t a man take an interest in a girl? + +MRS WARREN. Not a man like you. + +CROFTS. How old is she? + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind how old she is. + +CROFTS. Why do you make such a secret of it? + +MRS WARREN. Because I choose. + +CROFTS. Well, I’m not fifty yet; and my property is as good as it ever +was-- + +MRS [interrupting him] Yes; because youre as stingy as youre vicious. + +CROFTS [continuing] And a baronet isn’t to be picked up every day. + +No other man in my position would put up with you for a mother-in-law. +Why shouldn’t she marry me? + +MRS WARREN. You! + +CROFTS. We three could live together quite comfortably. I’d die before +her and leave her a bouncing widow with plenty of money. Why not? It’s +been growing in my mind all the time I’ve been walking with that fool +inside there. + +MRS WARREN [revolted] Yes; it’s the sort of thing that _would_ grow in +your mind. + +[He halts in his prowling; and the two look at one another, she +steadfastly, with a sort of awe behind her contemptuous disgust: he +stealthily, with a carnal gleam in his eye and a loose grin.] + +CROFTS [suddenly becoming anxious and urgent as he sees no sign of +sympathy in her] Look here, Kitty: youre a sensible woman: you needn’t +put on any moral airs. I’ll ask no more questions; and you need answer +none. I’ll settle the whole property on her; and if you want a checque +for yourself on the wedding day, you can name any figure you like--in +reason. + +MRS WARREN. So it’s come to that with you, George, like all the other +worn-out old creatures! + +CROFTS [savagely] Damn you! + +[Before she can retort the door of the kitchen is opened; and the +voices of the others are heard returning. Crofts, unable to recover his +presence of mind, hurries out of the cottage. The clergyman appears at +the kitchen door.] + +REV. S. [looking round] Where is Sir George? + +MRS WARREN. Gone out to have a pipe. [The clergyman takes his hat from +the table, and joins Mrs Warren at the fireside. Meanwhile, Vivie comes +in, followed by Frank, who collapses into the nearest chair with an air +of extreme exhaustion. Mrs Warren looks round at Vivie and says, with +her affectation of maternal patronage even more forced than usual] Well, +dearie: have you had a good supper? + +VIVIE. You know what Mrs Alison’s suppers are. [She turns to Frank and +pets him] Poor Frank! was all the beef gone? did it get nothing but +bread and cheese and ginger beer? [Seriously, as if she had done quite +enough trifling for one evening] Her butter is really awful. I must get +some down from the stores. + +FRANK. Do, in Heaven’s name! + +[Vivie goes to the writing-table and makes a memorandum to order the +butter. Praed comes in from the kitchen, putting up his handkerchief, +which he has been using as a napkin.] + +REV. S. Frank, my boy: it is time for us to be thinking of home. + +Your mother does not know yet that we have visitors. + +PRAED. I’m afraid we’re giving trouble. + +FRANK [rising] Not the least in the world: my mother will be delighted +to see you. She’s a genuinely intellectual artistic woman; and she sees +nobody here from one year’s end to another except the gov’nor; so you +can imagine how jolly dull it pans out for her. [To his father] Y o u +r e not intellectual or artistic: are you pater? So take Praed home at +once; and I’ll stay here and entertain Mrs Warren. Youll pick up Crofts +in the garden. He’ll be excellent company for the bull-pup. + +PRAED [taking his hat from the dresser, and coming close to Frank] Come +with us, Frank. Mrs Warren has not seen Miss Vivie for a long time; and +we have prevented them from having a moment together yet. + +FRANK [quite softened, and looking at Praed with romantic admiration] +Of course. I forgot. Ever so thanks for reminding me. Perfect gentleman, +Praddy. Always were. My ideal through life. [He rises to go, but +pauses a moment between the two older men, and puts his hand on Praed’s +shoulder]. Ah, if you had only been my father instead of this unworthy +old man! [He puts his other hand on his father’s shoulder]. + +REV. S. [blustering] Silence, sir, silence: you are profane. + +MRS WARREN [laughing heartily] You should keep him in better order, Sam. +Good-night. Here: take George his hat and stick with my compliments. + +REV. S. [taking them] Good-night. [They shake hands. As he passes Vivie +he shakes hands with her also and bids her good-night. Then, in booming +command, to Frank] Come along, sir, at once. [He goes out]. + +MRS WARREN. Byebye, Praddy. + +PRAED. Byebye, Kitty. + +[They shake hands affectionately and go out together, she accompanying +him to the garden gate.] + +FRANK [to Vivie] Kissums? + +VIVIE [fiercely] No. I hate you. [She takes a couple of books and some +paper from the writing-table, and sits down with them at the middle +table, at the end next the fireplace]. + +FRANK [grimacing] Sorry. [He goes for his cap and rifle. Mrs Warren +returns. He takes her hand] Good-night, dear Mrs Warren. [He kisses her +hand. She snatches it away, her lips tightening, and looks more than +half disposed to box his ears. He laughs mischievously and runs off, +clapping-to the door behind him]. + +MRS WARREN [resigning herself to an evening of boredom now that the men +are gone] Did you ever in your life hear anyone rattle on so? Isn’t he a +tease? [She sits at the table]. Now that I think of it, dearie, don’t you +go encouraging him. I’m sure he’s a regular good-for-nothing. + +VIVIE [rising to fetch more books] I’m afraid so. Poor Frank! I shall +have to get rid of him; but I shall feel sorry for him, though he’s +not worth it. That man Crofts does not seem to me to be good for much +either: is he? [She throws the books on the table rather roughly]. + +MRS WARREN [galled by Vivie’s indifference] What do you know of men, +child, to talk that way of them? Youll have to make up your mind to see +a good deal of Sir George Crofts, as he’s a friend of mine. + +VIVIE [quite unmoved] Why? [She sits down and opens a book]. Do you +expect that we shall be much together? You and I, I mean? + +MRS WARREN [staring at her] Of course: until youre married. Youre not +going back to college again. + +VIVIE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? I doubt it. + +MRS WARREN. Y o u r way of life! What do you mean? + +VIVIE [cutting a page of her book with the paper knife on her +chatelaine] Has it really never occurred to you, mother, that I have a +way of life like other people? + +MRS WARREN. What nonsense is this youre trying to talk? Do you want to +shew your independence, now that youre a great little person at school? +Don’t be a fool, child. + +VIVIE [indulgently] Thats all you have to say on the subject, is it, +mother? + +MRS WARREN [puzzled, then angry] Don’t you keep on asking me questions +like that. [Violently] Hold your tongue. [Vivie works on, losing no +time, and saying nothing]. You and your way of life, indeed! What next? +[She looks at Vivie again. No reply]. + +Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another pause]. +Ive been noticing these airs in you ever since you got that tripos or +whatever you call it. If you think I’m going to put up with them, youre +mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, the better. [Muttering] All I +have to say on the subject, indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily] Do +you know who youre speaking to, Miss? + +VIVIE [looking across at her without raising her head from her book] No. +Who are you? What are you? + +MRS WARREN [rising breathless] You young imp! + +VIVIE. Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and the +profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. What is that +way of life which you invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts, +pray? + +MRS WARREN. Take care. I shall do something I’ll be sorry for after, and +you too. + +VIVIE [putting aside her books with cool decision] Well, let us drop the +subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking critically at her +mother] You want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set you up. +You are shockingly out of condition: you were not able to manage twenty +yards uphill today without stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere +rolls of fat. Look at mine. [She holds out her wrists]. + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper] Vivie-- + +VIVIE [springing up sharply] Now pray don’t begin to cry. Anything but +that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go out of the room if you +do. + +MRS WARREN [piteously] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on me? +Have I no rights over you as your mother? + +VIVIE. A r e you my mother? + +MRS WARREN. _Am_ I your mother? Oh, Vivie! + +VIVIE. Then where are our relatives? my father? our family friends? You +claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me fool and child; to +speak to me as no woman in authority over me at college dare speak to +me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me the acquaintance of +a brute whom anyone can see to be the most vicious sort of London man +about town. Before I give myself the trouble to resist such claims, I +may as well find out whether they have any real existence. + +MRS WARREN [distracted, throwing herself on her knees] Oh no, no. + +Stop, stop. I _am_ your mother: I swear it. Oh, you can’t mean to turn on +me--my own child! it’s not natural. You believe me, don’t you? Say you +believe me. + +VIVIE. Who was my father? + +MRS WARREN. You don’t know what youre asking. I can’t tell you. + +VIVIE [determinedly] Oh yes you can, if you like. I have a right to +know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can refuse +to tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me +tomorrow morning. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s too horrible to hear you talk like that. You +wouldn’t--you _couldn’t_ leave me. + +VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment’s hesitation, if you trifle +with me about this. [Shivering with disgust] How can I feel sure that I +may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins? + +MRS WARREN. No, no. On my oath it’s not he, nor any of the rest that you +have ever met. I’m certain of that, at least. + +[Vivie’s eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this +flashes on her.] + +VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at _least_. Ah! You mean that +that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully] I see. [Mrs Warren buries +her face in her hands]. Don’t do that, mother: you know you don’t feel +it a bit. [Mrs Warren takes down her hands and looks up deplorably +at Vivie, who takes out her watch and says] Well, that is enough for +tonight. At what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too +early for you? + +MRS WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you? + +VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. +Otherwise I don’t understand how it gets its business done. + +Come [taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty +resolutely]: pull yourself together. Thats right. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Youre very rough with me, Vivie. + +VIVIE. Nonsense. What about bed? It’s past ten. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] Whats the use of my going to bed? Do you think +I could sleep? + +VIVIE. Why not? I shall. + +MRS WARREN. You! you’ve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in +her natural tongue--the dialect of a woman of the people--with all her +affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners gone, and an +overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in her] Oh, I wont +bear it: I won’t put up with the injustice of it. What right have you to +set yourself up above me like this? You boast of what you are to me--to +_me_, who gave you a chance of being what you are. What chance had I? +Shame on you for a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude! + +VIVIE [sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her replies, +which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring +rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother] +Don’t think for a moment I set myself above you in any way. You attacked +me with the conventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with +the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not +going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not +expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your right to +your own opinions and your own way of life. + +MRS WARREN. My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to her +talking! Do you think I was brought up like you? able to pick and choose +my own way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I liked it, or +thought it right, or wouldn’t rather have gone to college and been a lady +if I’d had the chance? + +VIVIE. Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl alive may +not be able to choose between being Queen of England or Principal +of Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling, +according to her taste. People are always blaming circumstances for what +they are. I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in +this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they +want, and, if they can’t find them, make them. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s easy to talk, isn’t it? Here! would you like to know +what _my_ circumstances were? + +VIVIE. Yes: you had better tell me. Won’t you sit down? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, I’ll sit down: don’t you be afraid. [She plants her chair +farther forward with brazen energy, and sits down. Vivie is impressed in +spite of herself]. D’you know what your gran’mother was? + +VIVIE. No. + +MRS WARREN. No, you don’t. I do. She called herself a widow and had a +fried-fish shop down by the Mint, and kept herself and four daughters +out of it. Two of us were sisters: that was me and Liz; and we were both +good-looking and well made. I suppose our father was a well-fed man: +mother pretended he was a gentleman; but I don’t know. The other two +were only half sisters: undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, +honest poor creatures: Liz and I would have half-murdered them if +mother hadn’t half-murdered us to keep our hands off them. They were the +respectable ones. Well, what did they get by their respectability? I’ll +tell you. One of them worked in a whitelead factory twelve hours a day +for nine shillings a week until she died of lead poisoning. She only +expected to get her hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other +was always held up to us as a model because she married a Government +laborer in the Deptford victualling yard, and kept his room and the +three children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week--until he took +to drink. That was worth being respectable for, wasn’t it? + +VIVIE [now thoughtfully attentive] Did you and your sister think so? + +MRS WARREN. Liz didn’t, I can tell you: she had more spirit. We both went +to a church school--that was part of the ladylike airs we gave ourselves +to be superior to the children that knew nothing and went nowhere--and +we stayed there until Liz went out one night and never came back. I +know the schoolmistress thought I’d soon follow her example; for +the clergyman was always warning me that Lizzie’d end by jumping off +Waterloo Bridge. Poor fool: that was all he knew about it! But I was +more afraid of the whitelead factory than I was of the river; and so +would you have been in my place. That clergyman got me a situation as +a scullery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent out for +anything you liked. Then I was a waitress; and then I went to the bar +at Waterloo station: fourteen hours a day serving drinks and washing +glasses for four shillings a week and my board. That was considered a +great promotion for me. Well, one cold, wretched night, when I was so +tired I could hardly keep myself awake, who should come up for a half of +Scotch but Lizzie, in a long fur cloak, elegant and comfortable, with a +lot of sovereigns in her purse. + +VIVIE [grimly] My aunt Lizzie! + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and a very good aunt to have, too. She’s living down +at Winchester now, close to the cathedral, one of the most respectable +ladies there. Chaperones girls at the country ball, if you please. +No river for Liz, thank you! You remind me of Liz a little: she was a +first-rate business woman--saved money from the beginning--never let +herself look too like what she was--never lost her head or threw away a +chance. When she saw I’d grown up good-looking she said to me across the +bar “What are you doing there, you little fool? wearing out your health +and your appearance for other people’s profit!” Liz was saving money +then to take a house for herself in Brussels; and she thought we two +could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and gave me a +start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and then went into +business with her as a partner. Why shouldn’t I have done it? The house +in Brussels was real high class: a much better place for a woman to be +in than the factory where Anne Jane got poisoned. None of the girls were +ever treated as I was treated in the scullery of that temperance place, +or at the Waterloo bar, or at home. Would you have had me stay in them +and become a worn out old drudge before I was forty? + +VIVIE [intensely interested by this time] No; but why did you choose +that business? Saving money and good management will succeed in any +business. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the money to +save in any other business? Could y o u save out of four shillings a +week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not you. Of course, if youre +a plain woman and can’t earn anything more; or if you have a turn for +music, or the stage, or newspaper-writing: thats different. But neither +Liz nor I had any turn for such things at all: all we had was our +appearance and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such +fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us +as shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in them +ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation wages? Not +likely. + +VIVIE. You were certainly quite justified--from the business point of +view. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; or any other point of view. What is any respectable +girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man’s fancy and get the +benefit of his money by marrying him?--as if a marriage ceremony +could make any difference in the right or wrong of the thing! Oh, the +hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz and I had to work and save and +calculate just like other people; elseways we should be as poor as any +good-for-nothing drunken waster of a woman that thinks her luck will +last for ever. [With great energy] I despise such people: theyve +no character; and if theres a thing I hate in a woman, it’s want of +character. + +VIVIE. Come now, mother: frankly! Isn’t it part of what you call +character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way of +making money? + +MRS WARREN. Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work and make +money; but they have to do it all the same. I’m sure I’ve often pitied +a poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, having to try to please some +man that she doesn’t care two straws for--some half-drunken fool that +thinks he’s making himself agreeable when he’s teasing and worrying and +disgusting a woman so that hardly any money could pay her for putting up +with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the rough with +the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. It’s not +work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; though to +hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed of roses. + +VIVIE. Still, you consider it worth while. It pays. + +MRS WARREN. Of course it’s worth while to a poor girl, if she can resist +temptation and is good-looking and well conducted and sensible. It’s far +better than any other employment open to her. + +I always thought that it oughtn’t to be. It _can’t_ be right, Vivie, that +there shouldn’t be better opportunities for women. I stick to that: it’s +wrong. But it’s so, right or wrong; and a girl must make the best of it. +But of course it’s not worth while for a lady. If you took to it youd be +a fool; but I should have been a fool if I’d taken to anything else. + +VIVIE [more and more deeply moved] Mother: suppose we were both as poor +as you were in those wretched old days, are you quite sure that you +wouldn’t advise me to try the Waterloo bar, or marry a laborer, or even +go into the factory? + +MRS WARREN [indignantly] Of course not. What sort of mother do you take +me for! How could you keep your self-respect in such starvation +and slavery? And whats a woman worth? whats life worth? without +self-respect! Why am I independent and able to give my daughter +a first-rate education, when other women that had just as good +opportunities are in the gutter? Because I always knew how to respect +myself and control myself. Why is Liz looked up to in a cathedral town? +The same reason. Where would we be now if we’d minded the clergyman’s +foolishness? Scrubbing floors for one and sixpence a day and nothing to +look forward to but the workhouse infirmary. Don’t you be led astray by +people who don’t know the world, my girl. The only way for a woman to +provide for herself decently is for her to be good to some man that can +afford to be good to her. If she’s in his own station of life, let her +make him marry her; but if she’s far beneath him she can’t expect it: why +should she? it wouldn’t be for her own happiness. Ask any lady in London +society that has daughters; and she’ll tell you the same, except that I +tell you straight and she’ll tell you crooked. Thats all the difference. + +VIVIE [fascinated, gazing at her] My dear mother: you are a wonderful +woman: you are stronger than all England. And are you really and truly +not one wee bit doubtful--or--or--ashamed? + +MRS WARREN. Well, of course, dearie, it’s only good manners to be +ashamed of it: it’s expected from a woman. Women have to pretend to +feel a great deal that they don’t feel. Liz used to be angry with me for +plumping out the truth about it. She used to say that when every woman +could learn enough from what was going on in the world before her eyes, +there was no need to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a +perfect lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I was always a bit +of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased when you sent me your photos +to see that you were growing up like Liz: you’ve just her ladylike, +determined way. But I can’t stand saying one thing when everyone knows +I mean another. Whats the use in such hypocrisy? If people arrange the +world that way for women, theres no good pretending it’s arranged the +other way. No: I never was a bit ashamed really. I consider I had a +right to be proud of how we managed everything so respectably, and never +had a word against us, and how the girls were so well taken care of. +Some of them did very well: one of them married an ambassador. But of +course now I daren’t talk about such things: whatever would they think +of us! [She yawns]. Oh dear! I do believe I’m getting sleepy after all. +[She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her explosion, and +placidly ready for her night’s rest]. + +VIVIE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. [She goes +to the dresser and lights the candle. Then she extinguishes the lamp, +darkening the room a good deal]. Better let in some fresh air before +locking up. [She opens the cottage door, and finds that it is broad +moonlight]. What a beautiful night! Look! [She draws the curtains of the +window. The landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon +rising over Blackdown]. + +MRS WARREN [with a perfunctory glance at the scene] Yes, dear; but take +care you don’t catch your death of cold from the night air. + +VIVIE [contemptuously] Nonsense. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Oh yes: everything I say is nonsense, according +to you. + +VIVIE [turning to her quickly] No: really that is not so, mother. + +You have got completely the better of me tonight, though I intended it +to be the other way. Let us be good friends now. + +MRS WARREN [shaking her head a little ruefully] So it _has_ been the +other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got the worst of +it from Liz; and now I suppose it’ll be the same with you. + +VIVIE. Well, never mind. Come: good-night, dear old mother. [She takes +her mother in her arms]. + +MRS WARREN [fondly] I brought you up well, didn’t I, dearie? + +VIVIE. You did. + +MRS WARREN. And youll be good to your poor old mother for it, won’t you? + +VIVIE. I will, dear. [Kissing her] Good-night. + +MRS WARREN [with unction] Blessings on my own dearie darling! a mother’s +blessing! + +[She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward +for divine sanction.] + + + + +ACT III + + +[In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining from a +cloudless sky. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, wide +enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell +on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The carriage +drive comes down the middle of the garden and then swerves to its left, +where it ends in a little gravelled circus opposite the Rectory porch. +Beyond the gate is seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, +bounded on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine +wood. On the lawn, between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew +tree, with a garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden +is shut in by a box hedge; and there is a little sundial on the turf, +with an iron chair near it. A little path leads through the box hedge, +behind the sundial.] + +[Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which he has placed the +morning paper, is reading The Standard. His father comes from the house, +red-eyed and shivery, and meets Frank’s eye with misgiving.] + +FRANK [looking at his watch] Half-past eleven. Nice hour for a rector to +come down to breakfast! + +REV. S. Don’t mock, Frank: don’t mock. I am a little--er--[Shivering]-- + +FRANK. Off color? + +REV. S. [repudiating the expression] No, sir: _unwell_ this morning. +Where’s your mother? + +FRANK. Don’t be alarmed: she’s not here. Gone to town by the 11.13 +with Bessie. She left several messages for you. Do you feel equal to +receiving them now, or shall I wait til you’ve breakfasted? + +REV. S. I h a v e breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at your mother +going to town when we have people staying with us. They’ll think it very +strange. + +FRANK. Possibly she has considered that. At all events, if Crofts is +going to stay here, and you are going to sit up every night with him +until four, recalling the incidents of your fiery youth, it is clearly +my mother’s duty, as a prudent housekeeper, to go up to the stores and +order a barrel of whisky and a few hundred siphons. + +REV. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank excessively. + +FRANK. You were not in a condition to, gov’nor. + +REV. S. Do you mean to say that _I_--? + +FRANK [calmly] I never saw a beneficed clergyman less sober. The +anecdotes you told about your past career were so awful that I really +don’t think Praed would have passed the night under your roof if it hadnt +been for the way my mother and he took to one another. + +REV. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts’ host. I must talk to him +about something; and he has only one subject. Where is Mr Praed now? + +FRANK. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the station. + +REV. S. Is Crofts up yet? + +FRANK. Oh, long ago. He hasn’t turned a hair: he’s in much better +practice than you. Has kept it up ever since, probably. He’s taken +himself off somewhere to smoke. + +[Frank resumes his paper. The parson turns disconsolately towards the +gate; then comes back irresolutely.] + +REV. S. Er--Frank. + +FRANK. Yes. + +REV. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be asked here after +yesterday afternoon? + +FRANK. Theyve been asked already. + +REV. S. [appalled] What!!! + +FRANK. Crofts informed us at breakfast that you told him to bring Mrs +Warren and Vivie over here to-day, and to invite them to make this house +their home. My mother then found she must go to town by the 11.13 train. + +REV. S. [with despairing vehemence] I never gave any such invitation. I +never thought of such a thing. + +FRANK [compassionately] How do you know, gov’nor, what you said and +thought last night? + +PRAED [coming in through the hedge] Good morning. + +REV. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not having met you at +breakfast. I have a touch of--of-- + +FRANK. Clergyman’s sore throat, Praed. Fortunately not chronic. + +PRAED [changing the subject] Well I must say your house is in a charming +spot here. Really most charming. + +REV. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for a walk, Mr Praed, +if you like. I’ll ask you to excuse me: I must take the opportunity +to write my sermon while Mrs Gardner is away and you are all amusing +yourselves. You won’t mind, will you? + +PRAED. Certainly not. Don’t stand on the slightest ceremony with me. + +REV. S. Thank you. I’ll--er--er--[He stammers his way to the porch and +vanishes into the house]. + +PRAED. Curious thing it must be writing a sermon every week. + +FRANK. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys em. He’s gone for some +soda water. + +PRAED. My dear boy: I wish you would be more respectful to your father. +You know you can be so nice when you like. + +FRANK. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to live with the governor. +When two people live together--it don’t matter whether theyre father and +son or husband and wife or brother and sister--they can’t keep up the +polite humbug thats so easy for ten minutes on an afternoon call. +Now the governor, who unites to many admirable domestic qualities the +irresoluteness of a sheep and the pompousness and aggressiveness of a +jackass-- + +PRAED. No, pray, pray, my dear Frank, remember! He is your father. + +FRANK. I give him due credit for that. [Rising and flinging down his +paper] But just imagine his telling Crofts to bring the Warrens over +here! He must have been ever so drunk. You know, my dear Praddy, my +mother wouldn’t stand Mrs Warren for a moment. Vivie mustn’t come here +until she’s gone back to town. + +PRAED. But your mother doesn’t know anything about Mrs Warren, does she? +[He picks up the paper and sits down to read it]. + +FRANK. I don’t know. Her journey to town looks as if she did. Not that +my mother would mind in the ordinary way: she has stuck like a brick to +lots of women who had got into trouble. But they were all nice women. +Thats what makes the real difference. Mrs Warren, no doubt, has her +merits; but she’s ever so rowdy; and my mother simply wouldn’t put up +with her. So--hallo! [This exclamation is provoked by the reappearance +of the clergyman, who comes out of the house in haste and dismay]. + +REV. S. Frank: Mrs Warren and her daughter are coming across the heath +with Crofts: I saw them from the study windows. What _am_ I to say about +your mother? + +FRANK. Stick on your hat and go out and say how delighted you are to see +them; and that Frank’s in the garden; and that mother and Bessie have +been called to the bedside of a sick relative, and were ever so +sorry they couldn’t stop; and that you hope Mrs Warren slept well; +and--and--say any blessed thing except the truth, and leave the rest to +Providence. + +REV. S. But how are we to get rid of them afterwards? + +FRANK. Theres no time to think of that now. Here! [He bounds into the +house]. + +REV. S. He’s so impetuous. I don’t know what to do with him, Mr Praed. + +FRANK [returning with a clerical felt hat, which he claps on his +father’s head]. Now: off with you. [Rushing him through the gate]. +Praed and I’ll wait here, to give the thing an unpremeditated air. [The +clergyman, dazed but obedient, hurries off]. + +FRANK. We must get the old girl back to town somehow, Praed. Come! +Honestly, dear Praddy, do you like seeing them together? + +PRAED. Oh, why not? + +FRANK [his teeth on edge] Don’t it make your flesh creep ever so little? +that wicked old devil, up to every villainy under the sun, I’ll swear, +and Vivie--ugh! + +PRAED. Hush, pray. Theyre coming. + +[The clergyman and Crofts are seen coming along the road, followed by +Mrs Warren and Vivie walking affectionately together.] + +FRANK. Look: she actually has her arm round the old woman’s waist. It’s +her right arm: she began it. She’s gone sentimental, by God! Ugh! ugh! +Now do you feel the creeps? [The clergyman opens the gate: and Mrs +Warren and Vivie pass him and stand in the middle of the garden looking +at the house. Frank, in an ecstasy of dissimulation, turns gaily to Mrs +Warren, exclaiming] Ever so delighted to see you, Mrs Warren. This quiet +old rectory garden becomes you perfectly. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I never! Did you hear that, George? He says I look +well in a quiet old rectory garden. + +REV. S. [still holding the gate for Crofts, who loafs through it, +heavily bored] You look well everywhere, Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. Bravo, gov’nor! Now look here: lets have a treat before lunch. +First lets see the church. Everyone has to do that. It’s a regular old +thirteenth century church, you know: the gov’nor’s ever so fond of it, +because he got up a restoration fund and had it completely rebuilt six +years ago. Praed will be able to shew its points. + +PRAED [rising] Certainly, if the restoration has left any to shew. + +REV. S. [mooning hospitably at them] I shall be pleased, I’m sure, if +Sir George and Mrs Warren really care about it. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, come along and get it over. + +CROFTS [turning back toward the gate] I’ve no objection. + +REV. S. Not that way. We go through the fields, if you don’t mind. Round +here. [He leads the way by the little path through the box hedge]. + +CROFTS. Oh, all right. [He goes with the parson]. + +[Praed follows with Mrs Warren. Vivie does not stir: she watches them +until they have gone, with all the lines of purpose in her face marking +it strongly.] + +FRANK. Ain’t you coming? + +VIVIE. No. I want to give you a warning, Frank. You were making fun of +my mother just now when you said that about the rectory garden. That is +barred in the future. Please treat my mother with as much respect as you +treat your own. + +FRANK. My dear Viv: she wouldn’t appreciate it: the two cases require +different treatment. But what on earth has happened to you? Last night +we were perfectly agreed as to your mother and her set. This morning I +find you attitudinizing sentimentally with your arm around your parent’s +waist. + +VIVIE [flushing] Attitudinizing! + +FRANK. That was how it struck me. First time I ever saw you do a +second-rate thing. + +VIVIE [controlling herself] Yes, Frank: there has been a change: but I +don’t think it a change for the worse. Yesterday I was a little prig. + +FRANK. And today? + +VIVIE [wincing; then looking at him steadily] Today I know my mother +better than you do. + +FRANK. Heaven forbid! + +VIVIE. What do you mean? + +FRANK. Viv: theres a freemasonry among thoroughly immoral people that +you know nothing of. You’ve too much character. _That’s_ the bond +between your mother and me: that’s why I know her better than youll ever +know her. + +VIVIE. You are wrong: you know nothing about her. If you knew the +circumstances against which my mother had to struggle-- + +FRANK [adroitly finishing the sentence for her] I should know why she is +what she is, shouldn’t I? What difference would that make? + +Circumstances or no circumstances, Viv, you won’t be able to stand your +mother. + +VIVIE [very angry] Why not? + +FRANK. Because she’s an old wretch, Viv. If you ever put your arm around +her waist in my presence again, I’ll shoot myself there and then as a +protest against an exhibition which revolts me. + +VIVIE. Must I choose between dropping your acquaintance and dropping my +mother’s? + +FRANK [gracefully] That would put the old lady at ever such a +disadvantage. No, Viv: your infatuated little boy will have to stick to +you in any case. But he’s all the more anxious that you shouldn’t make +mistakes. It’s no use, Viv: your mother’s impossible. She may be a good +sort; but she’s a bad lot, a very bad lot. + +VIVIE [hotly] Frank--! [He stands his ground. She turns away and +sits down on the bench under the yew tree, struggling to recover her +self-command. Then she says] Is she to be deserted by the world because +she’s what you call a bad lot? Has she no right to live? + +FRANK. No fear of that, Viv: _she_ won’t ever be deserted. [He sits on +the bench beside her]. + +VIVIE. But I am to desert her, I suppose. + +FRANK [babyishly, lulling her and making love to her with his voice] +Mustn’t go live with her. Little family group of mother and daughter +wouldn’t be a success. Spoil o u r little group. + +VIVIE [falling under the spell] What little group? + +FRANK. The babes in the wood: Vivie and little Frank. [He nestles +against her like a weary child]. Lets go and get covered up with leaves. + +VIVIE [rhythmically, rocking him like a nurse] Fast asleep, hand in +hand, under the trees. + +FRANK. The wise little girl with her silly little boy. + +VIVIE. The dear little boy with his dowdy little girl. + +FRANK. Ever so peaceful, and relieved from the imbecility of the little +boy’s father and the questionableness of the little girl’s-- + +VIVIE [smothering the word against her breast] Sh-sh-sh-sh! little girl +wants to forget all about her mother. [They are silent for some moments, +rocking one another. Then Vivie wakes up with a shock, exclaiming] What +a pair of fools we are! Come: sit up. Gracious! your hair. [She smooths +it]. I wonder do all grown up people play in that childish way when +nobody is looking. + +I never did it when I was a child. + +FRANK. Neither did I. You are my first playmate. [He catches her hand to +kiss it, but checks himself to look around first. Very unexpectedly, he +sees Crofts emerging from the box hedge]. Oh damn! + +VIVIE. Why damn, dear? + +FRANK [whispering] Sh! Here’s this brute Crofts. [He sits farther away +from her with an unconcerned air]. + +CROFTS. Could I have a few words with you, Miss Vivie? + +VIVIE. Certainly. + +CROFTS [to Frank] Youll excuse me, Gardner. Theyre waiting for you in +the church, if you don’t mind. + +FRANK [rising] Anything to oblige you, Crofts--except church. If you +should happen to want me, Vivvums, ring the gate bell. [He goes into the +house with unruffled suavity]. + +CROFTS [watching him with a crafty air as he disappears, and speaking to +Vivie with an assumption of being on privileged terms with her] Pleasant +young fellow that, Miss Vivie. Pity he has no money, isn’t it? + +VIVIE. Do you think so? + +CROFTS. Well, whats he to do? No profession. No property. Whats he good +for? + +VIVIE. I realize his disadvantages, Sir George. + +CROFTS [a little taken aback at being so precisely interpreted] Oh, it’s +not that. But while we’re in this world we’re in it; and money’s money. +[Vivie does not answer]. Nice day, isn’t it? + +VIVIE [with scarcely veiled contempt for this effort at conversation] +Very. + +CROFTS [with brutal good humor, as if he liked her pluck] Well thats not +what I came to say. [Sitting down beside her] Now listen, Miss Vivie. +I’m quite aware that I’m not a young lady’s man. + +VIVIE. Indeed, Sir George? + +CROFTS. No; and to tell you the honest truth I don’t want to be either. +But when I say a thing I mean it; and when I feel a sentiment I feel it +in earnest; and what I value I pay hard money for. Thats the sort of man +I am. + +VIVIE. It does you great credit, I’m sure. + +CROFTS. Oh, I don’t mean to praise myself. I have my faults, Heaven +knows: no man is more sensible of that than I am. I know I’m not +perfect: thats one of the advantages of being a middle-aged man; for +I’m not a young man, and I know it. But my code is a simple one, and, I +think, a good one. Honor between man and man; fidelity between man and +woman; and no can’t about this religion or that religion, but an honest +belief that things are making for good on the whole. + +VIVIE [with biting irony] “A power, not ourselves, that makes for +righteousness,” eh? + +CROFTS [taking her seriously] Oh certainly. Not ourselves, of course. Y +o u understand what I mean. Well, now as to practical matters. You may +have an idea that I’ve flung my money about; but I havn’t: I’m richer +today than when I first came into the property. I’ve used my knowledge of +the world to invest my money in ways that other men have overlooked; and +whatever else I may be, I’m a safe man from the money point of view. + +VIVIE. It’s very kind of you to tell me all this. + +CROFTS. Oh well, come, Miss Vivie: you needn’t pretend you don’t see what +I’m driving at. I want to settle down with a Lady Crofts. I suppose you +think me very blunt, eh? + +VIVIE. Not at all: I am very much obliged to you for being so definite +and business-like. I quite appreciate the offer: the money, the +position, _Lady Crofts_, and so on. But I think I will say no, if you +don’t mind, I’d rather not. [She rises, and strolls across to the +sundial to get out of his immediate neighborhood]. + +CROFTS [not at all discouraged, and taking advantage of the additional +room left him on the seat to spread himself comfortably, as if a few +preliminary refusals were part of the inevitable routine of courtship] +I’m in no hurry. It was only just to let you know in case young Gardner +should try to trap you. Leave the question open. + +VIVIE [sharply] My no is final. I won’t go back from it. + +[Crofts is not impressed. He grins; leans forward with his elbows on his +knees to prod with his stick at some unfortunate insect in the grass; +and looks cunningly at her. She turns away impatiently.] + +CROFTS. I’m a good deal older than you. Twenty-five years: quarter of +a century. I shan’t live for ever; and I’ll take care that you shall be +well off when I’m gone. + +VIVIE. I am proof against even that inducement, Sir George. Don’t you +think youd better take your answer? There is not the slightest chance of +my altering it. + +CROFTS [rising, after a final slash at a daisy, and coming nearer to +her] Well, no matter. I could tell you some things that would change +your mind fast enough; but I wont, because I’d rather win you by honest +affection. I was a good friend to your mother: ask her whether I wasn’t. +She’d never have make the money that paid for your education if it hadnt +been for my advice and help, not to mention the money I advanced her. +There are not many men who would have stood by her as I have. I put not +less than forty thousand pounds into it, from first to last. + +VIVIE [staring at him] Do you mean to say that you were my mother’s +business partner? + +CROFTS. Yes. Now just think of all the trouble and the explanations +it would save if we were to keep the whole thing in the family, so to +speak. Ask your mother whether she’d like to have to explain all her +affairs to a perfect stranger. + +VIVIE. I see no difficulty, since I understand that the business is +wound up, and the money invested. + +CROFTS [stopping short, amazed] Wound up! Wind up a business thats +paying 35 per cent in the worst years! Not likely. Who told you that? + +VIVIE [her color quite gone] Do you mean that it is still--? [She stops +abruptly, and puts her hand on the sundial to support herself. Then she +gets quickly to the iron chair and sits down]. + +What business are you talking about? + +CROFTS. Well, the fact is it’s not what would considered exactly a +high-class business in my set--the country set, you know--o u r set it +will be if you think better of my offer. Not that theres any mystery +about it: don’t think that. Of course you know by your mother’s being +in it that it’s perfectly straight and honest. I’ve known her for many +years; and I can say of her that she’d cut off her hands sooner than +touch anything that was not what it ought to be. I’ll tell you all about +it if you like. I don’t know whether you’ve found in travelling how hard +it is to find a really comfortable private hotel. + +VIVIE [sickened, averting her face] Yes: go on. + +CROFTS. Well, thats all it is. Your mother has got a genius for managing +such things. We’ve got two in Brussels, one in Ostend, one in Vienna, +and two in Budapest. Of course there are others besides ourselves in +it; but we hold most of the capital; and your mother’s indispensable +as managing director. You’ve noticed, I daresay, that she travels a good +deal. But you see you can’t mention such things in society. Once let out +the word hotel and everybody thinks you keep a public-house. You wouldn’t +like people to say that of your mother, would you? Thats why we’re so +reserved about it. By the way, youll keep it to yourself, won’t you? +Since it’s been a secret so long, it had better remain so. + +VIVIE. And this is the business you invite me to join you in? + +CROFTS. Oh no. My wife shan’t be troubled with business. Youll not be in +it more than you’ve always been. + +VIVIE. _I_ always been! What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Only that you’ve always lived on it. It paid for your education +and the dress you have on your back. Don’t turn up your nose at business, +Miss Vivie: where would your Newnhams and Girtons be without it? + +VIVIE [rising, almost beside herself] Take care. I know what this +business is. + +CROFTS [starting, with a suppressed oath] Who told you? + +VIVIE. Your partner. My mother. + +CROFTS [black with rage] The old-- + +VIVIE. Just so. + +[He swallows the epithet and stands for a moment swearing and raging +foully to himself. But he knows that his cue is to be sympathetic. He +takes refuge in generous indignation.] + +CROFTS. She ought to have had more consideration for you. _I’d_ never +have told you. + +VIVIE. I think you would probably have told me when we were married: it +would have been a convenient weapon to break me in with. + +CROFTS [quite sincerely] I never intended that. On my word as a +gentleman I didn’t. + +[Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his protest cools and +braces her. She replies with contemptuous self-possession.] + +VIVIE. It does not matter. I suppose you understand that when we leave +here today our acquaintance ceases. + +CROFTS. Why? Is it for helping your mother? + +VIVIE. My mother was a very poor woman who had no reasonable choice but +to do as she did. You were a rich gentleman; and you did the same for +the sake of 35 per cent. You are a pretty common sort of scoundrel, I +think. That is my opinion of you. + +CROFTS [after a stare: not at all displeased, and much more at his ease +on these frank terms than on their former ceremonious ones] Ha! ha! ha! +ha! Go it, little missie, go it: it doesn’t hurt me and it amuses you. +Why the devil shouldn’t I invest my money that way? I take the interest +on my capital like other people: I hope you don’t think I dirty my own +hands with the work. + +Come! you wouldn’t refuse the acquaintance of my mother’s cousin the Duke +of Belgravia because some of the rents he gets are earned in queer ways. +You wouldn’t cut the Archbishop of Canterbury, I suppose, because the +Ecclesiastical Commissioners have a few publicans and sinners among +their tenants. Do you remember your Crofts scholarship at Newnham? Well, +that was founded by my brother the M.P. He gets his 22 per cent out of +a factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting wages enough +to live on. How d’ye suppose they manage when they have no family to +fall back on? Ask your mother. And do you expect me to turn my back on +35 per cent when all the rest are pocketing what they can, like sensible +men? No such fool! If youre going to pick and choose your acquaintances +on moral principles, youd better clear out of this country, unless you +want to cut yourself out of all decent society. + +VIVIE [conscience stricken] You might go on to point out that I myself +never asked where the money I spent came from. I believe I am just as +bad as you. + +CROFTS [greatly reassured] Of course you are; and a very good thing too! +What harm does it do after all? [Rallying her jocularly] So you don’t +think me such a scoundrel now you come to think it over. Eh? + +VIVIE. I have shared profits with you: and I admitted you just now to +the familiarity of knowing what I think of you. + +CROFTS [with serious friendliness] To be sure you did. You won’t find +me a bad sort: I don’t go in for being superfine intellectually; but Ive +plenty of honest human feeling; and the old Crofts breed comes out in +a sort of instinctive hatred of anything low, in which I’m sure youll +sympathize with me. Believe me, Miss Vivie, the world isn’t such a bad +place as the croakers make out. As long as you don’t fly openly in the +face of society, society doesn’t ask any inconvenient questions; and +it makes precious short work of the cads who do. There are no secrets +better kept than the secrets everybody guesses. In the class of people +I can introduce you to, no lady or gentleman would so far forget +themselves as to discuss my business affairs or your mothers. No man can +offer you a safer position. + +VIVIE [studying him curiously] I suppose you really think youre getting +on famously with me. + +CROFTS. Well, I hope I may flatter myself that you think better of me +than you did at first. + +VIVIE [quietly] I hardly find you worth thinking about at all now. When +I think of the society that tolerates you, and the laws that protect +you! when I think of how helpless nine out of ten young girls would +be in the hands of you and my mother! the unmentionable woman and her +capitalist bully-- + +CROFTS [livid] Damn you! + +VIVIE. You need not. I feel among the damned already. + +[She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. He follows her +and puts his hand heavily on the top bar to prevent its opening.] + +CROFTS [panting with fury] Do you think I’ll put up with this from you, +you young devil? + +VIVIE [unmoved] Be quiet. Some one will answer the bell. [Without +flinching a step she strikes the bell with the back of her hand. It +clangs harshly; and he starts back involuntarily. Almost immediately +Frank appears at the porch with his rifle]. + +FRANK [with cheerful politeness] Will you have the rifle, Viv; or shall +I operate? + +VIVIE. Frank: have you been listening? + +FRANK [coming down into the garden] Only for the bell, I assure you; so +that you shouldn’t have to wait. I think I shewed great insight into your +character, Crofts. + +CROFTS. For two pins I’d take that gun from you and break it across your +head. + +FRANK [stalking him cautiously] Pray don’t. I’m ever so careless in +handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal accident, with a reprimand from +the coroner’s jury for my negligence. + +VIVIE. Put the rifle away, Frank: it’s quite unnecessary. + +FRANK. Quite right, Viv. Much more sportsmanlike to catch him in a +trap. [Crofts, understanding the insult, makes a threatening movement]. +Crofts: there are fifteen cartridges in the magazine here; and I am a +dead shot at the present distance and at an object of your size. + +CROFTS. Oh, you needn’t be afraid. I’m not going to touch you. + +FRANK. Ever so magnanimous of you under the circumstances! Thank you. + +CROFTS. I’ll just tell you this before I go. It may interest you, since +youre so fond of one another. Allow me, Mister Frank, to introduce you +to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. +Miss Vivie: you half-brother. Good morning! [He goes out through the +gate and along the road]. + +FRANK [after a pause of stupefaction, raising the rifle] Youll testify +before the coroner that it’s an accident, Viv. [He takes aim at the +retreating figure of Crofts. Vivie seizes the muzzle and pulls it round +against her breast]. + +VIVIE. Fire now. You may. + +FRANK [dropping his end of the rifle hastily] Stop! take care. [She lets +it go. It falls on the turf]. Oh, you’ve given your little boy such +a turn. Suppose it had gone off! ugh! [He sinks on the garden seat, +overcome]. + +VIVIE. Suppose it had: do you think it would not have been a relief to +have some sharp physical pain tearing through me? + +FRANK [coaxingly] Take it ever so easy, dear Viv. Remember: even if the +rifle scared that fellow into telling the truth for the first time in +his life, that only makes us the babes in the woods in earnest. [He +holds out his arms to her]. Come and be covered up with leaves again. + +VIVIE [with a cry of disgust] Ah, not that, not that. You make all my +flesh creep. + +FRANK. Why, whats the matter? + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [She makes for the gate]. + +FRANK [jumping up] Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! [She turns in the gateway] +Where are you going to? Where shall we find you? + +VIVIE. At Honoria Fraser’s chambers, 67 Chancery Lane, for the rest of +my life. [She goes off quickly in the opposite direction to that taken +by Crofts]. + +FRANK. But I say--wait--dash it! [He runs after her]. + + + + +ACT IV + + +[Honoria Fraser’s chambers in Chancery Lane. An office at the top of New +Stone Buildings, with a plate-glass window, distempered walls, electric +light, and a patent stove. Saturday afternoon. The chimneys of Lincoln’s +Inn and the western sky beyond are seen through the window. There is a +double writing table in the middle of the room, with a cigar box, ash +pans, and a portable electric reading lamp almost snowed up in heaps of +papers and books. This table has knee holes and chairs right and left +and is very untidy. The clerk’s desk, closed and tidy, with its high +stool, is against the wall, near a door communicating with the inner +rooms. In the opposite wall is the door leading to the public corridor. +Its upper panel is of opaque glass, lettered in black on the outside, +FRASER AND WARREN. A baize screen hides the corner between this door and +the window.] + +[Frank, in a fashionable light-colored coaching suit, with his stick, +gloves, and white hat in his hands, is pacing up and down in the office. +Somebody tries the door with a key.] + +FRANK [calling] Come in. It’s not locked. + +[Vivie comes in, in her hat and jacket. She stops and stares at him.] + +VIVIE [sternly] What are you doing here? + +FRANK. Waiting to see you. I’ve been here for hours. Is this the way you +attend to your business? [He puts his hat and stick on the table, and +perches himself with a vault on the clerk’s stool, looking at her with +every appearance of being in a specially restless, teasing, flippant +mood]. + +VIVIE. I’ve been away exactly twenty minutes for a cup of tea. [She takes +off her hat and jacket and hangs them behind the screen]. How did you +get in? + +FRANK. The staff had not left when I arrived. He’s gone to play cricket +on Primrose Hill. Why don’t you employ a woman, and give your sex a +chance? + +VIVIE. What have you come for? + +FRANK [springing off the stool and coming close to her] Viv: lets go and +enjoy the Saturday half-holiday somewhere, like the staff. + +What do you say to Richmond, and then a music hall, and a jolly supper? + +VIVIE. Can’t afford it. I shall put in another six hours work before I go +to bed. + +FRANK. Can’t afford it, can’t we? Aha! Look here. [He takes out a handful +of sovereigns and makes them chink]. Gold, Viv: gold! + +VIVIE. Where did you get it? + +FRANK. Gambling, Viv: gambling. Poker. + +VIVIE. Pah! It’s meaner than stealing it. No: I’m not coming. [She sits +down to work at the table, with her back to the glass door, and begins +turning over the papers]. + +FRANK [remonstrating piteously] But, my dear Viv, I want to talk to you +ever so seriously. + +VIVIE. Very well: sit down in Honoria’s chair and talk here. I like ten +minutes chat after tea. [He murmurs]. No use groaning: I’m inexorable. +[He takes the opposite seat disconsolately]. Pass that cigar box, will +you? + +FRANK [pushing the cigar box across] Nasty womanly habit. Nice men don’t +do it any longer. + +VIVIE. Yes: they object to the smell in the office; and we’ve had to take +to cigarets. See! [She opens the box and takes out a cigaret, which she +lights. She offers him one; but he shakes his head with a wry face. She +settles herself comfortably in her chair, smoking]. Go ahead. + +FRANK. Well, I want to know what you’ve done--what arrangements you’ve +made. + +VIVIE. Everything was settled twenty minutes after I arrived here. +Honoria has found the business too much for her this year; and she was +on the point of sending for me and proposing a partnership when I walked +in and told her I hadn’t a farthing in the world. So I installed myself +and packed her off for a fortnight’s holiday. What happened at Haslemere +when I left? + +FRANK. Nothing at all. I said youd gone to town on particular business. + +VIVIE. Well? + +FRANK. Well, either they were too flabbergasted to say anything, or else +Crofts had prepared your mother. Anyhow, she didn’t say anything; and +Crofts didn’t say anything; and Praddy only stared. After tea they got up +and went; and I’ve not seen them since. + +VIVIE [nodding placidly with one eye on a wreath of smoke] Thats all +right. + +FRANK [looking round disparagingly] Do you intend to stick in this +confounded place? + +VIVIE [blowing the wreath decisively away, and sitting straight up] Yes. +These two days have given me back all my strength and self-possession. I +will never take a holiday again as long as I live. + +FRANK [with a very wry face] Mps! You look quite happy. And as hard as +nails. + +VIVIE [grimly] Well for me that I am! + +FRANK [rising] Look here, Viv: we must have an explanation. We parted +the other day under a complete misunderstanding. [He sits on the table, +close to her]. + +VIVIE [putting away the cigaret] Well: clear it up. + +FRANK. You remember what Crofts said. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. That revelation was supposed to bring about a complete change in +the nature of our feeling for one another. It placed us on the footing +of brother and sister. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. Have you ever had a brother? + +VIVIE. No. + +FRANK. Then you don’t know what being brother and sister feels like? Now +I have lots of sisters; and the fraternal feeling is quite familiar to +me. I assure you my feeling for you is not the least in the world like +it. The girls will go _their_ way; I will go mine; and we shan’t care +if we never see one another again. Thats brother and sister. But as to +you, I can’t be easy if I have to pass a week without seeing you. Thats +not brother and sister. Its exactly what I felt an hour before Crofts +made his revelation. In short, dear Viv, it’s love’s young dream. + +VIVIE [bitingly] The same feeling, Frank, that brought your father to my +mother’s feet. Is that it? + +FRANK [so revolted that he slips off the table for a moment] I very +strongly object, Viv, to have my feelings compared to any which the +Reverend Samuel is capable of harboring; and I object still more to a +comparison of you to your mother. [Resuming his perch] Besides, I don’t +believe the story. I have taxed my father with it, and obtained from him +what I consider tantamount to a denial. + +VIVIE. What did he say? + +FRANK. He said he was sure there must be some mistake. + +VIVIE. Do you believe him? + +FRANK. I am prepared to take his word against Crofts’. + +VIVIE. Does it make any difference? I mean in your imagination or +conscience; for of course it makes no real difference. + +FRANK [shaking his head] None whatever to _me_. + +VIVIE. Nor to me. + +FRANK [staring] But this is ever so surprising! [He goes back to his +chair]. I thought our whole relations were altered in your imagination +and conscience, as you put it, the moment those words were out of that +brute’s muzzle. + +VIVIE. No: it was not that. I didn’t believe him. I only wish I could. + +FRANK. Eh? + +VIVIE. I think brother and sister would be a very suitable relation for +us. + +FRANK. You really mean that? + +VIVIE. Yes. It’s the only relation I care for, even if we could afford +any other. I mean that. + +FRANK [raising his eyebrows like one on whom a new light has dawned, and +rising with quite an effusion of chivalrous sentiment] My dear Viv: +why didn’t you say so before? I am ever so sorry for persecuting you. I +understand, of course. + +VIVIE [puzzled] Understand what? + +FRANK. Oh, I’m not a fool in the ordinary sense: only in the Scriptural +sense of doing all the things the wise man declared to be folly, after +trying them himself on the most extensive scale. I see I am no longer +Vivvums’s little boy. Don’t be alarmed: I shall never call you Vivvums +again--at least unless you get tired of your new little boy, whoever he +may be. + +VIVIE. My new little boy! + +FRANK [with conviction] Must be a new little boy. Always happens that +way. No other way, in fact. + +VIVIE. None that you know of, fortunately for you. + +[Someone knocks at the door.] + +FRANK. My curse upon yon caller, whoe’er he be! + +VIVIE. It’s Praed. He’s going to Italy and wants to say goodbye. I asked +him to call this afternoon. Go and let him in. + +FRANK. We can continue our conversation after his departure for Italy. +I’ll stay him out. [He goes to the door and opens it]. How are you, +Praddy? Delighted to see you. Come in. + +[Praed, dressed for travelling, comes in, in high spirits.] + +PRAED. How do you do, Miss Warren? [She presses his hand cordially, +though a certain sentimentality in his high spirits jars upon her]. I +start in an hour from Holborn Viaduct. I wish I could persuade you to +try Italy. + +VIVIE. What for? + +PRAED. Why, to saturate yourself with beauty and romance, of course. + +[Vivie, with a shudder, turns her chair to the table, as if the work +waiting for her there were a support to her. Praed sits opposite to her. +Frank places a chair near Vivie, and drops lazily and carelessly into +it, talking at her over his shoulder.] + +FRANK. No use, Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. She is indifferent to +_my_ romance, and insensible to _my_ beauty. + +VIVIE. Mr Praed: once for all, there is no beauty and no romance in life +for me. Life is what it is; and I am prepared to take it as it is. + +PRAED [enthusiastically] You will not say that if you come with me to +Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with delight at living in such a +beautiful world. + +FRANK. This is most eloquent, Praddy. Keep it up. + +PRAED. Oh, I assure you _I_ have cried--I shall cry again, I hope--at +fifty! At your age, Miss Warren, you would not need to go so far as +Verona. Your spirits would absolutely fly up at the mere sight of +Ostend. You would be charmed with the gaiety, the vivacity, the happy +air of Brussels. + +VIVIE [springing up with an exclamation of loathing] Agh! + +PRAED [rising] Whats the matter? + +FRANK [rising] Hallo, Viv! + +VIVIE [to Praed, with deep reproach] Can you find no better example of +your beauty and romance than Brussels to talk to me about? + +PRAED [puzzled] Of course it’s very different from Verona. I don’t +suggest for a moment that-- + +VIVIE [bitterly] Probably the beauty and romance come to much the same +in both places. + +PRAED [completely sobered and much concerned] My dear Miss Warren: +I--[looking enquiringly at Frank] Is anything the matter? + +FRANK. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous, Praddy. She’s had ever such +a serious call. + +VIVIE [sharply] Hold your tongue, Frank. Don’t be silly. + +FRANK [sitting down] Do you call this good manners, Praed? + +PRAED [anxious and considerate] Shall I take him away, Miss Warren? I +feel sure we have disturbed you at your work. + +VIVIE. Sit down: I’m not ready to go back to work yet. [Praed sits]. You +both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of it. But there are +two subjects I want dropped, if you don’t mind. + +One of them [to Frank] is love’s young dream in any shape or form: the +other [to Praed] is the romance and beauty of life, especially Ostend +and the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to any illusions you may +have left on these subjects: I have none. If we three are to remain +friends, I must be treated as a woman of business, permanently single +[to Frank] and permanently unromantic [to Praed]. + +FRANK. I also shall remain permanently single until you change your +mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be eloquent about something else. + +PRAED [diffidently] I’m afraid theres nothing else in the world that I +_can_ talk about. The Gospel of Art is the only one I can preach. I know +Miss Warren is a great devotee of the Gospel of Getting On; but we +can’t discuss that without hurting your feelings, Frank, since you are +determined not to get on. + +FRANK. Oh, don’t mind my feelings. Give me some improving advice by +all means: it does me ever so much good. Have another try to make a +successful man of me, Viv. Come: lets have it all: energy, thrift, +foresight, self-respect, character. Don’t you hate people who have no +character, Viv? + +VIVIE [wincing] Oh, stop, stop. Let us have no more of that horrible +cant. Mr Praed: if there are really only those two gospels in the world, +we had better all kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through +and through. + +FRANK [looking critically at her] There is a touch of poetry about you +today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking. + +PRAED [remonstrating] My dear Frank: aren’t you a little unsympathetic? + +VIVIE [merciless to herself] No: it’s good for me. It keeps me from +being sentimental. + +FRANK [bantering her] Checks your strong natural propensity that way, +don’t it? + +VIVIE [almost hysterically] Oh yes: go on: don’t spare me. I was +sentimental for one moment in my life--beautifully sentimental--by +moonlight; and now-- + +FRANK [quickly] I say, Viv: take care. Don’t give yourself away. + +VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr Praed does not know all about my mother? +[Turning on Praed] You had better have told me that morning, Mr Praed. +You are very old fashioned in your delicacies, after all. + +PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your +prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as an +artist, and believing that the most intimate human relationships are +far beyond and above the scope of the law, that though I know that your +mother is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on that +account. I respect her more. + +FRANK [airily] Hear! hear! + +VIVIE [staring at him] Is that _all_ you know? + +PRAED. Certainly that is all. + +VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are innocence +itself compared with the truth. + +PRAED [rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his politeness +with an effort] I hope not. [More emphatically] I hope not, Miss Warren. + +FRANK [whistles] Whew! + +VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr Praed. + +PRAED [his chivalry drooping before their conviction] If there is +anything worse--that is, anything else--are you sure you are right to +tell us, Miss Warren? + +VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the rest of my +life in telling everybody--stamping and branding it into them until they +all felt their part in its abomination as I feel mine. There is nothing +I despise more than the wicked convention that protects these things +by forbidding a woman to mention them. And yet I can’t tell you. The two +infamous words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my ears +and struggling on my tongue; but I can’t utter them: the shame of them +is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The two men, +astonished, stare at one another and then at her. She raises her head +again desperately and snatches a sheet of paper and a pen]. Here: let me +draft you a prospectus. + +FRANK. Oh, she’s mad. Do you hear, Viv? mad. Come! pull yourself +together. + +VIVIE. You shall see. [She writes]. “Paid up capital: not less than +forty thousand pounds standing in the name of Sir George Crofts, +Baronet, the chief shareholder. Premises at Brussels, Ostend, Vienna, +and Budapest. Managing director: Mrs Warren”; and now don’t let us forget +h e r qualifications: the two words. [She writes the words and pushes +the paper to them]. There! Oh no: don’t read it: don’t! [She snatches it +back and tears it to pieces; then seizes her head in her hands and hides +her face on the table]. + +[Frank, who has watched the writing over her shoulder, and opened his +eyes very widely at it, takes a card from his pocket; scribbles the +two words on it; and silently hands it to Praed, who reads it with +amazement, and hides it hastily in his pocket.] + +FRANK [whispering tenderly] Viv, dear: thats all right. I read what you +wrote: so did Praddy. We understand. And we remain, as this leaves us at +present, yours ever so devotedly. + +PRAED. We do indeed, Miss Warren. I declare you are the most splendidly +courageous woman I ever met. + +[This sentimental compliment braces Vivie. She throws it away from her +with an impatient shake, and forces herself to stand up, though not +without some support from the table.] + +FRANK. Don’t stir, Viv, if you don’t want to. Take it easy. + +VIVIE. Thank you. You an always depend on me for two things: not to cry +and not to faint. [She moves a few steps towards the door of the inner +room, and stops close to Praed to say] I shall need much more courage +than that when I tell my mother that we have come to a parting of the +ways. Now I must go into the next room for a moment to make myself neat +again, if you don’t mind. + +PRAED. Shall we go away? + +VIVIE. No: I’ll be back presently. Only for a moment. [She goes into the +other room, Praed opening the door for her]. + +PRAED. What an amazing revelation! I’m extremely disappointed in Crofts: +I am indeed. + +FRANK. I’m not in the least. I feel he’s perfectly accounted for at +last. But what a facer for me, Praddy! I can’t marry her now. + +PRAED [sternly] Frank! [The two look at one another, Frank unruffled, +Praed deeply indignant]. Let me tell you, Gardner, that if you desert +her now you will behave very despicably. + +FRANK. Good old Praddy! Ever chivalrous! But you mistake: it’s not the +moral aspect of the case: it’s the money aspect. I really can’t bring +myself to touch the old woman’s money now. + +PRAED. And was that what you were going to marry on? + +FRANK. What else? _I_ havn’t any money, nor the smallest turn for making +it. If I married Viv now she would have to support me; and I should cost +her more than I am worth. + +PRAED. But surely a clever bright fellow like you can make something by +your own brains. + +FRANK. Oh yes, a little. [He takes out his money again]. I made all that +yesterday in an hour and a half. But I made it in a highly speculative +business. No, dear Praddy: even if Bessie and Georgina marry +millionaires and the governor dies after cutting them off with a +shilling, I shall have only four hundred a year. And he won’t die until +he’s three score and ten: he hasn’t originality enough. I shall be on +short allowance for the next twenty years. No short allowance for Viv, +if I can help it. I withdraw gracefully and leave the field to the +gilded youth of England. So that settled. I shan’t worry her about it: +I’ll just send her a little note after we’re gone. She’ll understand. + +PRAED [grasping his hand] Good fellow, Frank! I heartily beg your +pardon. But must you never see her again? + +FRANK. Never see her again! Hang it all, be reasonable. I shall come +along as often as possible, and be her brother. I can _not_ understand +the absurd consequences you romantic people expect from the most +ordinary transactions. [A knock at the door]. I wonder who this is. +Would you mind opening the door? If it’s a client it will look more +respectable than if I appeared. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He goes to the door and opens it. Frank sits down in +Vivie’s chair to scribble a note]. My dear Kitty: come in: come in. + +[Mrs Warren comes in, looking apprehensively around for Vivie. She has +done her best to make herself matronly and dignified. The brilliant hat +is replaced by a sober bonnet, and the gay blouse covered by a costly +black silk mantle. She is pitiably anxious and ill at ease: evidently +panic-stricken.] + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] What! Y o u r e here, are you? + +FRANK [turning in his chair from his writing, but not rising] Here, and +charmed to see you. You come like a breath of spring. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, get out with your nonsense. [In a low voice] Where’s +Vivie? + +[Frank points expressively to the door of the inner room, but says +nothing.] + +MRS WARREN [sitting down suddenly and almost beginning to cry] Praddy: +won’t she see me, don’t you think? + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: don’t distress yourself. Why should she not? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, you never can see why not: youre too innocent. Mr Frank: +did she say anything to you? + +FRANK [folding his note] She _must_ see you, if [very expressively] you +wait til she comes in. + +MRS WARREN [frightened] Why shouldn’t I wait? + +[Frank looks quizzically at her; puts his note carefully on the +ink-bottle, so that Vivie cannot fail to find it when next she dips her +pen; then rises and devotes his attention entirely to her.] + +FRANK. My dear Mrs Warren: suppose you were a sparrow--ever so tiny +and pretty a sparrow hopping in the roadway--and you saw a steam roller +coming in your direction, would you wait for it? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, don’t bother me with your sparrows. What did she run away +from Haslemere like that for? + +FRANK. I’m afraid she’ll tell you if you rashly await her return. + +MRS WARREN. Do you want me to go away? + +FRANK. No: I always want you to stay. But I _advise_ you to go away. + +MRS WARREN. What! And never see her again! + +FRANK. Precisely. + +MRS WARREN [crying again] Praddy: don’t let him be cruel to me. [She +hastily checks her tears and wipes her eyes]. She’ll be so angry if she +sees I’ve been crying. + +FRANK [with a touch of real compassion in his airy tenderness] You know +that Praddy is the soul of kindness, Mrs Warren. Praddy: what do you +say? Go or stay? + +PRAED [to Mrs Warren] I really should be very sorry to cause you +unnecessary pain; but I think perhaps you had better not wait. The fact +is--[Vivie is heard at the inner door]. + +FRANK. Sh! Too late. She’s coming. + +MRS WARREN. Don’t tell her I was crying. [Vivie comes in. She +stops gravely on seeing Mrs Warren, who greets her with hysterical +cheerfulness]. Well, dearie. So here you are at last. + +VIVIE. I am glad you have come: I want to speak to you. You said you +were going, Frank, I think. + +FRANK. Yes. Will you come with me, Mrs Warren? What do you say to a +trip to Richmond, and the theatre in the evening? There is safety in +Richmond. No steam roller there. + +VIVIE. Nonsense, Frank. My mother will stay here. + +MRS WARREN [scared] I don’t know: perhaps I’d better go. We’re disturbing +you at your work. + +VIVIE [with quiet decision] Mr Praed: please take Frank away. Sit down, +mother. [Mrs Warren obeys helplessly]. + +PRAED. Come, Frank. Goodbye, Miss Vivie. + +VIVIE [shaking hands] Goodbye. A pleasant trip. + +PRAED. Thank you: thank you. I hope so. + +FRANK [to Mrs Warren] Goodbye: youd ever so much better have taken my +advice. [He shakes hands with her. Then airily to Vivie] Byebye, Viv. + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [He goes out gaily without shaking hands with her]. + +PRAED [sadly] Goodbye, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [snivelling]--oobye! + +[Praed goes. Vivie, composed and extremely grave, sits down in Honoria’s +chair, and waits for her mother to speak. Mrs Warren, dreading a pause, +loses no time in beginning.] + +MRS WARREN. Well, Vivie, what did you go away like that for without +saying a word to me! How could you do such a thing! And what have you +done to poor George? I wanted him to come with me; but he shuffled +out of it. I could see that he was quite afraid of you. Only fancy: +he wanted me not to come. As if [trembling] I should be afraid of you, +dearie. [Vivie’s gravity deepens]. But of course I told him it was all +settled and comfortable between us, and that we were on the best +of terms. [She breaks down]. Vivie: whats the meaning of this? [She +produces a commercial envelope, and fumbles at the enclosure with +trembling fingers]. I got it from the bank this morning. + +VIVIE. It is my month’s allowance. They sent it to me as usual the other +day. I simply sent it back to be placed to your credit, and asked them +to send you the lodgment receipt. In future I shall support myself. + +MRS WARREN [not daring to understand] Wasn’t it enough? Why didn’t +you tell me? [With a cunning gleam in her eye] I’ll double it: I was +intending to double it. Only let me know how much you want. + +VIVIE. You know very well that that has nothing to do with it. From this +time I go my own way in my own business and among my own friends. And +you will go yours. [She rises]. Goodbye. + +MRS WARREN [rising, appalled] Goodbye? + +VIVIE. Yes: goodbye. Come: don’t let us make a useless scene: you +understand perfectly well. Sir George Crofts has told me the whole +business. + +MRS WARREN [angrily] Silly old--[She swallows an epithet, and then turns +white at the narrowness of her escape from uttering it]. + +VIVIE. Just so. + +MRS WARREN. He ought to have his tongue cut out. But I thought it was +ended: you said you didn’t mind. + +VIVIE [steadfastly] Excuse me: I _do_ mind. + +MRS WARREN. But I explained-- + +VIVIE. You explained how it came about. You did not tell me that it is +still going on [She sits]. + +[Mrs Warren, silenced for a moment, looks forlornly at Vivie, who waits, +secretly hoping that the combat is over. But the cunning expression +comes back into Mrs Warren’s face; and she bends across the table, sly +and urgent, half whispering.] + +MRS WARREN. Vivie: do you know how rich I am? + +VIVIE. I have no doubt you are very rich. + +MRS WARREN. But you don’t know all that that means; youre too young. It +means a new dress every day; it means theatres and balls every night; +it means having the pick of all the gentlemen in Europe at your feet; +it means a lovely house and plenty of servants; it means the choicest of +eating and drinking; it means everything you like, everything you want, +everything you can think of. And what are you here? A mere drudge, +toiling and moiling early and late for your bare living and two cheap +dresses a year. Think over it. [Soothingly] Youre shocked, I know. I can +enter into your feelings; and I think they do you credit; but trust me, +nobody will blame you: you may take my word for that. I know what young +girls are; and I know youll think better of it when you’ve turned it over +in your mind. + +VIVIE. So that’s how it is done, is it? You must have said all that to +many a woman, to have it so pat. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] What harm am I asking you to do? [Vivie turns +away contemptuously. Mrs Warren continues desperately] Vivie: listen to +me: you don’t understand: you were taught wrong on purpose: you don’t know +what the world is really like. + +VIVIE [arrested] Taught wrong on purpose! What do you mean? + +MRS WARREN. I mean that youre throwing away all your chances for +nothing. You think that people are what they pretend to be: that the way +you were taught at school and college to think right and proper is the +way things really are. But it’s not: it’s all only a pretence, to keep +the cowardly slavish common run of people quiet. Do you want to find +that out, like other women, at forty, when you’ve thrown yourself away +and lost your chances; or won’t you take it in good time now from your +own mother, that loves you and swears to you that it’s truth: gospel +truth? [Urgently] Vivie: the big people, the clever people, the managing +people, all know it. They do as I do, and think what I think. I know +plenty of them. I know them to speak to, to introduce you to, to make +friends of for you. I don’t mean anything wrong: thats what you don’t +understand: your head is full of ignorant ideas about me. What do the +people that taught you know about life or about people like me? When did +they ever meet me, or speak to me, or let anyone tell them about me? the +fools! Would they ever have done anything for you if I hadn’t paid them? +Havn’t I told you that I want you to be respectable? Havn’t I brought you +up to be respectable? And how can you keep it up without my money and my +influence and Lizzie’s friends? Can’t you see that youre cutting your own +throat as well as breaking my heart in turning your back on me? + +VIVIE. I recognize the Crofts philosophy of life, mother. I heard it all +from him that day at the Gardners’. + +MRS WARREN. You think I want to force that played-out old sot on you! I +don’t, Vivie: on my oath I don’t. + +VIVIE. It would not matter if you did: you would not succeed. [Mrs +Warren winces, deeply hurt by the implied indifference towards her +affectionate intention. Vivie, neither understanding this nor concerning +herself about it, goes on calmly] Mother: you don’t at all know the sort +of person I am. I don’t object to Crofts more than to any other coarsely +built man of his class. To tell you the truth, I rather admire him +for being strongminded enough to enjoy himself in his own way and +make plenty of money instead of living the usual shooting, hunting, +dining-out, tailoring, loafing life of his set merely because all +the rest do it. And I’m perfectly aware that if I’d been in the same +circumstances as my aunt Liz, I’d have done exactly what she did. + +I don’t think I’m more prejudiced or straitlaced than you: I think +I’m less. I’m certain I’m less sentimental. I know very well that +fashionable morality is all a pretence, and that if I took your money +and devoted the rest of my life to spending it fashionably, I might be +as worthless and vicious as the silliest woman could possibly be without +having a word said to me about it. But I don’t want to be worthless. I +shouldn’t enjoy trotting about the park to advertize my dressmaker +and carriage builder, or being bored at the opera to shew off a +shopwindowful of diamonds. + +MRS WARREN [bewildered] But-- + +VIVIE. Wait a moment: I’ve not done. Tell me why you continue your +business now that you are independent of it. Your sister, you told me, +has left all that behind her. Why don’t you do the same? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s all very easy for Liz: she likes good society, and +has the air of being a lady. Imagine _me_ in a cathedral town! Why, the +very rooks in the trees would find me out even if I could stand +the dulness of it. I must have work and excitement, or I should go +melancholy mad. And what else is there for me to do? The life suits me: +I’m fit for it and not for anything else. If I didn’t do it somebody else +would; so I don’t do any real harm by it. And then it brings in money; +and I like making money. No: it’s no use: I can’t give it up--not for +anybody. But what need you know about it? I’ll never mention it. I’ll +keep Crofts away. I’ll not trouble you much: you see I have to be +constantly running about from one place to another. Youll be quit of me +altogether when I die. + +VIVIE. No: I am my mother’s daughter. I am like you: I must have work, +and must make more money than I spend. But my work is not your work, and +my way is not your way. We must part. It will not make much difference +to us: instead of meeting one another for perhaps a few months in twenty +years, we shall never meet: thats all. + +MRS WARREN [her voice stifled in tears] Vivie: I meant to have been more +with you: I did indeed. + +VIVIE. It’s no use, mother: I am not to be changed by a few cheap tears +and entreaties any more than you are, I daresay. + +MRS WARREN [wildly] Oh, you call a mother’s tears cheap. + +VIVIE. They cost you nothing; and you ask me to give you the peace +and quietness of my whole life in exchange for them. What use would my +company be to you if you could get it? What have we two in common that +could make either of us happy together? + +MRS WARREN [lapsing recklessly into her dialect] We’re mother and +daughter. I want my daughter. I’ve a right to you. Who is to care for me +when I’m old? Plenty of girls have taken to me like daughters and cried +at leaving me; but I let them all go because I had you to look forward +to. I kept myself lonely for you. You’ve no right to turn on me now and +refuse to do your duty as a daughter. + +VIVIE [jarred and antagonized by the echo of the slums in her mother’s +voice] My duty as a daughter! I thought we should come to that +presently. Now once for all, mother, you want a daughter and Frank wants +a wife. I don’t want a mother; and I don’t want a husband. I have spared +neither Frank nor myself in sending him about his business. Do you think +I will spare you? + +MRS WARREN [violently] Oh, I know the sort you are: no mercy for +yourself or anyone else. _I_ know. My experience has done that for me +anyhow: I can tell the pious, canting, hard, selfish woman when I meet +her. Well, keep yourself to yourself: _I_ don’t want you. But listen to +this. Do you know what I would do with you if you were a baby again? +aye, as sure as there’s a Heaven above us. + +VIVIE. Strangle me, perhaps. + +MRS WARREN. No: I’d bring you up to be a real daughter to me, and not +what you are now, with your pride and your prejudices and the college +education you stole from me: yes, stole: deny it if you can: what was it +but stealing? I’d bring you up in my own house, I would. + +VIVIE [quietly] In one of your own houses. + +MRS WARREN [screaming] Listen to her! listen to how she spits on her +mother’s grey hairs! Oh, may you live to have your own daughter tear and +trample on you as you have trampled on me. And you will: you will. No +woman ever had luck with a mother’s curse on her. + +VIVIE. I wish you wouldn’t rant, mother. It only hardens me. Come: I +suppose I am the only young woman you ever had in your power that you +did good to. Don’t spoil it all now. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, Heaven forgive me, it’s true; and you are the only +one that ever turned on me. Oh, the injustice of it! the injustice! the +injustice! I always wanted to be a good woman. I tried honest work; and +I was slave-driven until I cursed the day I ever heard of honest work. I +was a good mother; and because I made my daughter a good woman she turns +me out as if I were a leper. Oh, if I only had my life to live over +again! I’d talk to that lying clergyman in the school. From this time +forth, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I’ll do wrong and nothing but +wrong. And I’ll prosper on it. + +VIVIE. Yes: it’s better to choose your line and go through with it. If +I had been you, mother, I might have done as you did; but I should not +have lived one life and believed in another. You are a conventional +woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you goodbye now. I am right, am +I not? + +MRS WARREN [taken aback] Right to throw away all my money! + +VIVIE. No: right to get rid of you? I should be a fool not to. Isn’t that +so? + +MRS WARREN [sulkily] Oh well, yes, if you come to that, I suppose you +are. But Lord help the world if everybody took to doing the right thing! +And now I’d better go than stay where I’m not wanted. [She turns to the +door]. + +VIVIE [kindly] Won’t you shake hands? + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her fiercely for a moment with a savage +impulse to strike her] No, thank you. Goodbye. + +VIVIE [matter-of-factly] Goodbye. [Mrs Warren goes out, slamming +the door behind her. The strain on Vivie’s face relaxes; her grave +expression breaks up into one of joyous content; her breath goes out +in a half sob, half laugh of intense relief. She goes buoyantly to her +place at the writing table; pushes the electric lamp out of the way; +pulls over a great sheaf of papers; and is in the act of dipping her pen +in the ink when she finds Frank’s note. She opens it unconcernedly +and reads it quickly, giving a little laugh at some quaint turn of +expression in it]. And goodbye, Frank. [She tears the note up and tosses +the pieces into the wastepaper basket without a second thought. Then +she goes at her work with a plunge, and soon becomes absorbed in its +figures]. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mrs. Warren's Profession + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: February 11, 2006 [EBook #1097] +Last Updated: September 21, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by George Bernard Shaw + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1894 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + With The Author’s Apology (1902) + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ACT III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ACT IV </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY + </h2> + <p> + Mrs Warren’s Profession has been performed at last, after a delay of only + eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the triumphant + amusement of startling all but the strongest-headed of the London theatre + critics clean out of the practice of their profession. No author who has + ever known the exultation of sending the Press into an hysterical tumult + of protest, of moral panic, of involuntary and frantic confession of sin, + of a horror of conscience in which the power of distinguishing between the + work of art on the stage and the real life of the spectator is confused + and overwhelmed, will ever care for the stereotyped compliments which + every successful farce or melodrama elicits from the newspapers. Give me + that critic who rushed from my play to declare furiously that Sir George + Crofts ought to be kicked. What a triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a + jaded London journalist to the condition of the simple sailor in the + Wapping gallery, who shouts execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello + not to believe him! But dearer still than such simplicity is that sense of + the sudden earthquake shock to the foundations of morality which sends a + pallid crowd of critics into the street shrieking that the pillars of + society are cracking and the ruin of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen + champions of ten years ago remonstrate with me just as the veterans of + those brave days remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast + who first launched my plays on the stage alongside Ghosts and The Wild + Duck, exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his ideals! + What would Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer himself disowns me + because I “cannot touch pitch without wallowing in it”. Truly my play must + be more needed than I knew; and yet I thought I knew how little the others + know. + </p> + <p> + Do not suppose, however, that the consternation of the Press reflects any + consternation among the general public. Anybody can upset the theatre + critics, in a turn of the wrist, by substituting for the romantic + commonplaces of the stage the moral commonplaces of the pulpit, platform, + or the library. Play Mrs Warren’s Profession to an audience of clerical + members of the Christian Social Union and of women well experienced in + Rescue, Temperance, and Girls’ Club work, and no moral panic will arise; + every man and woman present will know that as long as poverty makes virtue + hideous and the spare pocket-money of rich bachelordom makes vice + dazzling, their daily hand-to-hand fight against prostitution with prayer + and persuasion, shelters and scanty alms, will be a losing one. There was + a time when they were able to urge that though “the white-lead factory + where Anne Jane was poisoned” may be a far more terrible place than Mrs + Warren’s house, yet hell is still more dreadful. Nowadays they no longer + believe in hell; and the girls among whom they are working know that they + do not believe in it, and would laugh at them if they did. So well have + the rescuers learnt that Mrs Warren’s defence of herself and indictment of + society is the thing that most needs saying, that those who know me + personally reproach me, not for writing this play, but for wasting my + energies on “pleasant plays” for the amusement of frivolous people, when I + can build up such excellent stage sermons on their own work. Mrs Warren’s + Profession is the one play of mine which I could submit to a censorship + without doubt of the result; only, it must not be the censorship of the + minor theatre critic, nor of an innocent court official like the Lord + Chamberlain’s Examiner, much less of people who consciously profit by Mrs + Warren’s profession, or who personally make use of it, or who hold the + widely whispered view that it is an indispensable safety-valve for the + protection of domestic virtue, or, above all, who are smitten with a + sentimental affection for our fallen sister, and would “take her up + tenderly, lift her with care, fashioned so slenderly, young, and SO fair.” + Nor am I prepared to accept the verdict of the medical gentlemen who would + compulsorily sanitate and register Mrs Warren, whilst leaving Mrs Warren’s + patrons, especially her military patrons, free to destroy her health and + anybody else’s without fear of reprisals. But I should be quite content to + have my play judged by, say, a joint committee of the Central Vigilance + Society and the Salvation Army. And the sterner moralists the members of + the committee were, the better. + </p> + <p> + Some of the journalists I have shocked reason so unripely that they will + gather nothing from this but a confused notion that I am accusing the + National Vigilance Association and the Salvation Army of complicity in my + own scandalous immorality. It will seem to them that people who would + stand this play would stand anything. They are quite mistaken. Such an + audience as I have described would be revolted by many of our fashionable + plays. They would leave the theatre convinced that the Plymouth Brother + who still regards the playhouse as one of the gates of hell is perhaps the + safest adviser on the subject of which he knows so little. If I do not + draw the same conclusion, it is not because I am one of those who claim + that art is exempt from moral obligations, and deny that the writing or + performance of a play is a moral act, to be treated on exactly the same + footing as theft or murder if it produces equally mischievous + consequences. I am convinced that fine art is the subtlest, the most + seductive, the most effective instrument of moral propaganda in the world, + excepting only the example of personal conduct; and I waive even this + exception in favor of the art of the stage, because it works by exhibiting + examples of personal conduct made intelligible and moving to crowds of + unobservant, unreflecting people to whom real life means nothing. I have + pointed out again and again that the influence of the theatre in England + is growing so great that whilst private conduct, religion, law, science, + politics, and morals are becoming more and more theatrical, the theatre + itself remains impervious to common sense, religion, science, politics, + and morals. That is why I fight the theatre, not with pamphlets and + sermons and treatises, but with plays; and so effective do I find the + dramatic method that I have no doubt I shall at last persuade even London + to take its conscience and its brains with it when it goes to the theatre, + instead of leaving them at home with its prayer-book as it does at + present. Consequently, I am the last man in the world to deny that if the + net effect of performing Mrs Warren’s Profession were an increase in the + number of persons entering that profession, its performance should be + dealt with accordingly. + </p> + <p> + Now let us consider how such recruiting can be encouraged by the theatre. + Nothing is easier. Let the King’s Reader of Plays, backed by the Press, + make an unwritten but perfectly well understood regulation that members of + Mrs Warren’s profession shall be tolerated on the stage only when they are + beautiful, exquisitely dressed, and sumptuously lodged and fed; also that + they shall, at the end of the play, die of consumption to the sympathetic + tears of the whole audience, or step into the next room to commit suicide, + or at least be turned out by their protectors and passed on to be + “redeemed” by old and faithful lovers who have adored them in spite of + their levities. Naturally, the poorer girls in the gallery will believe in + the beauty, in the exquisite dresses, and the luxurious living, and will + see that there is no real necessity for the consumption, the suicide, or + the ejectment: mere pious forms, all of them, to save the Censor’s face. + Even if these purely official catastrophes carried any conviction, the + majority of English girls remain so poor, so dependent, so well aware that + the drudgeries of such honest work as is within their reach are likely + enough to lead them eventually to lung disease, premature death, and + domestic desertion or brutality, that they would still see reason to + prefer the primrose path to the strait path of virtue, since both, vice at + worst and virtue at best, lead to the same end in poverty and overwork. It + is true that the Board School mistress will tell you that only girls of a + certain kind will reason in this way. But alas! that certain kind turns + out on inquiry to be simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only + kind that gets the chance of acting on such reasoning. Read the first + report of the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C + 4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacred word, Home!) + issued by the Women’s Industrial Council [Home Industries of Women in + London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street, W. C.]; and ask yourself whether, + if the lot in life therein described were your lot in life, you would not + prefer the lot of Cleopatra, of Theodora, of the Lady of the Camellias, of + Mrs Tanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you can go deep enough into things to + be able to say no, how many ignorant half-starved girls will believe you + are speaking sincerely? To them the lot of Iris is heavenly in comparison + with their own. Yet our King, like his predecessors, says to the + dramatist, “Thus, and thus only, shall you present Mrs Warren’s profession + on the stage, or you shall starve. Witness Shaw, who told the untempting + truth about it, and whom We, by the Grace of God, accordingly disallow and + suppress, and do what in Us lies to silence.” Fortunately, Shaw cannot be + silenced. “The harlot’s cry from street to street” is louder than the + voices of all the kings. I am not dependent on the theatre, and cannot be + starved into making my play a standing advertisement of the attractive + side of Mrs Warren’s business. + </p> + <p> + Here I must guard myself against a misunderstanding. It is not the fault + of their authors that the long string of wanton’s tragedies, from Antony + and Cleopatra to Iris, are snares to poor girls, and are objected to on + that account by many earnest men and women who consider Mrs Warren’s + Profession an excellent sermon. Mr Pinero is in no way bound to suppress + the fact that his Iris is a person to be envied by millions of better + women. If he made his play false to life by inventing fictitious + disadvantages for her, he would be acting as unscrupulously as any tract + writer. If society chooses to provide for its Irises better than for its + working women, it must not expect honest playwrights to manufacture + spurious evidence to save its credit. The mischief lies in the deliberate + suppression of the other side of the case: the refusal to allow Mrs Warren + to expose the drudgery and repulsiveness of plying for hire among coarse, + tedious drunkards; the determination not to let the Parisian girl in + Brieux’s Les Avaries come on the stage and drive into people’s minds what + her diseases mean for her and for themselves. All that, says the King’s + Reader in effect, is horrifying, loathsome. + </p> + <p> + Precisely: what does he expect it to be? would he have us represent it as + beautiful and gratifying? The answer to this question, I fear, must be a + blunt Yes; for it seems impossible to root out of an Englishman’s mind the + notion that vice is delightful, and that abstention from it is privation. + At all events, as long as the tempting side of it is kept towards the + public, and softened by plenty of sentiment and sympathy, it is welcomed + by our Censor, whereas the slightest attempt to place it in the light of + the policeman’s lantern or the Salvation Army shelter is checkmated at + once as not merely disgusting, but, if you please, unnecessary. + </p> + <p> + Everybody will, I hope, admit that this state of things is intolerable; + that the subject of Mrs Warren’s profession must be either tapu + altogether, or else exhibited with the warning side as freely displayed as + the tempting side. But many persons will vote for a complete tapu, and an + impartial sweep from the boards of Mrs Warren and Gretchen and the rest; + in short, for banishing the sexual instincts from the stage altogether. + Those who think this impossible can hardly have considered the number and + importance of the subjects which are actually banished from the stage. + Many plays, among them Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, + have no sex complications: the thread of their action can be followed by + children who could not understand a single scene of Mrs Warren’s + Profession or Iris. None of our plays rouse the sympathy of the audience + by an exhibition of the pains of maternity, as Chinese plays constantly + do. Each nation has its own particular set of tapus in addition to the + common human stock; and though each of these tapus limits the scope of the + dramatist, it does not make drama impossible. If the Examiner were to + refuse to license plays with female characters in them, he would only be + doing to the stage what our tribal customs already do to the pulpit and + the bar. I have myself written a rather entertaining play with only one + woman in it, and she is quite heartwhole; and I could just as easily write + a play without a woman in it at all. I will even go so far as to promise + the Mr Redford my support if he will introduce this limitation for part of + the year, say during Lent, so as to make a close season for that dullest + of stock dramatic subjects, adultery, and force our managers and authors + to find out what all great dramatists find out spontaneously: to wit, that + people who sacrifice every other consideration to love are as hopelessly + unheroic on the stage as lunatics or dipsomaniacs. Hector is the world’s + hero; not Paris nor Antony. + </p> + <p> + But though I do not question the possibility of a drama in which love + should be as effectively ignored as cholera is at present, there is not + the slightest chance of that way out of the difficulty being taken by the + Mr Redford. If he attempted it there would be a revolt in which he would + be swept away in spite of my singlehanded efforts to defend him. A + complete tapu is politically impossible. A complete toleration is equally + impossible to Mr Redford, because his occupation would be gone if there + were no tapu to enforce. He is therefore compelled to maintain the present + compromise of a partial tapu, applied, to the best of his judgement, with + a careful respect to persons and to public opinion. And a very sensible + English solution of the difficulty, too, most readers will say. I should + not dispute it if dramatic poets really were what English public opinion + generally assumes them to be during their lifetime: that is, a + licentiously irregular group to be kept in order in a rough and ready way + by a magistrate who will stand no nonsense from them. But I cannot admit + that the class represented by Eschylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes, + Euripides, Shakespear, Goethe, Ibsen, and Tolstoy, not to mention our own + contemporary playwrights, is as much in place in Mr Redford’s office as a + pickpocket is in Bow Street. Further, it is not true that the Censorship, + though it certainly suppresses Ibsen and Tolstoy, and would suppress + Shakespear but for the absurd rule that a play once licensed is always + licensed (so that Wycherly is permitted and Shelley prohibited), also + suppresses unscrupulous playwrights. I challenge Mr Redford to mention any + extremity of sexual misconduct which any manager in his senses would risk + presenting on the London stage that has not been presented under his + license and that of his predecessor. The compromise, in fact, works out in + practice in favor of loose plays as against earnest ones. + </p> + <p> + To carry conviction on this point, I will take the extreme course of + narrating the plots of two plays witnessed within the last ten years by + myself at London West End theatres, one licensed by the late Queen + Victoria’s Reader of Plays, the other by the present Reader to the King. + Both plots conform to the strictest rules of the period when La Dame aux + Camellias was still a forbidden play, and when The Second Mrs Tanqueray + would have been tolerated only on condition that she carefully explained + to the audience that when she met Captain Ardale she sinned “but in + intention.” + </p> + <p> + Play number one. A prince is compelled by his parents to marry the + daughter of a neighboring king, but loves another maiden. The scene + represents a hall in the king’s palace at night. The wedding has taken + place that day; and the closed door of the nuptial chamber is in view of + the audience. Inside, the princess awaits her bridegroom. A duenna is in + attendance. The bridegroom enters. His sole desire is to escape from a + marriage which is hateful to him. An idea strikes him. He will assault the + duenna, and get ignominiously expelled from the palace by his indignant + father-in-law. To his horror, when he proceeds to carry out this + stratagem, the duenna, far from raising an alarm, is flattered, delighted, + and compliant. The assaulter becomes the assaulted. He flings her angrily + to the ground, where she remains placidly. He flies. The father enters; + dismisses the duenna; and listens at the keyhole of his daughter’s nuptial + chamber, uttering various pleasantries, and declaring, with a shiver, that + a sound of kissing, which he supposes to proceed from within, makes him + feel young again. + </p> + <p> + In deprecation of the scandalized astonishment with which such a story as + this will be read, I can only say that it was not presented on the stage + until its propriety had been certified by the chief officer of the Queen + of England’s household. + </p> + <p> + Story number two. A German officer finds himself in an inn with a French + lady who has wounded his national vanity. He resolves to humble her by + committing a rape upon her. He announces his purpose. She remonstrates, + implores, flies to the doors and finds them locked, calls for help and + finds none at hand, runs screaming from side to side, and, after a + harrowing scene, is overpowered and faints. Nothing further being possible + on the stage without actual felony, the officer then relents and leaves + her. When she recovers, she believes that he has carried out his threat; + and during the rest of the play she is represented as vainly vowing + vengeance upon him, whilst she is really falling in love with him under + the influence of his imaginary crime against her. Finally she consents to + marry him; and the curtain falls on their happiness. + </p> + <p> + This story was certified by the present King’s Reader, acting for the Lord + Chamberlain, as void in its general tendency of “anything immoral or + otherwise improper for the stage.” But let nobody conclude therefore that + Mr Redford is a monster, whose policy it is to deprave the theatre. As a + matter of fact, both the above stories are strictly in order from the + official point of view. The incidents of sex which they contain, though + carried in both to the extreme point at which another step would be dealt + with, not by the King’s Reader, but by the police, do not involve + adultery, nor any allusion to Mrs Warren’s profession, nor to the fact + that the children of any polyandrous group will, when they grow up, + inevitably be confronted, as those of Mrs Warren’s group are in my play, + with the insoluble problem of their own possible consanguinity. In short, + by depending wholly on the coarse humors and the physical fascination of + sex, they comply with all the formulable requirements of the Censorship, + whereas plays in which these humors and fascinations are discarded, and + the social problems created by sex seriously faced and dealt with, + inevitably ignore the official formula and are suppressed. If the old rule + against the exhibition of illicit sex relations on stage were revived, and + the subject absolutely barred, the only result would be that Antony and + Cleopatra, Othello (because of the Bianca episode), Troilus and Cressida, + Henry IV, Measure for Measure, Timon of Athens, La Dame aux Camellias, The + Profligate, The Second Mrs Tanqueray, The Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith, The Gay + Lord Quex, Mrs Dane’s Defence, and Iris would be swept from the stage, and + placed under the same ban as Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness and Mrs + Warren’s Profession, whilst such plays as the two described above would + have a monopoly of the theatre as far as sexual interest is concerned. + </p> + <p> + What is more, the repulsiveness of the worst of the certified plays would + protect the Censorship against effective exposure and criticism. Not long + ago an American Review of high standing asked me for an article on the + Censorship of the English stage. I replied that such an article would + involve passages too disagreeable for publication in a magazine for + general family reading. The editor persisted nevertheless; but not until + he had declared his readiness to face this, and had pledged himself to + insert the article unaltered (the particularity of the pledge extending + even to a specification of the exact number of words in the article) did I + consent to the proposal. What was the result? + </p> + <p> + The editor, confronted with the two stories given above, threw his pledge + to the winds, and, instead of returning the article, printed it with the + illustrative examples omitted, and nothing left but the argument from + political principles against the Censorship. In doing this he fired my + broadside after withdrawing the cannon balls; for neither the Censor nor + any other Englishman, except perhaps Mr Leslie Stephen and a few other + veterans of the dwindling old guard of Benthamism, cares a dump about + political principle. The ordinary Briton thinks that if every other Briton + is not kept under some form of tutelage, the more childish the better, he + will abuse his freedom viciously. As far as its principle is concerned, + the Censorship is the most popular institution in England; and the + playwright who criticizes it is slighted as a blackguard agitating for + impunity. Consequently nothing can really shake the confidence of the + public in the Lord Chamberlain’s department except a remorseless and + unbowdlerized narration of the licentious fictions which slip through its + net, and are hallmarked by it with the approval of the Throne. But since + these narrations cannot be made public without great difficulty, owing to + the obligation an editor is under not to deal unexpectedly with matters + that are not <i>virginibus puerisque</i>, the chances are heavily in favor + of the Censor escaping all remonstrance. With the exception of such + comments as I was able to make in my own critical articles in The World + and The Saturday Review when the pieces I have described were first + produced, and a few ignorant protests by churchmen against much better + plays which they confessed they had not seen nor read, nothing has been + said in the press that could seriously disturb the easygoing notion that + the stage would be much worse than it admittedly is but for the vigilance + of the King’s Reader. The truth is, that no manager would dare produce on + his own responsibility the pieces he can now get royal certificates for at + two guineas per piece. + </p> + <p> + I hasten to add that I believe these evils to be inherent in the nature of + all censorship, and not merely a consequence of the form the institution + takes in London. No doubt there is a staggering absurdity in appointing an + ordinary clerk to see that the leaders of European literature do not + corrupt the morals of the nation, and to restrain Sir Henry Irving, as a + rogue and a vagabond, from presuming to impersonate Samson or David on the + stage, though any other sort of artist may daub these scriptural figures + on a signboard or carve them on a tombstone without hindrance. If the + General Medical Council, the Royal College of Physicians, the Royal + Academy of Arts, the Incorporated Law Society, and Convocation were + abolished, and their functions handed over to the Mr Redford, the Concert + of Europe would presumably declare England mad, and treat her accordingly. + Yet, though neither medicine nor painting nor law nor the Church moulds + the character of the nation as potently as the theatre does, nothing can + come on the stage unless its dimensions admit of its passing through Mr + Redford’s mind! Pray do not think that I question Mr Redford’s honesty. I + am quite sure that he sincerely thinks me a blackguard, and my play a + grossly improper one, because, like Tolstoy’s Dominion of Darkness, it + produces, as they are both meant to produce, a very strong and very + painful impression of evil. I do not doubt for a moment that the rapine + play which I have described, and which he licensed, was quite incapable in + manuscript of producing any particular effect on his mind at all, and that + when he was once satisfied that the ill-conducted hero was a German and + not an English officer, he passed the play without studying its moral + tendencies. Even if he had undertaken that study, there is no more reason + to suppose that he is a competent moralist than there is to suppose that I + am a competent mathematician. But truly it does not matter whether he is a + moralist or not. Let nobody dream for a moment that what is wrong with the + Censorship is the shortcoming of the gentleman who happens at any moment + to be acting as Censor. Replace him to-morrow by an Academy of Letters and + an Academy of Dramatic Poetry, and the new and enlarged filter will still + exclude original and epoch-making work, whilst passing conventional, + old-fashioned, and vulgar work without question. The conclave which + compiles the index of the Roman Catholic Church is the most august, + ancient, learned, famous, and authoritative censorship in Europe. Is it + more enlightened, more liberal, more tolerant that the comparatively + infinitesimal office of the Lord Chamberlain? On the contrary, it has + reduced itself to a degree of absurdity which makes a Catholic university + a contradiction in terms. All censorships exist to prevent anyone from + challenging current conceptions and existing institutions. All progress is + initiated by challenging current concepts, and executed by supplanting + existing institutions. Consequently the first condition of progress is the + removal of censorships. There is the whole case against censorships in a + nutshell. + </p> + <p> + It will be asked whether theatrical managers are to be allowed to produce + what they like, without regard to the public interest. But that is not the + alternative. The managers of our London music-halls are not subject to any + censorship. They produce their entertainments on their own responsibility, + and have no two-guinea certificates to plead if their houses are conducted + viciously. They know that if they lose their character, the County Council + will simply refuse to renew their license at the end of the year; and + nothing in the history of popular art is more amazing than the improvement + in music-halls that this simple arrangement has produced within a few + years. Place the theatres on the same footing, and we shall promptly have + a similar revolution: a whole class of frankly blackguardly plays, in + which unscrupulous low comedians attract crowds to gaze at bevies of girls + who have nothing to exhibit but their prettiness, will vanish like the + obscene songs which were supposed to enliven the squalid dulness, + incredible to the younger generation, of the music-halls fifteen years + ago. On the other hand, plays which treat sex questions as problems for + thought instead of as aphrodisiacs will be freely performed. Gentlemen of + Mr Redford’s way of thinking will have plenty of opportunity of protesting + against them in Council; but the result will be that the Mr Redford will + find his natural level; Ibsen and Tolstoy theirs; so no harm will be done. + </p> + <p> + This question of the Censorship reminds me that I have to apologize to + those who went to the recent performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession + expecting to find it what I have just called an aphrodisiac. That was not + my fault; it was Mr Redford’s. After the specimens I have given of the + tolerance of his department, it was natural enough for thoughtless people + to infer that a play which overstepped his indulgence must be a very + exciting play indeed. Accordingly, I find one critic so explicit as to the + nature of his disappointment as to say candidly that “such airy talk as + there is upon the matter is utterly unworthy of acceptance as being a + representation of what people with blood in them think or do on such + occasions.” Thus am I crushed between the upper millstone of the Mr + Redford, who thinks me a libertine, and the nether popular critic, who + thinks me a prude. Critics of all grades and ages, middle-aged fathers of + families no less than ardent young enthusiasts, are equally indignant with + me. They revile me as lacking in passion, in feeling, in manhood. Some of + them even sum the matter up by denying me any dramatic power: a melancholy + betrayal of what dramatic power has come to mean on our stage under the + Censorship! Can I be expected to refrain from laughing at the spectacle of + a number of respectable gentlemen lamenting because a playwright lures + them to the theatre by a promise to excite their senses in a very special + and sensational manner, and then, having successfully trapped them in + exceptional numbers, proceeds to ignore their senses and ruthlessly + improve their minds? But I protest again that the lure was not mine. The + play had been in print for four years; and I have spared no pains to make + known that my plays are built to induce, not voluptuous reverie but + intellectual interest, not romantic rhapsody but humane concern. + Accordingly, I do not find those critics who are gifted with intellectual + appetite and political conscience complaining of want of dramatic power. + Rather do they protest, not altogether unjustly, against a few relapses + into staginess and caricature which betray the young playwright and the + old playgoer in this early work of mine. + </p> + <p> + As to the voluptuaries, I can assure them that the playwright, whether he + be myself or another, will always disappoint them. The drama can do little + to delight the senses: all the apparent instances to the contrary are + instances of the personal fascination of the performers. The drama of pure + feeling is no longer in the hands of the playwright: it has been conquered + by the musician, after whose enchantments all the verbal arts seem cold + and tame. Romeo and Juliet with the loveliest Juliet is dry, tedious, and + rhetorical in comparison with Wagner’s Tristan, even though Isolde be both + fourteen stone and forty, as she often is in Germany. Indeed, it needed no + Wagner to convince the public of this. The voluptuous sentimentality of + Gounod’s Faust and Bizet’s Carmen has captured the common playgoer; and + there is, flatly, no future now for any drama without music except the + drama of thought. The attempt to produce a genus of opera without music + (and this absurdity is what our fashionable theatres have been driving at + for a long time without knowing it) is far less hopeful than my own + determination to accept problem as the normal materiel of the drama. + </p> + <p> + That this determination will throw me into a long conflict with our + theatre critics, and with the few playgoers who go to the theatre as often + as the critics, I well know; but I am too well equipped for the strife to + be deterred by it, or to bear malice towards the losing side. In trying to + produce the sensuous effects of opera, the fashionable drama has become so + flaccid in its sentimentality, and the intellect of its frequenters so + atrophied by disuse, that the reintroduction of problem, with its + remorseless logic and iron framework of fact, inevitably produces at first + an overwhelming impression of coldness and inhuman rationalism. But this + will soon pass away. When the intellectual muscle and moral nerve of the + critics has been developed in the struggle with modern problem plays, the + pettish luxuriousness of the clever ones, and the sulky sense of + disadvantaged weakness in the sentimental ones, will clear away; and it + will be seen that only in the problem play is there any real drama, + because drama is no mere setting up of the camera to nature: it is the + presentation in parable of the conflict between Man’s will and his + environment: in a word, of problem. The vapidness of such drama as the + pseudo-operatic plays contain lies in the fact that in them animal + passion, sentimentally diluted, is shewn in conflict, not with real + circumstances, but with a set of conventions and assumptions half of which + do not exist off the stage, whilst the other half can either be evaded by + a pretence of compliance or defied with complete impunity by any + reasonably strong-minded person. Nobody can feel that such conventions are + really compulsory; and consequently nobody can believe in the stage pathos + that accepts them as an inexorable fate, or in the genuineness of the + people who indulge in such pathos. Sitting at such plays, we do not + believe: we make-believe. And the habit of make-believe becomes at last so + rooted that criticism of the theatre insensibly ceases to be criticism at + all, and becomes more and more a chronicle of the fashionable enterprises + of the only realities left on the stage: that is, the performers in their + own persons. In this phase the playwright who attempts to revive genuine + drama produces the disagreeable impression of the pedant who attempts to + start a serious discussion at a fashionable at-home. Later on, when he has + driven the tea services out and made the people who had come to use the + theatre as a drawing-room understand that it is they and not the dramatist + who are the intruders, he has to face the accusation that his plays ignore + human feeling, an illusion produced by that very resistance of fact and + law to human feeling which creates drama. It is the <i>deus ex machina</i> + who, by suspending that resistance, makes the fall of the curtain an + immediate necessity, since drama ends exactly where resistance ends. Yet + the introduction of this resistance produces so strong an impression of + heartlessness nowadays that a distinguished critic has summed up the + impression made on him by Mrs Warren’s Profession, by declaring that “the + difference between the spirit of Tolstoy and the spirit of Mr Shaw is the + difference between the spirit of Christ and the spirit of Euclid.” But the + epigram would be as good if Tolstoy’s name were put in place of mine and + D’Annunzio’s in place of Tolstoy. At the same time I accept the enormous + compliment to my reasoning powers with sincere complacency; and I promise + my flatterer that when he is sufficiently accustomed to and therefore + undazzled by problem on the stage to be able to attend to the familiar + factor of humanity in it as well as to the unfamiliar one of a real + environment, he will both see and feel that Mrs Warren’s Profession is no + mere theorem, but a play of instincts and temperaments in conflict with + each other and with a flinty social problem that never yields an inch to + mere sentiment. + </p> + <p> + I go further than this. I declare that the real secret of the cynicism and + inhumanity of which shallower critics accuse me is the unexpectedness with + which my characters behave like human beings, instead of conforming to the + romantic logic of the stage. The axioms and postulates of that dreary + mimanthropometry are so well known that it is almost impossible for its + slaves to write tolerable last acts to their plays, so conventionally do + their conclusions follow from their premises. Because I have thrown this + logic ruthlessly overboard, I am accused of ignoring, not stage logic, + but, of all things, human feeling. People with completely theatrified + imaginations tell me that no girl would treat her mother as Vivie Warren + does, meaning that no stage heroine would in a popular sentimental play. + They say this just as they might say that no two straight lines would + enclose a space. They do not see how completely inverted their vision has + become even when I throw its preposterousness in their faces, as I + repeatedly do in this very play. Praed, the sentimental artist (fool that + I was not to make him a theatre critic instead of an architect!) + burlesques them by expecting all through the piece that the feelings of + others will be logically deducible from their family relationships and + from his “conventionally unconventional” social code. The sarcasm is lost + on the critics: they, saturated with the same logic, only think him the + sole sensible person on the stage. Thus it comes about that the more + completely the dramatist is emancipated from the illusion that men and + women are primarily reasonable beings, and the more powerfully he insists + on the ruthless indifference of their great dramatic antagonist, the + external world, to their whims and emotions, the surer he is to be + denounced as blind to the very distinction on which his whole work is + built. Far from ignoring idiosyncrasy, will, passion, impulse, whim, as + factors in human action, I have placed them so nakedly on the stage that + the elderly citizen, accustomed to see them clothed with the veil of + manufactured logic about duty, and to disguise even his own impulses from + himself in this way, finds the picture as unnatural as Carlyle’s suggested + painting of parliament sitting without its clothes. + </p> + <p> + I now come to those critics who, intellectually baffled by the problem in + Mrs Warren’s Profession, have made a virtue of running away from it. I + will illustrate their method by quotation from Dickens, taken from the + fifth chapter of Our Mutual Friend: + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” began Wegg. “This, Mr Boffin and Lady, is the first chapter of the + first wollume of the Decline and Fall off——” here he looked + hard at the book, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Wegg?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it comes into my mind, do you know, sir,” said Wegg with an air of + insinuating frankness (having first again looked hard at the book), “that + you made a little mistake this morning, which I had meant to set you right + in; only something put it out of my head. I think you said Rooshan Empire, + sir?” + </p> + <p> + “It is Rooshan; ain’t it, Wegg?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. Roman. Roman.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the difference, Wegg?” + </p> + <p> + “The difference, sir?” Mr Wegg was faltering and in danger of breaking + down, when a bright thought flashed upon him. “The difference, sir? There + you place me in a difficulty, Mr Boffin. Suffice it to observe, that the + difference is best postponed to some other occasion when Mrs Boffin does + not honor us with her company. In Mrs Boffin’s presence, sir, we had + better drop it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage with quite a chivalrous air, and + not only that, but by dint of repeating with a manly delicacy, “In Mrs + Boffin’s presence, sir, we had better drop it!” turned the disadvantage on + Boffin, who felt that he had committed himself in a very painful manner. + </p> + <p> + I am willing to let Mr Wegg drop it on these terms, provided I am allowed + to mention here that Mrs Warren’s Profession is a play for women; that it + was written for women; that it has been performed and produced mainly + through the determination of women that it should be performed and + produced; that the enthusiasm of women made its first performance + excitingly successful; and that not one of these women had any inducement + to support it except their belief in the timeliness and the power of the + lesson the play teaches. Those who were “surprised to see ladies present” + were men; and when they proceeded to explain that the journals they + represented could not possibly demoralize the public by describing such a + play, their editors cruelly devoted the space saved by their delicacy to + an elaborate and respectful account of the progress of a young lord’s + attempt to break the bank at Monte Carlo. A few days sooner Mrs Warren + would have been crowded out of their papers by an exceptionally abominable + police case. I do not suggest that the police case should have been + suppressed; but neither do I believe that regard for public morality had + anything to do with their failure to grapple with the performance by the + Stage Society. And, after all, there was no need to fall back on Silas + Wegg’s subterfuge. Several critics saved the faces of their papers easily + enough by the simple expedient of saying all they had to say in the tone + of a shocked governess lecturing a naughty child. To them I might plead, + in Mrs Warren’s words, “Well, it’s only good manners to be ashamed, + dearie;” but it surprises me, recollecting as I do the effect produced by + Miss Fanny Brough’s delivery of that line, that gentlemen who shivered + like violets in a zephyr as it swept through them, should so completely + miss the full width of its application as to go home and straightway make + a public exhibition of mock modesty. + </p> + <p> + My old Independent Theatre manager, Mr Grein, besides that reproach to me + for shattering his ideals, complains that Mrs Warren is not wicked enough, + and names several romancers who would have clothed her black soul with all + the terrors of tragedy. I have no doubt they would; but if you please, my + dear Grein, that is just what I did not want to do. Nothing would please + our sanctimonious British public more than to throw the whole guilt of Mrs + Warren’s profession on Mrs Warren herself. Now the whole aim of my play is + to throw that guilt on the British public itself. You may remember that + when you produced my first play, Widowers’ Houses, exactly the same + misunderstanding arose. When the virtuous young gentleman rose up in wrath + against the slum landlord, the slum landlord very effectively shewed him + that slums are the product, not of individual Harpagons, but of the + indifference of virtuous young gentlemen to the condition of the city they + live in, provided they live at the west end of it on money earned by + someone else’s labor. The notion that prostitution is created by the + wickedness of Mrs Warren is as silly as the notion—prevalent, + nevertheless, to some extent in Temperance circles—that drunkenness + is created by the wickedness of the publican. Mrs Warren is not a whit a + worse woman than the reputable daughter who cannot endure her. Her + indifference to the ultimate social consequences of her means of making + money, and her discovery of that means by the ordinary method of taking + the line of least resistance to getting it, are too common in English + society to call for any special remark. Her vitality, her thrift, her + energy, her outspokenness, her wise care of her daughter, and the managing + capacity which has enabled her and her sister to climb from the fried fish + shop down by the Mint to the establishments of which she boasts, are all + high English social virtues. Her defence of herself is so overwhelming + that it provokes the St James Gazette to declare that “the tendency of the + play is wholly evil” because “it contains one of the boldest and most + specious defences of an immoral life for poor women that has ever been + penned.” Happily the St James Gazette here speaks in its haste. Mrs + Warren’s defence of herself is not only bold and specious, but valid and + unanswerable. But it is no defence at all of the vice which she organizes. + It is no defence of an immoral life to say that the alternative offered by + society collectively to poor women is a miserable life, starved, + overworked, fetid, ailing, ugly. Though it is quite natural and RIGHT for + Mrs Warren to choose what is, according to her lights, the least immoral + alternative, it is none the less infamous of society to offer such + alternatives. For the alternatives offered are not morality and + immorality, but two sorts of immorality. The man who cannot see that + starvation, overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as prostitution—that + they are the vices and crimes of a nation, and not merely its misfortunes—is + (to put it as politely as possible) a hopelessly Private Person. + </p> + <p> + The notion that Mrs Warren must be a fiend is only an example of the + violence and passion which the slightest reference to sex arouses in + undisciplined minds, and which makes it seem natural for our lawgivers to + punish silly and negligible indecencies with a ferocity unknown in dealing + with, for example, ruinous financial swindling. Had my play been titled Mr + Warren’s Profession, and Mr Warren been a bookmaker, nobody would have + expected me to make him a villain as well. Yet gambling is a vice, and + bookmaking an institution, for which there is absolutely nothing to be + said. The moral and economic evil done by trying to get other people’s + money without working for it (and this is the essence of gambling) is not + only enormous but uncompensated. There are no two sides to the question of + gambling, no circumstances which force us to tolerate it lest its + suppression lead to worse things, no consensus of opinion among + responsible classes, such as magistrates and military commanders, that it + is a necessity, no Athenian records of gambling made splendid by the + talents of its professors, no contention that instead of violating morals + it only violates a legal institution which is in many respects oppressive + and unnatural, no possible plea that the instinct on which it is founded + is a vital one. Prostitution can confuse the issue with all these excuses: + gambling has none of them. Consequently, if Mrs Warren must needs be a + demon, a bookmaker must be a cacodemon. Well, does anybody who knows the + sporting world really believe that bookmakers are worse than their + neighbors? On the contrary, they have to be a good deal better; for in + that world nearly everybody whose social rank does not exclude such an + occupation would be a bookmaker if he could; but the strength of character + for handling large sums of money and for strict settlements and + unflinching payment of losses is so rare that successful bookmakers are + rare too. It may seem that at least public spirit cannot be one of a + bookmaker’s virtues; but I can testify from personal experience that + excellent public work is done with money subscribed by bookmakers. It is + true that there are abysses in bookmaking: for example, welshing. Mr Grein + hints that there are abysses in Mrs Warren’s profession also. So there are + in every profession: the error lies in supposing that every member of them + sounds these depths. I sit on a public body which prosecutes Mrs Warren + zealously; and I can assure Mr Grein that she is often leniently dealt + with because she has conducted her business “respectably” and held herself + above its vilest branches. The degrees in infamy are as numerous and as + scrupulously observed as the degrees in the peerage: the moralist’s notion + that there are depths at which the moral atmosphere ceases is as delusive + as the rich man’s notion that there are no social jealousies or snobberies + among the very poor. No: had I drawn Mrs Warren as a fiend in human form, + the very people who now rebuke me for flattering her would probably be the + first to deride me for deducing her character logically from occupation + instead of observing it accurately in society. + </p> + <p> + One critic is so enslaved by this sort of logic that he calls my + portraiture of the Reverend Samuel Gardner an attack on religion. + </p> + <p> + According to this view Subaltern Iago is an attack on the army, Sir John + Falstaff an attack on knighthood, and King Claudius an attack on royalty. + Here again the clamor for naturalness and human feeling, raised by so many + critics when they are confronted by the real thing on the stage, is really + a clamor for the most mechanical and superficial sort of logic. The + dramatic reason for making the clergyman what Mrs Warren calls “an old + stick-in-the-mud,” whose son, in spite of much capacity and charm, is a + cynically worthless member of society, is to set up a mordant contrast + between him and the woman of infamous profession, with her well + brought-up, straightforward, hardworking daughter. The critics who have + missed the contrast have doubtless observed often enough that many + clergymen are in the Church through no genuine calling, but simply + because, in circles which can command preferment, it is the refuge of “the + fool of the family”; and that clergymen’s sons are often conspicuous + reactionists against the restraints imposed on them in childhood by their + father’s profession. These critics must know, too, from history if not + from experience, that women as unscrupulous as Mrs Warren have + distinguished themselves as administrators and rulers, both commercially + and politically. But both observation and knowledge are left behind when + journalists go to the theatre. Once in their stalls, they assume that it + is “natural” for clergymen to be saintly, for soldiers to be heroic, for + lawyers to be hard-hearted, for sailors to be simple and generous, for + doctors to perform miracles with little bottles, and for Mrs Warren to be + a beast and a demon. All this is not only not natural, but not dramatic. A + man’s profession only enters into the drama of his life when it comes into + conflict with his nature. The result of this conflict is tragic in Mrs + Warren’s case, and comic in the clergyman’s case (at least we are savage + enough to laugh at it); but in both cases it is illogical, and in both + cases natural. I repeat, the critics who accuse me of sacrificing nature + to logic are so sophisticated by their profession that to them logic is + nature, and nature absurdity. + </p> + <p> + Many friendly critics are too little skilled in social questions and moral + discussions to be able to conceive that respectable gentlemen like + themselves, who would instantly call the police to remove Mrs Warren if + she ventured to canvass them personally, could possibly be in any way + responsible for her proceedings. They remonstrate sincerely, asking me + what good such painful exposures can possibly do. They might as well ask + what good Lord Shaftesbury did by devoting his life to the exposure of + evils (by no means yet remedied) compared to which the worst things + brought into view or even into surmise by this play are trifles. The good + of mentioning them is that you make people so extremely uncomfortable + about them that they finally stop blaming “human nature” for them, and + begin to support measures for their reform. + </p> + <p> + Can anything be more absurd than the copy of The Echo which contains a + notice of the performance of my play? It is edited by a gentleman who, + having devoted his life to work of the Shaftesbury type, exposes social + evils and clamors for their reform in every column except one; and that + one is occupied by the declaration of the paper’s kindly theatre critic, + that the performance left him “wondering what useful purpose the play was + intended to serve.” The balance has to be redressed by the more + fashionable papers, which usually combine capable art criticism with + West-End solecism on politics and sociology. It is very noteworthy, + however, on comparing the press explosion produced by Mrs Warren’s + Profession in 1902 with that produced by Widowers’ Houses about ten years + earlier, that whereas in 1892 the facts were frantically denied and the + persons of the drama flouted as monsters of wickedness, in 1902 the facts + are admitted and the characters recognized, though it is suggested that + this is exactly why no gentleman should mention them in public. Only one + writer has ventured to imply this time that the poverty mentioned by Mrs + Warren has since been quietly relieved, and need not have been dragged + back to the footlights. I compliment him on his splendid mendacity, in + which he is unsupported, save by a little plea in a theatrical paper which + is innocent enough to think that ten guineas a year with board and lodging + is an impossibly low wage for a barmaid. It goes on to cite Mr Charles + Booth as having testified that there are many laborers’ wives who are + happy and contented on eighteen shillings a week. But I can go further + than that myself. I have seen an Oxford agricultural laborer’s wife + looking cheerful on eight shillings a week; but that does not console me + for the fact that agriculture in England is a ruined industry. If poverty + does not matter as long as it is contented, then crime does not matter as + long as it is unscrupulous. The truth is that it is only then that it does + matter most desperately. Many persons are more comfortable when they are + dirty than when they are clean; but that does not recommend dirt as a + national policy. + </p> + <p> + Here I must for the present break off my arduous work of educating the + Press. We shall resume our studies later on; but just now I am tired of + playing the preceptor; and the eager thirst of my pupils for improvement + does not console me for the slowness of their progress. Besides, I must + reserve space to gratify my own vanity and do justice to the six artists + who acted my play, by placing on record the hitherto unchronicled success + of the first representation. It is not often that an author, after a + couple of hours of those rare alternations of excitement and intensely + attentive silence which only occur in the theatre when actors and audience + are reacting on one another to the utmost, is able to step on the stage + and apply the strong word genius to the representation with the certainty + of eliciting an instant and overwhelming assent from the audience. That + was my good fortune on the afternoon of Sunday, the fifth of January last. + I was certainly extremely fortunate in my interpreters in the enterprise, + and that not alone in respect of their artistic talent; for had it not + been for their superhuman patience, their imperturbable good humor and + good fellowship, there could have been no performance. The terror of the + Censor’s power gave us trouble enough to break up any ordinary commercial + enterprise. Managers promised and even engaged their theatres to us after + the most explicit warnings that the play was unlicensed, and at the last + moment suddenly realized that Mr Redford had their livelihoods in the + hollow of his hand, and backed out. Over and over again the date and place + were fixed and the tickets printed, only to be canceled, until at last the + desperate and overworked manager of the Stage Society could only laugh, as + criminals broken on the wheel used to laugh at the second stroke. We + rehearsed under great difficulties. Christmas pieces and plays for the new + year were being produced in all directions; and my six actor colleagues + were busy people, with engagements in these pieces in addition to their + current professional work every night. On several raw winter days stages + for rehearsal were unattainable even by the most distinguished applicants; + and we shared corridors and saloons with them whilst the stage was given + over to children in training for Boxing night. At last we had to rehearse + at an hour at which no actor or actress has been out of bed within the + memory of man; and we sardonically congratulated one another every morning + on our rosy matutinal looks and the improvement wrought by our early + rising in our health and characters. And all this, please observe, for a + society without treasury or commercial prestige, for a play which was + being denounced in advance as unmentionable, for an author without + influence at the fashionable theatres! I victoriously challenge the West + End managers to get as much done for interested motives, if they can. + </p> + <p> + Three causes made the production the most notable that has fallen to my + lot. First, the veto of the Censor, which put the supporters of the play + on their mettle. Second, the chivalry of the Stage Society, which, in + spite of my urgent advice to the contrary, and my demonstration of the + difficulties, dangers, and expenses the enterprise would cost, put my + discouragements to shame and resolved to give battle at all costs to the + attempt of the Censorship to suppress the play. Third, the artistic spirit + of the actors, who made the play their own and carried it through + triumphantly in spite of a series of disappointments and annoyances much + more trying to the dramatic temperament than mere difficulties. + </p> + <p> + The acting, too, required courage and character as well as skill and + intelligence. The veto of the Censor introduced quite a novel element of + moral responsibility into the undertaking. And the characters were very + unusual on the English stage. The younger heroine is, like her mother, an + Englishwoman to the backbone, and not, like the heroines of our + fashionable drama, a prima donna of Italian origin. Consequently she was + sure to be denounced as unnatural and undramatic by the critics. The most + vicious man in the play is not in the least a stage villain; indeed, he + regards his own moral character with the sincere complacency of a hero of + melodrama. The amiable devotee of romance and beauty is shewn at an age + which brings out the futilization which these worships are apt to produce + if they are made the staple of life instead of the sauce. The attitude of + the clever young people to their elders is faithfully represented as one + of pitiless ridicule and unsympathetic criticism, and forms a spectacle + incredible to those who, when young, were not cleverer than their nearest + elders, and painful to those sentimental parents who shrink from the + cruelty of youth, which pardons nothing because it knows nothing. In + short, the characters and their relations are of a kind that the routineer + critic has not yet learned to place; so that their misunderstanding was a + foregone conclusion. Nevertheless, there was no hesitation behind the + curtain. When it went up at last, a stage much too small for the company + was revealed to an auditorium much too small for the audience. But the + players, though it was impossible for them to forget their own discomfort, + at once made the spectators forget theirs. It certainly was a model + audience, responsive from the first line to the last; and it got no less + than it deserved in return. + </p> + <p> + I grieve to add that the second performance, given for the edification of + the London Press and of those members of the Stage Society who cannot + attend the Sunday performances, was a less inspiriting one than the first. + A solid phalanx of theatre-weary journalists in an afternoon humor, most + of them committed to irreconcilable disparagement of problem plays, and + all of them bound by etiquette to be as undemonstrative as possible, is + not exactly the sort of audience that rises at the performers and cures + them of the inevitable reaction after an excitingly successful first + night. The artist nature is a sensitive and therefore a vindictive one; + and masterful players have a way with recalcitrant audiences of rubbing a + play into them instead of delighting them with it. I should describe the + second performance of Mrs Warren’s Profession, especially as to its + earlier stages, as decidedly a rubbed-in one. The rubbing was no doubt + salutary; but it must have hurt some of the thinner skins. The charm of + the lighter passages fled; and the strong scenes, though they again + carried everything before them, yet discharged that duty in a grim + fashion, doing execution on the enemy rather than moving them to + repentance and confession. Still, to those who had not seen the first + performance, the effect was sufficiently impressive; and they had the + advantage of witnessing a fresh development in Mrs Warren, who, + artistically jealous, as I took it, of the overwhelming effect of the end + of the second act on the previous day, threw herself into the fourth act + in quite a new way, and achieved the apparently impossible feat of + surpassing herself. The compliments paid to Miss Fanny Brough by the + critics, eulogistic as they are, are the compliments of men three-fourths + duped as Partridge was duped by Garrick. By much of her acting they were + so completely taken in that they did not recognize it as acting at all. + Indeed, none of the six players quite escaped this consequence of their + own thoroughness. There was a distinct tendency among the less experienced + critics to complain of their sentiments and behavior. Naturally, the + author does not share that grievance. + </p> + <p> + PICCARD’S COTTAGE, JANUARY 1902. <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION + </h2> + <p> + [Mrs Warren’s Profession was performed for the first time in the theatre + of the New Lyric Club, London, on the 5th and 6th January 1902, with Madge + McIntosh as Vivie, Julius Knight as Praed, Fanny Brough as Mrs Warren, + Charles Goodhart as Crofts, Harley Granville-Barker as Frank, and Cosmo + Stuart as the Reverend Samuel Gardner.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="margin:20%;"> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + <p> + [Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a hill a + little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, the cottage is + seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and + porch, and a large latticed window to the left of the porch. A paling + completely shuts in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The + common rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some folded + canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side bench in the porch. A + lady’s bicycle is propped against the wall, under the window. A little + to the right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big + canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the hammock, in + which a young lady is reading and making notes, her head towards the + cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front of the hammock, and + within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of + serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper on it.] + </p> + <p> + [A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind the + cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the artist + about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven + except for a moustache, with an eager susceptible face and very amiable + and considerate manners. He has silky black hair, with waves of grey and + white in it. His eyebrows are white, his moustache black. He seems not + certain of his way. He looks over the palings; takes stock of the place; + and sees the young lady.] + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you direct me + to Hindhead View—Mrs Alison’s? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs Alison’s. [She + resumes her work]. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. Indeed! Perhaps—may I ask are you Miss Vivie + Warren? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good look at + him] Yes. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I’m afraid I appear intrusive. + My name is Praed. [Vivie at once throws her books upon the chair, and + gets out of the hammock]. Oh, pray don’t let me disturb you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr Praed. + [He comes in]. Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand and takes his + with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the + sensible, able, highly-educated young middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22. + Prompt, strong, confident, self-possessed. Plain business-like dress, + but not dowdy. She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen + and a paper knife among its pendants]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate with a + vigorous slam. He passes in to the middle of the garden, exercising his + fingers, which are slightly numbed by her greeting]. Has your mother + arrived? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [surprised] Didn’t you expect us? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Now, goodness me, I hope I’ve not mistaken the day. That would be + just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she was to come down + from London and that I was to come over from Horsham to be introduced to + you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? Hm! My mother has rather a trick of + taking me by surprise—to see how I behave myself while she’s away, + I suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one of + these days, if she makes arrangements that concern me without consulting + me beforehand. She hasnt come. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [embarrassed] I’m really very sorry. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It’s not your fault, Mr Praed, is + it? And I’m very glad you’ve come. You are the only one of my mother’s + friends I have ever asked her to bring to see me. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good of you, + Miss Warren! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here and talk? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. It will be nicer out here, don’t you think? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then I’ll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch for a + garden chair]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands on the + chair]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers; theyre rather + dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair with the books + on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with + one swing]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now do let me take that hard + chair. I like hard chairs. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. So do I. Sit down, Mr Praed. [This invitation she gives with a + genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as + a sign of weakness of character on his part. But he does not immediately + obey]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. By the way, though, hadnt we better go to the station to meet + your mother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [disconcerted] Er—I suppose she does [he sits down]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope you are + disposed to be friends with me. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my <i>dear</i> Miss Warren; thank you. + Dear me! I’m so glad your mother hasnt spoilt you! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. How? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear Miss + Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils the relations + between parent and child; even between mother and daughter. Now I was + always afraid that your mother would strain her authority to make you + very conventional. It’s such a relief to find that she hasnt. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh no: oh dear no. At least, not conventionally unconventionally, + you understand. [She nods and sits down. He goes on, with a cordial + outburst] But it was so charming of you to say that you were disposed to + be friends with me! You modern young ladies are splendid: perfectly + splendid! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment as to + the quality of his brains and character]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of each + other: there was no good fellowship. Nothing real. Only gallantry copied + out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly + reserve! gentlemanly chivalry! always saying no when you meant yes! + simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of time. + Especially women’s time. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are improving. + Do you know, I have been in a positive state of excitement about meeting + you ever since your magnificent achievements at Cambridge: a thing + unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid, your tieing with the + third wrangler. Just the right place, you know. The first wrangler is + always a dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the + length of a disease. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It doesn’t pay. I wouldn’t do it again for the same money. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [aghast] The same money! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. Fifty pounds. Perhaps you don’t know how it was. Mrs Latham, + my tutor at Newnham, told my mother that I could distinguish myself in + the mathematical tripos if I went in for it in earnest. The papers were + full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the senior wrangler. You + remember about it, of course. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [shakes his head energetically] !!! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well, anyhow, she did; and nothing would please my mother but + that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was not worth my + while to face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; but I + offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts for fifty pounds. She + closed with me at that, after a little grumbling; and I was better than + my bargain. But I wouldn’t do it again for that. Two hundred pounds + would have been nearer the mark. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! Thats a very practical way of looking + at it. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical person? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But surely it’s practical to consider not only the work these + honors cost, but also the culture they bring. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Culture! My dear Mr Praed: do you know what the mathematical + tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind for six to eight hours a day + at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics. + </p> + <p> + I’m supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing except + the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for engineers, + electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I know next to nothing + about engineering or electricity or insurance. I don’t even know + arithmetic well. Outside mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping, + cycling, and walking, I’m a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could + possibly be who hadn’t gone in for the tripos. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I knew it! I + felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes womanhood + beautiful! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I don’t object to it on that score in the least. I shall turn it + to very good account, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Pooh! In what way? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I shall set up chambers in the City, and work at actuarial + calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I shall do some law, + with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the time. I’ve come down here by + myself to read law: not for a holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate + holidays. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, no beauty + in your life? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I don’t care for either, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. You can’t mean that. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. When I’m + tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a little whisky, + and a novel with a good detective story in it. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising in a frenzy of repudiation] I don’t believe it. I am an + artist; and I can’t believe it: I refuse to believe it. It’s only that + you havn’t discovered yet what a wonderful world art can open up to you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with Honoria + Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of sightseeing together; but + I was really at Honoria’s chambers in Chancery Lane every day, working + away at actuarial calculations for her, and helping her as well as a + greenhorn could. In the evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt + of going out except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my + life. + </p> + <p> + I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a + fee in the bargain. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that + discovering art? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Wait a bit. That wasn’t the beginning. I went up to town on an + invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn’s Avenue: one of the + girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery— + </p> + <p> + PRAED [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [continuing]—to the Opera— + </p> + <p> + PRAED [still more pleased] Good! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE.—and to a concert where the band played all the evening: + Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldn’t go through that experience + again for anything you could offer me. I held out for civility’s sake + until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn’t stand + any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. N o w you know the sort + of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am. How do you think I shall + get on with my mother? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [startled] Well, I hope—er— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want + to know. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little + disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know: I don’t + mean that. But you are so different from her ideal. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Her what?! + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Her ideal. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you mean her ideal of ME? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What on earth is it like? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are + dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think that the world + would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently. + Now your mother’s life has been—er—I suppose you know— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Don’t suppose anything, Mr Praed. I hardly know my mother. Since + I was a child I have lived in England, at school or at college, or with + people paid to take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my life. + My mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her. I + only see her when she visits England for a few days. I don’t complain: + it’s been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there + has always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But don’t imagine + I know anything about my mother. I know far less than you do. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case—[He stops, quite at a loss. + Then, with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense we are talking! + Of course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and + looks abroad at the view]. What a charming little place you have here! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed. Why won’t + my mother’s life bear being talked about? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, you mustn’t say that. Isn’t it natural that I should have a + certain delicacy in talking to my old friend’s daughter about her behind + her back? You and she will have plenty of opportunity of talking about + it when she comes. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: she won’t talk about it either. [Rising] However, I daresay + you have good reasons for telling me nothing. Only, mind this, Mr Praed, + I expect there will be a battle royal when my mother hears of my + Chancery Lane project. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [ruefully] I’m afraid there will. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well, I shall win because I want nothing but my fare to London to + start there to-morrow earning my own living by devilling for Honoria. + Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall + use that advantage over her if necessary. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh no! No, pray. Youd not do such a thing. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then tell me why not. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She smiles at + his sentimentality]. Besides, you may be too bold. Your mother is not to + be trifled with when she’s angry. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You can’t frighten me, Mr Praed. In that month at Chancery Lane I + had opportunities of taking the measure of one or two women v e r y like + my mother. You may back me to win. But if I hit harder in my ignorance + than I need, remember it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now, let us + drop the subject. [She takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock + with the same vigorous swing as before]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I had + better tell you. It’s very difficult; but— + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the gate. Mrs Warren is + between 40 and 50, formerly pretty, showily dressed in a brilliant hat + and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by + fashionable sleeves. Rather spoilt and domineering, and decidedly + vulgar, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old + blackguard of a woman.] + </p> + <p> + [Crofts is a tall powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably dressed + in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than might be expected + from his strong frame. Clean-shaven bulldog jaws, large flat ears, and + thick neck: gentlemanly combination of the most brutal types of city + man, sporting man, and man about town.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden] How do, + mater? Mr Praed’s been here this half hour, waiting for you. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, if you’ve been waiting, Praddy, it’s your own fault: I + thought youd have had the gumption to know I was coming by the 3.10 + train. Vivie: put your hat on, dear: youll get sunburnt. Oh, I forgot to + introduce you. Sir George Crofts: my little Vivie. + </p> + <p> + [Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly manner. She nods, but + makes no motion to shake hands.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by + reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like. + </p> + <p> + [She takes his tenderly proferred hand and gives it a squeeze that makes + him open his eyes; then turns away, and says to her mother] Will you + come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? [She goes into the porch + for the chairs]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, George, what do you think of her? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands with her, + Praed? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes: it will pass off presently. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I hope so. [Vivie reappears with two more chairs. He hurries to + her assistance]. Allow me. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the chairs, + dear. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [pitching them into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her hands + and turns to Mrs Warren]. Youd like some tea, wouldn’t you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [sitting in Praed’s chair and fanning herself] I’m dying for + a drop to drink. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I’ll see about it. [She goes into the cottage]. + </p> + <p> + [Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant it by + Mrs Warren, on her left. He throws the other on the grass and sits down, + looking dejected and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in his + mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, fidgets around the garden on their + right.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Praed, looking at Crofts] Just look at him, Praddy: he + looks cheerful, don’t he? He’s been worrying my life out these three + years to have that little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that Ive + done it, he’s quite out of countenance. [Briskly] Come! sit up, George; + and take your stick out of your mouth. [Crofts sulkily obeys]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I think, you know—if you don’t mind my saying so—that + we had better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little girl. + You see she has really distinguished herself; and I’m not sure, from + what I have seen of her, that she is not older than any of us. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [greatly amused] Only listen to him, George! Older than any + of us! Well she <i>has</i> been stuffing you nicely with her importance. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But young people are particularly sensitive about being treated + in that way. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes; and young people have to get all that nonsense taken + out of them, and good deal more besides. Don’t you interfere, Praddy: I + know how to treat my own child as well as you do. [Praed, with a grave + shake of his head, walks up the garden with his hands behind his back. + Mrs Warren pretends to laugh, but looks after him with perceptible + concern. Then, she whispers to Crofts] Whats the matter with him? What + does he take it like that for? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [morosely] Youre afraid of Praed. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What! Me! Afraid of dear old Praddy! Why, a fly wouldn’t be + afraid of him. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. <i>You’re</i> afraid of him. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [angry] I’ll trouble you to mind your own business, and not + try any of your sulks on me. I’m not afraid of y o u, anyhow. If you + can’t make yourself agreeable, youd better go home. [She gets up, and, + turning her back on him, finds herself face to face with Praed]. Come, + Praddy, I know it was only your tender-heartedness. Youre afraid I’ll + bully her. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. My dear Kitty: you think I’m offended. Don’t imagine that: pray + don’t. But you know I often notice things that escape you; and though + you never take my advice, you sometimes admit afterwards that you ought + to have taken it. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, what do you notice now? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray, Kitty, treat her with + every respect. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [with genuine amazement] Respect! Treat my own daughter with + respect! What next, pray! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [appearing at the cottage door and calling to Mrs Warren] Mother: + will you come to my room before tea? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes, dearie. [She laughs indulgently at Praed’s gravity, and + pats him on the cheek as she passes him on her way to the porch]. Don’t + be cross, Praddy. [She follows Vivie into the cottage]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [furtively] I say, Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I want to ask you a rather particular question. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly. [He takes Mrs Warren’s chair and sits close to + Crofts]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Thats right: they might hear us from the window. Look here: did + Kitty every tell you who that girl’s father is? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Never. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Have you any suspicion of who it might be? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. None. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [not believing him] I know, of course, that you perhaps might + feel bound not to tell if she had said anything to you. But it’s very + awkward to be uncertain about it now that we shall be meeting the girl + every day. We don’t exactly know how we ought to feel towards her. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. What difference can that make? We take her on her own merits. + What does it matter who her father was? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [suspiciously] Then you know who he was? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [with a touch of temper] I said no just now. Did you not hear me? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Look here, Praed. I ask you as a particular favor. If you <i>do</i> + know [movement of protest from Praed]—I only say, if you know, you + might at least set my mind at rest about her. The fact is, I fell + attracted. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [sternly] What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, don’t be alarmed: it’s quite an innocent feeling. Thats what + puzzles me about it. Why, for all I know, <i>I</i> might be her father. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. You! Impossible! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [catching him up cunningly] You know for certain that I’m not? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I know nothing about it, I tell you, any more than you. But + really, Crofts—oh no, it’s out of the question. Theres not the + least resemblance. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. As to that, theres no resemblance between her and her mother + that I can see. I suppose she’s not y o u r daughter, is she? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising indignantly] Really, Crofts—! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. No offence, Praed. Quite allowable as between two men of the + world. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [recovering himself with an effort and speaking gently and + gravely] Now listen to me, my dear Crofts. [He sits down again]. + </p> + <p> + I have nothing to do with that side of Mrs Warren’s life, and never had. + She has never spoken to me about it; and of course I have never spoken + to her about it. Your delicacy will tell you that a handsome woman needs + some friends who are not—well, not on that footing with her. The + effect of her own beauty would become a torment to her if she could not + escape from it occasionally. You are probably on much more confidential + terms with Kitty than I am. Surely you can ask her the question + yourself. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I h a v e asked her, often enough. But she’s so determined to + keep the child all to herself that she would deny that it ever had a + father if she could. [Rising] I’m thoroughly uncomfortable about it, + Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising also] Well, as you are, at all events, old enough to be + her father, I don’t mind agreeing that we both regard Miss Vivie in a + parental way, as a young girl who we are bound to protect and help. What + do you say? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [aggressively] I’m no older than you, if you come to that. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes you are, my dear fellow: you were born old. I was born a boy: + Ive never been able to feel the assurance of a grown-up man in my life. + [He folds his chair and carries it to the porch]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [calling from within the cottage] Prad-dee! George! + Tea-ea-ea-ea! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [hastily] She’s calling us. [He hurries in]. + </p> + <p> + [Praed shakes his head bodingly, and is following Crofts when he is + hailed by a young gentleman who has just appeared on the common, and is + making for the gate. He is pleasant, pretty, smartly dressed, cleverly + good-for-nothing, not long turned 20, with a charming voice and + agreeably disrespectful manners. He carries a light sporting magazine + rifle.] + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed! + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands cordially]. + What on earth are you doing here? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Staying with my father. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. The Roman father? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. He’s rector here. I’m living with my people this autumn for the + sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the Roman father had + to pay my debts. He’s stony broke in consequence; and so am I. What are + you up to in these parts? do you know the people here? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes: I’m spending the day with a Miss Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [enthusiastically] What! Do you know Vivie? Isn’t she a jolly + girl? I’m teaching her to shoot with this [putting down the rifle]. I’m + so glad she knows you: youre just the sort of fellow she ought to know. + [He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a singing tone as he + exclaims] It’s e v e r so jolly to find you here, Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I’m an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me over to + make her daughter’s acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The mother! Is <i>she</i> here? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [calling from within] Prad-dee-ee-ee-eee! The tea-cake’ll be + cold. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. I’ve just met a friend + here. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. A what? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [louder] A friend. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Bring him in. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused] Is that Vivie’s mother? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she’ll like me? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I’ve no doubt youll make yourself popular, as usual. Come in and + try [moving towards the house]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my confidence. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Pray don’t. It’s only some fresh folly, like the barmaid at + Redhill. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. It’s ever so much more serious than that. You say you’ve only + just met Vivie for the first time? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rhapsodically] Then you can have no idea what a girl she is. Such + character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my eye, Praed, but I can + tell you she is clever! And—need I add?—she loves me. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [putting his head out of the window] I say, Praed: what are you + about? Do come along. [He disappears]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog show, ain’t + he? Who’s he? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren’s. I think we had + better come in. + </p> + <p> + [On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate. + Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it.] + </p> + <p> + THE CLERGYMAN [calling] Frank! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] Yes, + gov’nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: youd better + go in to tea. I’ll join you directly. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage]. + </p> + <p> + [The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of + it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established + Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy, + important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the + family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously + asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command + respect in either capacity.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, it’s all right, gov’nor! Come in. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. It’s all right. It’s Miss Warren’s. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Of course not: she’s a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took + a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Don’t be disrespectful, sir. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, it don’t matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the + gate, unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden]. I + want to introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me + last July, gov’nor? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [severely] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and + flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on + it and not upon me. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No: thats what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said + was that since I had neither brains nor money, I’d better turn my good + looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss + Warren has brains: you can’t deny that. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Brains are not everything. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No, of course not: theres the money— + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [interrupting him austerely] I was not thinking of money, sir. I + was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I don’t care a rap about that. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. But I do, sir. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, nobody wants y o u to marry her. Anyhow, she has what + amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money + as she wants. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor] I greatly doubt whether + she has as much money as y o u will want. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, come: I havn’t been so very extravagant. I live ever so + quietly; I don’t drink; I don’t bet much; and I never go regularly to + the razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [booming hollowly] Silence, sir. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass + of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman + fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when— + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [terrified] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! [He looks round + apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom + again, but more subduedly]. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of + what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you + would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father’s + follies, sir; and don’t make them an excuse for your own. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his + letters? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. No, sir; and I don’t want to hear it. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn’t throw away fifty pounds: not he. He just + wrote: “Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, + Wellington.” Thats what you should have done. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [piteously] Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put + myself into that woman’s power. When I told you about them I put myself, + to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money + with these words, which I shall never forget. “Knowledge is power” she + said; “and I never sell power.” + </p> + <p> + Thats more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her + power or caused me a moment’s uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me + than she did, Frank. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach + at me every day? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [wounded almost to tears] I leave you, sir. You are + incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [utterly unmoved] Tell them I shan’t be home to tea, will you, + gov’nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is + met by Praed and Vivie coming out]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [to Frank] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov’nor. Youre wanted. [The + parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses + the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities]. + My father: Miss Warren. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand] Very glad to see you + here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come along: youre + wanted. + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed, + recognizing the clergyman.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [continuing] Let me introduce— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel] Why it’s Sam Gardner, gone + into the Church! Well, I never! Don’t you know us, Sam? This is George + Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don’t you remember me? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [very red] I really—er— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters + still: I came across them only the other day. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [miserably confused] Miss Vavasour, I believe. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper] Tch! Nonsense! Mrs + Warren: don’t you see my daughter there? + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> + <p> + [Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within + instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains + drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with + the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door + leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser + with a candle and matches on it, and Frank’s rifle standing beside them, + with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands + with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie’s books and writing materials are on a + table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on + the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set + right and left of the table.] + </p> + <p> + [The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs + Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, + followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had + enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat; + takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the + table.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. O Lord! I don’t know which is the worst of the country, the + walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. I could do with a + whisky and soda now very well, if only they had such a things in this + place. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Perhaps Vivie’s got some. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing with + such things! Never mind: it don’t matter. I wonder how she passes her + time here! I’d a good deal rather be in Vienna. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her shawl, + gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze as he does + so]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I’m beginning to think youre a chip of the + old block. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Like the gov’nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest chair, + and sits down]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things? + </p> + <p> + Youre only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from + temptation]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It’d be ever such larks. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you—at least not + until youre a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize this piece of + advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes. She + looks at him; then comes back to him]. Now, look here, little boy + [taking his face in her hands and turning it up to her]: I know you + through and through by your likeness to your father, better than you + know yourself. Don’t you go taking any silly ideas into your head about + me. Do you hear? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice] Can’t help it, my dear Mrs + Warren: it runs in the family. + </p> + <p> + [She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing + upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and + immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. There! I shouldn’t have done that. I <i>am</i> wicked. Never + you mind, my dear: it’s only a motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. So I have. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her voice] + What! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I won’t have any young scamp + tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I won’t have it. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [quite unabashed] My dear Mrs Warren: don’t you be alarmed. My + intentions are honorable: ever so honorable; and your little girl is + jolly well able to take care of herself. She don’t need looking after + half so much as her mother. She ain’t so handsome, you know. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a nice + healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I don’t know where you got it. + Not from your father, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [in the garden] The gipsies, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [replying] The broomsquires are far worse. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Frank] S-sh! Remember! you’ve had your warning. + </p> + <p> + [Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, the + clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And wheres Praddy and Vivie? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the chimney + corner] They went up the hill. We went to the village. I wanted a drink. + [He sits down on the settle, putting his legs up along the seat]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtn’t to go off like that without telling me. + [To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are your manners? + [Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes + another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the middle, with + his father on his right and Mrs Warren on his left]. George: where are + you going to stay to-night? You can’t stay here. And whats Praddy going + to do? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Gardner’ll put me up. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt you’ve taken care of yourself! But what about + Praddy? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Don’t know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Havn’t you room for him, Sam? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Well—er—you see, as rector here, I am not free to do + as I like. Er—what is Mr Praed’s social position? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, he’s all right: he’s an architect. What an old + stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Yes, it’s all right, gov’nor. He built that place down in Wales + for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must have heard of it. + [He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs Warren, and regards his father + blandly]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. I + suppose he knows the Duke personally. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina’s old room. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, thats settled. Now if those two would only come in and + let us have supper. Theyve no right to stay out after dark like this. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [aggressively] What harm are they doing you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I don’t like it. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay out as long + as possible. He has never known before what it is to stray over the + heath on a summer night with my Vivie. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation] I say, you know! Come! + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into real force + and sincerity] Frank, once and for all, it’s out of the question. Mrs + Warren will tell you that it’s not to be thought of. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Of course not. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with enchanting placidity] Is that so, Mrs Warren? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [reflectively] Well, Sam, I don’t know. If the girl wants to + get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [astounded] But married to <i>him!</i>—your daughter to my + son! Only think: it’s impossible. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Of course it’s impossible. Don’t be a fool, Kitty. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [nettled] Why not? Isn’t my daughter good enough for your + son? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you can tell + them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your congregation, if you like. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair] You know very well that I + couldn’t tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe me when I tell + him there a r e reasons. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy’s conduct ever been + influenced by your reasons? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. You can’t marry her; and thats all about it. [He gets up and + stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, frowning + determinedly]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply] What have you got to do with it, + pray? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence] Precisely what I was going to + ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [to Mrs Warren] I suppose you don’t want to marry the girl to a + man younger than herself and without either a profession or twopence to + keep her on. Ask Sam, if you don’t believe me. [To the parson] How much + more money are you going to give him? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Not another penny. He has had his patrimony; and he spent the + last of it in July. [Mrs Warren’s face falls]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [watching her] There! I told you. [He resumes his place on the + settle and puts his legs on the seat again, as if the matter were + finally disposed of]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [plaintively] This is ever so mercenary. Do you suppose Miss + Warren’s going to marry for money? If we love one another— + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Thank you. Your love’s a pretty cheap commodity, my lad. If + you have no means of keeping a wife, that settles it; you can’t have + Vivie. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [much amused] What do y o u say, gov’nor, eh? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I agree with Mrs Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. And good old Crofts has already expressed his opinion. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [turning angrily on his elbow] Look here: I want none of your + cheek. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [pointedly] I’m e v e r so sorry to surprise you, Crofts; but you + allowed yourself the liberty of speaking to me like a father a moment + ago. One father is enough, thank you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [contemptuously] Yah! [He turns away again]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Mrs Warren: I cannot give my Vivie up, even for your + sake. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [muttering] Young scamp! + </p> + <p> + FRANK [continuing] And as you no doubt intend to hold out other + prospects to her, I shall lose no time in placing my case before her. + [They stare at him; and he begins to declaim gracefully] He either fears + his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to + the touch, To gain or lose it all. + </p> + <p> + [The cottage doors open whilst he is reciting; and Vivie and Praed come + in. He breaks off. Praed puts his hat on the dresser. There is an + immediate improvement in the company’s behavior. Crofts takes down his + legs from the settle and pulls himself together as Praed joins him at + the fireplace. Mrs Warren loses her ease of manner and takes refuge in + querulousness.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Wherever have you been, Vivie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly on the table] On + the hill. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, you shouldn’t go off like that without letting me + know. How could I tell what had become of you? And night coming on too! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [going to the door of the kitchen and opening it, ignoring her + mother] Now, about supper? [All rise except Mrs Warren] We shall be + rather crowded in here, I’m afraid. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Did you hear what I said, Vivie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quietly] Yes, mother. [Reverting to the supper difficulty] How + many are we? [Counting] One, two, three, four, five, six. Well, two will + have to wait until the rest are done: Mrs Alison has only plates and + knives for four. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, it doesn’t matter about me. I— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You have had a long walk and are hungry, Mr Praed: you shall have + your supper at once. I can wait myself. I want one person to wait with + me. Frank: are you hungry? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Not the least in the world. Completely off my peck, in fact. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Crofts] Neither are you, George. You can wait. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, hang it, I’ve eaten nothing since tea-time. Can’t Sam do it? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Would you starve my poor father? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [testily] Allow me to speak for myself, sir. I am perfectly + willing to wait. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [decisively] There’s no need. Only two are wanted. [She opens the + door of the kitchen]. Will you take my mother in, Mr Gardner. [The + parson takes Mrs Warren; and they pass into the kitchen. Praed and + Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly disapprove of the arrangement, + but do not know how to resist it. Vivie stands at the door looking in at + them]. Can you squeeze past to that corner, Mr Praed: it’s rather a + tight fit. Take care of your coat against the white-wash: that right. + Now, are you all comfortable? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [within] Quite, thank you. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [within] Leave the door open, dearie. [Vivie frowns; but + Frank checks her with a gesture, and steals to the cottage door, which + he softly sets wide open]. Oh Lor, what a draught! Youd better shut it, + dear. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie shuts it with a slam, and then, noting with disgust that her + mother’s hat and shawl are lying about, takes them tidily to the window + seat, whilst Frank noiselessly shuts the cottage door.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [exulting] Aha! Got rid of em. Well, Vivvums: what do you think of + my governor? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [preoccupied and serious] I’ve hardly spoken to him. He doesn’t + strike me as a particularly able person. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, you know, the old man is not altogether such a fool as he + looks. You see, he was shoved into the Church, rather; and in trying to + live up to it he makes a much bigger ass of himself than he really is. I + don’t dislike him as much as you might expect. He means well. How do you + think youll get on with him? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rather grimly] I don’t think my future life will be much + concerned with him, or with any of that old circle of my mother’s, + except perhaps Praed. [She sits down on the settle] What do you think of + my mother? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Really and truly? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes, really and truly. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, she’s ever so jolly. But she’s rather a caution, isn’t she? + And Crofts! Oh, my eye, Crofts! [He sits beside her]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What a lot, Frank! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. What a crew! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with intense contempt for them] If I thought that <i>I</i> was + like that—that I was going to be a waster, shifting along from one + meal to another with no purpose, and no character, and no grit in me, + I’d open an artery and bleed to death without one moment’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh no, you wouldn’t. Why should they take any grind when they can + afford not to? I wish I had their luck. No: what I object to is their + form. It isn’t the thing: it’s slovenly, ever so slovenly. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you think your form will be any better when youre as old as + Crofts, if you don’t work? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Of course I do. Ever so much better. Vivvums mustn’t lecture: her + little boy’s incorrigible. [He attempts to take her face caressingly in + his hands]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [striking his hands down sharply] Off with you: Vivvums is not in + a humor for petting her little boy this evening. [She rises and comes + forward to the other side of the room]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [following her] How unkind! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [stamping at him] Be serious. I’m serious. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Good. Let us talk learnedly, Miss Warren: do you know that all + the most advanced thinkers are agreed that half the diseases of modern + civilization are due to starvation of the affections of the young. Now, + <i>I</i>— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [cutting him short] You are very tiresome. [She opens the inner + door] Have you room for Frank there? He’s complaining of starvation. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [within] Of course there is [clatter of knives and glasses as + she moves the things on the table]. Here! theres room now beside me. + Come along, Mr Frank. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Her little boy will be ever so even with his Vivvums for this. + [He passes into the kitchen]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [within] Here, Vivie: come on you too, child. You must be + famished. [She enters, followed by Crofts, who holds the door open with + marked deference. She goes out without looking at him; and he shuts the + door after her]. Why George, you can’t be done: you’ve eaten nothing. Is + there anything wrong with you? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, all I wanted was a drink. [He thrusts his hands in his + pockets, and begins prowling about the room, restless and sulky]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, I like enough to eat. But a little of that cold beef + and cheese and lettuce goes a long way. [With a sigh of only half + repletion she sits down lazily on the settle]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. What do you go encouraging that young pup for? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [on the alert at once] Now see here, George: what are you up + to about that girl? I’ve been watching your way of looking at her. + Remember: I know you and what your looks mean. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Theres no harm in looking at her, is there? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. I’d put you out and pack you back to London pretty soon if I + saw any of your nonsense. My girl’s little finger is more to me than + your whole body and soul. [Crofts receives this with a sneering grin. + Mrs Warren, flushing a little at her failure to impose on him in the + character of a theatrically devoted mother, adds in a lower key] Make + your mind easy: the young pup has no more chance than you have. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Mayn’t a man take an interest in a girl? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Not a man like you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. How old is she? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Never you mind how old she is. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Why do you make such a secret of it? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Because I choose. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, I’m not fifty yet; and my property is as good as it ever + was— + </p> + <p> + MRS [interrupting him] Yes; because youre as stingy as youre vicious. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [continuing] And a baronet isn’t to be picked up every day. + </p> + <p> + No other man in my position would put up with you for a mother-in-law. + Why shouldn’t she marry me? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. We three could live together quite comfortably. I’d die before + her and leave her a bouncing widow with plenty of money. Why not? It’s + been growing in my mind all the time I’ve been walking with that fool + inside there. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [revolted] Yes; it’s the sort of thing that <i>would</i> grow + in your mind. + </p> + <p> + [He halts in his prowling; and the two look at one another, she + steadfastly, with a sort of awe behind her contemptuous disgust: he + stealthily, with a carnal gleam in his eye and a loose grin.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [suddenly becoming anxious and urgent as he sees no sign of + sympathy in her] Look here, Kitty: youre a sensible woman: you needn’t + put on any moral airs. I’ll ask no more questions; and you need answer + none. I’ll settle the whole property on her; and if you want a checque + for yourself on the wedding day, you can name any figure you like—in + reason. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. So it’s come to that with you, George, like all the other + worn-out old creatures! + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [savagely] Damn you! + </p> + <p> + [Before she can retort the door of the kitchen is opened; and the voices + of the others are heard returning. Crofts, unable to recover his + presence of mind, hurries out of the cottage. The clergyman appears at + the kitchen door.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [looking round] Where is Sir George? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Gone out to have a pipe. [The clergyman takes his hat from + the table, and joins Mrs Warren at the fireside. Meanwhile, Vivie comes + in, followed by Frank, who collapses into the nearest chair with an air + of extreme exhaustion. Mrs Warren looks round at Vivie and says, with + her affectation of maternal patronage even more forced than usual] Well, + dearie: have you had a good supper? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You know what Mrs Alison’s suppers are. [She turns to Frank and + pets him] Poor Frank! was all the beef gone? did it get nothing but + bread and cheese and ginger beer? [Seriously, as if she had done quite + enough trifling for one evening] Her butter is really awful. I must get + some down from the stores. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Do, in Heaven’s name! + </p> + <p> + [Vivie goes to the writing-table and makes a memorandum to order the + butter. Praed comes in from the kitchen, putting up his handkerchief, + which he has been using as a napkin.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Frank, my boy: it is time for us to be thinking of home. + </p> + <p> + Your mother does not know yet that we have visitors. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. I’m afraid we’re giving trouble. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Not the least in the world: my mother will be delighted + to see you. She’s a genuinely intellectual artistic woman; and she sees + nobody here from one year’s end to another except the gov’nor; so you + can imagine how jolly dull it pans out for her. [To his father] Y o u r + e not intellectual or artistic: are you pater? So take Praed home at + once; and I’ll stay here and entertain Mrs Warren. Youll pick up Crofts + in the garden. He’ll be excellent company for the bull-pup. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [taking his hat from the dresser, and coming close to Frank] Come + with us, Frank. Mrs Warren has not seen Miss Vivie for a long time; and + we have prevented them from having a moment together yet. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [quite softened, and looking at Praed with romantic admiration] Of + course. I forgot. Ever so thanks for reminding me. Perfect gentleman, + Praddy. Always were. My ideal through life. [He rises to go, but pauses + a moment between the two older men, and puts his hand on Praed’s + shoulder]. Ah, if you had only been my father instead of this unworthy + old man! [He puts his other hand on his father’s shoulder]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [blustering] Silence, sir, silence: you are profane. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [laughing heartily] You should keep him in better order, Sam. + Good-night. Here: take George his hat and stick with my compliments. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [taking them] Good-night. [They shake hands. As he passes Vivie + he shakes hands with her also and bids her good-night. Then, in booming + command, to Frank] Come along, sir, at once. [He goes out]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Byebye, Praddy. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Byebye, Kitty. + </p> + <p> + [They shake hands affectionately and go out together, she accompanying + him to the garden gate.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [to Vivie] Kissums? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [fiercely] No. I hate you. [She takes a couple of books and some + paper from the writing-table, and sits down with them at the middle + table, at the end next the fireplace]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [grimacing] Sorry. [He goes for his cap and rifle. Mrs Warren + returns. He takes her hand] Good-night, dear Mrs Warren. [He kisses her + hand. She snatches it away, her lips tightening, and looks more than + half disposed to box his ears. He laughs mischievously and runs off, + clapping-to the door behind him]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [resigning herself to an evening of boredom now that the men + are gone] Did you ever in your life hear anyone rattle on so? Isn’t he a + tease? [She sits at the table]. Now that I think of it, dearie, don’t + you go encouraging him. I’m sure he’s a regular good-for-nothing. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rising to fetch more books] I’m afraid so. Poor Frank! I shall + have to get rid of him; but I shall feel sorry for him, though he’s not + worth it. That man Crofts does not seem to me to be good for much + either: is he? [She throws the books on the table rather roughly]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [galled by Vivie’s indifference] What do you know of men, + child, to talk that way of them? Youll have to make up your mind to see + a good deal of Sir George Crofts, as he’s a friend of mine. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quite unmoved] Why? [She sits down and opens a book]. Do you + expect that we shall be much together? You and I, I mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [staring at her] Of course: until youre married. Youre not + going back to college again. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? I doubt it. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Y o u r way of life! What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [cutting a page of her book with the paper knife on her + chatelaine] Has it really never occurred to you, mother, that I have a + way of life like other people? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What nonsense is this youre trying to talk? Do you want to + shew your independence, now that youre a great little person at school? + Don’t be a fool, child. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [indulgently] Thats all you have to say on the subject, is it, + mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [puzzled, then angry] Don’t you keep on asking me questions + like that. [Violently] Hold your tongue. [Vivie works on, losing no + time, and saying nothing]. You and your way of life, indeed! What next? + [She looks at Vivie again. No reply]. + </p> + <p> + Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another pause]. Ive + been noticing these airs in you ever since you got that tripos or + whatever you call it. If you think I’m going to put up with them, youre + mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, the better. [Muttering] All I + have to say on the subject, indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily] Do + you know who youre speaking to, Miss? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [looking across at her without raising her head from her book] No. + Who are you? What are you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [rising breathless] You young imp! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and the + profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. What is that + way of life which you invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts, + pray? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Take care. I shall do something I’ll be sorry for after, and + you too. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [putting aside her books with cool decision] Well, let us drop the + subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking critically at her + mother] You want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set you up. + You are shockingly out of condition: you were not able to manage twenty + yards uphill today without stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere + rolls of fat. Look at mine. [She holds out her wrists]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [after looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper] Vivie— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [springing up sharply] Now pray don’t begin to cry. Anything but + that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go out of the room if you + do. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [piteously] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on me? + Have I no rights over you as your mother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. A r e you my mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. <i>Am</i> I your mother? Oh, Vivie! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then where are our relatives? my father? our family friends? You + claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me fool and child; to + speak to me as no woman in authority over me at college dare speak to + me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me the acquaintance of a + brute whom anyone can see to be the most vicious sort of London man + about town. Before I give myself the trouble to resist such claims, I + may as well find out whether they have any real existence. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [distracted, throwing herself on her knees] Oh no, no. + </p> + <p> + Stop, stop. I <i>am</i> your mother: I swear it. Oh, you can’t mean to + turn on me—my own child! it’s not natural. You believe me, don’t + you? Say you believe me. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Who was my father? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You don’t know what youre asking. I can’t tell you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [determinedly] Oh yes you can, if you like. I have a right to + know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can refuse to + tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me + tomorrow morning. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s too horrible to hear you talk like that. You + wouldn’t—you <i>couldn’t</i> leave me. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment’s hesitation, if you trifle + with me about this. [Shivering with disgust] How can I feel sure that I + may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No, no. On my oath it’s not he, nor any of the rest that you + have ever met. I’m certain of that, at least. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie’s eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this + flashes on her.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at <i>least</i>. Ah! You mean + that that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully] I see. [Mrs Warren + buries her face in her hands]. Don’t do that, mother: you know you don’t + feel it a bit. [Mrs Warren takes down her hands and looks up deplorably + at Vivie, who takes out her watch and says] Well, that is enough for + tonight. At what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too + early for you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. + Otherwise I don’t understand how it gets its business done. + </p> + <p> + Come [taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty + resolutely]: pull yourself together. Thats right. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [querulously] Youre very rough with me, Vivie. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Nonsense. What about bed? It’s past ten. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [passionately] Whats the use of my going to bed? Do you think + I could sleep? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Why not? I shall. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You! you’ve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in + her natural tongue—the dialect of a woman of the people—with + all her affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners + gone, and an overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in + her] Oh, I wont bear it: I won’t put up with the injustice of it. What + right have you to set yourself up above me like this? You boast of what + you are to me—to <i>me</i>, who gave you a chance of being what + you are. What chance had I? Shame on you for a bad daughter and a + stuck-up prude! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her replies, + which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring + rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother] + Don’t think for a moment I set myself above you in any way. You attacked + me with the conventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with + the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not + going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not + expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your right to + your own opinions and your own way of life. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to her + talking! Do you think I was brought up like you? able to pick and choose + my own way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I liked it, or + thought it right, or wouldn’t rather have gone to college and been a + lady if I’d had the chance? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl alive may not + be able to choose between being Queen of England or Principal of + Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling, + according to her taste. People are always blaming circumstances for what + they are. I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in + this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they + want, and, if they can’t find them, make them. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s easy to talk, isn’t it? Here! would you like to + know what <i>my</i> circumstances were? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: you had better tell me. Won’t you sit down? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, I’ll sit down: don’t you be afraid. [She plants her + chair farther forward with brazen energy, and sits down. Vivie is + impressed in spite of herself]. D’you know what your gran’mother was? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No, you don’t. I do. She called herself a widow and had a + fried-fish shop down by the Mint, and kept herself and four daughters + out of it. Two of us were sisters: that was me and Liz; and we were both + good-looking and well made. I suppose our father was a well-fed man: + mother pretended he was a gentleman; but I don’t know. The other two + were only half sisters: undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, + honest poor creatures: Liz and I would have half-murdered them if mother + hadn’t half-murdered us to keep our hands off them. They were the + respectable ones. Well, what did they get by their respectability? I’ll + tell you. One of them worked in a whitelead factory twelve hours a day + for nine shillings a week until she died of lead poisoning. She only + expected to get her hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other + was always held up to us as a model because she married a Government + laborer in the Deptford victualling yard, and kept his room and the + three children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week—until he + took to drink. That was worth being respectable for, wasn’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [now thoughtfully attentive] Did you and your sister think so? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Liz didn’t, I can tell you: she had more spirit. We both + went to a church school—that was part of the ladylike airs we gave + ourselves to be superior to the children that knew nothing and went + nowhere—and we stayed there until Liz went out one night and never + came back. I know the schoolmistress thought I’d soon follow her + example; for the clergyman was always warning me that Lizzie’d end by + jumping off Waterloo Bridge. Poor fool: that was all he knew about it! + But I was more afraid of the whitelead factory than I was of the river; + and so would you have been in my place. That clergyman got me a + situation as a scullery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent + out for anything you liked. Then I was a waitress; and then I went to + the bar at Waterloo station: fourteen hours a day serving drinks and + washing glasses for four shillings a week and my board. That was + considered a great promotion for me. Well, one cold, wretched night, + when I was so tired I could hardly keep myself awake, who should come up + for a half of Scotch but Lizzie, in a long fur cloak, elegant and + comfortable, with a lot of sovereigns in her purse. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [grimly] My aunt Lizzie! + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes; and a very good aunt to have, too. She’s living down at + Winchester now, close to the cathedral, one of the most respectable + ladies there. Chaperones girls at the country ball, if you please. No + river for Liz, thank you! You remind me of Liz a little: she was a + first-rate business woman—saved money from the beginning—never + let herself look too like what she was—never lost her head or + threw away a chance. When she saw I’d grown up good-looking she said to + me across the bar “What are you doing there, you little fool? wearing + out your health and your appearance for other people’s profit!” Liz was + saving money then to take a house for herself in Brussels; and she + thought we two could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and + gave me a start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and then + went into business with her as a partner. Why shouldn’t I have done it? + The house in Brussels was real high class: a much better place for a + woman to be in than the factory where Anne Jane got poisoned. None of + the girls were ever treated as I was treated in the scullery of that + temperance place, or at the Waterloo bar, or at home. Would you have had + me stay in them and become a worn out old drudge before I was forty? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [intensely interested by this time] No; but why did you choose + that business? Saving money and good management will succeed in any + business. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the money to + save in any other business? Could y o u save out of four shillings a + week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not you. Of course, if youre a + plain woman and can’t earn anything more; or if you have a turn for + music, or the stage, or newspaper-writing: thats different. But neither + Liz nor I had any turn for such things at all: all we had was our + appearance and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such + fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us as + shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in them + ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation wages? Not + likely. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You were certainly quite justified—from the business point + of view. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes; or any other point of view. What is any respectable + girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man’s fancy and get the + benefit of his money by marrying him?—as if a marriage ceremony + could make any difference in the right or wrong of the thing! Oh, the + hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz and I had to work and save and + calculate just like other people; elseways we should be as poor as any + good-for-nothing drunken waster of a woman that thinks her luck will + last for ever. [With great energy] I despise such people: theyve no + character; and if theres a thing I hate in a woman, it’s want of + character. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Come now, mother: frankly! Isn’t it part of what you call + character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way of + making money? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work and make + money; but they have to do it all the same. I’m sure I’ve often pitied a + poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, having to try to please some + man that she doesn’t care two straws for—some half-drunken fool + that thinks he’s making himself agreeable when he’s teasing and worrying + and disgusting a woman so that hardly any money could pay her for + putting up with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the + rough with the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. + It’s not work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; + though to hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed of + roses. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Still, you consider it worth while. It pays. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Of course it’s worth while to a poor girl, if she can resist + temptation and is good-looking and well conducted and sensible. It’s far + better than any other employment open to her. + </p> + <p> + I always thought that it oughtn’t to be. It <i>can’t</i> be right, + Vivie, that there shouldn’t be better opportunities for women. I stick + to that: it’s wrong. But it’s so, right or wrong; and a girl must make + the best of it. But of course it’s not worth while for a lady. If you + took to it youd be a fool; but I should have been a fool if I’d taken to + anything else. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [more and more deeply moved] Mother: suppose we were both as poor + as you were in those wretched old days, are you quite sure that you + wouldn’t advise me to try the Waterloo bar, or marry a laborer, or even + go into the factory? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [indignantly] Of course not. What sort of mother do you take + me for! How could you keep your self-respect in such starvation and + slavery? And whats a woman worth? whats life worth? without + self-respect! Why am I independent and able to give my daughter a + first-rate education, when other women that had just as good + opportunities are in the gutter? Because I always knew how to respect + myself and control myself. Why is Liz looked up to in a cathedral town? + The same reason. Where would we be now if we’d minded the clergyman’s + foolishness? Scrubbing floors for one and sixpence a day and nothing to + look forward to but the workhouse infirmary. Don’t you be led astray by + people who don’t know the world, my girl. The only way for a woman to + provide for herself decently is for her to be good to some man that can + afford to be good to her. If she’s in his own station of life, let her + make him marry her; but if she’s far beneath him she can’t expect it: + why should she? it wouldn’t be for her own happiness. Ask any lady in + London society that has daughters; and she’ll tell you the same, except + that I tell you straight and she’ll tell you crooked. Thats all the + difference. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [fascinated, gazing at her] My dear mother: you are a wonderful + woman: you are stronger than all England. And are you really and truly + not one wee bit doubtful—or—or—ashamed? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, of course, dearie, it’s only good manners to be + ashamed of it: it’s expected from a woman. Women have to pretend to feel + a great deal that they don’t feel. Liz used to be angry with me for + plumping out the truth about it. She used to say that when every woman + could learn enough from what was going on in the world before her eyes, + there was no need to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a + perfect lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I was always a bit + of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased when you sent me your photos to + see that you were growing up like Liz: you’ve just her ladylike, + determined way. But I can’t stand saying one thing when everyone knows I + mean another. Whats the use in such hypocrisy? If people arrange the + world that way for women, theres no good pretending it’s arranged the + other way. No: I never was a bit ashamed really. I consider I had a + right to be proud of how we managed everything so respectably, and never + had a word against us, and how the girls were so well taken care of. + Some of them did very well: one of them married an ambassador. But of + course now I daren’t talk about such things: whatever would they think + of us! [She yawns]. Oh dear! I do believe I’m getting sleepy after all. + [She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her explosion, and + placidly ready for her night’s rest]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. [She goes to + the dresser and lights the candle. Then she extinguishes the lamp, + darkening the room a good deal]. Better let in some fresh air before + locking up. [She opens the cottage door, and finds that it is broad + moonlight]. What a beautiful night! Look! [She draws the curtains of the + window. The landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon + rising over Blackdown]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [with a perfunctory glance at the scene] Yes, dear; but take + care you don’t catch your death of cold from the night air. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [contemptuously] Nonsense. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [querulously] Oh yes: everything I say is nonsense, according + to you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [turning to her quickly] No: really that is not so, mother. + </p> + <p> + You have got completely the better of me tonight, though I intended it + to be the other way. Let us be good friends now. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [shaking her head a little ruefully] So it <i>has</i> been + the other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got the + worst of it from Liz; and now I suppose it’ll be the same with you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well, never mind. Come: good-night, dear old mother. [She takes + her mother in her arms]. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [fondly] I brought you up well, didn’t I, dearie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You did. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. And youll be good to your poor old mother for it, won’t you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I will, dear. [Kissing her] Good-night. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [with unction] Blessings on my own dearie darling! a mother’s + blessing! + </p> + <p> + [She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward + for divine sanction.] + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + [In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining from a + cloudless sky. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, wide + enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell + on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The carriage + drive comes down the middle of the garden and then swerves to its left, + where it ends in a little gravelled circus opposite the Rectory porch. + Beyond the gate is seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, + bounded on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine + wood. On the lawn, between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew + tree, with a garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden + is shut in by a box hedge; and there is a little sundial on the turf, + with an iron chair near it. A little path leads through the box hedge, + behind the sundial.] + </p> + <p> + [Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which he has placed the + morning paper, is reading The Standard. His father comes from the house, + red-eyed and shivery, and meets Frank’s eye with misgiving.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [looking at his watch] Half-past eleven. Nice hour for a rector to + come down to breakfast! + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Don’t mock, Frank: don’t mock. I am a little—er—[Shivering]— + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Off color? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [repudiating the expression] No, sir: <i>unwell</i> this + morning. Where’s your mother? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Don’t be alarmed: she’s not here. Gone to town by the 11.13 with + Bessie. She left several messages for you. Do you feel equal to + receiving them now, or shall I wait til you’ve breakfasted? + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I h a v e breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at your mother going + to town when we have people staying with us. They’ll think it very + strange. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Possibly she has considered that. At all events, if Crofts is + going to stay here, and you are going to sit up every night with him + until four, recalling the incidents of your fiery youth, it is clearly + my mother’s duty, as a prudent housekeeper, to go up to the stores and + order a barrel of whisky and a few hundred siphons. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank excessively. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. You were not in a condition to, gov’nor. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Do you mean to say that <i>I</i>—? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [calmly] I never saw a beneficed clergyman less sober. The + anecdotes you told about your past career were so awful that I really + don’t think Praed would have passed the night under your roof if it + hadnt been for the way my mother and he took to one another. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts’ host. I must talk to him + about something; and he has only one subject. Where is Mr Praed now? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the station. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Is Crofts up yet? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, long ago. He hasn’t turned a hair: he’s in much better + practice than you. Has kept it up ever since, probably. He’s taken + himself off somewhere to smoke. + </p> + <p> + [Frank resumes his paper. The parson turns disconsolately towards the + gate; then comes back irresolutely.] + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Er—Frank. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Yes. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be asked here after + yesterday afternoon? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Theyve been asked already. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [appalled] What!!! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Crofts informed us at breakfast that you told him to bring Mrs + Warren and Vivie over here to-day, and to invite them to make this house + their home. My mother then found she must go to town by the 11.13 train. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [with despairing vehemence] I never gave any such invitation. I + never thought of such a thing. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [compassionately] How do you know, gov’nor, what you said and + thought last night? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [coming in through the hedge] Good morning. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not having met you at + breakfast. I have a touch of—of— + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Clergyman’s sore throat, Praed. Fortunately not chronic. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [changing the subject] Well I must say your house is in a charming + spot here. Really most charming. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for a walk, Mr Praed, if + you like. I’ll ask you to excuse me: I must take the opportunity to + write my sermon while Mrs Gardner is away and you are all amusing + yourselves. You won’t mind, will you? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly not. Don’t stand on the slightest ceremony with me. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Thank you. I’ll—er—er—[He stammers his way to + the porch and vanishes into the house]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Curious thing it must be writing a sermon every week. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys em. He’s gone for some + soda water. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. My dear boy: I wish you would be more respectful to your father. + You know you can be so nice when you like. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to live with the governor. + When two people live together—it don’t matter whether theyre + father and son or husband and wife or brother and sister—they + can’t keep up the polite humbug thats so easy for ten minutes on an + afternoon call. Now the governor, who unites to many admirable domestic + qualities the irresoluteness of a sheep and the pompousness and + aggressiveness of a jackass— + </p> + <p> + PRAED. No, pray, pray, my dear Frank, remember! He is your father. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I give him due credit for that. [Rising and flinging down his + paper] But just imagine his telling Crofts to bring the Warrens over + here! He must have been ever so drunk. You know, my dear Praddy, my + mother wouldn’t stand Mrs Warren for a moment. Vivie mustn’t come here + until she’s gone back to town. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But your mother doesn’t know anything about Mrs Warren, does she? + [He picks up the paper and sits down to read it]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I don’t know. Her journey to town looks as if she did. Not that + my mother would mind in the ordinary way: she has stuck like a brick to + lots of women who had got into trouble. But they were all nice women. + Thats what makes the real difference. Mrs Warren, no doubt, has her + merits; but she’s ever so rowdy; and my mother simply wouldn’t put up + with her. So—hallo! [This exclamation is provoked by the + reappearance of the clergyman, who comes out of the house in haste and + dismay]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Frank: Mrs Warren and her daughter are coming across the heath + with Crofts: I saw them from the study windows. What <i>am</i> I to say + about your mother? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Stick on your hat and go out and say how delighted you are to see + them; and that Frank’s in the garden; and that mother and Bessie have + been called to the bedside of a sick relative, and were ever so sorry + they couldn’t stop; and that you hope Mrs Warren slept well; and—and—say + any blessed thing except the truth, and leave the rest to Providence. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. But how are we to get rid of them afterwards? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Theres no time to think of that now. Here! [He bounds into the + house]. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. He’s so impetuous. I don’t know what to do with him, Mr Praed. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [returning with a clerical felt hat, which he claps on his + father’s head]. Now: off with you. [Rushing him through the gate]. Praed + and I’ll wait here, to give the thing an unpremeditated air. [The + clergyman, dazed but obedient, hurries off]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. We must get the old girl back to town somehow, Praed. Come! + Honestly, dear Praddy, do you like seeing them together? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, why not? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [his teeth on edge] Don’t it make your flesh creep ever so little? + that wicked old devil, up to every villainy under the sun, I’ll swear, + and Vivie—ugh! + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Hush, pray. Theyre coming. + </p> + <p> + [The clergyman and Crofts are seen coming along the road, followed by + Mrs Warren and Vivie walking affectionately together.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Look: she actually has her arm round the old woman’s waist. It’s + her right arm: she began it. She’s gone sentimental, by God! Ugh! ugh! + Now do you feel the creeps? [The clergyman opens the gate: and Mrs + Warren and Vivie pass him and stand in the middle of the garden looking + at the house. Frank, in an ecstasy of dissimulation, turns gaily to Mrs + Warren, exclaiming] Ever so delighted to see you, Mrs Warren. This quiet + old rectory garden becomes you perfectly. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, I never! Did you hear that, George? He says I look + well in a quiet old rectory garden. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [still holding the gate for Crofts, who loafs through it, + heavily bored] You look well everywhere, Mrs Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Bravo, gov’nor! Now look here: lets have a treat before lunch. + First lets see the church. Everyone has to do that. It’s a regular old + thirteenth century church, you know: the gov’nor’s ever so fond of it, + because he got up a restoration fund and had it completely rebuilt six + years ago. Praed will be able to shew its points. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising] Certainly, if the restoration has left any to shew. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. [mooning hospitably at them] I shall be pleased, I’m sure, if + Sir George and Mrs Warren really care about it. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, come along and get it over. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [turning back toward the gate] I’ve no objection. + </p> + <p> + REV. S. Not that way. We go through the fields, if you don’t mind. Round + here. [He leads the way by the little path through the box hedge]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, all right. [He goes with the parson]. + </p> + <p> + [Praed follows with Mrs Warren. Vivie does not stir: she watches them + until they have gone, with all the lines of purpose in her face marking + it strongly.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ain’t you coming? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. I want to give you a warning, Frank. You were making fun of + my mother just now when you said that about the rectory garden. That is + barred in the future. Please treat my mother with as much respect as you + treat your own. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My dear Viv: she wouldn’t appreciate it: the two cases require + different treatment. But what on earth has happened to you? Last night + we were perfectly agreed as to your mother and her set. This morning I + find you attitudinizing sentimentally with your arm around your parent’s + waist. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [flushing] Attitudinizing! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. That was how it struck me. First time I ever saw you do a + second-rate thing. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [controlling herself] Yes, Frank: there has been a change: but I + don’t think it a change for the worse. Yesterday I was a little prig. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. And today? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [wincing; then looking at him steadily] Today I know my mother + better than you do. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Heaven forbid! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Viv: theres a freemasonry among thoroughly immoral people that + you know nothing of. You’ve too much character. <i>That’s</i> the bond + between your mother and me: that’s why I know her better than youll ever + know her. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You are wrong: you know nothing about her. If you knew the + circumstances against which my mother had to struggle— + </p> + <p> + FRANK [adroitly finishing the sentence for her] I should know why she is + what she is, shouldn’t I? What difference would that make? + </p> + <p> + Circumstances or no circumstances, Viv, you won’t be able to stand your + mother. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [very angry] Why not? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Because she’s an old wretch, Viv. If you ever put your arm around + her waist in my presence again, I’ll shoot myself there and then as a + protest against an exhibition which revolts me. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Must I choose between dropping your acquaintance and dropping my + mother’s? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [gracefully] That would put the old lady at ever such a + disadvantage. No, Viv: your infatuated little boy will have to stick to + you in any case. But he’s all the more anxious that you shouldn’t make + mistakes. It’s no use, Viv: your mother’s impossible. She may be a good + sort; but she’s a bad lot, a very bad lot. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [hotly] Frank—! [He stands his ground. She turns away and + sits down on the bench under the yew tree, struggling to recover her + self-command. Then she says] Is she to be deserted by the world because + she’s what you call a bad lot? Has she no right to live? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No fear of that, Viv: <i>she</i> won’t ever be deserted. [He sits + on the bench beside her]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. But I am to desert her, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [babyishly, lulling her and making love to her with his voice] + Mustn’t go live with her. Little family group of mother and daughter + wouldn’t be a success. Spoil o u r little group. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [falling under the spell] What little group? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The babes in the wood: Vivie and little Frank. [He nestles + against her like a weary child]. Lets go and get covered up with leaves. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rhythmically, rocking him like a nurse] Fast asleep, hand in + hand, under the trees. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The wise little girl with her silly little boy. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. The dear little boy with his dowdy little girl. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ever so peaceful, and relieved from the imbecility of the little + boy’s father and the questionableness of the little girl’s— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [smothering the word against her breast] Sh-sh-sh-sh! little girl + wants to forget all about her mother. [They are silent for some moments, + rocking one another. Then Vivie wakes up with a shock, exclaiming] What + a pair of fools we are! Come: sit up. Gracious! your hair. [She smooths + it]. I wonder do all grown up people play in that childish way when + nobody is looking. + </p> + <p> + I never did it when I was a child. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Neither did I. You are my first playmate. [He catches her hand to + kiss it, but checks himself to look around first. Very unexpectedly, he + sees Crofts emerging from the box hedge]. Oh damn! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Why damn, dear? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [whispering] Sh! Here’s this brute Crofts. [He sits farther away + from her with an unconcerned air]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Could I have a few words with you, Miss Vivie? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Certainly. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [to Frank] Youll excuse me, Gardner. Theyre waiting for you in + the church, if you don’t mind. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Anything to oblige you, Crofts—except church. If + you should happen to want me, Vivvums, ring the gate bell. [He goes into + the house with unruffled suavity]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [watching him with a crafty air as he disappears, and speaking to + Vivie with an assumption of being on privileged terms with her] Pleasant + young fellow that, Miss Vivie. Pity he has no money, isn’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you think so? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, whats he to do? No profession. No property. Whats he good + for? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I realize his disadvantages, Sir George. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [a little taken aback at being so precisely interpreted] Oh, it’s + not that. But while we’re in this world we’re in it; and money’s money. + [Vivie does not answer]. Nice day, isn’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with scarcely veiled contempt for this effort at conversation] + Very. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [with brutal good humor, as if he liked her pluck] Well thats not + what I came to say. [Sitting down beside her] Now listen, Miss Vivie. + I’m quite aware that I’m not a young lady’s man. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Indeed, Sir George? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. No; and to tell you the honest truth I don’t want to be either. + But when I say a thing I mean it; and when I feel a sentiment I feel it + in earnest; and what I value I pay hard money for. Thats the sort of man + I am. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It does you great credit, I’m sure. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, I don’t mean to praise myself. I have my faults, Heaven + knows: no man is more sensible of that than I am. I know I’m not + perfect: thats one of the advantages of being a middle-aged man; for I’m + not a young man, and I know it. But my code is a simple one, and, I + think, a good one. Honor between man and man; fidelity between man and + woman; and no can’t about this religion or that religion, but an honest + belief that things are making for good on the whole. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with biting irony] “A power, not ourselves, that makes for + righteousness,” eh? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [taking her seriously] Oh certainly. Not ourselves, of course. Y + o u understand what I mean. Well, now as to practical matters. You may + have an idea that I’ve flung my money about; but I havn’t: I’m richer + today than when I first came into the property. I’ve used my knowledge + of the world to invest my money in ways that other men have overlooked; + and whatever else I may be, I’m a safe man from the money point of view. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s very kind of you to tell me all this. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh well, come, Miss Vivie: you needn’t pretend you don’t see + what I’m driving at. I want to settle down with a Lady Crofts. I suppose + you think me very blunt, eh? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Not at all: I am very much obliged to you for being so definite + and business-like. I quite appreciate the offer: the money, the + position, <i>Lady Crofts</i>, and so on. But I think I will say no, if + you don’t mind, I’d rather not. [She rises, and strolls across to the + sundial to get out of his immediate neighborhood]. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [not at all discouraged, and taking advantage of the additional + room left him on the seat to spread himself comfortably, as if a few + preliminary refusals were part of the inevitable routine of courtship] + I’m in no hurry. It was only just to let you know in case young Gardner + should try to trap you. Leave the question open. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sharply] My no is final. I won’t go back from it. + </p> + <p> + [Crofts is not impressed. He grins; leans forward with his elbows on his + knees to prod with his stick at some unfortunate insect in the grass; + and looks cunningly at her. She turns away impatiently.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I’m a good deal older than you. Twenty-five years: quarter of a + century. I shan’t live for ever; and I’ll take care that you shall be + well off when I’m gone. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I am proof against even that inducement, Sir George. Don’t you + think youd better take your answer? There is not the slightest chance of + my altering it. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [rising, after a final slash at a daisy, and coming nearer to + her] Well, no matter. I could tell you some things that would change + your mind fast enough; but I wont, because I’d rather win you by honest + affection. I was a good friend to your mother: ask her whether I wasn’t. + She’d never have make the money that paid for your education if it hadnt + been for my advice and help, not to mention the money I advanced her. + There are not many men who would have stood by her as I have. I put not + less than forty thousand pounds into it, from first to last. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [staring at him] Do you mean to say that you were my mother’s + business partner? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Yes. Now just think of all the trouble and the explanations it + would save if we were to keep the whole thing in the family, so to + speak. Ask your mother whether she’d like to have to explain all her + affairs to a perfect stranger. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I see no difficulty, since I understand that the business is + wound up, and the money invested. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [stopping short, amazed] Wound up! Wind up a business thats + paying 35 per cent in the worst years! Not likely. Who told you that? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [her color quite gone] Do you mean that it is still—? [She + stops abruptly, and puts her hand on the sundial to support herself. + Then she gets quickly to the iron chair and sits down]. + </p> + <p> + What business are you talking about? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, the fact is it’s not what would considered exactly a + high-class business in my set—the country set, you know—o u + r set it will be if you think better of my offer. Not that theres any + mystery about it: don’t think that. Of course you know by your mother’s + being in it that it’s perfectly straight and honest. I’ve known her for + many years; and I can say of her that she’d cut off her hands sooner + than touch anything that was not what it ought to be. I’ll tell you all + about it if you like. I don’t know whether you’ve found in travelling + how hard it is to find a really comfortable private hotel. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sickened, averting her face] Yes: go on. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, thats all it is. Your mother has got a genius for managing + such things. We’ve got two in Brussels, one in Ostend, one in Vienna, + and two in Budapest. Of course there are others besides ourselves in it; + but we hold most of the capital; and your mother’s indispensable as + managing director. You’ve noticed, I daresay, that she travels a good + deal. But you see you can’t mention such things in society. Once let out + the word hotel and everybody thinks you keep a public-house. You + wouldn’t like people to say that of your mother, would you? Thats why + we’re so reserved about it. By the way, youll keep it to yourself, won’t + you? Since it’s been a secret so long, it had better remain so. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. And this is the business you invite me to join you in? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh no. My wife shan’t be troubled with business. Youll not be in + it more than you’ve always been. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. <i>I</i> always been! What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Only that you’ve always lived on it. It paid for your education + and the dress you have on your back. Don’t turn up your nose at + business, Miss Vivie: where would your Newnhams and Girtons be without + it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [rising, almost beside herself] Take care. I know what this + business is. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [starting, with a suppressed oath] Who told you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Your partner. My mother. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [black with rage] The old— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Just so. + </p> + <p> + [He swallows the epithet and stands for a moment swearing and raging + foully to himself. But he knows that his cue is to be sympathetic. He + takes refuge in generous indignation.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. She ought to have had more consideration for you. <i>I’d</i> + never have told you. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I think you would probably have told me when we were married: it + would have been a convenient weapon to break me in with. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [quite sincerely] I never intended that. On my word as a + gentleman I didn’t. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his protest cools and + braces her. She replies with contemptuous self-possession.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It does not matter. I suppose you understand that when we leave + here today our acquaintance ceases. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Why? Is it for helping your mother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. My mother was a very poor woman who had no reasonable choice but + to do as she did. You were a rich gentleman; and you did the same for + the sake of 35 per cent. You are a pretty common sort of scoundrel, I + think. That is my opinion of you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [after a stare: not at all displeased, and much more at his ease + on these frank terms than on their former ceremonious ones] Ha! ha! ha! + ha! Go it, little missie, go it: it doesn’t hurt me and it amuses you. + Why the devil shouldn’t I invest my money that way? I take the interest + on my capital like other people: I hope you don’t think I dirty my own + hands with the work. + </p> + <p> + Come! you wouldn’t refuse the acquaintance of my mother’s cousin the + Duke of Belgravia because some of the rents he gets are earned in queer + ways. You wouldn’t cut the Archbishop of Canterbury, I suppose, because + the Ecclesiastical Commissioners have a few publicans and sinners among + their tenants. Do you remember your Crofts scholarship at Newnham? Well, + that was founded by my brother the M.P. He gets his 22 per cent out of a + factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting wages enough + to live on. How d’ye suppose they manage when they have no family to + fall back on? Ask your mother. And do you expect me to turn my back on + 35 per cent when all the rest are pocketing what they can, like sensible + men? No such fool! If youre going to pick and choose your acquaintances + on moral principles, youd better clear out of this country, unless you + want to cut yourself out of all decent society. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [conscience stricken] You might go on to point out that I myself + never asked where the money I spent came from. I believe I am just as + bad as you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [greatly reassured] Of course you are; and a very good thing too! + What harm does it do after all? [Rallying her jocularly] So you don’t + think me such a scoundrel now you come to think it over. Eh? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I have shared profits with you: and I admitted you just now to + the familiarity of knowing what I think of you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [with serious friendliness] To be sure you did. You won’t find me + a bad sort: I don’t go in for being superfine intellectually; but Ive + plenty of honest human feeling; and the old Crofts breed comes out in a + sort of instinctive hatred of anything low, in which I’m sure youll + sympathize with me. Believe me, Miss Vivie, the world isn’t such a bad + place as the croakers make out. As long as you don’t fly openly in the + face of society, society doesn’t ask any inconvenient questions; and it + makes precious short work of the cads who do. There are no secrets + better kept than the secrets everybody guesses. In the class of people I + can introduce you to, no lady or gentleman would so far forget + themselves as to discuss my business affairs or your mothers. No man can + offer you a safer position. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [studying him curiously] I suppose you really think youre getting + on famously with me. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Well, I hope I may flatter myself that you think better of me + than you did at first. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quietly] I hardly find you worth thinking about at all now. When + I think of the society that tolerates you, and the laws that protect + you! when I think of how helpless nine out of ten young girls would be + in the hands of you and my mother! the unmentionable woman and her + capitalist bully— + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [livid] Damn you! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You need not. I feel among the damned already. + </p> + <p> + [She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. He follows her + and puts his hand heavily on the top bar to prevent its opening.] + </p> + <p> + CROFTS [panting with fury] Do you think I’ll put up with this from you, + you young devil? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [unmoved] Be quiet. Some one will answer the bell. [Without + flinching a step she strikes the bell with the back of her hand. It + clangs harshly; and he starts back involuntarily. Almost immediately + Frank appears at the porch with his rifle]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with cheerful politeness] Will you have the rifle, Viv; or shall + I operate? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Frank: have you been listening? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [coming down into the garden] Only for the bell, I assure you; so + that you shouldn’t have to wait. I think I shewed great insight into + your character, Crofts. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. For two pins I’d take that gun from you and break it across your + head. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [stalking him cautiously] Pray don’t. I’m ever so careless in + handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal accident, with a reprimand from + the coroner’s jury for my negligence. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Put the rifle away, Frank: it’s quite unnecessary. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Quite right, Viv. Much more sportsmanlike to catch him in a trap. + [Crofts, understanding the insult, makes a threatening movement]. + Crofts: there are fifteen cartridges in the magazine here; and I am a + dead shot at the present distance and at an object of your size. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. Oh, you needn’t be afraid. I’m not going to touch you. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Ever so magnanimous of you under the circumstances! Thank you. + </p> + <p> + CROFTS. I’ll just tell you this before I go. It may interest you, since + youre so fond of one another. Allow me, Mister Frank, to introduce you + to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. + Miss Vivie: you half-brother. Good morning! [He goes out through the + gate and along the road]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [after a pause of stupefaction, raising the rifle] Youll testify + before the coroner that it’s an accident, Viv. [He takes aim at the + retreating figure of Crofts. Vivie seizes the muzzle and pulls it round + against her breast]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Fire now. You may. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [dropping his end of the rifle hastily] Stop! take care. [She lets + it go. It falls on the turf]. Oh, you’ve given your little boy such a + turn. Suppose it had gone off! ugh! [He sinks on the garden seat, + overcome]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Suppose it had: do you think it would not have been a relief to + have some sharp physical pain tearing through me? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [coaxingly] Take it ever so easy, dear Viv. Remember: even if the + rifle scared that fellow into telling the truth for the first time in + his life, that only makes us the babes in the woods in earnest. [He + holds out his arms to her]. Come and be covered up with leaves again. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with a cry of disgust] Ah, not that, not that. You make all my + flesh creep. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Why, whats the matter? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Goodbye. [She makes for the gate]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [jumping up] Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! [She turns in the gateway] + Where are you going to? Where shall we find you? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. At Honoria Fraser’s chambers, 67 Chancery Lane, for the rest of + my life. [She goes off quickly in the opposite direction to that taken + by Crofts]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. But I say—wait—dash it! [He runs after her]. + </p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT IV + </h2> + <p> + [Honoria Fraser’s chambers in Chancery Lane. An office at the top of New + Stone Buildings, with a plate-glass window, distempered walls, electric + light, and a patent stove. Saturday afternoon. The chimneys of Lincoln’s + Inn and the western sky beyond are seen through the window. There is a + double writing table in the middle of the room, with a cigar box, ash + pans, and a portable electric reading lamp almost snowed up in heaps of + papers and books. This table has knee holes and chairs right and left + and is very untidy. The clerk’s desk, closed and tidy, with its high + stool, is against the wall, near a door communicating with the inner + rooms. In the opposite wall is the door leading to the public corridor. + Its upper panel is of opaque glass, lettered in black on the outside, + FRASER AND WARREN. A baize screen hides the corner between this door and + the window.] + </p> + <p> + [Frank, in a fashionable light-colored coaching suit, with his stick, + gloves, and white hat in his hands, is pacing up and down in the office. + Somebody tries the door with a key.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [calling] Come in. It’s not locked. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie comes in, in her hat and jacket. She stops and stares at him.] + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sternly] What are you doing here? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Waiting to see you. I’ve been here for hours. Is this the way you + attend to your business? [He puts his hat and stick on the table, and + perches himself with a vault on the clerk’s stool, looking at her with + every appearance of being in a specially restless, teasing, flippant + mood]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I’ve been away exactly twenty minutes for a cup of tea. [She + takes off her hat and jacket and hangs them behind the screen]. How did + you get in? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. The staff had not left when I arrived. He’s gone to play cricket + on Primrose Hill. Why don’t you employ a woman, and give your sex a + chance? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What have you come for? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [springing off the stool and coming close to her] Viv: lets go and + enjoy the Saturday half-holiday somewhere, like the staff. + </p> + <p> + What do you say to Richmond, and then a music hall, and a jolly supper? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Can’t afford it. I shall put in another six hours work before I + go to bed. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Can’t afford it, can’t we? Aha! Look here. [He takes out a + handful of sovereigns and makes them chink]. Gold, Viv: gold! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Where did you get it? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Gambling, Viv: gambling. Poker. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Pah! It’s meaner than stealing it. No: I’m not coming. [She sits + down to work at the table, with her back to the glass door, and begins + turning over the papers]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [remonstrating piteously] But, my dear Viv, I want to talk to you + ever so seriously. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Very well: sit down in Honoria’s chair and talk here. I like ten + minutes chat after tea. [He murmurs]. No use groaning: I’m inexorable. + [He takes the opposite seat disconsolately]. Pass that cigar box, will + you? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [pushing the cigar box across] Nasty womanly habit. Nice men don’t + do it any longer. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: they object to the smell in the office; and we’ve had to + take to cigarets. See! [She opens the box and takes out a cigaret, which + she lights. She offers him one; but he shakes his head with a wry face. + She settles herself comfortably in her chair, smoking]. Go ahead. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, I want to know what you’ve done—what arrangements + you’ve made. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Everything was settled twenty minutes after I arrived here. + Honoria has found the business too much for her this year; and she was + on the point of sending for me and proposing a partnership when I walked + in and told her I hadn’t a farthing in the world. So I installed myself + and packed her off for a fortnight’s holiday. What happened at Haslemere + when I left? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Nothing at all. I said youd gone to town on particular business. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Well? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Well, either they were too flabbergasted to say anything, or else + Crofts had prepared your mother. Anyhow, she didn’t say anything; and + Crofts didn’t say anything; and Praddy only stared. After tea they got + up and went; and I’ve not seen them since. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [nodding placidly with one eye on a wreath of smoke] Thats all + right. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [looking round disparagingly] Do you intend to stick in this + confounded place? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [blowing the wreath decisively away, and sitting straight up] Yes. + These two days have given me back all my strength and self-possession. I + will never take a holiday again as long as I live. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with a very wry face] Mps! You look quite happy. And as hard as + nails. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [grimly] Well for me that I am! + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Look here, Viv: we must have an explanation. We parted + the other day under a complete misunderstanding. [He sits on the table, + close to her]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [putting away the cigaret] Well: clear it up. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. You remember what Crofts said. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. That revelation was supposed to bring about a complete change in + the nature of our feeling for one another. It placed us on the footing + of brother and sister. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Have you ever had a brother? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Then you don’t know what being brother and sister feels like? Now + I have lots of sisters; and the fraternal feeling is quite familiar to + me. I assure you my feeling for you is not the least in the world like + it. The girls will go <i>their</i> way; I will go mine; and we shan’t + care if we never see one another again. Thats brother and sister. But as + to you, I can’t be easy if I have to pass a week without seeing you. + Thats not brother and sister. Its exactly what I felt an hour before + Crofts made his revelation. In short, dear Viv, it’s love’s young dream. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [bitingly] The same feeling, Frank, that brought your father to my + mother’s feet. Is that it? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [so revolted that he slips off the table for a moment] I very + strongly object, Viv, to have my feelings compared to any which the + Reverend Samuel is capable of harboring; and I object still more to a + comparison of you to your mother. [Resuming his perch] Besides, I don’t + believe the story. I have taxed my father with it, and obtained from him + what I consider tantamount to a denial. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What did he say? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. He said he was sure there must be some mistake. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Do you believe him? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I am prepared to take his word against Crofts’. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Does it make any difference? I mean in your imagination or + conscience; for of course it makes no real difference. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [shaking his head] None whatever to <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Nor to me. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [staring] But this is ever so surprising! [He goes back to his + chair]. I thought our whole relations were altered in your imagination + and conscience, as you put it, the moment those words were out of that + brute’s muzzle. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: it was not that. I didn’t believe him. I only wish I could. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Eh? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I think brother and sister would be a very suitable relation for + us. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. You really mean that? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes. It’s the only relation I care for, even if we could afford + any other. I mean that. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [raising his eyebrows like one on whom a new light has dawned, and + rising with quite an effusion of chivalrous sentiment] My dear Viv: why + didn’t you say so before? I am ever so sorry for persecuting you. I + understand, of course. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [puzzled] Understand what? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, I’m not a fool in the ordinary sense: only in the Scriptural + sense of doing all the things the wise man declared to be folly, after + trying them himself on the most extensive scale. I see I am no longer + Vivvums’s little boy. Don’t be alarmed: I shall never call you Vivvums + again—at least unless you get tired of your new little boy, + whoever he may be. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. My new little boy! + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with conviction] Must be a new little boy. Always happens that + way. No other way, in fact. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. None that you know of, fortunately for you. + </p> + <p> + [Someone knocks at the door.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My curse upon yon caller, whoe’er he be! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s Praed. He’s going to Italy and wants to say goodbye. I asked + him to call this afternoon. Go and let him in. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. We can continue our conversation after his departure for Italy. + I’ll stay him out. [He goes to the door and opens it]. How are you, + Praddy? Delighted to see you. Come in. + </p> + <p> + [Praed, dressed for travelling, comes in, in high spirits.] + </p> + <p> + PRAED. How do you do, Miss Warren? [She presses his hand cordially, + though a certain sentimentality in his high spirits jars upon her]. I + start in an hour from Holborn Viaduct. I wish I could persuade you to + try Italy. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. What for? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Why, to saturate yourself with beauty and romance, of course. + </p> + <p> + [Vivie, with a shudder, turns her chair to the table, as if the work + waiting for her there were a support to her. Praed sits opposite to her. + Frank places a chair near Vivie, and drops lazily and carelessly into + it, talking at her over his shoulder.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No use, Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. She is indifferent to + <i>my</i> romance, and insensible to <i>my</i> beauty. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Mr Praed: once for all, there is no beauty and no romance in life + for me. Life is what it is; and I am prepared to take it as it is. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [enthusiastically] You will not say that if you come with me to + Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with delight at living in such a + beautiful world. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. This is most eloquent, Praddy. Keep it up. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Oh, I assure you <i>I</i> have cried—I shall cry again, I + hope—at fifty! At your age, Miss Warren, you would not need to go + so far as Verona. Your spirits would absolutely fly up at the mere sight + of Ostend. You would be charmed with the gaiety, the vivacity, the happy + air of Brussels. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [springing up with an exclamation of loathing] Agh! + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising] Whats the matter? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [rising] Hallo, Viv! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [to Praed, with deep reproach] Can you find no better example of + your beauty and romance than Brussels to talk to me about? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [puzzled] Of course it’s very different from Verona. I don’t + suggest for a moment that— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [bitterly] Probably the beauty and romance come to much the same + in both places. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [completely sobered and much concerned] My dear Miss Warren: I—[looking + enquiringly at Frank] Is anything the matter? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous, Praddy. She’s had ever such + a serious call. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [sharply] Hold your tongue, Frank. Don’t be silly. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [sitting down] Do you call this good manners, Praed? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [anxious and considerate] Shall I take him away, Miss Warren? I + feel sure we have disturbed you at your work. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Sit down: I’m not ready to go back to work yet. [Praed sits]. You + both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of it. But there are + two subjects I want dropped, if you don’t mind. + </p> + <p> + One of them [to Frank] is love’s young dream in any shape or form: the + other [to Praed] is the romance and beauty of life, especially Ostend + and the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to any illusions you may + have left on these subjects: I have none. If we three are to remain + friends, I must be treated as a woman of business, permanently single + [to Frank] and permanently unromantic [to Praed]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I also shall remain permanently single until you change your + mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be eloquent about something else. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [diffidently] I’m afraid theres nothing else in the world that I + <i>can</i> talk about. The Gospel of Art is the only one I can preach. I + know Miss Warren is a great devotee of the Gospel of Getting On; but we + can’t discuss that without hurting your feelings, Frank, since you are + determined not to get on. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, don’t mind my feelings. Give me some improving advice by all + means: it does me ever so much good. Have another try to make a + successful man of me, Viv. Come: lets have it all: energy, thrift, + foresight, self-respect, character. Don’t you hate people who have no + character, Viv? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [wincing] Oh, stop, stop. Let us have no more of that horrible + cant. Mr Praed: if there are really only those two gospels in the world, + we had better all kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through + and through. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [looking critically at her] There is a touch of poetry about you + today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [remonstrating] My dear Frank: aren’t you a little unsympathetic? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [merciless to herself] No: it’s good for me. It keeps me from + being sentimental. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [bantering her] Checks your strong natural propensity that way, + don’t it? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [almost hysterically] Oh yes: go on: don’t spare me. I was + sentimental for one moment in my life—beautifully sentimental—by + moonlight; and now— + </p> + <p> + FRANK [quickly] I say, Viv: take care. Don’t give yourself away. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr Praed does not know all about my mother? + [Turning on Praed] You had better have told me that morning, Mr Praed. + You are very old fashioned in your delicacies, after all. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your + prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as an + artist, and believing that the most intimate human relationships are far + beyond and above the scope of the law, that though I know that your + mother is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on that + account. I respect her more. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [airily] Hear! hear! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [staring at him] Is that <i>all</i> you know? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly that is all. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are innocence + itself compared with the truth. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his politeness + with an effort] I hope not. [More emphatically] I hope not, Miss Warren. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [whistles] Whew! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr Praed. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [his chivalry drooping before their conviction] If there is + anything worse—that is, anything else—are you sure you are + right to tell us, Miss Warren? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the rest of my + life in telling everybody—stamping and branding it into them until + they all felt their part in its abomination as I feel mine. There is + nothing I despise more than the wicked convention that protects these + things by forbidding a woman to mention them. And yet I can’t tell you. + The two infamous words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my + ears and struggling on my tongue; but I can’t utter them: the shame of + them is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The two + men, astonished, stare at one another and then at her. She raises her + head again desperately and snatches a sheet of paper and a pen]. Here: + let me draft you a prospectus. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh, she’s mad. Do you hear, Viv? mad. Come! pull yourself + together. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You shall see. [She writes]. “Paid up capital: not less than + forty thousand pounds standing in the name of Sir George Crofts, + Baronet, the chief shareholder. Premises at Brussels, Ostend, Vienna, + and Budapest. Managing director: Mrs Warren”; and now don’t let us + forget h e r qualifications: the two words. [She writes the words and + pushes the paper to them]. There! Oh no: don’t read it: don’t! [She + snatches it back and tears it to pieces; then seizes her head in her + hands and hides her face on the table]. + </p> + <p> + [Frank, who has watched the writing over her shoulder, and opened his + eyes very widely at it, takes a card from his pocket; scribbles the two + words on it; and silently hands it to Praed, who reads it with + amazement, and hides it hastily in his pocket.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK [whispering tenderly] Viv, dear: thats all right. I read what you + wrote: so did Praddy. We understand. And we remain, as this leaves us at + present, yours ever so devotedly. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. We do indeed, Miss Warren. I declare you are the most splendidly + courageous woman I ever met. + </p> + <p> + [This sentimental compliment braces Vivie. She throws it away from her + with an impatient shake, and forces herself to stand up, though not + without some support from the table.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Don’t stir, Viv, if you don’t want to. Take it easy. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Thank you. You an always depend on me for two things: not to cry + and not to faint. [She moves a few steps towards the door of the inner + room, and stops close to Praed to say] I shall need much more courage + than that when I tell my mother that we have come to a parting of the + ways. Now I must go into the next room for a moment to make myself neat + again, if you don’t mind. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Shall we go away? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: I’ll be back presently. Only for a moment. [She goes into the + other room, Praed opening the door for her]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. What an amazing revelation! I’m extremely disappointed in Crofts: + I am indeed. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I’m not in the least. I feel he’s perfectly accounted for at + last. But what a facer for me, Praddy! I can’t marry her now. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [sternly] Frank! [The two look at one another, Frank unruffled, + Praed deeply indignant]. Let me tell you, Gardner, that if you desert + her now you will behave very despicably. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Good old Praddy! Ever chivalrous! But you mistake: it’s not the + moral aspect of the case: it’s the money aspect. I really can’t bring + myself to touch the old woman’s money now. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. And was that what you were going to marry on? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. What else? <i>I</i> havn’t any money, nor the smallest turn for + making it. If I married Viv now she would have to support me; and I + should cost her more than I am worth. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. But surely a clever bright fellow like you can make something by + your own brains. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Oh yes, a little. [He takes out his money again]. I made all that + yesterday in an hour and a half. But I made it in a highly speculative + business. No, dear Praddy: even if Bessie and Georgina marry + millionaires and the governor dies after cutting them off with a + shilling, I shall have only four hundred a year. And he won’t die until + he’s three score and ten: he hasn’t originality enough. I shall be on + short allowance for the next twenty years. No short allowance for Viv, + if I can help it. I withdraw gracefully and leave the field to the + gilded youth of England. So that settled. I shan’t worry her about it: + I’ll just send her a little note after we’re gone. She’ll understand. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [grasping his hand] Good fellow, Frank! I heartily beg your + pardon. But must you never see her again? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Never see her again! Hang it all, be reasonable. I shall come + along as often as possible, and be her brother. I can <i>not</i> + understand the absurd consequences you romantic people expect from the + most ordinary transactions. [A knock at the door]. I wonder who this is. + Would you mind opening the door? If it’s a client it will look more + respectable than if I appeared. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Certainly. [He goes to the door and opens it. Frank sits down in + Vivie’s chair to scribble a note]. My dear Kitty: come in: come in. + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren comes in, looking apprehensively around for Vivie. She has + done her best to make herself matronly and dignified. The brilliant hat + is replaced by a sober bonnet, and the gay blouse covered by a costly + black silk mantle. She is pitiably anxious and ill at ease: evidently + panic-stricken.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [to Frank] What! Y o u r e here, are you? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [turning in his chair from his writing, but not rising] Here, and + charmed to see you. You come like a breath of spring. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, get out with your nonsense. [In a low voice] Where’s + Vivie? + </p> + <p> + [Frank points expressively to the door of the inner room, but says + nothing.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [sitting down suddenly and almost beginning to cry] Praddy: + won’t she see me, don’t you think? + </p> + <p> + PRAED. My dear Kitty: don’t distress yourself. Why should she not? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, you never can see why not: youre too innocent. Mr Frank: + did she say anything to you? + </p> + <p> + FRANK [folding his note] She <i>must</i> see you, if [very expressively] + you wait til she comes in. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [frightened] Why shouldn’t I wait? + </p> + <p> + [Frank looks quizzically at her; puts his note carefully on the + ink-bottle, so that Vivie cannot fail to find it when next she dips her + pen; then rises and devotes his attention entirely to her.] + </p> + <p> + FRANK. My dear Mrs Warren: suppose you were a sparrow—ever so tiny + and pretty a sparrow hopping in the roadway—and you saw a steam + roller coming in your direction, would you wait for it? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, don’t bother me with your sparrows. What did she run + away from Haslemere like that for? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. I’m afraid she’ll tell you if you rashly await her return. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Do you want me to go away? + </p> + <p> + FRANK. No: I always want you to stay. But I <i>advise</i> you to go + away. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. What! And never see her again! + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Precisely. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [crying again] Praddy: don’t let him be cruel to me. [She + hastily checks her tears and wipes her eyes]. She’ll be so angry if she + sees I’ve been crying. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [with a touch of real compassion in his airy tenderness] You know + that Praddy is the soul of kindness, Mrs Warren. Praddy: what do you + say? Go or stay? + </p> + <p> + PRAED [to Mrs Warren] I really should be very sorry to cause you + unnecessary pain; but I think perhaps you had better not wait. The fact + is—[Vivie is heard at the inner door]. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Sh! Too late. She’s coming. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Don’t tell her I was crying. [Vivie comes in. She stops + gravely on seeing Mrs Warren, who greets her with hysterical + cheerfulness]. Well, dearie. So here you are at last. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I am glad you have come: I want to speak to you. You said you + were going, Frank, I think. + </p> + <p> + FRANK. Yes. Will you come with me, Mrs Warren? What do you say to a trip + to Richmond, and the theatre in the evening? There is safety in + Richmond. No steam roller there. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Nonsense, Frank. My mother will stay here. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [scared] I don’t know: perhaps I’d better go. We’re + disturbing you at your work. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [with quiet decision] Mr Praed: please take Frank away. Sit down, + mother. [Mrs Warren obeys helplessly]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Come, Frank. Goodbye, Miss Vivie. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [shaking hands] Goodbye. A pleasant trip. + </p> + <p> + PRAED. Thank you: thank you. I hope so. + </p> + <p> + FRANK [to Mrs Warren] Goodbye: youd ever so much better have taken my + advice. [He shakes hands with her. Then airily to Vivie] Byebye, Viv. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Goodbye. [He goes out gaily without shaking hands with her]. + </p> + <p> + PRAED [sadly] Goodbye, Kitty. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [snivelling]—oobye! + </p> + <p> + [Praed goes. Vivie, composed and extremely grave, sits down in Honoria’s + chair, and waits for her mother to speak. Mrs Warren, dreading a pause, + loses no time in beginning.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Well, Vivie, what did you go away like that for without + saying a word to me! How could you do such a thing! And what have you + done to poor George? I wanted him to come with me; but he shuffled out + of it. I could see that he was quite afraid of you. Only fancy: he + wanted me not to come. As if [trembling] I should be afraid of you, + dearie. [Vivie’s gravity deepens]. But of course I told him it was all + settled and comfortable between us, and that we were on the best of + terms. [She breaks down]. Vivie: whats the meaning of this? [She + produces a commercial envelope, and fumbles at the enclosure with + trembling fingers]. I got it from the bank this morning. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It is my month’s allowance. They sent it to me as usual the other + day. I simply sent it back to be placed to your credit, and asked them + to send you the lodgment receipt. In future I shall support myself. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [not daring to understand] Wasn’t it enough? Why didn’t you + tell me? [With a cunning gleam in her eye] I’ll double it: I was + intending to double it. Only let me know how much you want. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You know very well that that has nothing to do with it. From this + time I go my own way in my own business and among my own friends. And + you will go yours. [She rises]. Goodbye. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [rising, appalled] Goodbye? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: goodbye. Come: don’t let us make a useless scene: you + understand perfectly well. Sir George Crofts has told me the whole + business. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [angrily] Silly old—[She swallows an epithet, and then + turns white at the narrowness of her escape from uttering it]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Just so. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. He ought to have his tongue cut out. But I thought it was + ended: you said you didn’t mind. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [steadfastly] Excuse me: I <i>do</i> mind. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. But I explained— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. You explained how it came about. You did not tell me that it is + still going on [She sits]. + </p> + <p> + [Mrs Warren, silenced for a moment, looks forlornly at Vivie, who waits, + secretly hoping that the combat is over. But the cunning expression + comes back into Mrs Warren’s face; and she bends across the table, sly + and urgent, half whispering.] + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Vivie: do you know how rich I am? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I have no doubt you are very rich. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. But you don’t know all that that means; youre too young. It + means a new dress every day; it means theatres and balls every night; it + means having the pick of all the gentlemen in Europe at your feet; it + means a lovely house and plenty of servants; it means the choicest of + eating and drinking; it means everything you like, everything you want, + everything you can think of. And what are you here? A mere drudge, + toiling and moiling early and late for your bare living and two cheap + dresses a year. Think over it. [Soothingly] Youre shocked, I know. I can + enter into your feelings; and I think they do you credit; but trust me, + nobody will blame you: you may take my word for that. I know what young + girls are; and I know youll think better of it when you’ve turned it + over in your mind. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. So that’s how it is done, is it? You must have said all that to + many a woman, to have it so pat. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [passionately] What harm am I asking you to do? [Vivie turns + away contemptuously. Mrs Warren continues desperately] Vivie: listen to + me: you don’t understand: you were taught wrong on purpose: you don’t + know what the world is really like. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [arrested] Taught wrong on purpose! What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. I mean that youre throwing away all your chances for + nothing. You think that people are what they pretend to be: that the way + you were taught at school and college to think right and proper is the + way things really are. But it’s not: it’s all only a pretence, to keep + the cowardly slavish common run of people quiet. Do you want to find + that out, like other women, at forty, when you’ve thrown yourself away + and lost your chances; or won’t you take it in good time now from your + own mother, that loves you and swears to you that it’s truth: gospel + truth? [Urgently] Vivie: the big people, the clever people, the managing + people, all know it. They do as I do, and think what I think. I know + plenty of them. I know them to speak to, to introduce you to, to make + friends of for you. I don’t mean anything wrong: thats what you don’t + understand: your head is full of ignorant ideas about me. What do the + people that taught you know about life or about people like me? When did + they ever meet me, or speak to me, or let anyone tell them about me? the + fools! Would they ever have done anything for you if I hadn’t paid them? + Havn’t I told you that I want you to be respectable? Havn’t I brought + you up to be respectable? And how can you keep it up without my money + and my influence and Lizzie’s friends? Can’t you see that youre cutting + your own throat as well as breaking my heart in turning your back on me? + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I recognize the Crofts philosophy of life, mother. I heard it all + from him that day at the Gardners’. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. You think I want to force that played-out old sot on you! I + don’t, Vivie: on my oath I don’t. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It would not matter if you did: you would not succeed. [Mrs + Warren winces, deeply hurt by the implied indifference towards her + affectionate intention. Vivie, neither understanding this nor concerning + herself about it, goes on calmly] Mother: you don’t at all know the sort + of person I am. I don’t object to Crofts more than to any other coarsely + built man of his class. To tell you the truth, I rather admire him for + being strongminded enough to enjoy himself in his own way and make + plenty of money instead of living the usual shooting, hunting, + dining-out, tailoring, loafing life of his set merely because all the + rest do it. And I’m perfectly aware that if I’d been in the same + circumstances as my aunt Liz, I’d have done exactly what she did. + </p> + <p> + I don’t think I’m more prejudiced or straitlaced than you: I think I’m + less. I’m certain I’m less sentimental. I know very well that + fashionable morality is all a pretence, and that if I took your money + and devoted the rest of my life to spending it fashionably, I might be + as worthless and vicious as the silliest woman could possibly be without + having a word said to me about it. But I don’t want to be worthless. I + shouldn’t enjoy trotting about the park to advertize my dressmaker and + carriage builder, or being bored at the opera to shew off a + shopwindowful of diamonds. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [bewildered] But— + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Wait a moment: I’ve not done. Tell me why you continue your + business now that you are independent of it. Your sister, you told me, + has left all that behind her. Why don’t you do the same? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Oh, it’s all very easy for Liz: she likes good society, and + has the air of being a lady. Imagine <i>me</i> in a cathedral town! Why, + the very rooks in the trees would find me out even if I could stand the + dulness of it. I must have work and excitement, or I should go + melancholy mad. And what else is there for me to do? The life suits me: + I’m fit for it and not for anything else. If I didn’t do it somebody + else would; so I don’t do any real harm by it. And then it brings in + money; and I like making money. No: it’s no use: I can’t give it up—not + for anybody. But what need you know about it? I’ll never mention it. + I’ll keep Crofts away. I’ll not trouble you much: you see I have to be + constantly running about from one place to another. Youll be quit of me + altogether when I die. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: I am my mother’s daughter. I am like you: I must have work, + and must make more money than I spend. But my work is not your work, and + my way is not your way. We must part. It will not make much difference + to us: instead of meeting one another for perhaps a few months in twenty + years, we shall never meet: thats all. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [her voice stifled in tears] Vivie: I meant to have been more + with you: I did indeed. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. It’s no use, mother: I am not to be changed by a few cheap tears + and entreaties any more than you are, I daresay. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [wildly] Oh, you call a mother’s tears cheap. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. They cost you nothing; and you ask me to give you the peace and + quietness of my whole life in exchange for them. What use would my + company be to you if you could get it? What have we two in common that + could make either of us happy together? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [lapsing recklessly into her dialect] We’re mother and + daughter. I want my daughter. I’ve a right to you. Who is to care for me + when I’m old? Plenty of girls have taken to me like daughters and cried + at leaving me; but I let them all go because I had you to look forward + to. I kept myself lonely for you. You’ve no right to turn on me now and + refuse to do your duty as a daughter. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [jarred and antagonized by the echo of the slums in her mother’s + voice] My duty as a daughter! I thought we should come to that + presently. Now once for all, mother, you want a daughter and Frank wants + a wife. I don’t want a mother; and I don’t want a husband. I have spared + neither Frank nor myself in sending him about his business. Do you think + I will spare you? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [violently] Oh, I know the sort you are: no mercy for + yourself or anyone else. <i>I</i> know. My experience has done that for + me anyhow: I can tell the pious, canting, hard, selfish woman when I + meet her. Well, keep yourself to yourself: <i>I</i> don’t want you. But + listen to this. Do you know what I would do with you if you were a baby + again? aye, as sure as there’s a Heaven above us. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Strangle me, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. No: I’d bring you up to be a real daughter to me, and not + what you are now, with your pride and your prejudices and the college + education you stole from me: yes, stole: deny it if you can: what was it + but stealing? I’d bring you up in my own house, I would. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [quietly] In one of your own houses. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [screaming] Listen to her! listen to how she spits on her + mother’s grey hairs! Oh, may you live to have your own daughter tear and + trample on you as you have trampled on me. And you will: you will. No + woman ever had luck with a mother’s curse on her. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. I wish you wouldn’t rant, mother. It only hardens me. Come: I + suppose I am the only young woman you ever had in your power that you + did good to. Don’t spoil it all now. + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN. Yes, Heaven forgive me, it’s true; and you are the only one + that ever turned on me. Oh, the injustice of it! the injustice! the + injustice! I always wanted to be a good woman. I tried honest work; and + I was slave-driven until I cursed the day I ever heard of honest work. I + was a good mother; and because I made my daughter a good woman she turns + me out as if I were a leper. Oh, if I only had my life to live over + again! I’d talk to that lying clergyman in the school. From this time + forth, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I’ll do wrong and nothing but + wrong. And I’ll prosper on it. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. Yes: it’s better to choose your line and go through with it. If I + had been you, mother, I might have done as you did; but I should not + have lived one life and believed in another. You are a conventional + woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you goodbye now. I am right, am + I not? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [taken aback] Right to throw away all my money! + </p> + <p> + VIVIE. No: right to get rid of you? I should be a fool not to. Isn’t + that so? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [sulkily] Oh well, yes, if you come to that, I suppose you + are. But Lord help the world if everybody took to doing the right thing! + And now I’d better go than stay where I’m not wanted. [She turns to the + door]. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [kindly] Won’t you shake hands? + </p> + <p> + MRS WARREN [after looking at her fiercely for a moment with a savage + impulse to strike her] No, thank you. Goodbye. + </p> + <p> + VIVIE [matter-of-factly] Goodbye. [Mrs Warren goes out, slamming the + door behind her. The strain on Vivie’s face relaxes; her grave + expression breaks up into one of joyous content; her breath goes out in + a half sob, half laugh of intense relief. She goes buoyantly to her + place at the writing table; pushes the electric lamp out of the way; + pulls over a great sheaf of papers; and is in the act of dipping her pen + in the ink when she finds Frank’s note. She opens it unconcernedly and + reads it quickly, giving a little laugh at some quaint turn of + expression in it]. And goodbye, Frank. [She tears the note up and tosses + the pieces into the wastepaper basket without a second thought. Then she + goes at her work with a plunge, and soon becomes absorbed in its + figures]. + </p> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mrs. Warren's Profession + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: February 11, 2006 [EBook #1097] +[Last updated: July 6, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + + + + + +MRS WARREN'S PROFESSION + + +by George Bernard Shaw + + +1894 + + +With The Author's Apology (1902) + + + + +THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY + + +Mrs Warren's Profession has been performed at last, after a delay of +only eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the triumphant +amusement of startling all but the strongest-headed of the London +theatre critics clean out of the practice of their profession. No +author who has ever known the exultation of sending the Press into an +hysterical tumult of protest, of moral panic, of involuntary and frantic +confession of sin, of a horror of conscience in which the power of +distinguishing between the work of art on the stage and the real life +of the spectator is confused and overwhelmed, will ever care for the +stereotyped compliments which every successful farce or melodrama +elicits from the newspapers. Give me that critic who rushed from my play +to declare furiously that Sir George Crofts ought to be kicked. What a +triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a jaded London journalist to +the condition of the simple sailor in the Wapping gallery, who shouts +execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello not to believe him! But +dearer still than such simplicity is that sense of the sudden earthquake +shock to the foundations of morality which sends a pallid crowd of +critics into the street shrieking that the pillars of society are +cracking and the ruin of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen champions +of ten years ago remonstrate with me just as the veterans of those brave +days remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast who first +launched my plays on the stage alongside Ghosts and The Wild Duck, +exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his ideals! What +would Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer himself disowns me because I +"cannot touch pitch without wallowing in it". Truly my play must be more +needed than I knew; and yet I thought I knew how little the others know. + +Do not suppose, however, that the consternation of the Press reflects +any consternation among the general public. Anybody can upset the +theatre critics, in a turn of the wrist, by substituting for the +romantic commonplaces of the stage the moral commonplaces of the pulpit, +platform, or the library. Play Mrs Warren's Profession to an audience +of clerical members of the Christian Social Union and of women well +experienced in Rescue, Temperance, and Girls' Club work, and no moral +panic will arise; every man and woman present will know that as long +as poverty makes virtue hideous and the spare pocket-money of rich +bachelordom makes vice dazzling, their daily hand-to-hand fight against +prostitution with prayer and persuasion, shelters and scanty alms, +will be a losing one. There was a time when they were able to urge that +though "the white-lead factory where Anne Jane was poisoned" may be a +far more terrible place than Mrs Warren's house, yet hell is still more +dreadful. Nowadays they no longer believe in hell; and the girls among +whom they are working know that they do not believe in it, and would +laugh at them if they did. So well have the rescuers learnt that Mrs +Warren's defence of herself and indictment of society is the thing that +most needs saying, that those who know me personally reproach me, not +for writing this play, but for wasting my energies on "pleasant +plays" for the amusement of frivolous people, when I can build up such +excellent stage sermons on their own work. Mrs Warren's Profession is +the one play of mine which I could submit to a censorship without doubt +of the result; only, it must not be the censorship of the minor theatre +critic, nor of an innocent court official like the Lord Chamberlain's +Examiner, much less of people who consciously profit by Mrs Warren's +profession, or who personally make use of it, or who hold the widely +whispered view that it is an indispensable safety-valve for the +protection of domestic virtue, or, above all, who are smitten with a +sentimental affection for our fallen sister, and would "take her up +tenderly, lift her with care, fashioned so slenderly, young, and SO +fair." Nor am I prepared to accept the verdict of the medical gentlemen +who would compulsorily sanitate and register Mrs Warren, whilst leaving +Mrs Warren's patrons, especially her military patrons, free to destroy +her health and anybody else's without fear of reprisals. But I should be +quite content to have my play judged by, say, a joint committee of +the Central Vigilance Society and the Salvation Army. And the sterner +moralists the members of the committee were, the better. + +Some of the journalists I have shocked reason so unripely that they will +gather nothing from this but a confused notion that I am accusing the +National Vigilance Association and the Salvation Army of complicity in +my own scandalous immorality. It will seem to them that people who would +stand this play would stand anything. They are quite mistaken. Such +an audience as I have described would be revolted by many of our +fashionable plays. They would leave the theatre convinced that the +Plymouth Brother who still regards the playhouse as one of the gates of +hell is perhaps the safest adviser on the subject of which he knows so +little. If I do not draw the same conclusion, it is not because I am one +of those who claim that art is exempt from moral obligations, and deny +that the writing or performance of a play is a moral act, to be treated +on exactly the same footing as theft or murder if it produces equally +mischievous consequences. I am convinced that fine art is the subtlest, +the most seductive, the most effective instrument of moral propaganda in +the world, excepting only the example of personal conduct; and I waive +even this exception in favor of the art of the stage, because it works +by exhibiting examples of personal conduct made intelligible and moving +to crowds of unobservant, unreflecting people to whom real life means +nothing. I have pointed out again and again that the influence of the +theatre in England is growing so great that whilst private conduct, +religion, law, science, politics, and morals are becoming more and +more theatrical, the theatre itself remains impervious to common +sense, religion, science, politics, and morals. That is why I fight the +theatre, not with pamphlets and sermons and treatises, but with plays; +and so effective do I find the dramatic method that I have no doubt I +shall at last persuade even London to take its conscience and its brains +with it when it goes to the theatre, instead of leaving them at home +with its prayer-book as it does at present. Consequently, I am the +last man in the world to deny that if the net effect of performing Mrs +Warren's Profession were an increase in the number of persons entering +that profession, its performance should be dealt with accordingly. + +Now let us consider how such recruiting can be encouraged by the +theatre. Nothing is easier. Let the King's Reader of Plays, backed by +the Press, make an unwritten but perfectly well understood regulation +that members of Mrs Warren's profession shall be tolerated on the stage +only when they are beautiful, exquisitely dressed, and sumptuously +lodged and fed; also that they shall, at the end of the play, die of +consumption to the sympathetic tears of the whole audience, or step +into the next room to commit suicide, or at least be turned out by their +protectors and passed on to be "redeemed" by old and faithful lovers who +have adored them in spite of their levities. Naturally, the poorer girls +in the gallery will believe in the beauty, in the exquisite dresses, and +the luxurious living, and will see that there is no real necessity for +the consumption, the suicide, or the ejectment: mere pious forms, all +of them, to save the Censor's face. Even if these purely official +catastrophes carried any conviction, the majority of English girls +remain so poor, so dependent, so well aware that the drudgeries of such +honest work as is within their reach are likely enough to lead them +eventually to lung disease, premature death, and domestic desertion or +brutality, that they would still see reason to prefer the primrose path +to the strait path of virtue, since both, vice at worst and virtue at +best, lead to the same end in poverty and overwork. It is true that the +Board School mistress will tell you that only girls of a certain kind +will reason in this way. But alas! that certain kind turns out on +inquiry to be simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only kind +that gets the chance of acting on such reasoning. Read the first report +of the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C +4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacred word, +Home!) issued by the Women's Industrial Council [Home Industries of +Women in London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street, W. C.]; and ask +yourself whether, if the lot in life therein described were your lot +in life, you would not prefer the lot of Cleopatra, of Theodora, of the +Lady of the Camellias, of Mrs Tanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you can +go deep enough into things to be able to say no, how many ignorant +half-starved girls will believe you are speaking sincerely? To them the +lot of Iris is heavenly in comparison with their own. Yet our King, like +his predecessors, says to the dramatist, "Thus, and thus only, shall +you present Mrs Warren's profession on the stage, or you shall starve. +Witness Shaw, who told the untempting truth about it, and whom We, by +the Grace of God, accordingly disallow and suppress, and do what in Us +lies to silence." Fortunately, Shaw cannot be silenced. "The harlot's +cry from street to street" is louder than the voices of all the kings. +I am not dependent on the theatre, and cannot be starved into making +my play a standing advertisement of the attractive side of Mrs Warren's +business. + +Here I must guard myself against a misunderstanding. It is not the fault +of their authors that the long string of wanton's tragedies, from Antony +and Cleopatra to Iris, are snares to poor girls, and are objected to +on that account by many earnest men and women who consider Mrs Warren's +Profession an excellent sermon. Mr Pinero is in no way bound to suppress +the fact that his Iris is a person to be envied by millions of better +women. If he made his play false to life by inventing fictitious +disadvantages for her, he would be acting as unscrupulously as any tract +writer. If society chooses to provide for its Irises better than for +its working women, it must not expect honest playwrights to manufacture +spurious evidence to save its credit. The mischief lies in the +deliberate suppression of the other side of the case: the refusal to +allow Mrs Warren to expose the drudgery and repulsiveness of plying for +hire among coarse, tedious drunkards; the determination not to let the +Parisian girl in Brieux's Les Avaries come on the stage and drive into +people's minds what her diseases mean for her and for themselves. All +that, says the King's Reader in effect, is horrifying, loathsome. + +Precisely: what does he expect it to be? would he have us represent it +as beautiful and gratifying? The answer to this question, I fear, must +be a blunt Yes; for it seems impossible to root out of an Englishman's +mind the notion that vice is delightful, and that abstention from it +is privation. At all events, as long as the tempting side of it is kept +towards the public, and softened by plenty of sentiment and sympathy, it +is welcomed by our Censor, whereas the slightest attempt to place it in +the light of the policeman's lantern or the Salvation Army shelter +is checkmated at once as not merely disgusting, but, if you please, +unnecessary. + +Everybody will, I hope, admit that this state of things is intolerable; +that the subject of Mrs Warren's profession must be either tapu +altogether, or else exhibited with the warning side as freely displayed +as the tempting side. But many persons will vote for a complete tapu, +and an impartial sweep from the boards of Mrs Warren and Gretchen and +the rest; in short, for banishing the sexual instincts from the stage +altogether. Those who think this impossible can hardly have considered +the number and importance of the subjects which are actually banished +from the stage. Many plays, among them Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, +Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, have no sex complications: the thread of +their action can be followed by children who could not understand a +single scene of Mrs Warren's Profession or Iris. None of our plays rouse +the sympathy of the audience by an exhibition of the pains of maternity, +as Chinese plays constantly do. Each nation has its own particular set +of tapus in addition to the common human stock; and though each of +these tapus limits the scope of the dramatist, it does not make drama +impossible. If the Examiner were to refuse to license plays with female +characters in them, he would only be doing to the stage what our tribal +customs already do to the pulpit and the bar. I have myself written a +rather entertaining play with only one woman in it, and she is quite +heartwhole; and I could just as easily write a play without a woman in +it at all. I will even go so far as to promise the Mr Redford my support +if he will introduce this limitation for part of the year, say during +Lent, so as to make a close season for that dullest of stock dramatic +subjects, adultery, and force our managers and authors to find out what +all great dramatists find out spontaneously: to wit, that people who +sacrifice every other consideration to love are as hopelessly unheroic +on the stage as lunatics or dipsomaniacs. Hector is the world's hero; +not Paris nor Antony. + +But though I do not question the possibility of a drama in which love +should be as effectively ignored as cholera is at present, there is not +the slightest chance of that way out of the difficulty being taken by +the Mr Redford. If he attempted it there would be a revolt in which he +would be swept away in spite of my singlehanded efforts to defend him. +A complete tapu is politically impossible. A complete toleration is +equally impossible to Mr Redford, because his occupation would be gone +if there were no tapu to enforce. He is therefore compelled to maintain +the present compromise of a partial tapu, applied, to the best of his +judgement, with a careful respect to persons and to public opinion. And +a very sensible English solution of the difficulty, too, most readers +will say. I should not dispute it if dramatic poets really were what +English public opinion generally assumes them to be during their +lifetime: that is, a licentiously irregular group to be kept in order +in a rough and ready way by a magistrate who will stand no nonsense +from them. But I cannot admit that the class represented by Eschylus, +Sophocles, Aristophanes, Euripides, Shakespear, Goethe, Ibsen, and +Tolstoy, not to mention our own contemporary playwrights, is as much in +place in Mr Redford's office as a pickpocket is in Bow Street. Further, +it is not true that the Censorship, though it certainly suppresses Ibsen +and Tolstoy, and would suppress Shakespear but for the absurd rule that +a play once licensed is always licensed (so that Wycherly is permitted +and Shelley prohibited), also suppresses unscrupulous playwrights. I +challenge Mr Redford to mention any extremity of sexual misconduct which +any manager in his senses would risk presenting on the London stage that +has not been presented under his license and that of his predecessor. +The compromise, in fact, works out in practice in favor of loose plays +as against earnest ones. + +To carry conviction on this point, I will take the extreme course of +narrating the plots of two plays witnessed within the last ten years +by myself at London West End theatres, one licensed by the late Queen +Victoria's Reader of Plays, the other by the present Reader to the King. +Both plots conform to the strictest rules of the period when La Dame aux +Camellias was still a forbidden play, and when The Second Mrs Tanqueray +would have been tolerated only on condition that she carefully explained +to the audience that when she met Captain Ardale she sinned "but in +intention." + +Play number one. A prince is compelled by his parents to marry the +daughter of a neighboring king, but loves another maiden. The scene +represents a hall in the king's palace at night. The wedding has taken +place that day; and the closed door of the nuptial chamber is in view of +the audience. Inside, the princess awaits her bridegroom. A duenna is in +attendance. The bridegroom enters. His sole desire is to escape from a +marriage which is hateful to him. An idea strikes him. He will assault +the duenna, and get ignominiously expelled from the palace by his +indignant father-in-law. To his horror, when he proceeds to carry out +this stratagem, the duenna, far from raising an alarm, is flattered, +delighted, and compliant. The assaulter becomes the assaulted. He flings +her angrily to the ground, where she remains placidly. He flies. The +father enters; dismisses the duenna; and listens at the keyhole of +his daughter's nuptial chamber, uttering various pleasantries, and +declaring, with a shiver, that a sound of kissing, which he supposes to +proceed from within, makes him feel young again. + +In deprecation of the scandalized astonishment with which such a story +as this will be read, I can only say that it was not presented on the +stage until its propriety had been certified by the chief officer of the +Queen of England's household. + +Story number two. A German officer finds himself in an inn with a French +lady who has wounded his national vanity. He resolves to humble her by +committing a rape upon her. He announces his purpose. She remonstrates, +implores, flies to the doors and finds them locked, calls for help +and finds none at hand, runs screaming from side to side, and, after +a harrowing scene, is overpowered and faints. Nothing further being +possible on the stage without actual felony, the officer then relents +and leaves her. When she recovers, she believes that he has carried out +his threat; and during the rest of the play she is represented as vainly +vowing vengeance upon him, whilst she is really falling in love with +him under the influence of his imaginary crime against her. Finally she +consents to marry him; and the curtain falls on their happiness. + +This story was certified by the present King's Reader, acting for the +Lord Chamberlain, as void in its general tendency of "anything immoral +or otherwise improper for the stage." But let nobody conclude therefore +that Mr Redford is a monster, whose policy it is to deprave the theatre. +As a matter of fact, both the above stories are strictly in order from +the official point of view. The incidents of sex which they contain, +though carried in both to the extreme point at which another step would +be dealt with, not by the King's Reader, but by the police, do not +involve adultery, nor any allusion to Mrs Warren's profession, nor to +the fact that the children of any polyandrous group will, when they grow +up, inevitably be confronted, as those of Mrs Warren's group are in my +play, with the insoluble problem of their own possible consanguinity. +In short, by depending wholly on the coarse humors and the physical +fascination of sex, they comply with all the formulable requirements of +the Censorship, whereas plays in which these humors and fascinations are +discarded, and the social problems created by sex seriously faced and +dealt with, inevitably ignore the official formula and are suppressed. +If the old rule against the exhibition of illicit sex relations on stage +were revived, and the subject absolutely barred, the only result would +be that Antony and Cleopatra, Othello (because of the Bianca episode), +Troilus and Cressida, Henry IV, Measure for Measure, Timon of Athens, +La Dame aux Camellias, The Profligate, The Second Mrs Tanqueray, The +Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith, The Gay Lord Quex, Mrs Dane's Defence, and +Iris would be swept from the stage, and placed under the same ban as +Tolstoy's Dominion of Darkness and Mrs Warren's Profession, whilst such +plays as the two described above would have a monopoly of the theatre as +far as sexual interest is concerned. + +What is more, the repulsiveness of the worst of the certified plays +would protect the Censorship against effective exposure and criticism. +Not long ago an American Review of high standing asked me for an article +on the Censorship of the English stage. I replied that such an article +would involve passages too disagreeable for publication in a magazine +for general family reading. The editor persisted nevertheless; but +not until he had declared his readiness to face this, and had pledged +himself to insert the article unaltered (the particularity of the pledge +extending even to a specification of the exact number of words in the +article) did I consent to the proposal. What was the result? + +The editor, confronted with the two stories given above, threw his +pledge to the winds, and, instead of returning the article, printed +it with the illustrative examples omitted, and nothing left but the +argument from political principles against the Censorship. In doing this +he fired my broadside after withdrawing the cannon balls; for neither +the Censor nor any other Englishman, except perhaps Mr Leslie Stephen +and a few other veterans of the dwindling old guard of Benthamism, cares +a dump about political principle. The ordinary Briton thinks that if +every other Briton is not kept under some form of tutelage, the more +childish the better, he will abuse his freedom viciously. As far as its +principle is concerned, the Censorship is the most popular institution +in England; and the playwright who criticizes it is slighted as a +blackguard agitating for impunity. Consequently nothing can really shake +the confidence of the public in the Lord Chamberlain's department except +a remorseless and unbowdlerized narration of the licentious fictions +which slip through its net, and are hallmarked by it with the approval +of the Throne. But since these narrations cannot be made public without +great difficulty, owing to the obligation an editor is under not to +deal unexpectedly with matters that are not _virginibus puerisque_, the +chances are heavily in favor of the Censor escaping all remonstrance. +With the exception of such comments as I was able to make in my own +critical articles in The World and The Saturday Review when the pieces +I have described were first produced, and a few ignorant protests by +churchmen against much better plays which they confessed they had not +seen nor read, nothing has been said in the press that could seriously +disturb the easygoing notion that the stage would be much worse than it +admittedly is but for the vigilance of the King's Reader. The truth is, +that no manager would dare produce on his own responsibility the pieces +he can now get royal certificates for at two guineas per piece. + +I hasten to add that I believe these evils to be inherent in the +nature of all censorship, and not merely a consequence of the form the +institution takes in London. No doubt there is a staggering absurdity +in appointing an ordinary clerk to see that the leaders of European +literature do not corrupt the morals of the nation, and to restrain Sir +Henry Irving, as a rogue and a vagabond, from presuming to impersonate +Samson or David on the stage, though any other sort of artist may daub +these scriptural figures on a signboard or carve them on a tombstone +without hindrance. If the General Medical Council, the Royal College of +Physicians, the Royal Academy of Arts, the Incorporated Law Society, and +Convocation were abolished, and their functions handed over to the Mr +Redford, the Concert of Europe would presumably declare England mad, and +treat her accordingly. Yet, though neither medicine nor painting nor +law nor the Church moulds the character of the nation as potently as the +theatre does, nothing can come on the stage unless its dimensions admit +of its passing through Mr Redford's mind! Pray do not think that I +question Mr Redford's honesty. I am quite sure that he sincerely thinks +me a blackguard, and my play a grossly improper one, because, like +Tolstoy's Dominion of Darkness, it produces, as they are both meant to +produce, a very strong and very painful impression of evil. I do not +doubt for a moment that the rapine play which I have described, and +which he licensed, was quite incapable in manuscript of producing +any particular effect on his mind at all, and that when he was once +satisfied that the ill-conducted hero was a German and not an English +officer, he passed the play without studying its moral tendencies. Even +if he had undertaken that study, there is no more reason to suppose +that he is a competent moralist than there is to suppose that I am a +competent mathematician. But truly it does not matter whether he is a +moralist or not. Let nobody dream for a moment that what is wrong with +the Censorship is the shortcoming of the gentleman who happens at any +moment to be acting as Censor. Replace him to-morrow by an Academy of +Letters and an Academy of Dramatic Poetry, and the new and enlarged +filter will still exclude original and epoch-making work, whilst passing +conventional, old-fashioned, and vulgar work without question. The +conclave which compiles the index of the Roman Catholic Church is the +most august, ancient, learned, famous, and authoritative censorship in +Europe. Is it more enlightened, more liberal, more tolerant that the +comparatively infinitesimal office of the Lord Chamberlain? On the +contrary, it has reduced itself to a degree of absurdity which makes a +Catholic university a contradiction in terms. All censorships exist +to prevent anyone from challenging current conceptions and existing +institutions. All progress is initiated by challenging current concepts, +and executed by supplanting existing institutions. Consequently the +first condition of progress is the removal of censorships. There is the +whole case against censorships in a nutshell. + +It will be asked whether theatrical managers are to be allowed to +produce what they like, without regard to the public interest. But that +is not the alternative. The managers of our London music-halls are not +subject to any censorship. They produce their entertainments on their +own responsibility, and have no two-guinea certificates to plead if +their houses are conducted viciously. They know that if they lose their +character, the County Council will simply refuse to renew their license +at the end of the year; and nothing in the history of popular art +is more amazing than the improvement in music-halls that this simple +arrangement has produced within a few years. Place the theatres on the +same footing, and we shall promptly have a similar revolution: a whole +class of frankly blackguardly plays, in which unscrupulous low comedians +attract crowds to gaze at bevies of girls who have nothing to exhibit +but their prettiness, will vanish like the obscene songs which were +supposed to enliven the squalid dulness, incredible to the younger +generation, of the music-halls fifteen years ago. On the other hand, +plays which treat sex questions as problems for thought instead of as +aphrodisiacs will be freely performed. Gentlemen of Mr Redford's way of +thinking will have plenty of opportunity of protesting against them +in Council; but the result will be that the Mr Redford will find his +natural level; Ibsen and Tolstoy theirs; so no harm will be done. + +This question of the Censorship reminds me that I have to apologize +to those who went to the recent performance of Mrs Warren's Profession +expecting to find it what I have just called an aphrodisiac. That was +not my fault; it was Mr Redford's. After the specimens I have given of +the tolerance of his department, it was natural enough for thoughtless +people to infer that a play which overstepped his indulgence must be a +very exciting play indeed. Accordingly, I find one critic so explicit as +to the nature of his disappointment as to say candidly that "such airy +talk as there is upon the matter is utterly unworthy of acceptance as +being a representation of what people with blood in them think or do on +such occasions." Thus am I crushed between the upper millstone of the Mr +Redford, who thinks me a libertine, and the nether popular critic, who +thinks me a prude. Critics of all grades and ages, middle-aged fathers +of families no less than ardent young enthusiasts, are equally indignant +with me. They revile me as lacking in passion, in feeling, in manhood. +Some of them even sum the matter up by denying me any dramatic power: a +melancholy betrayal of what dramatic power has come to mean on our stage +under the Censorship! Can I be expected to refrain from laughing at +the spectacle of a number of respectable gentlemen lamenting because a +playwright lures them to the theatre by a promise to excite their senses +in a very special and sensational manner, and then, having successfully +trapped them in exceptional numbers, proceeds to ignore their senses and +ruthlessly improve their minds? But I protest again that the lure was +not mine. The play had been in print for four years; and I have spared +no pains to make known that my plays are built to induce, not voluptuous +reverie but intellectual interest, not romantic rhapsody but humane +concern. Accordingly, I do not find those critics who are gifted with +intellectual appetite and political conscience complaining of want of +dramatic power. Rather do they protest, not altogether unjustly, against +a few relapses into staginess and caricature which betray the young +playwright and the old playgoer in this early work of mine. + +As to the voluptuaries, I can assure them that the playwright, whether +he be myself or another, will always disappoint them. The drama can do +little to delight the senses: all the apparent instances to the contrary +are instances of the personal fascination of the performers. The drama +of pure feeling is no longer in the hands of the playwright: it has been +conquered by the musician, after whose enchantments all the verbal arts +seem cold and tame. Romeo and Juliet with the loveliest Juliet is dry, +tedious, and rhetorical in comparison with Wagner's Tristan, even though +Isolde be both fourteen stone and forty, as she often is in Germany. +Indeed, it needed no Wagner to convince the public of this. The +voluptuous sentimentality of Gounod's Faust and Bizet's Carmen has +captured the common playgoer; and there is, flatly, no future now for +any drama without music except the drama of thought. The attempt to +produce a genus of opera without music (and this absurdity is what +our fashionable theatres have been driving at for a long time without +knowing it) is far less hopeful than my own determination to accept +problem as the normal materiel of the drama. + +That this determination will throw me into a long conflict with our +theatre critics, and with the few playgoers who go to the theatre as +often as the critics, I well know; but I am too well equipped for the +strife to be deterred by it, or to bear malice towards the losing side. +In trying to produce the sensuous effects of opera, the fashionable +drama has become so flaccid in its sentimentality, and the intellect +of its frequenters so atrophied by disuse, that the reintroduction +of problem, with its remorseless logic and iron framework of fact, +inevitably produces at first an overwhelming impression of coldness and +inhuman rationalism. But this will soon pass away. When the intellectual +muscle and moral nerve of the critics has been developed in the struggle +with modern problem plays, the pettish luxuriousness of the clever ones, +and the sulky sense of disadvantaged weakness in the sentimental ones, +will clear away; and it will be seen that only in the problem play is +there any real drama, because drama is no mere setting up of the camera +to nature: it is the presentation in parable of the conflict between +Man's will and his environment: in a word, of problem. The vapidness of +such drama as the pseudo-operatic plays contain lies in the fact that +in them animal passion, sentimentally diluted, is shewn in conflict, not +with real circumstances, but with a set of conventions and assumptions +half of which do not exist off the stage, whilst the other half can +either be evaded by a pretence of compliance or defied with complete +impunity by any reasonably strong-minded person. Nobody can feel that +such conventions are really compulsory; and consequently nobody can +believe in the stage pathos that accepts them as an inexorable fate, or +in the genuineness of the people who indulge in such pathos. Sitting +at such plays, we do not believe: we make-believe. And the habit of +make-believe becomes at last so rooted that criticism of the theatre +insensibly ceases to be criticism at all, and becomes more and more a +chronicle of the fashionable enterprises of the only realities left on +the stage: that is, the performers in their own persons. In this +phase the playwright who attempts to revive genuine drama produces the +disagreeable impression of the pedant who attempts to start a serious +discussion at a fashionable at-home. Later on, when he has driven the +tea services out and made the people who had come to use the theatre as +a drawing-room understand that it is they and not the dramatist who are +the intruders, he has to face the accusation that his plays ignore human +feeling, an illusion produced by that very resistance of fact and law to +human feeling which creates drama. It is the _deus ex machina_ who, by +suspending that resistance, makes the fall of the curtain an immediate +necessity, since drama ends exactly where resistance ends. Yet the +introduction of this resistance produces so strong an impression of +heartlessness nowadays that a distinguished critic has summed up the +impression made on him by Mrs Warren's Profession, by declaring that +"the difference between the spirit of Tolstoy and the spirit of Mr +Shaw is the difference between the spirit of Christ and the spirit of +Euclid." But the epigram would be as good if Tolstoy's name were put in +place of mine and D'Annunzio's in place of Tolstoy. At the same time +I accept the enormous compliment to my reasoning powers with sincere +complacency; and I promise my flatterer that when he is sufficiently +accustomed to and therefore undazzled by problem on the stage to be able +to attend to the familiar factor of humanity in it as well as to the +unfamiliar one of a real environment, he will both see and feel that +Mrs Warren's Profession is no mere theorem, but a play of instincts +and temperaments in conflict with each other and with a flinty social +problem that never yields an inch to mere sentiment. + +I go further than this. I declare that the real secret of the +cynicism and inhumanity of which shallower critics accuse me is the +unexpectedness with which my characters behave like human beings, +instead of conforming to the romantic logic of the stage. The axioms and +postulates of that dreary mimanthropometry are so well known that it is +almost impossible for its slaves to write tolerable last acts to +their plays, so conventionally do their conclusions follow from their +premises. Because I have thrown this logic ruthlessly overboard, I am +accused of ignoring, not stage logic, but, of all things, human feeling. +People with completely theatrified imaginations tell me that no girl +would treat her mother as Vivie Warren does, meaning that no stage +heroine would in a popular sentimental play. They say this just as they +might say that no two straight lines would enclose a space. They do not +see how completely inverted their vision has become even when I throw +its preposterousness in their faces, as I repeatedly do in this very +play. Praed, the sentimental artist (fool that I was not to make him a +theatre critic instead of an architect!) burlesques them by expecting +all through the piece that the feelings of others will be logically +deducible from their family relationships and from his "conventionally +unconventional" social code. The sarcasm is lost on the critics: they, +saturated with the same logic, only think him the sole sensible person +on the stage. Thus it comes about that the more completely the dramatist +is emancipated from the illusion that men and women are primarily +reasonable beings, and the more powerfully he insists on the ruthless +indifference of their great dramatic antagonist, the external world, to +their whims and emotions, the surer he is to be denounced as blind to +the very distinction on which his whole work is built. Far from ignoring +idiosyncrasy, will, passion, impulse, whim, as factors in human action, +I have placed them so nakedly on the stage that the elderly citizen, +accustomed to see them clothed with the veil of manufactured logic about +duty, and to disguise even his own impulses from himself in this way, +finds the picture as unnatural as Carlyle's suggested painting of +parliament sitting without its clothes. + +I now come to those critics who, intellectually baffled by the problem +in Mrs Warren's Profession, have made a virtue of running away from it. +I will illustrate their method by quotation from Dickens, taken from the +fifth chapter of Our Mutual Friend: + +"Hem!" began Wegg. "This, Mr Boffin and Lady, is the first chapter of +the first wollume of the Decline and Fall off----" here he looked hard +at the book, and stopped. + +"What's the matter, Wegg?" + +"Why, it comes into my mind, do you know, sir," said Wegg with an air of +insinuating frankness (having first again looked hard at the book), "that +you made a little mistake this morning, which I had meant to set you +right in; only something put it out of my head. I think you said Rooshan +Empire, sir?" + +"It is Rooshan; ain't it, Wegg?" + +"No, sir. Roman. Roman." + +"What's the difference, Wegg?" + +"The difference, sir?" Mr Wegg was faltering and in danger of breaking +down, when a bright thought flashed upon him. "The difference, sir? +There you place me in a difficulty, Mr Boffin. Suffice it to observe, +that the difference is best postponed to some other occasion when Mrs +Boffin does not honor us with her company. In Mrs Boffin's presence, +sir, we had better drop it." + +Mr Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage with quite a chivalrous air, +and not only that, but by dint of repeating with a manly delicacy, +"In Mrs Boffin's presence, sir, we had better drop it!" turned the +disadvantage on Boffin, who felt that he had committed himself in a very +painful manner. + +I am willing to let Mr Wegg drop it on these terms, provided I am +allowed to mention here that Mrs Warren's Profession is a play for +women; that it was written for women; that it has been performed and +produced mainly through the determination of women that it should be +performed and produced; that the enthusiasm of women made its first +performance excitingly successful; and that not one of these women had +any inducement to support it except their belief in the timeliness and +the power of the lesson the play teaches. Those who were "surprised to +see ladies present" were men; and when they proceeded to explain that +the journals they represented could not possibly demoralize the public +by describing such a play, their editors cruelly devoted the space saved +by their delicacy to an elaborate and respectful account of the progress +of a young lord's attempt to break the bank at Monte Carlo. A few days +sooner Mrs Warren would have been crowded out of their papers by an +exceptionally abominable police case. I do not suggest that the police +case should have been suppressed; but neither do I believe that regard +for public morality had anything to do with their failure to grapple +with the performance by the Stage Society. And, after all, there was no +need to fall back on Silas Wegg's subterfuge. Several critics saved the +faces of their papers easily enough by the simple expedient of saying +all they had to say in the tone of a shocked governess lecturing a +naughty child. To them I might plead, in Mrs Warren's words, "Well, +it's only good manners to be ashamed, dearie;" but it surprises me, +recollecting as I do the effect produced by Miss Fanny Brough's delivery +of that line, that gentlemen who shivered like violets in a zephyr as +it swept through them, should so completely miss the full width of its +application as to go home and straightway make a public exhibition of +mock modesty. + +My old Independent Theatre manager, Mr Grein, besides that reproach to +me for shattering his ideals, complains that Mrs Warren is not wicked +enough, and names several romancers who would have clothed her black +soul with all the terrors of tragedy. I have no doubt they would; but +if you please, my dear Grein, that is just what I did not want to do. +Nothing would please our sanctimonious British public more than to throw +the whole guilt of Mrs Warren's profession on Mrs Warren herself. Now +the whole aim of my play is to throw that guilt on the British public +itself. You may remember that when you produced my first play, Widowers' +Houses, exactly the same misunderstanding arose. When the virtuous young +gentleman rose up in wrath against the slum landlord, the slum +landlord very effectively shewed him that slums are the product, not +of individual Harpagons, but of the indifference of virtuous young +gentlemen to the condition of the city they live in, provided they +live at the west end of it on money earned by someone else's labor. The +notion that prostitution is created by the wickedness of Mrs Warren +is as silly as the notion--prevalent, nevertheless, to some extent in +Temperance circles--that drunkenness is created by the wickedness of +the publican. Mrs Warren is not a whit a worse woman than the reputable +daughter who cannot endure her. Her indifference to the ultimate social +consequences of her means of making money, and her discovery of that +means by the ordinary method of taking the line of least resistance to +getting it, are too common in English society to call for any special +remark. Her vitality, her thrift, her energy, her outspokenness, her +wise care of her daughter, and the managing capacity which has enabled +her and her sister to climb from the fried fish shop down by the Mint +to the establishments of which she boasts, are all high English social +virtues. Her defence of herself is so overwhelming that it provokes the +St James Gazette to declare that "the tendency of the play is wholly +evil" because "it contains one of the boldest and most specious defences +of an immoral life for poor women that has ever been penned." Happily +the St James Gazette here speaks in its haste. Mrs Warren's defence of +herself is not only bold and specious, but valid and unanswerable. +But it is no defence at all of the vice which she organizes. It is +no defence of an immoral life to say that the alternative offered +by society collectively to poor women is a miserable life, starved, +overworked, fetid, ailing, ugly. Though it is quite natural and RIGHT +for Mrs Warren to choose what is, according to her lights, the least +immoral alternative, it is none the less infamous of society to offer +such alternatives. For the alternatives offered are not morality and +immorality, but two sorts of immorality. The man who cannot see +that starvation, overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as +prostitution--that they are the vices and crimes of a nation, and +not merely its misfortunes--is (to put it as politely as possible) a +hopelessly Private Person. + +The notion that Mrs Warren must be a fiend is only an example of the +violence and passion which the slightest reference to sex arouses in +undisciplined minds, and which makes it seem natural for our lawgivers +to punish silly and negligible indecencies with a ferocity unknown in +dealing with, for example, ruinous financial swindling. Had my play been +titled Mr Warren's Profession, and Mr Warren been a bookmaker, nobody +would have expected me to make him a villain as well. Yet gambling is +a vice, and bookmaking an institution, for which there is absolutely +nothing to be said. The moral and economic evil done by trying to get +other people's money without working for it (and this is the essence of +gambling) is not only enormous but uncompensated. There are no two sides +to the question of gambling, no circumstances which force us to tolerate +it lest its suppression lead to worse things, no consensus of opinion +among responsible classes, such as magistrates and military commanders, +that it is a necessity, no Athenian records of gambling made splendid by +the talents of its professors, no contention that instead of violating +morals it only violates a legal institution which is in many respects +oppressive and unnatural, no possible plea that the instinct on which it +is founded is a vital one. Prostitution can confuse the issue with all +these excuses: gambling has none of them. Consequently, if Mrs Warren +must needs be a demon, a bookmaker must be a cacodemon. Well, does +anybody who knows the sporting world really believe that bookmakers are +worse than their neighbors? On the contrary, they have to be a good deal +better; for in that world nearly everybody whose social rank does not +exclude such an occupation would be a bookmaker if he could; but the +strength of character for handling large sums of money and for strict +settlements and unflinching payment of losses is so rare that successful +bookmakers are rare too. It may seem that at least public spirit +cannot be one of a bookmaker's virtues; but I can testify from personal +experience that excellent public work is done with money subscribed +by bookmakers. It is true that there are abysses in bookmaking: for +example, welshing. Mr Grein hints that there are abysses in Mrs Warren's +profession also. So there are in every profession: the error lies in +supposing that every member of them sounds these depths. I sit on a +public body which prosecutes Mrs Warren zealously; and I can assure Mr +Grein that she is often leniently dealt with because she has conducted +her business "respectably" and held herself above its vilest branches. +The degrees in infamy are as numerous and as scrupulously observed as +the degrees in the peerage: the moralist's notion that there are depths +at which the moral atmosphere ceases is as delusive as the rich man's +notion that there are no social jealousies or snobberies among the very +poor. No: had I drawn Mrs Warren as a fiend in human form, the very +people who now rebuke me for flattering her would probably be the +first to deride me for deducing her character logically from occupation +instead of observing it accurately in society. + +One critic is so enslaved by this sort of logic that he calls my +portraiture of the Reverend Samuel Gardner an attack on religion. + +According to this view Subaltern Iago is an attack on the army, Sir +John Falstaff an attack on knighthood, and King Claudius an attack on +royalty. Here again the clamor for naturalness and human feeling, raised +by so many critics when they are confronted by the real thing on the +stage, is really a clamor for the most mechanical and superficial sort +of logic. The dramatic reason for making the clergyman what Mrs Warren +calls "an old stick-in-the-mud," whose son, in spite of much capacity +and charm, is a cynically worthless member of society, is to set up a +mordant contrast between him and the woman of infamous profession, with +her well brought-up, straightforward, hardworking daughter. The critics +who have missed the contrast have doubtless observed often enough that +many clergymen are in the Church through no genuine calling, but simply +because, in circles which can command preferment, it is the refuge +of "the fool of the family"; and that clergymen's sons are often +conspicuous reactionists against the restraints imposed on them in +childhood by their father's profession. These critics must know, too, +from history if not from experience, that women as unscrupulous as Mrs +Warren have distinguished themselves as administrators and rulers, both +commercially and politically. But both observation and knowledge are +left behind when journalists go to the theatre. Once in their stalls, +they assume that it is "natural" for clergymen to be saintly, for +soldiers to be heroic, for lawyers to be hard-hearted, for sailors to +be simple and generous, for doctors to perform miracles with little +bottles, and for Mrs Warren to be a beast and a demon. All this is not +only not natural, but not dramatic. A man's profession only enters into +the drama of his life when it comes into conflict with his nature. The +result of this conflict is tragic in Mrs Warren's case, and comic in the +clergyman's case (at least we are savage enough to laugh at it); but +in both cases it is illogical, and in both cases natural. I repeat, +the critics who accuse me of sacrificing nature to logic are so +sophisticated by their profession that to them logic is nature, and +nature absurdity. + +Many friendly critics are too little skilled in social questions and +moral discussions to be able to conceive that respectable gentlemen like +themselves, who would instantly call the police to remove Mrs Warren if +she ventured to canvass them personally, could possibly be in any way +responsible for her proceedings. They remonstrate sincerely, asking me +what good such painful exposures can possibly do. They might as well ask +what good Lord Shaftesbury did by devoting his life to the exposure +of evils (by no means yet remedied) compared to which the worst things +brought into view or even into surmise by this play are trifles. +The good of mentioning them is that you make people so extremely +uncomfortable about them that they finally stop blaming "human nature" +for them, and begin to support measures for their reform. + +Can anything be more absurd than the copy of The Echo which contains a +notice of the performance of my play? It is edited by a gentleman who, +having devoted his life to work of the Shaftesbury type, exposes social +evils and clamors for their reform in every column except one; and that +one is occupied by the declaration of the paper's kindly theatre critic, +that the performance left him "wondering what useful purpose the play +was intended to serve." The balance has to be redressed by the more +fashionable papers, which usually combine capable art criticism with +West-End solecism on politics and sociology. It is very noteworthy, +however, on comparing the press explosion produced by Mrs Warren's +Profession in 1902 with that produced by Widowers' Houses about ten +years earlier, that whereas in 1892 the facts were frantically denied +and the persons of the drama flouted as monsters of wickedness, in +1902 the facts are admitted and the characters recognized, though it is +suggested that this is exactly why no gentleman should mention them in +public. Only one writer has ventured to imply this time that the poverty +mentioned by Mrs Warren has since been quietly relieved, and need +not have been dragged back to the footlights. I compliment him on his +splendid mendacity, in which he is unsupported, save by a little plea in +a theatrical paper which is innocent enough to think that ten guineas a +year with board and lodging is an impossibly low wage for a barmaid. It +goes on to cite Mr Charles Booth as having testified that there are +many laborers' wives who are happy and contented on eighteen shillings +a week. But I can go further than that myself. I have seen an Oxford +agricultural laborer's wife looking cheerful on eight shillings a week; +but that does not console me for the fact that agriculture in England +is a ruined industry. If poverty does not matter as long as it is +contented, then crime does not matter as long as it is unscrupulous. The +truth is that it is only then that it does matter most desperately. +Many persons are more comfortable when they are dirty than when they are +clean; but that does not recommend dirt as a national policy. + +Here I must for the present break off my arduous work of educating the +Press. We shall resume our studies later on; but just now I am tired of +playing the preceptor; and the eager thirst of my pupils for improvement +does not console me for the slowness of their progress. Besides, I must +reserve space to gratify my own vanity and do justice to the six artists +who acted my play, by placing on record the hitherto unchronicled +success of the first representation. It is not often that an author, +after a couple of hours of those rare alternations of excitement and +intensely attentive silence which only occur in the theatre when actors +and audience are reacting on one another to the utmost, is able to step +on the stage and apply the strong word genius to the representation with +the certainty of eliciting an instant and overwhelming assent from the +audience. That was my good fortune on the afternoon of Sunday, the fifth +of January last. I was certainly extremely fortunate in my interpreters +in the enterprise, and that not alone in respect of their artistic +talent; for had it not been for their superhuman patience, their +imperturbable good humor and good fellowship, there could have been no +performance. The terror of the Censor's power gave us trouble enough to +break up any ordinary commercial enterprise. Managers promised and even +engaged their theatres to us after the most explicit warnings that the +play was unlicensed, and at the last moment suddenly realized that Mr +Redford had their livelihoods in the hollow of his hand, and backed +out. Over and over again the date and place were fixed and the tickets +printed, only to be canceled, until at last the desperate and overworked +manager of the Stage Society could only laugh, as criminals broken on +the wheel used to laugh at the second stroke. We rehearsed under great +difficulties. Christmas pieces and plays for the new year were being +produced in all directions; and my six actor colleagues were busy +people, with engagements in these pieces in addition to their current +professional work every night. On several raw winter days stages for +rehearsal were unattainable even by the most distinguished applicants; +and we shared corridors and saloons with them whilst the stage was +given over to children in training for Boxing night. At last we had to +rehearse at an hour at which no actor or actress has been out of bed +within the memory of man; and we sardonically congratulated one another +every morning on our rosy matutinal looks and the improvement wrought +by our early rising in our health and characters. And all this, please +observe, for a society without treasury or commercial prestige, for +a play which was being denounced in advance as unmentionable, for an +author without influence at the fashionable theatres! I victoriously +challenge the West End managers to get as much done for interested +motives, if they can. + +Three causes made the production the most notable that has fallen to my +lot. First, the veto of the Censor, which put the supporters of the play +on their mettle. Second, the chivalry of the Stage Society, which, in +spite of my urgent advice to the contrary, and my demonstration of the +difficulties, dangers, and expenses the enterprise would cost, put my +discouragements to shame and resolved to give battle at all costs to +the attempt of the Censorship to suppress the play. Third, the artistic +spirit of the actors, who made the play their own and carried it through +triumphantly in spite of a series of disappointments and annoyances much +more trying to the dramatic temperament than mere difficulties. + +The acting, too, required courage and character as well as skill and +intelligence. The veto of the Censor introduced quite a novel element of +moral responsibility into the undertaking. And the characters were very +unusual on the English stage. The younger heroine is, like her mother, +an Englishwoman to the backbone, and not, like the heroines of our +fashionable drama, a prima donna of Italian origin. Consequently she +was sure to be denounced as unnatural and undramatic by the critics. +The most vicious man in the play is not in the least a stage villain; +indeed, he regards his own moral character with the sincere complacency +of a hero of melodrama. The amiable devotee of romance and beauty is +shewn at an age which brings out the futilization which these worships +are apt to produce if they are made the staple of life instead of +the sauce. The attitude of the clever young people to their elders is +faithfully represented as one of pitiless ridicule and unsympathetic +criticism, and forms a spectacle incredible to those who, when young, +were not cleverer than their nearest elders, and painful to those +sentimental parents who shrink from the cruelty of youth, which pardons +nothing because it knows nothing. In short, the characters and their +relations are of a kind that the routineer critic has not yet learned +to place; so that their misunderstanding was a foregone conclusion. +Nevertheless, there was no hesitation behind the curtain. When it went +up at last, a stage much too small for the company was revealed to an +auditorium much too small for the audience. But the players, though it +was impossible for them to forget their own discomfort, at once made the +spectators forget theirs. It certainly was a model audience, responsive +from the first line to the last; and it got no less than it deserved in +return. + +I grieve to add that the second performance, given for the edification +of the London Press and of those members of the Stage Society who cannot +attend the Sunday performances, was a less inspiriting one than the +first. A solid phalanx of theatre-weary journalists in an afternoon +humor, most of them committed to irreconcilable disparagement of problem +plays, and all of them bound by etiquette to be as undemonstrative +as possible, is not exactly the sort of audience that rises at the +performers and cures them of the inevitable reaction after an excitingly +successful first night. The artist nature is a sensitive and therefore +a vindictive one; and masterful players have a way with recalcitrant +audiences of rubbing a play into them instead of delighting them with +it. I should describe the second performance of Mrs Warren's Profession, +especially as to its earlier stages, as decidedly a rubbed-in one. The +rubbing was no doubt salutary; but it must have hurt some of the thinner +skins. The charm of the lighter passages fled; and the strong scenes, +though they again carried everything before them, yet discharged that +duty in a grim fashion, doing execution on the enemy rather than moving +them to repentance and confession. Still, to those who had not seen the +first performance, the effect was sufficiently impressive; and they +had the advantage of witnessing a fresh development in Mrs Warren, who, +artistically jealous, as I took it, of the overwhelming effect of the +end of the second act on the previous day, threw herself into the fourth +act in quite a new way, and achieved the apparently impossible feat of +surpassing herself. The compliments paid to Miss Fanny Brough by +the critics, eulogistic as they are, are the compliments of men +three-fourths duped as Partridge was duped by Garrick. By much of her +acting they were so completely taken in that they did not recognize it +as acting at all. Indeed, none of the six players quite escaped this +consequence of their own thoroughness. There was a distinct tendency +among the less experienced critics to complain of their sentiments and +behavior. Naturally, the author does not share that grievance. + +PICCARD'S COTTAGE, JANUARY 1902. + + + + + +MRS WARREN'S PROFESSION + + +[Mrs Warren's Profession was performed for the first time in the theatre +of the New Lyric Club, London, on the 5th and 6th January 1902, with +Madge McIntosh as Vivie, Julius Knight as Praed, Fanny Brough as Mrs +Warren, Charles Goodhart as Crofts, Harley Granville-Barker as Frank, +and Cosmo Stuart as the Reverend Samuel Gardner.] + + + + +ACT I + + +[Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a hill a +little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, the cottage is +seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and +porch, and a large latticed window to the left of the porch. A paling +completely shuts in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The +common rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some folded +canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side bench in the porch. A +lady's bicycle is propped against the wall, under the window. A little +to the right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big +canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the hammock, +in which a young lady is reading and making notes, her head towards +the cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front of the hammock, +and within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of +serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper on it.] + +[A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind the +cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the artist +about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven +except for a moustache, with an eager susceptible face and very amiable +and considerate manners. He has silky black hair, with waves of grey and +white in it. His eyebrows are white, his moustache black. He seems not +certain of his way. He looks over the palings; takes stock of the place; +and sees the young lady.] + +THE GENTLEMAN [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you direct me +to Hindhead View--Mrs Alison's? + +THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs Alison's. [She +resumes her work]. + +THE GENTLEMAN. Indeed! Perhaps--may I ask are you Miss Vivie Warren? + +THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good look at +him] Yes. + +THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I'm afraid I appear intrusive. +My name is Praed. [Vivie at once throws her books upon the chair, and +gets out of the hammock]. Oh, pray don't let me disturb you. + +VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr Praed. +[He comes in]. Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand and takes his +with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the +sensible, able, highly-educated young middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22. +Prompt, strong, confident, self-possessed. Plain business-like dress, +but not dowdy. She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen +and a paper knife among its pendants]. + +PRAED. Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate with a +vigorous slam. He passes in to the middle of the garden, exercising his +fingers, which are slightly numbed by her greeting]. Has your mother +arrived? + +VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming? + +PRAED [surprised] Didn't you expect us? + +VIVIE. No. + +PRAED. Now, goodness me, I hope I've not mistaken the day. That would be +just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she was to come down +from London and that I was to come over from Horsham to be introduced to +you. + +VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? Hm! My mother has rather a trick of +taking me by surprise--to see how I behave myself while she's away, I +suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one of +these days, if she makes arrangements that concern me without consulting +me beforehand. She hasnt come. + +PRAED [embarrassed] I'm really very sorry. + +VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It's not your fault, Mr Praed, is +it? And I'm very glad you've come. You are the only one of my mother's +friends I have ever asked her to bring to see me. + +PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good of you, +Miss Warren! + +VIVIE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here and talk? + +PRAED. It will be nicer out here, don't you think? + +VIVIE. Then I'll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch for a +garden chair]. + +PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands on the +chair]. + +VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers; theyre rather +dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair with the books +on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with +one swing]. + +PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now do let me take that +hard chair. I like hard chairs. + +VIVIE. So do I. Sit down, Mr Praed. [This invitation she gives with a +genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as +a sign of weakness of character on his part. But he does not immediately +obey]. + +PRAED. By the way, though, hadnt we better go to the station to meet +your mother? + +VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way. + +PRAED [disconcerted] Er--I suppose she does [he sits down]. + +VIVIE. Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope you are +disposed to be friends with me. + +PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my _dear_ Miss Warren; thank you. Dear +me! I'm so glad your mother hasnt spoilt you! + +VIVIE. How? + +PRAED. Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear Miss +Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils the relations +between parent and child; even between mother and daughter. Now I was +always afraid that your mother would strain her authority to make you +very conventional. It's such a relief to find that she hasnt. + +VIVIE. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally? + +PRAED. Oh no: oh dear no. At least, not conventionally unconventionally, +you understand. [She nods and sits down. He goes on, with a cordial +outburst] But it was so charming of you to say that you were disposed +to be friends with me! You modern young ladies are splendid: perfectly +splendid! + +VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment as to +the quality of his brains and character]. + +PRAED. When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of each +other: there was no good fellowship. Nothing real. Only gallantry copied +out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly +reserve! gentlemanly chivalry! always saying no when you meant yes! +simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls. + +VIVIE. Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of time. +Especially women's time. + +PRAED. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are improving. +Do you know, I have been in a positive state of excitement about meeting +you ever since your magnificent achievements at Cambridge: a thing +unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid, your tieing with the +third wrangler. Just the right place, you know. The first wrangler +is always a dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the +length of a disease. + +VIVIE. It doesn't pay. I wouldn't do it again for the same money. + +PRAED [aghast] The same money! + +VIVIE. Yes. Fifty pounds. Perhaps you don't know how it was. Mrs Latham, +my tutor at Newnham, told my mother that I could distinguish myself in +the mathematical tripos if I went in for it in earnest. The papers were +full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the senior wrangler. You +remember about it, of course. + +PRAED [shakes his head energetically] !!! + +VIVIE. Well, anyhow, she did; and nothing would please my mother but +that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was not worth +my while to face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; but I +offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts for fifty pounds. She +closed with me at that, after a little grumbling; and I was better than +my bargain. But I wouldn't do it again for that. Two hundred pounds would +have been nearer the mark. + +PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! Thats a very practical way of looking +at it. + +VIVIE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical person? + +PRAED. But surely it's practical to consider not only the work these +honors cost, but also the culture they bring. + +VIVIE. Culture! My dear Mr Praed: do you know what the mathematical +tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind for six to eight hours a day +at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics. + +I'm supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing except +the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for engineers, +electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I know next to +nothing about engineering or electricity or insurance. I don't even know +arithmetic well. Outside mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping, +cycling, and walking, I'm a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could +possibly be who hadn't gone in for the tripos. + +PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I knew it! +I felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes womanhood +beautiful! + +VIVIE. I don't object to it on that score in the least. I shall turn it +to very good account, I assure you. + +PRAED. Pooh! In what way? + +VIVIE. I shall set up chambers in the City, and work at actuarial +calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I shall do some law, +with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the time. I've come down here by +myself to read law: not for a holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate +holidays. + +PRAED. You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, no beauty +in your life? + +VIVIE. I don't care for either, I assure you. + +PRAED. You can't mean that. + +VIVIE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. When I'm +tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a little whisky, +and a novel with a good detective story in it. + +PRAED [rising in a frenzy of repudiation] I don't believe it. I am an +artist; and I can't believe it: I refuse to believe it. It's only that +you havn't discovered yet what a wonderful world art can open up to you. + +VIVIE. Yes I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with Honoria +Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of sightseeing together; but +I was really at Honoria's chambers in Chancery Lane every day, working +away at actuarial calculations for her, and helping her as well as a +greenhorn could. In the evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt +of going out except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my +life. + +I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a +fee in the bargain. + +PRAED. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that +discovering art? + +VIVIE. Wait a bit. That wasn't the beginning. I went up to town on an +invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn's Avenue: one of the +girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery-- + +PRAED [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved]. + +VIVIE [continuing]--to the Opera-- + +PRAED [still more pleased] Good! + +VIVIE.--and to a concert where the band played all the evening: +Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldn't go through that experience +again for anything you could offer me. I held out for civility's sake +until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn't stand +any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. N o w you know the sort +of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am. How do you think I shall +get on with my mother? + +PRAED [startled] Well, I hope--er-- + +VIVIE. It's not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want +to know. + +PRAED. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little +disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know: I don't +mean that. But you are so different from her ideal. + +VIVIE. Her what?! + +PRAED. Her ideal. + +VIVIE. Do you mean her ideal of ME? + +PRAED. Yes. + +VIVIE. What on earth is it like? + +PRAED. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are +dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think that the world +would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently. +Now your mother's life has been--er--I suppose you know-- + +VIVIE. Don't suppose anything, Mr Praed. I hardly know my mother. Since +I was a child I have lived in England, at school or at college, or with +people paid to take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my life. +My mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her. +I only see her when she visits England for a few days. I don't complain: +it's been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there +has always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But don't imagine +I know anything about my mother. I know far less than you do. + +PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case--[He stops, quite at a loss. Then, +with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense we are talking! Of +course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and looks +abroad at the view]. What a charming little place you have here! + +VIVIE [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed. Why won't +my mother's life bear being talked about? + +PRAED. Oh, you mustn't say that. Isn't it natural that I should have a +certain delicacy in talking to my old friend's daughter about her behind +her back? You and she will have plenty of opportunity of talking about +it when she comes. + +VIVIE. No: she won't talk about it either. [Rising] However, I daresay +you have good reasons for telling me nothing. Only, mind this, Mr +Praed, I expect there will be a battle royal when my mother hears of my +Chancery Lane project. + +PRAED [ruefully] I'm afraid there will. + +VIVIE. Well, I shall win because I want nothing but my fare to London +to start there to-morrow earning my own living by devilling for Honoria. +Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall +use that advantage over her if necessary. + +PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh no! No, pray. Youd not do such a thing. + +VIVIE. Then tell me why not. + +PRAED. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She smiles at +his sentimentality]. Besides, you may be too bold. Your mother is not to +be trifled with when she's angry. + +VIVIE. You can't frighten me, Mr Praed. In that month at Chancery Lane I +had opportunities of taking the measure of one or two women v e r y like +my mother. You may back me to win. But if I hit harder in my ignorance +than I need, remember it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now, let us +drop the subject. [She takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock +with the same vigorous swing as before]. + +PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I had +better tell you. It's very difficult; but-- + +[Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the gate. Mrs Warren is +between 40 and 50, formerly pretty, showily dressed in a brilliant +hat and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by +fashionable sleeves. Rather spoilt and domineering, and decidedly +vulgar, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old +blackguard of a woman.] + +[Crofts is a tall powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably dressed +in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than might be expected +from his strong frame. Clean-shaven bulldog jaws, large flat ears, and +thick neck: gentlemanly combination of the most brutal types of city +man, sporting man, and man about town.] + +VIVIE. Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden] How do, +mater? Mr Praed's been here this half hour, waiting for you. + +MRS WARREN. Well, if you've been waiting, Praddy, it's your own fault: +I thought youd have had the gumption to know I was coming by the 3.10 +train. Vivie: put your hat on, dear: youll get sunburnt. Oh, I forgot to +introduce you. Sir George Crofts: my little Vivie. + +[Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly manner. She nods, but +makes no motion to shake hands.] + +CROFTS. May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by +reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends? + +VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like. + +[She takes his tenderly proferred hand and gives it a squeeze that makes +him open his eyes; then turns away, and says to her mother] Will you +come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? [She goes into the porch +for the chairs]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, George, what do you think of her? + +CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands with her, +Praed? + +PRAED. Yes: it will pass off presently. + +CROFTS. I hope so. [Vivie reappears with two more chairs. He hurries to +her assistance]. Allow me. + +MRS WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the chairs, +dear. + +VIVIE [pitching them into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her hands +and turns to Mrs Warren]. Youd like some tea, wouldn't you? + +MRS WARREN [sitting in Praed's chair and fanning herself] I'm dying for +a drop to drink. + +VIVIE. I'll see about it. [She goes into the cottage]. + +[Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant it by +Mrs Warren, on her left. He throws the other on the grass and sits down, +looking dejected and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in +his mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, fidgets around the garden on their +right.] + +MRS WARREN [to Praed, looking at Crofts] Just look at him, Praddy: he +looks cheerful, don't he? He's been worrying my life out these three +years to have that little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that Ive +done it, he's quite out of countenance. [Briskly] Come! sit up, George; +and take your stick out of your mouth. [Crofts sulkily obeys]. + +PRAED. I think, you know--if you don't mind my saying so--that we had +better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little girl. You see +she has really distinguished herself; and I'm not sure, from what I have +seen of her, that she is not older than any of us. + +MRS WARREN [greatly amused] Only listen to him, George! Older than any +of us! Well she _has_ been stuffing you nicely with her importance. + +PRAED. But young people are particularly sensitive about being treated +in that way. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and young people have to get all that nonsense taken +out of them, and good deal more besides. Don't you interfere, Praddy: I +know how to treat my own child as well as you do. [Praed, with a grave +shake of his head, walks up the garden with his hands behind his back. +Mrs Warren pretends to laugh, but looks after him with perceptible +concern. Then, she whispers to Crofts] Whats the matter with him? What +does he take it like that for? + +CROFTS [morosely] Youre afraid of Praed. + +MRS WARREN. What! Me! Afraid of dear old Praddy! Why, a fly wouldn't be +afraid of him. + +CROFTS. _You're_ afraid of him. + +MRS WARREN [angry] I'll trouble you to mind your own business, and not +try any of your sulks on me. I'm not afraid of y o u, anyhow. If you +can't make yourself agreeable, youd better go home. [She gets up, and, +turning her back on him, finds herself face to face with Praed]. Come, +Praddy, I know it was only your tender-heartedness. Youre afraid I'll +bully her. + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: you think I'm offended. Don't imagine that: pray +don't. But you know I often notice things that escape you; and though you +never take my advice, you sometimes admit afterwards that you ought to +have taken it. + +MRS WARREN. Well, what do you notice now? + +PRAED. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray, Kitty, treat her with +every respect. + +MRS WARREN [with genuine amazement] Respect! Treat my own daughter with +respect! What next, pray! + +VIVIE [appearing at the cottage door and calling to Mrs Warren] Mother: +will you come to my room before tea? + +MRS WARREN. Yes, dearie. [She laughs indulgently at Praed's gravity, and +pats him on the cheek as she passes him on her way to the porch]. Don't +be cross, Praddy. [She follows Vivie into the cottage]. + +CROFTS [furtively] I say, Praed. + +PRAED. Yes. + +CROFTS. I want to ask you a rather particular question. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He takes Mrs Warren's chair and sits close to +Crofts]. + +CROFTS. Thats right: they might hear us from the window. Look here: did +Kitty every tell you who that girl's father is? + +PRAED. Never. + +CROFTS. Have you any suspicion of who it might be? + +PRAED. None. + +CROFTS [not believing him] I know, of course, that you perhaps might +feel bound not to tell if she had said anything to you. But it's very +awkward to be uncertain about it now that we shall be meeting the girl +every day. We don't exactly know how we ought to feel towards her. + +PRAED. What difference can that make? We take her on her own merits. +What does it matter who her father was? + +CROFTS [suspiciously] Then you know who he was? + +PRAED [with a touch of temper] I said no just now. Did you not hear me? + +CROFTS. Look here, Praed. I ask you as a particular favor. If you _do_ +know [movement of protest from Praed]--I only say, if you know, +you might at least set my mind at rest about her. The fact is, I fell +attracted. + +PRAED [sternly] What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Oh, don't be alarmed: it's quite an innocent feeling. Thats what +puzzles me about it. Why, for all I know, _I_ might be her father. + +PRAED. You! Impossible! + +CROFTS [catching him up cunningly] You know for certain that I'm not? + +PRAED. I know nothing about it, I tell you, any more than you. But +really, Crofts--oh no, it's out of the question. Theres not the least +resemblance. + +CROFTS. As to that, theres no resemblance between her and her mother +that I can see. I suppose she's not y o u r daughter, is she? + +PRAED [rising indignantly] Really, Crofts--! + +CROFTS. No offence, Praed. Quite allowable as between two men of the +world. + +PRAED [recovering himself with an effort and speaking gently and +gravely] Now listen to me, my dear Crofts. [He sits down again]. + +I have nothing to do with that side of Mrs Warren's life, and never had. +She has never spoken to me about it; and of course I have never spoken +to her about it. Your delicacy will tell you that a handsome woman needs +some friends who are not--well, not on that footing with her. The effect +of her own beauty would become a torment to her if she could not escape +from it occasionally. You are probably on much more confidential terms +with Kitty than I am. Surely you can ask her the question yourself. + +CROFTS. I h a v e asked her, often enough. But she's so determined to +keep the child all to herself that she would deny that it ever had a +father if she could. [Rising] I'm thoroughly uncomfortable about it, +Praed. + +PRAED [rising also] Well, as you are, at all events, old enough to be +her father, I don't mind agreeing that we both regard Miss Vivie in a +parental way, as a young girl who we are bound to protect and help. What +do you say? + +CROFTS [aggressively] I'm no older than you, if you come to that. + +PRAED. Yes you are, my dear fellow: you were born old. I was born a boy: +Ive never been able to feel the assurance of a grown-up man in my life. +[He folds his chair and carries it to the porch]. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within the cottage] Prad-dee! George! +Tea-ea-ea-ea! + +CROFTS [hastily] She's calling us. [He hurries in]. + +[Praed shakes his head bodingly, and is following Crofts when he is +hailed by a young gentleman who has just appeared on the common, and is +making for the gate. He is pleasant, pretty, smartly dressed, cleverly +good-for-nothing, not long turned 20, with a charming voice and +agreeably disrespectful manners. He carries a light sporting magazine +rifle.] + +THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed! + +PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands cordially]. +What on earth are you doing here? + +FRANK. Staying with my father. + +PRAED. The Roman father? + +FRANK. He's rector here. I'm living with my people this autumn for the +sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the Roman father had +to pay my debts. He's stony broke in consequence; and so am I. What are +you up to in these parts? do you know the people here? + +PRAED. Yes: I'm spending the day with a Miss Warren. + +FRANK [enthusiastically] What! Do you know Vivie? Isn't she a jolly girl? +I'm teaching her to shoot with this [putting down the rifle]. I'm so +glad she knows you: youre just the sort of fellow she ought to know. +[He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a singing tone as he +exclaims] It's e v e r so jolly to find you here, Praed. + +PRAED. I'm an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me over to +make her daughter's acquaintance. + +FRANK. The mother! Is _she_ here? + +PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within] Prad-dee-ee-ee-eee! The tea-cake'll be +cold. + +PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. I've just met a friend +here. + +MRS WARREN. A what? + +PRAED [louder] A friend. + +MRS WARREN. Bring him in. + +PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation? + +FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused] Is that Vivie's mother? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she'll like me? + +PRAED. I've no doubt youll make yourself popular, as usual. Come in and +try [moving towards the house]. + +FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my confidence. + +PRAED. Pray don't. It's only some fresh folly, like the barmaid at +Redhill. + +FRANK. It's ever so much more serious than that. You say you've only just +met Vivie for the first time? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK [rhapsodically] Then you can have no idea what a girl she is. Such +character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my eye, Praed, but I can +tell you she is clever! And--need I add?--she loves me. + +CROFTS [putting his head out of the window] I say, Praed: what are you +about? Do come along. [He disappears]. + +FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog show, ain't +he? Who's he? + +PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren's. I think we had +better come in. + +[On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate. +Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it.] + +THE CLERGYMAN [calling] Frank! + +FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] Yes, +gov'nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: youd better +go in to tea. I'll join you directly. + +PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage]. + +[The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the top of +it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established +Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, booming, noisy, +important. Really he is that obsolescent phenomenon the fool of the +family dumped on the Church by his father the patron, clamorously +asserting himself as father and clergyman without being able to command +respect in either capacity.] + +REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask? + +FRANK. Oh, it's all right, gov'nor! Come in. + +REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering. + +FRANK. It's all right. It's Miss Warren's. + +REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. + +FRANK. Of course not: she's a third wrangler. Ever so intellectual. Took +a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach? + +REV. S. Don't be disrespectful, sir. + +FRANK. Oh, it don't matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens the gate, +unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden]. I want to +introduce you to her. Do you remember the advice you gave me last July, +gov'nor? + +REV. S. [severely] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and +flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on +it and not upon me. + +FRANK. No: thats what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said +was that since I had neither brains nor money, I'd better turn my good +looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss +Warren has brains: you can't deny that. + +REV. S. Brains are not everything. + +FRANK. No, of course not: theres the money-- + +REV. S. [interrupting him austerely] I was not thinking of money, sir. I +was speaking of higher things. Social position, for instance. + +FRANK. I don't care a rap about that. + +REV. S. But I do, sir. + +FRANK. Well, nobody wants y o u to marry her. Anyhow, she has what +amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money +as she wants. + +REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor] I greatly doubt whether +she has as much money as y o u will want. + +FRANK. Oh, come: I havn't been so very extravagant. I live ever so +quietly; I don't drink; I don't bet much; and I never go regularly to the +razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age. + +REV. S. [booming hollowly] Silence, sir. + +FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such an ass +of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman +fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when-- + +REV. S. [terrified] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven's sake! [He looks round +apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom +again, but more subduedly]. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of +what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you +would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father's +follies, sir; and don't make them an excuse for your own. + +FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his +letters? + +REV. S. No, sir; and I don't want to hear it. + +FRANK. The old Iron Duke didn't throw away fifty pounds: not he. He +just wrote: "Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, +Wellington." Thats what you should have done. + +REV. S. [piteously] Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put +myself into that woman's power. When I told you about them I put myself, +to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money +with these words, which I shall never forget. "Knowledge is power" she +said; "and I never sell power." + +Thats more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her +power or caused me a moment's uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me +than she did, Frank. + +FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach +at me every day? + +REV. S. [wounded almost to tears] I leave you, sir. You are +incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate]. + +FRANK [utterly unmoved] Tell them I shan't be home to tea, will you, +gov'nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage door and is +met by Praed and Vivie coming out]. + +VIVIE [to Frank] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him. + +FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov'nor. Youre wanted. [The +parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed crosses +the garden to the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities]. +My father: Miss Warren. + +VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand] Very glad to see +you here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come along: youre +wanted. + +[Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed, +recognizing the clergyman.] + +VIVIE [continuing] Let me introduce-- + +MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel] Why it's Sam Gardner, gone +into the Church! Well, I never! Don't you know us, Sam? This is George +Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don't you remember me? + +REV. S. [very red] I really--er-- + +MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your letters +still: I came across them only the other day. + +REV. S. [miserably confused] Miss Vavasour, I believe. + +MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper] Tch! Nonsense! Mrs +Warren: don't you see my daughter there? + + + + +ACT II + + +[Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from within +instead of westward from without, the latticed window, with its curtains +drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front wall of the cottage, with +the porch door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the door +leading to the kitchen. Farther back against the same wall is a dresser +with a candle and matches on it, and Frank's rifle standing beside them, +with the barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands +with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie's books and writing materials are on a +table to the right of the window, against the wall. The fireplace is on +the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two of the chairs are set +right and left of the table.] + +[The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; and Mrs +Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, +followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the window seat. She has had +enough of walking, and gives a gasp of relief as she unpins her hat; +takes it off; sticks the pin through the crown; and puts it on the +table.] + +MRS WARREN. O Lord! I don't know which is the worst of the country, the +walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. I could do with a +whisky and soda now very well, if only they had such a things in this +place. + +FRANK. Perhaps Vivie's got some. + +MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing with +such things! Never mind: it don't matter. I wonder how she passes her +time here! I'd a good deal rather be in Vienna. + +FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her shawl, +gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze as he does +so]. + +MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I'm beginning to think youre a chip of the +old block. + +FRANK. Like the gov'nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest chair, +and sits down]. + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things? + +Youre only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from +temptation]. + +FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It'd be ever such larks. + +MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you--at least not +until youre a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize this piece of +advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes. +She looks at him; then comes back to him]. Now, look here, little boy +[taking his face in her hands and turning it up to her]: I know you +through and through by your likeness to your father, better than you +know yourself. Don't you go taking any silly ideas into your head about +me. Do you hear? + +FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice] Can't help it, my dear Mrs +Warren: it runs in the family. + +[She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing +upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and +immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.] + +MRS WARREN. There! I shouldn't have done that. I _am_ wicked. Never you +mind, my dear: it's only a motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie. + +FRANK. So I have. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her voice] +What! + +FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums. + +MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I won't have any young scamp +tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I won't have it. + +FRANK [quite unabashed] My dear Mrs Warren: don't you be alarmed. My +intentions are honorable: ever so honorable; and your little girl is +jolly well able to take care of herself. She don't need looking after +half so much as her mother. She ain't so handsome, you know. + +MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a nice +healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I don't know where you got it. +Not from your father, anyhow. + +CROFTS [in the garden] The gipsies, I suppose? + +REV. S. [replying] The broomsquires are far worse. + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] S-sh! Remember! you've had your warning. + +[Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, the +clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.] + +REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable. + +MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And wheres Praddy and Vivie? + +CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the chimney +corner] They went up the hill. We went to the village. I wanted a drink. +[He sits down on the settle, putting his legs up along the seat]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtn't to go off like that without telling me. +[To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are your manners? +[Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes +another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the middle, with +his father on his right and Mrs Warren on his left]. George: where are +you going to stay to-night? You can't stay here. And whats Praddy going +to do? + +CROFTS. Gardner'll put me up. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt you've taken care of yourself! But what about +Praddy? + +CROFTS. Don't know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn. + +MRS WARREN. Havn't you room for him, Sam? + +REV. S. Well--er--you see, as rector here, I am not free to do as I +like. Er--what is Mr Praed's social position? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, he's all right: he's an architect. What an old +stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam! + +FRANK. Yes, it's all right, gov'nor. He built that place down in Wales +for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must have heard of it. +[He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs Warren, and regards his father +blandly]. + +REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. I +suppose he knows the Duke personally. + +FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina's old room. + +MRS WARREN. Well, thats settled. Now if those two would only come in and +let us have supper. Theyve no right to stay out after dark like this. + +CROFTS [aggressively] What harm are they doing you? + +MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I don't like it. + +FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay out as +long as possible. He has never known before what it is to stray over the +heath on a summer night with my Vivie. + +CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation] I say, you know! Come! + +REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into real force +and sincerity] Frank, once and for all, it's out of the question. Mrs +Warren will tell you that it's not to be thought of. + +CROFTS. Of course not. + +FRANK [with enchanting placidity] Is that so, Mrs Warren? + +MRS WARREN [reflectively] Well, Sam, I don't know. If the girl wants to +get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried. + +REV. S. [astounded] But married to _him!_--your daughter to my son! Only +think: it's impossible. + +CROFTS. Of course it's impossible. Don't be a fool, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [nettled] Why not? Isn't my daughter good enough for your son? + +REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons-- + +MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you can tell +them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your congregation, if you like. + +REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair] You know very well that I +couldn't tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe me when I tell +him there a r e reasons. + +FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy's conduct ever been +influenced by your reasons? + +CROFTS. You can't marry her; and thats all about it. [He gets up +and stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, frowning +determinedly]. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply] What have you got to do with it, +pray? + +FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence] Precisely what I was going to +ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion. + +CROFTS [to Mrs Warren] I suppose you don't want to marry the girl to a +man younger than herself and without either a profession or twopence to +keep her on. Ask Sam, if you don't believe me. [To the parson] How much +more money are you going to give him? + +REV. S. Not another penny. He has had his patrimony; and he spent the +last of it in July. [Mrs Warren's face falls]. + +CROFTS [watching her] There! I told you. [He resumes his place on +the settle and puts his legs on the seat again, as if the matter were +finally disposed of]. + +FRANK [plaintively] This is ever so mercenary. Do you suppose Miss +Warren's going to marry for money? If we love one another-- + +MRS WARREN. Thank you. Your love's a pretty cheap commodity, my lad. +If you have no means of keeping a wife, that settles it; you can't have +Vivie. + +FRANK [much amused] What do y o u say, gov'nor, eh? + +REV. S. I agree with Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. And good old Crofts has already expressed his opinion. + +CROFTS [turning angrily on his elbow] Look here: I want none of your +cheek. + +FRANK [pointedly] I'm e v e r so sorry to surprise you, Crofts; but you +allowed yourself the liberty of speaking to me like a father a moment +ago. One father is enough, thank you. + +CROFTS [contemptuously] Yah! [He turns away again]. + +FRANK [rising] Mrs Warren: I cannot give my Vivie up, even for your +sake. + +MRS WARREN [muttering] Young scamp! + +FRANK [continuing] And as you no doubt intend to hold out other +prospects to her, I shall lose no time in placing my case before her. +[They stare at him; and he begins to declaim gracefully] He either fears +his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to +the touch, To gain or lose it all. + +[The cottage doors open whilst he is reciting; and Vivie and Praed +come in. He breaks off. Praed puts his hat on the dresser. There is an +immediate improvement in the company's behavior. Crofts takes down his +legs from the settle and pulls himself together as Praed joins him at +the fireplace. Mrs Warren loses her ease of manner and takes refuge in +querulousness.] + +MRS WARREN. Wherever have you been, Vivie? + +VIVIE [taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly on the table] On +the hill. + +MRS WARREN. Well, you shouldn't go off like that without letting me know. +How could I tell what had become of you? And night coming on too! + +VIVIE [going to the door of the kitchen and opening it, ignoring her +mother] Now, about supper? [All rise except Mrs Warren] We shall be +rather crowded in here, I'm afraid. + +MRS WARREN. Did you hear what I said, Vivie? + +VIVIE [quietly] Yes, mother. [Reverting to the supper difficulty] How +many are we? [Counting] One, two, three, four, five, six. Well, two will +have to wait until the rest are done: Mrs Alison has only plates and +knives for four. + +PRAED. Oh, it doesn't matter about me. I-- + +VIVIE. You have had a long walk and are hungry, Mr Praed: you shall have +your supper at once. I can wait myself. I want one person to wait with +me. Frank: are you hungry? + +FRANK. Not the least in the world. Completely off my peck, in fact. + +MRS WARREN [to Crofts] Neither are you, George. You can wait. + +CROFTS. Oh, hang it, I've eaten nothing since tea-time. Can't Sam do it? + +FRANK. Would you starve my poor father? + +REV. S. [testily] Allow me to speak for myself, sir. I am perfectly +willing to wait. + +VIVIE [decisively] There's no need. Only two are wanted. [She opens +the door of the kitchen]. Will you take my mother in, Mr Gardner. [The +parson takes Mrs Warren; and they pass into the kitchen. Praed and +Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly disapprove of the arrangement, +but do not know how to resist it. Vivie stands at the door looking in +at them]. Can you squeeze past to that corner, Mr Praed: it's rather a +tight fit. Take care of your coat against the white-wash: that right. +Now, are you all comfortable? + +PRAED [within] Quite, thank you. + +MRS WARREN [within] Leave the door open, dearie. [Vivie frowns; but +Frank checks her with a gesture, and steals to the cottage door, which +he softly sets wide open]. Oh Lor, what a draught! Youd better shut it, +dear. + +[Vivie shuts it with a slam, and then, noting with disgust that her +mother's hat and shawl are lying about, takes them tidily to the window +seat, whilst Frank noiselessly shuts the cottage door.] + +FRANK [exulting] Aha! Got rid of em. Well, Vivvums: what do you think of +my governor? + +VIVIE [preoccupied and serious] I've hardly spoken to him. He doesn't +strike me as a particularly able person. + +FRANK. Well, you know, the old man is not altogether such a fool as he +looks. You see, he was shoved into the Church, rather; and in trying to +live up to it he makes a much bigger ass of himself than he really is. I +don't dislike him as much as you might expect. He means well. How do you +think youll get on with him? + +VIVIE [rather grimly] I don't think my future life will be much concerned +with him, or with any of that old circle of my mother's, except perhaps +Praed. [She sits down on the settle] What do you think of my mother? + +FRANK. Really and truly? + +VIVIE. Yes, really and truly. + +FRANK. Well, she's ever so jolly. But she's rather a caution, isn't she? +And Crofts! Oh, my eye, Crofts! [He sits beside her]. + +VIVIE. What a lot, Frank! + +FRANK. What a crew! + +VIVIE [with intense contempt for them] If I thought that _I_ was like +that--that I was going to be a waster, shifting along from one meal to +another with no purpose, and no character, and no grit in me, I'd open +an artery and bleed to death without one moment's hesitation. + +FRANK. Oh no, you wouldn't. Why should they take any grind when they can +afford not to? I wish I had their luck. No: what I object to is their +form. It isn't the thing: it's slovenly, ever so slovenly. + +VIVIE. Do you think your form will be any better when youre as old as +Crofts, if you don't work? + +FRANK. Of course I do. Ever so much better. Vivvums mustn't lecture: her +little boy's incorrigible. [He attempts to take her face caressingly in +his hands]. + +VIVIE [striking his hands down sharply] Off with you: Vivvums is not in +a humor for petting her little boy this evening. [She rises and comes +forward to the other side of the room]. + +FRANK [following her] How unkind! + +VIVIE [stamping at him] Be serious. I'm serious. + +FRANK. Good. Let us talk learnedly, Miss Warren: do you know that all +the most advanced thinkers are agreed that half the diseases of modern +civilization are due to starvation of the affections of the young. Now, +_I_-- + +VIVIE [cutting him short] You are very tiresome. [She opens the inner +door] Have you room for Frank there? He's complaining of starvation. + +MRS WARREN [within] Of course there is [clatter of knives and glasses +as she moves the things on the table]. Here! theres room now beside me. +Come along, Mr Frank. + +FRANK. Her little boy will be ever so even with his Vivvums for this. +[He passes into the kitchen]. + +MRS WARREN [within] Here, Vivie: come on you too, child. You must be +famished. [She enters, followed by Crofts, who holds the door open with +marked deference. She goes out without looking at him; and he shuts the +door after her]. Why George, you can't be done: you've eaten nothing. Is +there anything wrong with you? + +CROFTS. Oh, all I wanted was a drink. [He thrusts his hands in his +pockets, and begins prowling about the room, restless and sulky]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I like enough to eat. But a little of that cold +beef and cheese and lettuce goes a long way. [With a sigh of only half +repletion she sits down lazily on the settle]. + +CROFTS. What do you go encouraging that young pup for? + +MRS WARREN [on the alert at once] Now see here, George: what are you +up to about that girl? I've been watching your way of looking at her. +Remember: I know you and what your looks mean. + +CROFTS. Theres no harm in looking at her, is there? + +MRS WARREN. I'd put you out and pack you back to London pretty soon if +I saw any of your nonsense. My girl's little finger is more to me than +your whole body and soul. [Crofts receives this with a sneering grin. +Mrs Warren, flushing a little at her failure to impose on him in the +character of a theatrically devoted mother, adds in a lower key] Make +your mind easy: the young pup has no more chance than you have. + +CROFTS. Mayn't a man take an interest in a girl? + +MRS WARREN. Not a man like you. + +CROFTS. How old is she? + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind how old she is. + +CROFTS. Why do you make such a secret of it? + +MRS WARREN. Because I choose. + +CROFTS. Well, I'm not fifty yet; and my property is as good as it ever +was-- + +MRS [interrupting him] Yes; because youre as stingy as youre vicious. + +CROFTS [continuing] And a baronet isn't to be picked up every day. + +No other man in my position would put up with you for a mother-in-law. +Why shouldn't she marry me? + +MRS WARREN. You! + +CROFTS. We three could live together quite comfortably. I'd die before +her and leave her a bouncing widow with plenty of money. Why not? It's +been growing in my mind all the time I've been walking with that fool +inside there. + +MRS WARREN [revolted] Yes; it's the sort of thing that _would_ grow in +your mind. + +[He halts in his prowling; and the two look at one another, she +steadfastly, with a sort of awe behind her contemptuous disgust: he +stealthily, with a carnal gleam in his eye and a loose grin.] + +CROFTS [suddenly becoming anxious and urgent as he sees no sign of +sympathy in her] Look here, Kitty: youre a sensible woman: you needn't +put on any moral airs. I'll ask no more questions; and you need answer +none. I'll settle the whole property on her; and if you want a checque +for yourself on the wedding day, you can name any figure you like--in +reason. + +MRS WARREN. So it's come to that with you, George, like all the other +worn-out old creatures! + +CROFTS [savagely] Damn you! + +[Before she can retort the door of the kitchen is opened; and the +voices of the others are heard returning. Crofts, unable to recover his +presence of mind, hurries out of the cottage. The clergyman appears at +the kitchen door.] + +REV. S. [looking round] Where is Sir George? + +MRS WARREN. Gone out to have a pipe. [The clergyman takes his hat from +the table, and joins Mrs Warren at the fireside. Meanwhile, Vivie comes +in, followed by Frank, who collapses into the nearest chair with an air +of extreme exhaustion. Mrs Warren looks round at Vivie and says, with +her affectation of maternal patronage even more forced than usual] Well, +dearie: have you had a good supper? + +VIVIE. You know what Mrs Alison's suppers are. [She turns to Frank and +pets him] Poor Frank! was all the beef gone? did it get nothing but +bread and cheese and ginger beer? [Seriously, as if she had done quite +enough trifling for one evening] Her butter is really awful. I must get +some down from the stores. + +FRANK. Do, in Heaven's name! + +[Vivie goes to the writing-table and makes a memorandum to order the +butter. Praed comes in from the kitchen, putting up his handkerchief, +which he has been using as a napkin.] + +REV. S. Frank, my boy: it is time for us to be thinking of home. + +Your mother does not know yet that we have visitors. + +PRAED. I'm afraid we're giving trouble. + +FRANK [rising] Not the least in the world: my mother will be delighted +to see you. She's a genuinely intellectual artistic woman; and she sees +nobody here from one year's end to another except the gov'nor; so you +can imagine how jolly dull it pans out for her. [To his father] Y o u +r e not intellectual or artistic: are you pater? So take Praed home at +once; and I'll stay here and entertain Mrs Warren. Youll pick up Crofts +in the garden. He'll be excellent company for the bull-pup. + +PRAED [taking his hat from the dresser, and coming close to Frank] Come +with us, Frank. Mrs Warren has not seen Miss Vivie for a long time; and +we have prevented them from having a moment together yet. + +FRANK [quite softened, and looking at Praed with romantic admiration] +Of course. I forgot. Ever so thanks for reminding me. Perfect gentleman, +Praddy. Always were. My ideal through life. [He rises to go, but +pauses a moment between the two older men, and puts his hand on Praed's +shoulder]. Ah, if you had only been my father instead of this unworthy +old man! [He puts his other hand on his father's shoulder]. + +REV. S. [blustering] Silence, sir, silence: you are profane. + +MRS WARREN [laughing heartily] You should keep him in better order, Sam. +Good-night. Here: take George his hat and stick with my compliments. + +REV. S. [taking them] Good-night. [They shake hands. As he passes Vivie +he shakes hands with her also and bids her good-night. Then, in booming +command, to Frank] Come along, sir, at once. [He goes out]. + +MRS WARREN. Byebye, Praddy. + +PRAED. Byebye, Kitty. + +[They shake hands affectionately and go out together, she accompanying +him to the garden gate.] + +FRANK [to Vivie] Kissums? + +VIVIE [fiercely] No. I hate you. [She takes a couple of books and some +paper from the writing-table, and sits down with them at the middle +table, at the end next the fireplace]. + +FRANK [grimacing] Sorry. [He goes for his cap and rifle. Mrs Warren +returns. He takes her hand] Good-night, dear Mrs Warren. [He kisses her +hand. She snatches it away, her lips tightening, and looks more than +half disposed to box his ears. He laughs mischievously and runs off, +clapping-to the door behind him]. + +MRS WARREN [resigning herself to an evening of boredom now that the men +are gone] Did you ever in your life hear anyone rattle on so? Isn't he a +tease? [She sits at the table]. Now that I think of it, dearie, don't you +go encouraging him. I'm sure he's a regular good-for-nothing. + +VIVIE [rising to fetch more books] I'm afraid so. Poor Frank! I shall +have to get rid of him; but I shall feel sorry for him, though he's +not worth it. That man Crofts does not seem to me to be good for much +either: is he? [She throws the books on the table rather roughly]. + +MRS WARREN [galled by Vivie's indifference] What do you know of men, +child, to talk that way of them? Youll have to make up your mind to see +a good deal of Sir George Crofts, as he's a friend of mine. + +VIVIE [quite unmoved] Why? [She sits down and opens a book]. Do you +expect that we shall be much together? You and I, I mean? + +MRS WARREN [staring at her] Of course: until youre married. Youre not +going back to college again. + +VIVIE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? I doubt it. + +MRS WARREN. Y o u r way of life! What do you mean? + +VIVIE [cutting a page of her book with the paper knife on her +chatelaine] Has it really never occurred to you, mother, that I have a +way of life like other people? + +MRS WARREN. What nonsense is this youre trying to talk? Do you want to +shew your independence, now that youre a great little person at school? +Don't be a fool, child. + +VIVIE [indulgently] Thats all you have to say on the subject, is it, +mother? + +MRS WARREN [puzzled, then angry] Don't you keep on asking me questions +like that. [Violently] Hold your tongue. [Vivie works on, losing no +time, and saying nothing]. You and your way of life, indeed! What next? +[She looks at Vivie again. No reply]. + +Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another pause]. +Ive been noticing these airs in you ever since you got that tripos or +whatever you call it. If you think I'm going to put up with them, youre +mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, the better. [Muttering] All I +have to say on the subject, indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily] Do +you know who youre speaking to, Miss? + +VIVIE [looking across at her without raising her head from her book] No. +Who are you? What are you? + +MRS WARREN [rising breathless] You young imp! + +VIVIE. Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and the +profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. What is that +way of life which you invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts, +pray? + +MRS WARREN. Take care. I shall do something I'll be sorry for after, and +you too. + +VIVIE [putting aside her books with cool decision] Well, let us drop the +subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking critically at her +mother] You want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set you up. +You are shockingly out of condition: you were not able to manage twenty +yards uphill today without stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere +rolls of fat. Look at mine. [She holds out her wrists]. + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper] Vivie-- + +VIVIE [springing up sharply] Now pray don't begin to cry. Anything but +that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go out of the room if you +do. + +MRS WARREN [piteously] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on me? +Have I no rights over you as your mother? + +VIVIE. A r e you my mother? + +MRS WARREN. _Am_ I your mother? Oh, Vivie! + +VIVIE. Then where are our relatives? my father? our family friends? You +claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me fool and child; to +speak to me as no woman in authority over me at college dare speak to +me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me the acquaintance of +a brute whom anyone can see to be the most vicious sort of London man +about town. Before I give myself the trouble to resist such claims, I +may as well find out whether they have any real existence. + +MRS WARREN [distracted, throwing herself on her knees] Oh no, no. + +Stop, stop. I _am_ your mother: I swear it. Oh, you can't mean to turn on +me--my own child! it's not natural. You believe me, don't you? Say you +believe me. + +VIVIE. Who was my father? + +MRS WARREN. You don't know what youre asking. I can't tell you. + +VIVIE [determinedly] Oh yes you can, if you like. I have a right to +know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can refuse +to tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me +tomorrow morning. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it's too horrible to hear you talk like that. You +wouldn't--you _couldn't_ leave me. + +VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment's hesitation, if you trifle +with me about this. [Shivering with disgust] How can I feel sure that I +may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins? + +MRS WARREN. No, no. On my oath it's not he, nor any of the rest that you +have ever met. I'm certain of that, at least. + +[Vivie's eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this +flashes on her.] + +VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at _least_. Ah! You mean that +that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully] I see. [Mrs Warren buries +her face in her hands]. Don't do that, mother: you know you don't feel +it a bit. [Mrs Warren takes down her hands and looks up deplorably +at Vivie, who takes out her watch and says] Well, that is enough for +tonight. At what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too +early for you? + +MRS WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you? + +VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. +Otherwise I don't understand how it gets its business done. + +Come [taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty +resolutely]: pull yourself together. Thats right. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Youre very rough with me, Vivie. + +VIVIE. Nonsense. What about bed? It's past ten. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] Whats the use of my going to bed? Do you think +I could sleep? + +VIVIE. Why not? I shall. + +MRS WARREN. You! you've no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in +her natural tongue--the dialect of a woman of the people--with all her +affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners gone, and an +overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in her] Oh, I wont +bear it: I won't put up with the injustice of it. What right have you to +set yourself up above me like this? You boast of what you are to me--to +_me_, who gave you a chance of being what you are. What chance had I? +Shame on you for a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude! + +VIVIE [sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her replies, +which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring +rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother] +Don't think for a moment I set myself above you in any way. You attacked +me with the conventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with +the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not +going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not +expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your right to +your own opinions and your own way of life. + +MRS WARREN. My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to her +talking! Do you think I was brought up like you? able to pick and choose +my own way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I liked it, or +thought it right, or wouldn't rather have gone to college and been a lady +if I'd had the chance? + +VIVIE. Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl alive may +not be able to choose between being Queen of England or Principal +of Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling, +according to her taste. People are always blaming circumstances for what +they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in +this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they +want, and, if they can't find them, make them. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it's easy to talk, isn't it? Here! would you like to know +what _my_ circumstances were? + +VIVIE. Yes: you had better tell me. Won't you sit down? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, I'll sit down: don't you be afraid. [She plants her chair +farther forward with brazen energy, and sits down. Vivie is impressed in +spite of herself]. D'you know what your gran'mother was? + +VIVIE. No. + +MRS WARREN. No, you don't. I do. She called herself a widow and had a +fried-fish shop down by the Mint, and kept herself and four daughters +out of it. Two of us were sisters: that was me and Liz; and we were both +good-looking and well made. I suppose our father was a well-fed man: +mother pretended he was a gentleman; but I don't know. The other two +were only half sisters: undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, +honest poor creatures: Liz and I would have half-murdered them if +mother hadn't half-murdered us to keep our hands off them. They were the +respectable ones. Well, what did they get by their respectability? I'll +tell you. One of them worked in a whitelead factory twelve hours a day +for nine shillings a week until she died of lead poisoning. She only +expected to get her hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other +was always held up to us as a model because she married a Government +laborer in the Deptford victualling yard, and kept his room and the +three children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week--until he took +to drink. That was worth being respectable for, wasn't it? + +VIVIE [now thoughtfully attentive] Did you and your sister think so? + +MRS WARREN. Liz didn't, I can tell you: she had more spirit. We both went +to a church school--that was part of the ladylike airs we gave ourselves +to be superior to the children that knew nothing and went nowhere--and +we stayed there until Liz went out one night and never came back. I +know the schoolmistress thought I'd soon follow her example; for +the clergyman was always warning me that Lizzie'd end by jumping off +Waterloo Bridge. Poor fool: that was all he knew about it! But I was +more afraid of the whitelead factory than I was of the river; and so +would you have been in my place. That clergyman got me a situation as +a scullery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent out for +anything you liked. Then I was a waitress; and then I went to the bar +at Waterloo station: fourteen hours a day serving drinks and washing +glasses for four shillings a week and my board. That was considered a +great promotion for me. Well, one cold, wretched night, when I was so +tired I could hardly keep myself awake, who should come up for a half of +Scotch but Lizzie, in a long fur cloak, elegant and comfortable, with a +lot of sovereigns in her purse. + +VIVIE [grimly] My aunt Lizzie! + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and a very good aunt to have, too. She's living down +at Winchester now, close to the cathedral, one of the most respectable +ladies there. Chaperones girls at the country ball, if you please. +No river for Liz, thank you! You remind me of Liz a little: she was a +first-rate business woman--saved money from the beginning--never let +herself look too like what she was--never lost her head or threw away a +chance. When she saw I'd grown up good-looking she said to me across the +bar "What are you doing there, you little fool? wearing out your health +and your appearance for other people's profit!" Liz was saving money +then to take a house for herself in Brussels; and she thought we two +could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and gave me a +start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and then went into +business with her as a partner. Why shouldn't I have done it? The house +in Brussels was real high class: a much better place for a woman to be +in than the factory where Anne Jane got poisoned. None of the girls were +ever treated as I was treated in the scullery of that temperance place, +or at the Waterloo bar, or at home. Would you have had me stay in them +and become a worn out old drudge before I was forty? + +VIVIE [intensely interested by this time] No; but why did you choose +that business? Saving money and good management will succeed in any +business. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the money to +save in any other business? Could y o u save out of four shillings a +week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not you. Of course, if youre +a plain woman and can't earn anything more; or if you have a turn for +music, or the stage, or newspaper-writing: thats different. But neither +Liz nor I had any turn for such things at all: all we had was our +appearance and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such +fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us +as shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in them +ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation wages? Not +likely. + +VIVIE. You were certainly quite justified--from the business point of +view. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; or any other point of view. What is any respectable +girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man's fancy and get the +benefit of his money by marrying him?--as if a marriage ceremony +could make any difference in the right or wrong of the thing! Oh, the +hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz and I had to work and save and +calculate just like other people; elseways we should be as poor as any +good-for-nothing drunken waster of a woman that thinks her luck will +last for ever. [With great energy] I despise such people: theyve +no character; and if theres a thing I hate in a woman, it's want of +character. + +VIVIE. Come now, mother: frankly! Isn't it part of what you call +character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way of +making money? + +MRS WARREN. Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work and make +money; but they have to do it all the same. I'm sure I've often pitied +a poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, having to try to please some +man that she doesn't care two straws for--some half-drunken fool that +thinks he's making himself agreeable when he's teasing and worrying and +disgusting a woman so that hardly any money could pay her for putting up +with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the rough with +the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. It's not +work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; though to +hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed of roses. + +VIVIE. Still, you consider it worth while. It pays. + +MRS WARREN. Of course it's worth while to a poor girl, if she can resist +temptation and is good-looking and well conducted and sensible. It's far +better than any other employment open to her. + +I always thought that it oughtn't to be. It _can't_ be right, Vivie, that +there shouldn't be better opportunities for women. I stick to that: it's +wrong. But it's so, right or wrong; and a girl must make the best of it. +But of course it's not worth while for a lady. If you took to it youd be +a fool; but I should have been a fool if I'd taken to anything else. + +VIVIE [more and more deeply moved] Mother: suppose we were both as poor +as you were in those wretched old days, are you quite sure that you +wouldn't advise me to try the Waterloo bar, or marry a laborer, or even +go into the factory? + +MRS WARREN [indignantly] Of course not. What sort of mother do you take +me for! How could you keep your self-respect in such starvation +and slavery? And whats a woman worth? whats life worth? without +self-respect! Why am I independent and able to give my daughter +a first-rate education, when other women that had just as good +opportunities are in the gutter? Because I always knew how to respect +myself and control myself. Why is Liz looked up to in a cathedral town? +The same reason. Where would we be now if we'd minded the clergyman's +foolishness? Scrubbing floors for one and sixpence a day and nothing to +look forward to but the workhouse infirmary. Don't you be led astray by +people who don't know the world, my girl. The only way for a woman to +provide for herself decently is for her to be good to some man that can +afford to be good to her. If she's in his own station of life, let her +make him marry her; but if she's far beneath him she can't expect it: why +should she? it wouldn't be for her own happiness. Ask any lady in London +society that has daughters; and she'll tell you the same, except that I +tell you straight and she'll tell you crooked. Thats all the difference. + +VIVIE [fascinated, gazing at her] My dear mother: you are a wonderful +woman: you are stronger than all England. And are you really and truly +not one wee bit doubtful--or--or--ashamed? + +MRS WARREN. Well, of course, dearie, it's only good manners to be +ashamed of it: it's expected from a woman. Women have to pretend to +feel a great deal that they don't feel. Liz used to be angry with me for +plumping out the truth about it. She used to say that when every woman +could learn enough from what was going on in the world before her eyes, +there was no need to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a +perfect lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I was always a bit +of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased when you sent me your photos +to see that you were growing up like Liz: you've just her ladylike, +determined way. But I can't stand saying one thing when everyone knows +I mean another. Whats the use in such hypocrisy? If people arrange the +world that way for women, theres no good pretending it's arranged the +other way. No: I never was a bit ashamed really. I consider I had a +right to be proud of how we managed everything so respectably, and never +had a word against us, and how the girls were so well taken care of. +Some of them did very well: one of them married an ambassador. But of +course now I daren't talk about such things: whatever would they think +of us! [She yawns]. Oh dear! I do believe I'm getting sleepy after all. +[She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her explosion, and +placidly ready for her night's rest]. + +VIVIE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. [She goes +to the dresser and lights the candle. Then she extinguishes the lamp, +darkening the room a good deal]. Better let in some fresh air before +locking up. [She opens the cottage door, and finds that it is broad +moonlight]. What a beautiful night! Look! [She draws the curtains of the +window. The landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon +rising over Blackdown]. + +MRS WARREN [with a perfunctory glance at the scene] Yes, dear; but take +care you don't catch your death of cold from the night air. + +VIVIE [contemptuously] Nonsense. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Oh yes: everything I say is nonsense, according +to you. + +VIVIE [turning to her quickly] No: really that is not so, mother. + +You have got completely the better of me tonight, though I intended it +to be the other way. Let us be good friends now. + +MRS WARREN [shaking her head a little ruefully] So it _has_ been the +other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got the worst of +it from Liz; and now I suppose it'll be the same with you. + +VIVIE. Well, never mind. Come: good-night, dear old mother. [She takes +her mother in her arms]. + +MRS WARREN [fondly] I brought you up well, didn't I, dearie? + +VIVIE. You did. + +MRS WARREN. And youll be good to your poor old mother for it, won't you? + +VIVIE. I will, dear. [Kissing her] Good-night. + +MRS WARREN [with unction] Blessings on my own dearie darling! a mother's +blessing! + +[She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward +for divine sanction.] + + + + +ACT III + + +[In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining from a +cloudless sky. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, wide +enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell +on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The carriage +drive comes down the middle of the garden and then swerves to its left, +where it ends in a little gravelled circus opposite the Rectory porch. +Beyond the gate is seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, +bounded on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine +wood. On the lawn, between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew +tree, with a garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden +is shut in by a box hedge; and there is a little sundial on the turf, +with an iron chair near it. A little path leads through the box hedge, +behind the sundial.] + +[Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which he has placed the +morning paper, is reading The Standard. His father comes from the house, +red-eyed and shivery, and meets Frank's eye with misgiving.] + +FRANK [looking at his watch] Half-past eleven. Nice hour for a rector to +come down to breakfast! + +REV. S. Don't mock, Frank: don't mock. I am a little--er--[Shivering]-- + +FRANK. Off color? + +REV. S. [repudiating the expression] No, sir: _unwell_ this morning. +Where's your mother? + +FRANK. Don't be alarmed: she's not here. Gone to town by the 11.13 +with Bessie. She left several messages for you. Do you feel equal to +receiving them now, or shall I wait til you've breakfasted? + +REV. S. I h a v e breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at your mother +going to town when we have people staying with us. They'll think it very +strange. + +FRANK. Possibly she has considered that. At all events, if Crofts is +going to stay here, and you are going to sit up every night with him +until four, recalling the incidents of your fiery youth, it is clearly +my mother's duty, as a prudent housekeeper, to go up to the stores and +order a barrel of whisky and a few hundred siphons. + +REV. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank excessively. + +FRANK. You were not in a condition to, gov'nor. + +REV. S. Do you mean to say that _I_--? + +FRANK [calmly] I never saw a beneficed clergyman less sober. The +anecdotes you told about your past career were so awful that I really +don't think Praed would have passed the night under your roof if it hadnt +been for the way my mother and he took to one another. + +REV. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts' host. I must talk to him +about something; and he has only one subject. Where is Mr Praed now? + +FRANK. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the station. + +REV. S. Is Crofts up yet? + +FRANK. Oh, long ago. He hasn't turned a hair: he's in much better +practice than you. Has kept it up ever since, probably. He's taken +himself off somewhere to smoke. + +[Frank resumes his paper. The parson turns disconsolately towards the +gate; then comes back irresolutely.] + +REV. S. Er--Frank. + +FRANK. Yes. + +REV. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be asked here after +yesterday afternoon? + +FRANK. Theyve been asked already. + +REV. S. [appalled] What!!! + +FRANK. Crofts informed us at breakfast that you told him to bring Mrs +Warren and Vivie over here to-day, and to invite them to make this house +their home. My mother then found she must go to town by the 11.13 train. + +REV. S. [with despairing vehemence] I never gave any such invitation. I +never thought of such a thing. + +FRANK [compassionately] How do you know, gov'nor, what you said and +thought last night? + +PRAED [coming in through the hedge] Good morning. + +REV. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not having met you at +breakfast. I have a touch of--of-- + +FRANK. Clergyman's sore throat, Praed. Fortunately not chronic. + +PRAED [changing the subject] Well I must say your house is in a charming +spot here. Really most charming. + +REV. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for a walk, Mr Praed, +if you like. I'll ask you to excuse me: I must take the opportunity +to write my sermon while Mrs Gardner is away and you are all amusing +yourselves. You won't mind, will you? + +PRAED. Certainly not. Don't stand on the slightest ceremony with me. + +REV. S. Thank you. I'll--er--er--[He stammers his way to the porch and +vanishes into the house]. + +PRAED. Curious thing it must be writing a sermon every week. + +FRANK. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys em. He's gone for some +soda water. + +PRAED. My dear boy: I wish you would be more respectful to your father. +You know you can be so nice when you like. + +FRANK. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to live with the governor. +When two people live together--it don't matter whether theyre father and +son or husband and wife or brother and sister--they can't keep up the +polite humbug thats so easy for ten minutes on an afternoon call. +Now the governor, who unites to many admirable domestic qualities the +irresoluteness of a sheep and the pompousness and aggressiveness of a +jackass-- + +PRAED. No, pray, pray, my dear Frank, remember! He is your father. + +FRANK. I give him due credit for that. [Rising and flinging down his +paper] But just imagine his telling Crofts to bring the Warrens over +here! He must have been ever so drunk. You know, my dear Praddy, my +mother wouldn't stand Mrs Warren for a moment. Vivie mustn't come here +until she's gone back to town. + +PRAED. But your mother doesn't know anything about Mrs Warren, does she? +[He picks up the paper and sits down to read it]. + +FRANK. I don't know. Her journey to town looks as if she did. Not that +my mother would mind in the ordinary way: she has stuck like a brick to +lots of women who had got into trouble. But they were all nice women. +Thats what makes the real difference. Mrs Warren, no doubt, has her +merits; but she's ever so rowdy; and my mother simply wouldn't put up +with her. So--hallo! [This exclamation is provoked by the reappearance +of the clergyman, who comes out of the house in haste and dismay]. + +REV. S. Frank: Mrs Warren and her daughter are coming across the heath +with Crofts: I saw them from the study windows. What _am_ I to say about +your mother? + +FRANK. Stick on your hat and go out and say how delighted you are to see +them; and that Frank's in the garden; and that mother and Bessie have +been called to the bedside of a sick relative, and were ever so +sorry they couldn't stop; and that you hope Mrs Warren slept well; +and--and--say any blessed thing except the truth, and leave the rest to +Providence. + +REV. S. But how are we to get rid of them afterwards? + +FRANK. Theres no time to think of that now. Here! [He bounds into the +house]. + +REV. S. He's so impetuous. I don't know what to do with him, Mr Praed. + +FRANK [returning with a clerical felt hat, which he claps on his +father's head]. Now: off with you. [Rushing him through the gate]. +Praed and I'll wait here, to give the thing an unpremeditated air. [The +clergyman, dazed but obedient, hurries off]. + +FRANK. We must get the old girl back to town somehow, Praed. Come! +Honestly, dear Praddy, do you like seeing them together? + +PRAED. Oh, why not? + +FRANK [his teeth on edge] Don't it make your flesh creep ever so little? +that wicked old devil, up to every villainy under the sun, I'll swear, +and Vivie--ugh! + +PRAED. Hush, pray. Theyre coming. + +[The clergyman and Crofts are seen coming along the road, followed by +Mrs Warren and Vivie walking affectionately together.] + +FRANK. Look: she actually has her arm round the old woman's waist. It's +her right arm: she began it. She's gone sentimental, by God! Ugh! ugh! +Now do you feel the creeps? [The clergyman opens the gate: and Mrs +Warren and Vivie pass him and stand in the middle of the garden looking +at the house. Frank, in an ecstasy of dissimulation, turns gaily to Mrs +Warren, exclaiming] Ever so delighted to see you, Mrs Warren. This quiet +old rectory garden becomes you perfectly. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I never! Did you hear that, George? He says I look +well in a quiet old rectory garden. + +REV. S. [still holding the gate for Crofts, who loafs through it, +heavily bored] You look well everywhere, Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. Bravo, gov'nor! Now look here: lets have a treat before lunch. +First lets see the church. Everyone has to do that. It's a regular old +thirteenth century church, you know: the gov'nor's ever so fond of it, +because he got up a restoration fund and had it completely rebuilt six +years ago. Praed will be able to shew its points. + +PRAED [rising] Certainly, if the restoration has left any to shew. + +REV. S. [mooning hospitably at them] I shall be pleased, I'm sure, if +Sir George and Mrs Warren really care about it. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, come along and get it over. + +CROFTS [turning back toward the gate] I've no objection. + +REV. S. Not that way. We go through the fields, if you don't mind. Round +here. [He leads the way by the little path through the box hedge]. + +CROFTS. Oh, all right. [He goes with the parson]. + +[Praed follows with Mrs Warren. Vivie does not stir: she watches them +until they have gone, with all the lines of purpose in her face marking +it strongly.] + +FRANK. Ain't you coming? + +VIVIE. No. I want to give you a warning, Frank. You were making fun of +my mother just now when you said that about the rectory garden. That is +barred in the future. Please treat my mother with as much respect as you +treat your own. + +FRANK. My dear Viv: she wouldn't appreciate it: the two cases require +different treatment. But what on earth has happened to you? Last night +we were perfectly agreed as to your mother and her set. This morning I +find you attitudinizing sentimentally with your arm around your parent's +waist. + +VIVIE [flushing] Attitudinizing! + +FRANK. That was how it struck me. First time I ever saw you do a +second-rate thing. + +VIVIE [controlling herself] Yes, Frank: there has been a change: but I +don't think it a change for the worse. Yesterday I was a little prig. + +FRANK. And today? + +VIVIE [wincing; then looking at him steadily] Today I know my mother +better than you do. + +FRANK. Heaven forbid! + +VIVIE. What do you mean? + +FRANK. Viv: theres a freemasonry among thoroughly immoral people that +you know nothing of. You've too much character. _That's_ the bond +between your mother and me: that's why I know her better than youll ever +know her. + +VIVIE. You are wrong: you know nothing about her. If you knew the +circumstances against which my mother had to struggle-- + +FRANK [adroitly finishing the sentence for her] I should know why she is +what she is, shouldn't I? What difference would that make? + +Circumstances or no circumstances, Viv, you won't be able to stand your +mother. + +VIVIE [very angry] Why not? + +FRANK. Because she's an old wretch, Viv. If you ever put your arm around +her waist in my presence again, I'll shoot myself there and then as a +protest against an exhibition which revolts me. + +VIVIE. Must I choose between dropping your acquaintance and dropping my +mother's? + +FRANK [gracefully] That would put the old lady at ever such a +disadvantage. No, Viv: your infatuated little boy will have to stick to +you in any case. But he's all the more anxious that you shouldn't make +mistakes. It's no use, Viv: your mother's impossible. She may be a good +sort; but she's a bad lot, a very bad lot. + +VIVIE [hotly] Frank--! [He stands his ground. She turns away and +sits down on the bench under the yew tree, struggling to recover her +self-command. Then she says] Is she to be deserted by the world because +she's what you call a bad lot? Has she no right to live? + +FRANK. No fear of that, Viv: _she_ won't ever be deserted. [He sits on +the bench beside her]. + +VIVIE. But I am to desert her, I suppose. + +FRANK [babyishly, lulling her and making love to her with his voice] +Mustn't go live with her. Little family group of mother and daughter +wouldn't be a success. Spoil o u r little group. + +VIVIE [falling under the spell] What little group? + +FRANK. The babes in the wood: Vivie and little Frank. [He nestles +against her like a weary child]. Lets go and get covered up with leaves. + +VIVIE [rhythmically, rocking him like a nurse] Fast asleep, hand in +hand, under the trees. + +FRANK. The wise little girl with her silly little boy. + +VIVIE. The dear little boy with his dowdy little girl. + +FRANK. Ever so peaceful, and relieved from the imbecility of the little +boy's father and the questionableness of the little girl's-- + +VIVIE [smothering the word against her breast] Sh-sh-sh-sh! little girl +wants to forget all about her mother. [They are silent for some moments, +rocking one another. Then Vivie wakes up with a shock, exclaiming] What +a pair of fools we are! Come: sit up. Gracious! your hair. [She smooths +it]. I wonder do all grown up people play in that childish way when +nobody is looking. + +I never did it when I was a child. + +FRANK. Neither did I. You are my first playmate. [He catches her hand to +kiss it, but checks himself to look around first. Very unexpectedly, he +sees Crofts emerging from the box hedge]. Oh damn! + +VIVIE. Why damn, dear? + +FRANK [whispering] Sh! Here's this brute Crofts. [He sits farther away +from her with an unconcerned air]. + +CROFTS. Could I have a few words with you, Miss Vivie? + +VIVIE. Certainly. + +CROFTS [to Frank] Youll excuse me, Gardner. Theyre waiting for you in +the church, if you don't mind. + +FRANK [rising] Anything to oblige you, Crofts--except church. If you +should happen to want me, Vivvums, ring the gate bell. [He goes into the +house with unruffled suavity]. + +CROFTS [watching him with a crafty air as he disappears, and speaking to +Vivie with an assumption of being on privileged terms with her] Pleasant +young fellow that, Miss Vivie. Pity he has no money, isn't it? + +VIVIE. Do you think so? + +CROFTS. Well, whats he to do? No profession. No property. Whats he good +for? + +VIVIE. I realize his disadvantages, Sir George. + +CROFTS [a little taken aback at being so precisely interpreted] Oh, it's +not that. But while we're in this world we're in it; and money's money. +[Vivie does not answer]. Nice day, isn't it? + +VIVIE [with scarcely veiled contempt for this effort at conversation] +Very. + +CROFTS [with brutal good humor, as if he liked her pluck] Well thats not +what I came to say. [Sitting down beside her] Now listen, Miss Vivie. +I'm quite aware that I'm not a young lady's man. + +VIVIE. Indeed, Sir George? + +CROFTS. No; and to tell you the honest truth I don't want to be either. +But when I say a thing I mean it; and when I feel a sentiment I feel it +in earnest; and what I value I pay hard money for. Thats the sort of man +I am. + +VIVIE. It does you great credit, I'm sure. + +CROFTS. Oh, I don't mean to praise myself. I have my faults, Heaven +knows: no man is more sensible of that than I am. I know I'm not +perfect: thats one of the advantages of being a middle-aged man; for +I'm not a young man, and I know it. But my code is a simple one, and, I +think, a good one. Honor between man and man; fidelity between man and +woman; and no can't about this religion or that religion, but an honest +belief that things are making for good on the whole. + +VIVIE [with biting irony] "A power, not ourselves, that makes for +righteousness," eh? + +CROFTS [taking her seriously] Oh certainly. Not ourselves, of course. Y +o u understand what I mean. Well, now as to practical matters. You may +have an idea that I've flung my money about; but I havn't: I'm richer +today than when I first came into the property. I've used my knowledge of +the world to invest my money in ways that other men have overlooked; and +whatever else I may be, I'm a safe man from the money point of view. + +VIVIE. It's very kind of you to tell me all this. + +CROFTS. Oh well, come, Miss Vivie: you needn't pretend you don't see what +I'm driving at. I want to settle down with a Lady Crofts. I suppose you +think me very blunt, eh? + +VIVIE. Not at all: I am very much obliged to you for being so definite +and business-like. I quite appreciate the offer: the money, the +position, _Lady Crofts_, and so on. But I think I will say no, if you +don't mind, I'd rather not. [She rises, and strolls across to the +sundial to get out of his immediate neighborhood]. + +CROFTS [not at all discouraged, and taking advantage of the additional +room left him on the seat to spread himself comfortably, as if a few +preliminary refusals were part of the inevitable routine of courtship] +I'm in no hurry. It was only just to let you know in case young Gardner +should try to trap you. Leave the question open. + +VIVIE [sharply] My no is final. I won't go back from it. + +[Crofts is not impressed. He grins; leans forward with his elbows on his +knees to prod with his stick at some unfortunate insect in the grass; +and looks cunningly at her. She turns away impatiently.] + +CROFTS. I'm a good deal older than you. Twenty-five years: quarter of +a century. I shan't live for ever; and I'll take care that you shall be +well off when I'm gone. + +VIVIE. I am proof against even that inducement, Sir George. Don't you +think youd better take your answer? There is not the slightest chance of +my altering it. + +CROFTS [rising, after a final slash at a daisy, and coming nearer to +her] Well, no matter. I could tell you some things that would change +your mind fast enough; but I wont, because I'd rather win you by honest +affection. I was a good friend to your mother: ask her whether I wasn't. +She'd never have make the money that paid for your education if it hadnt +been for my advice and help, not to mention the money I advanced her. +There are not many men who would have stood by her as I have. I put not +less than forty thousand pounds into it, from first to last. + +VIVIE [staring at him] Do you mean to say that you were my mother's +business partner? + +CROFTS. Yes. Now just think of all the trouble and the explanations +it would save if we were to keep the whole thing in the family, so to +speak. Ask your mother whether she'd like to have to explain all her +affairs to a perfect stranger. + +VIVIE. I see no difficulty, since I understand that the business is +wound up, and the money invested. + +CROFTS [stopping short, amazed] Wound up! Wind up a business thats +paying 35 per cent in the worst years! Not likely. Who told you that? + +VIVIE [her color quite gone] Do you mean that it is still--? [She stops +abruptly, and puts her hand on the sundial to support herself. Then she +gets quickly to the iron chair and sits down]. + +What business are you talking about? + +CROFTS. Well, the fact is it's not what would considered exactly a +high-class business in my set--the country set, you know--o u r set it +will be if you think better of my offer. Not that theres any mystery +about it: don't think that. Of course you know by your mother's being +in it that it's perfectly straight and honest. I've known her for many +years; and I can say of her that she'd cut off her hands sooner than +touch anything that was not what it ought to be. I'll tell you all about +it if you like. I don't know whether you've found in travelling how hard +it is to find a really comfortable private hotel. + +VIVIE [sickened, averting her face] Yes: go on. + +CROFTS. Well, thats all it is. Your mother has got a genius for managing +such things. We've got two in Brussels, one in Ostend, one in Vienna, +and two in Budapest. Of course there are others besides ourselves in +it; but we hold most of the capital; and your mother's indispensable +as managing director. You've noticed, I daresay, that she travels a good +deal. But you see you can't mention such things in society. Once let out +the word hotel and everybody thinks you keep a public-house. You wouldn't +like people to say that of your mother, would you? Thats why we're so +reserved about it. By the way, youll keep it to yourself, won't you? +Since it's been a secret so long, it had better remain so. + +VIVIE. And this is the business you invite me to join you in? + +CROFTS. Oh no. My wife shan't be troubled with business. Youll not be in +it more than you've always been. + +VIVIE. _I_ always been! What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Only that you've always lived on it. It paid for your education +and the dress you have on your back. Don't turn up your nose at business, +Miss Vivie: where would your Newnhams and Girtons be without it? + +VIVIE [rising, almost beside herself] Take care. I know what this +business is. + +CROFTS [starting, with a suppressed oath] Who told you? + +VIVIE. Your partner. My mother. + +CROFTS [black with rage] The old-- + +VIVIE. Just so. + +[He swallows the epithet and stands for a moment swearing and raging +foully to himself. But he knows that his cue is to be sympathetic. He +takes refuge in generous indignation.] + +CROFTS. She ought to have had more consideration for you. _I'd_ never +have told you. + +VIVIE. I think you would probably have told me when we were married: it +would have been a convenient weapon to break me in with. + +CROFTS [quite sincerely] I never intended that. On my word as a +gentleman I didn't. + +[Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his protest cools and +braces her. She replies with contemptuous self-possession.] + +VIVIE. It does not matter. I suppose you understand that when we leave +here today our acquaintance ceases. + +CROFTS. Why? Is it for helping your mother? + +VIVIE. My mother was a very poor woman who had no reasonable choice but +to do as she did. You were a rich gentleman; and you did the same for +the sake of 35 per cent. You are a pretty common sort of scoundrel, I +think. That is my opinion of you. + +CROFTS [after a stare: not at all displeased, and much more at his ease +on these frank terms than on their former ceremonious ones] Ha! ha! ha! +ha! Go it, little missie, go it: it doesn't hurt me and it amuses you. +Why the devil shouldn't I invest my money that way? I take the interest +on my capital like other people: I hope you don't think I dirty my own +hands with the work. + +Come! you wouldn't refuse the acquaintance of my mother's cousin the Duke +of Belgravia because some of the rents he gets are earned in queer ways. +You wouldn't cut the Archbishop of Canterbury, I suppose, because the +Ecclesiastical Commissioners have a few publicans and sinners among +their tenants. Do you remember your Crofts scholarship at Newnham? Well, +that was founded by my brother the M.P. He gets his 22 per cent out of +a factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting wages enough +to live on. How d'ye suppose they manage when they have no family to +fall back on? Ask your mother. And do you expect me to turn my back on +35 per cent when all the rest are pocketing what they can, like sensible +men? No such fool! If youre going to pick and choose your acquaintances +on moral principles, youd better clear out of this country, unless you +want to cut yourself out of all decent society. + +VIVIE [conscience stricken] You might go on to point out that I myself +never asked where the money I spent came from. I believe I am just as +bad as you. + +CROFTS [greatly reassured] Of course you are; and a very good thing too! +What harm does it do after all? [Rallying her jocularly] So you don't +think me such a scoundrel now you come to think it over. Eh? + +VIVIE. I have shared profits with you: and I admitted you just now to +the familiarity of knowing what I think of you. + +CROFTS [with serious friendliness] To be sure you did. You won't find +me a bad sort: I don't go in for being superfine intellectually; but Ive +plenty of honest human feeling; and the old Crofts breed comes out in +a sort of instinctive hatred of anything low, in which I'm sure youll +sympathize with me. Believe me, Miss Vivie, the world isn't such a bad +place as the croakers make out. As long as you don't fly openly in the +face of society, society doesn't ask any inconvenient questions; and +it makes precious short work of the cads who do. There are no secrets +better kept than the secrets everybody guesses. In the class of people +I can introduce you to, no lady or gentleman would so far forget +themselves as to discuss my business affairs or your mothers. No man can +offer you a safer position. + +VIVIE [studying him curiously] I suppose you really think youre getting +on famously with me. + +CROFTS. Well, I hope I may flatter myself that you think better of me +than you did at first. + +VIVIE [quietly] I hardly find you worth thinking about at all now. When +I think of the society that tolerates you, and the laws that protect +you! when I think of how helpless nine out of ten young girls would +be in the hands of you and my mother! the unmentionable woman and her +capitalist bully-- + +CROFTS [livid] Damn you! + +VIVIE. You need not. I feel among the damned already. + +[She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. He follows her +and puts his hand heavily on the top bar to prevent its opening.] + +CROFTS [panting with fury] Do you think I'll put up with this from you, +you young devil? + +VIVIE [unmoved] Be quiet. Some one will answer the bell. [Without +flinching a step she strikes the bell with the back of her hand. It +clangs harshly; and he starts back involuntarily. Almost immediately +Frank appears at the porch with his rifle]. + +FRANK [with cheerful politeness] Will you have the rifle, Viv; or shall +I operate? + +VIVIE. Frank: have you been listening? + +FRANK [coming down into the garden] Only for the bell, I assure you; so +that you shouldn't have to wait. I think I shewed great insight into your +character, Crofts. + +CROFTS. For two pins I'd take that gun from you and break it across your +head. + +FRANK [stalking him cautiously] Pray don't. I'm ever so careless in +handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal accident, with a reprimand from +the coroner's jury for my negligence. + +VIVIE. Put the rifle away, Frank: it's quite unnecessary. + +FRANK. Quite right, Viv. Much more sportsmanlike to catch him in a +trap. [Crofts, understanding the insult, makes a threatening movement]. +Crofts: there are fifteen cartridges in the magazine here; and I am a +dead shot at the present distance and at an object of your size. + +CROFTS. Oh, you needn't be afraid. I'm not going to touch you. + +FRANK. Ever so magnanimous of you under the circumstances! Thank you. + +CROFTS. I'll just tell you this before I go. It may interest you, since +youre so fond of one another. Allow me, Mister Frank, to introduce you +to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. +Miss Vivie: you half-brother. Good morning! [He goes out through the +gate and along the road]. + +FRANK [after a pause of stupefaction, raising the rifle] Youll testify +before the coroner that it's an accident, Viv. [He takes aim at the +retreating figure of Crofts. Vivie seizes the muzzle and pulls it round +against her breast]. + +VIVIE. Fire now. You may. + +FRANK [dropping his end of the rifle hastily] Stop! take care. [She lets +it go. It falls on the turf]. Oh, you've given your little boy such +a turn. Suppose it had gone off! ugh! [He sinks on the garden seat, +overcome]. + +VIVIE. Suppose it had: do you think it would not have been a relief to +have some sharp physical pain tearing through me? + +FRANK [coaxingly] Take it ever so easy, dear Viv. Remember: even if the +rifle scared that fellow into telling the truth for the first time in +his life, that only makes us the babes in the woods in earnest. [He +holds out his arms to her]. Come and be covered up with leaves again. + +VIVIE [with a cry of disgust] Ah, not that, not that. You make all my +flesh creep. + +FRANK. Why, whats the matter? + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [She makes for the gate]. + +FRANK [jumping up] Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! [She turns in the gateway] +Where are you going to? Where shall we find you? + +VIVIE. At Honoria Fraser's chambers, 67 Chancery Lane, for the rest of +my life. [She goes off quickly in the opposite direction to that taken +by Crofts]. + +FRANK. But I say--wait--dash it! [He runs after her]. + + + + +ACT IV + + +[Honoria Fraser's chambers in Chancery Lane. An office at the top of New +Stone Buildings, with a plate-glass window, distempered walls, electric +light, and a patent stove. Saturday afternoon. The chimneys of Lincoln's +Inn and the western sky beyond are seen through the window. There is a +double writing table in the middle of the room, with a cigar box, ash +pans, and a portable electric reading lamp almost snowed up in heaps of +papers and books. This table has knee holes and chairs right and left +and is very untidy. The clerk's desk, closed and tidy, with its high +stool, is against the wall, near a door communicating with the inner +rooms. In the opposite wall is the door leading to the public corridor. +Its upper panel is of opaque glass, lettered in black on the outside, +FRASER AND WARREN. A baize screen hides the corner between this door and +the window.] + +[Frank, in a fashionable light-colored coaching suit, with his stick, +gloves, and white hat in his hands, is pacing up and down in the office. +Somebody tries the door with a key.] + +FRANK [calling] Come in. It's not locked. + +[Vivie comes in, in her hat and jacket. She stops and stares at him.] + +VIVIE [sternly] What are you doing here? + +FRANK. Waiting to see you. I've been here for hours. Is this the way you +attend to your business? [He puts his hat and stick on the table, and +perches himself with a vault on the clerk's stool, looking at her with +every appearance of being in a specially restless, teasing, flippant +mood]. + +VIVIE. I've been away exactly twenty minutes for a cup of tea. [She takes +off her hat and jacket and hangs them behind the screen]. How did you +get in? + +FRANK. The staff had not left when I arrived. He's gone to play cricket +on Primrose Hill. Why don't you employ a woman, and give your sex a +chance? + +VIVIE. What have you come for? + +FRANK [springing off the stool and coming close to her] Viv: lets go and +enjoy the Saturday half-holiday somewhere, like the staff. + +What do you say to Richmond, and then a music hall, and a jolly supper? + +VIVIE. Can't afford it. I shall put in another six hours work before I go +to bed. + +FRANK. Can't afford it, can't we? Aha! Look here. [He takes out a handful +of sovereigns and makes them chink]. Gold, Viv: gold! + +VIVIE. Where did you get it? + +FRANK. Gambling, Viv: gambling. Poker. + +VIVIE. Pah! It's meaner than stealing it. No: I'm not coming. [She sits +down to work at the table, with her back to the glass door, and begins +turning over the papers]. + +FRANK [remonstrating piteously] But, my dear Viv, I want to talk to you +ever so seriously. + +VIVIE. Very well: sit down in Honoria's chair and talk here. I like ten +minutes chat after tea. [He murmurs]. No use groaning: I'm inexorable. +[He takes the opposite seat disconsolately]. Pass that cigar box, will +you? + +FRANK [pushing the cigar box across] Nasty womanly habit. Nice men don't +do it any longer. + +VIVIE. Yes: they object to the smell in the office; and we've had to take +to cigarets. See! [She opens the box and takes out a cigaret, which she +lights. She offers him one; but he shakes his head with a wry face. She +settles herself comfortably in her chair, smoking]. Go ahead. + +FRANK. Well, I want to know what you've done--what arrangements you've +made. + +VIVIE. Everything was settled twenty minutes after I arrived here. +Honoria has found the business too much for her this year; and she was +on the point of sending for me and proposing a partnership when I walked +in and told her I hadn't a farthing in the world. So I installed myself +and packed her off for a fortnight's holiday. What happened at Haslemere +when I left? + +FRANK. Nothing at all. I said youd gone to town on particular business. + +VIVIE. Well? + +FRANK. Well, either they were too flabbergasted to say anything, or else +Crofts had prepared your mother. Anyhow, she didn't say anything; and +Crofts didn't say anything; and Praddy only stared. After tea they got up +and went; and I've not seen them since. + +VIVIE [nodding placidly with one eye on a wreath of smoke] Thats all +right. + +FRANK [looking round disparagingly] Do you intend to stick in this +confounded place? + +VIVIE [blowing the wreath decisively away, and sitting straight up] Yes. +These two days have given me back all my strength and self-possession. I +will never take a holiday again as long as I live. + +FRANK [with a very wry face] Mps! You look quite happy. And as hard as +nails. + +VIVIE [grimly] Well for me that I am! + +FRANK [rising] Look here, Viv: we must have an explanation. We parted +the other day under a complete misunderstanding. [He sits on the table, +close to her]. + +VIVIE [putting away the cigaret] Well: clear it up. + +FRANK. You remember what Crofts said. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. That revelation was supposed to bring about a complete change in +the nature of our feeling for one another. It placed us on the footing +of brother and sister. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. Have you ever had a brother? + +VIVIE. No. + +FRANK. Then you don't know what being brother and sister feels like? Now +I have lots of sisters; and the fraternal feeling is quite familiar to +me. I assure you my feeling for you is not the least in the world like +it. The girls will go _their_ way; I will go mine; and we shan't care +if we never see one another again. Thats brother and sister. But as to +you, I can't be easy if I have to pass a week without seeing you. Thats +not brother and sister. Its exactly what I felt an hour before Crofts +made his revelation. In short, dear Viv, it's love's young dream. + +VIVIE [bitingly] The same feeling, Frank, that brought your father to my +mother's feet. Is that it? + +FRANK [so revolted that he slips off the table for a moment] I very +strongly object, Viv, to have my feelings compared to any which the +Reverend Samuel is capable of harboring; and I object still more to a +comparison of you to your mother. [Resuming his perch] Besides, I don't +believe the story. I have taxed my father with it, and obtained from him +what I consider tantamount to a denial. + +VIVIE. What did he say? + +FRANK. He said he was sure there must be some mistake. + +VIVIE. Do you believe him? + +FRANK. I am prepared to take his word against Crofts'. + +VIVIE. Does it make any difference? I mean in your imagination or +conscience; for of course it makes no real difference. + +FRANK [shaking his head] None whatever to _me_. + +VIVIE. Nor to me. + +FRANK [staring] But this is ever so surprising! [He goes back to his +chair]. I thought our whole relations were altered in your imagination +and conscience, as you put it, the moment those words were out of that +brute's muzzle. + +VIVIE. No: it was not that. I didn't believe him. I only wish I could. + +FRANK. Eh? + +VIVIE. I think brother and sister would be a very suitable relation for +us. + +FRANK. You really mean that? + +VIVIE. Yes. It's the only relation I care for, even if we could afford +any other. I mean that. + +FRANK [raising his eyebrows like one on whom a new light has dawned, and +rising with quite an effusion of chivalrous sentiment] My dear Viv: +why didn't you say so before? I am ever so sorry for persecuting you. I +understand, of course. + +VIVIE [puzzled] Understand what? + +FRANK. Oh, I'm not a fool in the ordinary sense: only in the Scriptural +sense of doing all the things the wise man declared to be folly, after +trying them himself on the most extensive scale. I see I am no longer +Vivvums's little boy. Don't be alarmed: I shall never call you Vivvums +again--at least unless you get tired of your new little boy, whoever he +may be. + +VIVIE. My new little boy! + +FRANK [with conviction] Must be a new little boy. Always happens that +way. No other way, in fact. + +VIVIE. None that you know of, fortunately for you. + +[Someone knocks at the door.] + +FRANK. My curse upon yon caller, whoe'er he be! + +VIVIE. It's Praed. He's going to Italy and wants to say goodbye. I asked +him to call this afternoon. Go and let him in. + +FRANK. We can continue our conversation after his departure for Italy. +I'll stay him out. [He goes to the door and opens it]. How are you, +Praddy? Delighted to see you. Come in. + +[Praed, dressed for travelling, comes in, in high spirits.] + +PRAED. How do you do, Miss Warren? [She presses his hand cordially, +though a certain sentimentality in his high spirits jars upon her]. I +start in an hour from Holborn Viaduct. I wish I could persuade you to +try Italy. + +VIVIE. What for? + +PRAED. Why, to saturate yourself with beauty and romance, of course. + +[Vivie, with a shudder, turns her chair to the table, as if the work +waiting for her there were a support to her. Praed sits opposite to her. +Frank places a chair near Vivie, and drops lazily and carelessly into +it, talking at her over his shoulder.] + +FRANK. No use, Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. She is indifferent to +_my_ romance, and insensible to _my_ beauty. + +VIVIE. Mr Praed: once for all, there is no beauty and no romance in life +for me. Life is what it is; and I am prepared to take it as it is. + +PRAED [enthusiastically] You will not say that if you come with me to +Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with delight at living in such a +beautiful world. + +FRANK. This is most eloquent, Praddy. Keep it up. + +PRAED. Oh, I assure you _I_ have cried--I shall cry again, I hope--at +fifty! At your age, Miss Warren, you would not need to go so far as +Verona. Your spirits would absolutely fly up at the mere sight of +Ostend. You would be charmed with the gaiety, the vivacity, the happy +air of Brussels. + +VIVIE [springing up with an exclamation of loathing] Agh! + +PRAED [rising] Whats the matter? + +FRANK [rising] Hallo, Viv! + +VIVIE [to Praed, with deep reproach] Can you find no better example of +your beauty and romance than Brussels to talk to me about? + +PRAED [puzzled] Of course it's very different from Verona. I don't +suggest for a moment that-- + +VIVIE [bitterly] Probably the beauty and romance come to much the same +in both places. + +PRAED [completely sobered and much concerned] My dear Miss Warren: +I--[looking enquiringly at Frank] Is anything the matter? + +FRANK. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous, Praddy. She's had ever such +a serious call. + +VIVIE [sharply] Hold your tongue, Frank. Don't be silly. + +FRANK [sitting down] Do you call this good manners, Praed? + +PRAED [anxious and considerate] Shall I take him away, Miss Warren? I +feel sure we have disturbed you at your work. + +VIVIE. Sit down: I'm not ready to go back to work yet. [Praed sits]. You +both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of it. But there are +two subjects I want dropped, if you don't mind. + +One of them [to Frank] is love's young dream in any shape or form: the +other [to Praed] is the romance and beauty of life, especially Ostend +and the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to any illusions you may +have left on these subjects: I have none. If we three are to remain +friends, I must be treated as a woman of business, permanently single +[to Frank] and permanently unromantic [to Praed]. + +FRANK. I also shall remain permanently single until you change your +mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be eloquent about something else. + +PRAED [diffidently] I'm afraid theres nothing else in the world that I +_can_ talk about. The Gospel of Art is the only one I can preach. I know +Miss Warren is a great devotee of the Gospel of Getting On; but we +can't discuss that without hurting your feelings, Frank, since you are +determined not to get on. + +FRANK. Oh, don't mind my feelings. Give me some improving advice by +all means: it does me ever so much good. Have another try to make a +successful man of me, Viv. Come: lets have it all: energy, thrift, +foresight, self-respect, character. Don't you hate people who have no +character, Viv? + +VIVIE [wincing] Oh, stop, stop. Let us have no more of that horrible +cant. Mr Praed: if there are really only those two gospels in the world, +we had better all kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through +and through. + +FRANK [looking critically at her] There is a touch of poetry about you +today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking. + +PRAED [remonstrating] My dear Frank: aren't you a little unsympathetic? + +VIVIE [merciless to herself] No: it's good for me. It keeps me from +being sentimental. + +FRANK [bantering her] Checks your strong natural propensity that way, +don't it? + +VIVIE [almost hysterically] Oh yes: go on: don't spare me. I was +sentimental for one moment in my life--beautifully sentimental--by +moonlight; and now-- + +FRANK [quickly] I say, Viv: take care. Don't give yourself away. + +VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr Praed does not know all about my mother? +[Turning on Praed] You had better have told me that morning, Mr Praed. +You are very old fashioned in your delicacies, after all. + +PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your +prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as an +artist, and believing that the most intimate human relationships are +far beyond and above the scope of the law, that though I know that your +mother is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on that +account. I respect her more. + +FRANK [airily] Hear! hear! + +VIVIE [staring at him] Is that _all_ you know? + +PRAED. Certainly that is all. + +VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are innocence +itself compared with the truth. + +PRAED [rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his politeness +with an effort] I hope not. [More emphatically] I hope not, Miss Warren. + +FRANK [whistles] Whew! + +VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr Praed. + +PRAED [his chivalry drooping before their conviction] If there is +anything worse--that is, anything else--are you sure you are right to +tell us, Miss Warren? + +VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the rest of my +life in telling everybody--stamping and branding it into them until they +all felt their part in its abomination as I feel mine. There is nothing +I despise more than the wicked convention that protects these things +by forbidding a woman to mention them. And yet I can't tell you. The two +infamous words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my ears +and struggling on my tongue; but I can't utter them: the shame of them +is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The two men, +astonished, stare at one another and then at her. She raises her head +again desperately and snatches a sheet of paper and a pen]. Here: let me +draft you a prospectus. + +FRANK. Oh, she's mad. Do you hear, Viv? mad. Come! pull yourself +together. + +VIVIE. You shall see. [She writes]. "Paid up capital: not less than +forty thousand pounds standing in the name of Sir George Crofts, +Baronet, the chief shareholder. Premises at Brussels, Ostend, Vienna, +and Budapest. Managing director: Mrs Warren"; and now don't let us forget +h e r qualifications: the two words. [She writes the words and pushes +the paper to them]. There! Oh no: don't read it: don't! [She snatches it +back and tears it to pieces; then seizes her head in her hands and hides +her face on the table]. + +[Frank, who has watched the writing over her shoulder, and opened his +eyes very widely at it, takes a card from his pocket; scribbles the +two words on it; and silently hands it to Praed, who reads it with +amazement, and hides it hastily in his pocket.] + +FRANK [whispering tenderly] Viv, dear: thats all right. I read what you +wrote: so did Praddy. We understand. And we remain, as this leaves us at +present, yours ever so devotedly. + +PRAED. We do indeed, Miss Warren. I declare you are the most splendidly +courageous woman I ever met. + +[This sentimental compliment braces Vivie. She throws it away from her +with an impatient shake, and forces herself to stand up, though not +without some support from the table.] + +FRANK. Don't stir, Viv, if you don't want to. Take it easy. + +VIVIE. Thank you. You an always depend on me for two things: not to cry +and not to faint. [She moves a few steps towards the door of the inner +room, and stops close to Praed to say] I shall need much more courage +than that when I tell my mother that we have come to a parting of the +ways. Now I must go into the next room for a moment to make myself neat +again, if you don't mind. + +PRAED. Shall we go away? + +VIVIE. No: I'll be back presently. Only for a moment. [She goes into the +other room, Praed opening the door for her]. + +PRAED. What an amazing revelation! I'm extremely disappointed in Crofts: +I am indeed. + +FRANK. I'm not in the least. I feel he's perfectly accounted for at +last. But what a facer for me, Praddy! I can't marry her now. + +PRAED [sternly] Frank! [The two look at one another, Frank unruffled, +Praed deeply indignant]. Let me tell you, Gardner, that if you desert +her now you will behave very despicably. + +FRANK. Good old Praddy! Ever chivalrous! But you mistake: it's not the +moral aspect of the case: it's the money aspect. I really can't bring +myself to touch the old woman's money now. + +PRAED. And was that what you were going to marry on? + +FRANK. What else? _I_ havn't any money, nor the smallest turn for making +it. If I married Viv now she would have to support me; and I should cost +her more than I am worth. + +PRAED. But surely a clever bright fellow like you can make something by +your own brains. + +FRANK. Oh yes, a little. [He takes out his money again]. I made all that +yesterday in an hour and a half. But I made it in a highly speculative +business. No, dear Praddy: even if Bessie and Georgina marry +millionaires and the governor dies after cutting them off with a +shilling, I shall have only four hundred a year. And he won't die until +he's three score and ten: he hasn't originality enough. I shall be on +short allowance for the next twenty years. No short allowance for Viv, +if I can help it. I withdraw gracefully and leave the field to the +gilded youth of England. So that settled. I shan't worry her about it: +I'll just send her a little note after we're gone. She'll understand. + +PRAED [grasping his hand] Good fellow, Frank! I heartily beg your +pardon. But must you never see her again? + +FRANK. Never see her again! Hang it all, be reasonable. I shall come +along as often as possible, and be her brother. I can _not_ understand +the absurd consequences you romantic people expect from the most +ordinary transactions. [A knock at the door]. I wonder who this is. +Would you mind opening the door? If it's a client it will look more +respectable than if I appeared. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He goes to the door and opens it. Frank sits down in +Vivie's chair to scribble a note]. My dear Kitty: come in: come in. + +[Mrs Warren comes in, looking apprehensively around for Vivie. She has +done her best to make herself matronly and dignified. The brilliant hat +is replaced by a sober bonnet, and the gay blouse covered by a costly +black silk mantle. She is pitiably anxious and ill at ease: evidently +panic-stricken.] + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] What! Y o u r e here, are you? + +FRANK [turning in his chair from his writing, but not rising] Here, and +charmed to see you. You come like a breath of spring. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, get out with your nonsense. [In a low voice] Where's +Vivie? + +[Frank points expressively to the door of the inner room, but says +nothing.] + +MRS WARREN [sitting down suddenly and almost beginning to cry] Praddy: +won't she see me, don't you think? + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: don't distress yourself. Why should she not? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, you never can see why not: youre too innocent. Mr Frank: +did she say anything to you? + +FRANK [folding his note] She _must_ see you, if [very expressively] you +wait til she comes in. + +MRS WARREN [frightened] Why shouldn't I wait? + +[Frank looks quizzically at her; puts his note carefully on the +ink-bottle, so that Vivie cannot fail to find it when next she dips her +pen; then rises and devotes his attention entirely to her.] + +FRANK. My dear Mrs Warren: suppose you were a sparrow--ever so tiny +and pretty a sparrow hopping in the roadway--and you saw a steam roller +coming in your direction, would you wait for it? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, don't bother me with your sparrows. What did she run away +from Haslemere like that for? + +FRANK. I'm afraid she'll tell you if you rashly await her return. + +MRS WARREN. Do you want me to go away? + +FRANK. No: I always want you to stay. But I _advise_ you to go away. + +MRS WARREN. What! And never see her again! + +FRANK. Precisely. + +MRS WARREN [crying again] Praddy: don't let him be cruel to me. [She +hastily checks her tears and wipes her eyes]. She'll be so angry if she +sees I've been crying. + +FRANK [with a touch of real compassion in his airy tenderness] You know +that Praddy is the soul of kindness, Mrs Warren. Praddy: what do you +say? Go or stay? + +PRAED [to Mrs Warren] I really should be very sorry to cause you +unnecessary pain; but I think perhaps you had better not wait. The fact +is--[Vivie is heard at the inner door]. + +FRANK. Sh! Too late. She's coming. + +MRS WARREN. Don't tell her I was crying. [Vivie comes in. She +stops gravely on seeing Mrs Warren, who greets her with hysterical +cheerfulness]. Well, dearie. So here you are at last. + +VIVIE. I am glad you have come: I want to speak to you. You said you +were going, Frank, I think. + +FRANK. Yes. Will you come with me, Mrs Warren? What do you say to a +trip to Richmond, and the theatre in the evening? There is safety in +Richmond. No steam roller there. + +VIVIE. Nonsense, Frank. My mother will stay here. + +MRS WARREN [scared] I don't know: perhaps I'd better go. We're disturbing +you at your work. + +VIVIE [with quiet decision] Mr Praed: please take Frank away. Sit down, +mother. [Mrs Warren obeys helplessly]. + +PRAED. Come, Frank. Goodbye, Miss Vivie. + +VIVIE [shaking hands] Goodbye. A pleasant trip. + +PRAED. Thank you: thank you. I hope so. + +FRANK [to Mrs Warren] Goodbye: youd ever so much better have taken my +advice. [He shakes hands with her. Then airily to Vivie] Byebye, Viv. + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [He goes out gaily without shaking hands with her]. + +PRAED [sadly] Goodbye, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [snivelling]--oobye! + +[Praed goes. Vivie, composed and extremely grave, sits down in Honoria's +chair, and waits for her mother to speak. Mrs Warren, dreading a pause, +loses no time in beginning.] + +MRS WARREN. Well, Vivie, what did you go away like that for without +saying a word to me! How could you do such a thing! And what have you +done to poor George? I wanted him to come with me; but he shuffled +out of it. I could see that he was quite afraid of you. Only fancy: +he wanted me not to come. As if [trembling] I should be afraid of you, +dearie. [Vivie's gravity deepens]. But of course I told him it was all +settled and comfortable between us, and that we were on the best +of terms. [She breaks down]. Vivie: whats the meaning of this? [She +produces a commercial envelope, and fumbles at the enclosure with +trembling fingers]. I got it from the bank this morning. + +VIVIE. It is my month's allowance. They sent it to me as usual the other +day. I simply sent it back to be placed to your credit, and asked them +to send you the lodgment receipt. In future I shall support myself. + +MRS WARREN [not daring to understand] Wasn't it enough? Why didn't +you tell me? [With a cunning gleam in her eye] I'll double it: I was +intending to double it. Only let me know how much you want. + +VIVIE. You know very well that that has nothing to do with it. From this +time I go my own way in my own business and among my own friends. And +you will go yours. [She rises]. Goodbye. + +MRS WARREN [rising, appalled] Goodbye? + +VIVIE. Yes: goodbye. Come: don't let us make a useless scene: you +understand perfectly well. Sir George Crofts has told me the whole +business. + +MRS WARREN [angrily] Silly old--[She swallows an epithet, and then turns +white at the narrowness of her escape from uttering it]. + +VIVIE. Just so. + +MRS WARREN. He ought to have his tongue cut out. But I thought it was +ended: you said you didn't mind. + +VIVIE [steadfastly] Excuse me: I _do_ mind. + +MRS WARREN. But I explained-- + +VIVIE. You explained how it came about. You did not tell me that it is +still going on [She sits]. + +[Mrs Warren, silenced for a moment, looks forlornly at Vivie, who waits, +secretly hoping that the combat is over. But the cunning expression +comes back into Mrs Warren's face; and she bends across the table, sly +and urgent, half whispering.] + +MRS WARREN. Vivie: do you know how rich I am? + +VIVIE. I have no doubt you are very rich. + +MRS WARREN. But you don't know all that that means; youre too young. It +means a new dress every day; it means theatres and balls every night; +it means having the pick of all the gentlemen in Europe at your feet; +it means a lovely house and plenty of servants; it means the choicest of +eating and drinking; it means everything you like, everything you want, +everything you can think of. And what are you here? A mere drudge, +toiling and moiling early and late for your bare living and two cheap +dresses a year. Think over it. [Soothingly] Youre shocked, I know. I can +enter into your feelings; and I think they do you credit; but trust me, +nobody will blame you: you may take my word for that. I know what young +girls are; and I know youll think better of it when you've turned it over +in your mind. + +VIVIE. So that's how it is done, is it? You must have said all that to +many a woman, to have it so pat. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] What harm am I asking you to do? [Vivie turns +away contemptuously. Mrs Warren continues desperately] Vivie: listen to +me: you don't understand: you were taught wrong on purpose: you don't know +what the world is really like. + +VIVIE [arrested] Taught wrong on purpose! What do you mean? + +MRS WARREN. I mean that youre throwing away all your chances for +nothing. You think that people are what they pretend to be: that the way +you were taught at school and college to think right and proper is the +way things really are. But it's not: it's all only a pretence, to keep +the cowardly slavish common run of people quiet. Do you want to find +that out, like other women, at forty, when you've thrown yourself away +and lost your chances; or won't you take it in good time now from your +own mother, that loves you and swears to you that it's truth: gospel +truth? [Urgently] Vivie: the big people, the clever people, the managing +people, all know it. They do as I do, and think what I think. I know +plenty of them. I know them to speak to, to introduce you to, to make +friends of for you. I don't mean anything wrong: thats what you don't +understand: your head is full of ignorant ideas about me. What do the +people that taught you know about life or about people like me? When did +they ever meet me, or speak to me, or let anyone tell them about me? the +fools! Would they ever have done anything for you if I hadn't paid them? +Havn't I told you that I want you to be respectable? Havn't I brought you +up to be respectable? And how can you keep it up without my money and my +influence and Lizzie's friends? Can't you see that youre cutting your own +throat as well as breaking my heart in turning your back on me? + +VIVIE. I recognize the Crofts philosophy of life, mother. I heard it all +from him that day at the Gardners'. + +MRS WARREN. You think I want to force that played-out old sot on you! I +don't, Vivie: on my oath I don't. + +VIVIE. It would not matter if you did: you would not succeed. [Mrs +Warren winces, deeply hurt by the implied indifference towards her +affectionate intention. Vivie, neither understanding this nor concerning +herself about it, goes on calmly] Mother: you don't at all know the sort +of person I am. I don't object to Crofts more than to any other coarsely +built man of his class. To tell you the truth, I rather admire him +for being strongminded enough to enjoy himself in his own way and +make plenty of money instead of living the usual shooting, hunting, +dining-out, tailoring, loafing life of his set merely because all +the rest do it. And I'm perfectly aware that if I'd been in the same +circumstances as my aunt Liz, I'd have done exactly what she did. + +I don't think I'm more prejudiced or straitlaced than you: I think +I'm less. I'm certain I'm less sentimental. I know very well that +fashionable morality is all a pretence, and that if I took your money +and devoted the rest of my life to spending it fashionably, I might be +as worthless and vicious as the silliest woman could possibly be without +having a word said to me about it. But I don't want to be worthless. I +shouldn't enjoy trotting about the park to advertize my dressmaker +and carriage builder, or being bored at the opera to shew off a +shopwindowful of diamonds. + +MRS WARREN [bewildered] But-- + +VIVIE. Wait a moment: I've not done. Tell me why you continue your +business now that you are independent of it. Your sister, you told me, +has left all that behind her. Why don't you do the same? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it's all very easy for Liz: she likes good society, and +has the air of being a lady. Imagine _me_ in a cathedral town! Why, the +very rooks in the trees would find me out even if I could stand +the dulness of it. I must have work and excitement, or I should go +melancholy mad. And what else is there for me to do? The life suits me: +I'm fit for it and not for anything else. If I didn't do it somebody else +would; so I don't do any real harm by it. And then it brings in money; +and I like making money. No: it's no use: I can't give it up--not for +anybody. But what need you know about it? I'll never mention it. I'll +keep Crofts away. I'll not trouble you much: you see I have to be +constantly running about from one place to another. Youll be quit of me +altogether when I die. + +VIVIE. No: I am my mother's daughter. I am like you: I must have work, +and must make more money than I spend. But my work is not your work, and +my way is not your way. We must part. It will not make much difference +to us: instead of meeting one another for perhaps a few months in twenty +years, we shall never meet: thats all. + +MRS WARREN [her voice stifled in tears] Vivie: I meant to have been more +with you: I did indeed. + +VIVIE. It's no use, mother: I am not to be changed by a few cheap tears +and entreaties any more than you are, I daresay. + +MRS WARREN [wildly] Oh, you call a mother's tears cheap. + +VIVIE. They cost you nothing; and you ask me to give you the peace +and quietness of my whole life in exchange for them. What use would my +company be to you if you could get it? What have we two in common that +could make either of us happy together? + +MRS WARREN [lapsing recklessly into her dialect] We're mother and +daughter. I want my daughter. I've a right to you. Who is to care for me +when I'm old? Plenty of girls have taken to me like daughters and cried +at leaving me; but I let them all go because I had you to look forward +to. I kept myself lonely for you. You've no right to turn on me now and +refuse to do your duty as a daughter. + +VIVIE [jarred and antagonized by the echo of the slums in her mother's +voice] My duty as a daughter! I thought we should come to that +presently. Now once for all, mother, you want a daughter and Frank wants +a wife. I don't want a mother; and I don't want a husband. I have spared +neither Frank nor myself in sending him about his business. Do you think +I will spare you? + +MRS WARREN [violently] Oh, I know the sort you are: no mercy for +yourself or anyone else. _I_ know. My experience has done that for me +anyhow: I can tell the pious, canting, hard, selfish woman when I meet +her. Well, keep yourself to yourself: _I_ don't want you. But listen to +this. Do you know what I would do with you if you were a baby again? +aye, as sure as there's a Heaven above us. + +VIVIE. Strangle me, perhaps. + +MRS WARREN. No: I'd bring you up to be a real daughter to me, and not +what you are now, with your pride and your prejudices and the college +education you stole from me: yes, stole: deny it if you can: what was it +but stealing? I'd bring you up in my own house, I would. + +VIVIE [quietly] In one of your own houses. + +MRS WARREN [screaming] Listen to her! listen to how she spits on her +mother's grey hairs! Oh, may you live to have your own daughter tear and +trample on you as you have trampled on me. And you will: you will. No +woman ever had luck with a mother's curse on her. + +VIVIE. I wish you wouldn't rant, mother. It only hardens me. Come: I +suppose I am the only young woman you ever had in your power that you +did good to. Don't spoil it all now. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, Heaven forgive me, it's true; and you are the only +one that ever turned on me. Oh, the injustice of it! the injustice! the +injustice! I always wanted to be a good woman. I tried honest work; and +I was slave-driven until I cursed the day I ever heard of honest work. I +was a good mother; and because I made my daughter a good woman she turns +me out as if I were a leper. Oh, if I only had my life to live over +again! I'd talk to that lying clergyman in the school. From this time +forth, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I'll do wrong and nothing but +wrong. And I'll prosper on it. + +VIVIE. Yes: it's better to choose your line and go through with it. If +I had been you, mother, I might have done as you did; but I should not +have lived one life and believed in another. You are a conventional +woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you goodbye now. I am right, am +I not? + +MRS WARREN [taken aback] Right to throw away all my money! + +VIVIE. No: right to get rid of you? I should be a fool not to. Isn't that +so? + +MRS WARREN [sulkily] Oh well, yes, if you come to that, I suppose you +are. But Lord help the world if everybody took to doing the right thing! +And now I'd better go than stay where I'm not wanted. [She turns to the +door]. + +VIVIE [kindly] Won't you shake hands? + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her fiercely for a moment with a savage +impulse to strike her] No, thank you. Goodbye. + +VIVIE [matter-of-factly] Goodbye. [Mrs Warren goes out, slamming +the door behind her. The strain on Vivie's face relaxes; her grave +expression breaks up into one of joyous content; her breath goes out +in a half sob, half laugh of intense relief. She goes buoyantly to her +place at the writing table; pushes the electric lamp out of the way; +pulls over a great sheaf of papers; and is in the act of dipping her pen +in the ink when she finds Frank's note. She opens it unconcernedly +and reads it quickly, giving a little laugh at some quaint turn of +expression in it]. And goodbye, Frank. [She tears the note up and tosses +the pieces into the wastepaper basket without a second thought. Then +she goes at her work with a plunge, and soon becomes absorbed in its +figures]. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Mrs. Warren's Profession, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +MRS WARREN'S PROFESSION + + +by George Bernard Shaw + + +1894 + + +With The Author's Apology (1902) + + + + +THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY + + +Mrs Warren's Profession has been performed at last, after a delay +of only eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the +triumphant amusement of startling all but the strongest-headed of +the London theatre critics clean out of the practice of their +profession. No author who has ever known the exultation of +sending the Press into an hysterical tumult of protest, of moral +panic, of involuntary and frantic confession of sin, of a horror +of conscience in which the power of distinguishing between the +work of art on the stage and the real life of the spectator is +confused and overwhelmed, will ever care for the stereotyped +compliments which every successful farce or melodrama elicits +from the newspapers. Give me that critic who rushed from my play +to declare furiously that Sir George Crofts ought to be kicked. +What a triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a jaded London +journalist to the condition of the simple sailor in the Wapping +gallery, who shouts execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello +not to believe him! But dearer still than such simplicity is +that sense of the sudden earthquake shock to the foundations of +morality which sends a pallid crowd of critics into the street +shrieking that the pillars of society are cracking and the ruin +of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen champions of ten years +ago remonstrate with me just as the veterans of those brave days +remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast who first +launched my plays on the stage alongside Ghosts and The Wild +Duck, exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his +ideals! What would Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer +himself disowns me because I "cannot touch pitch without +wallowing in it". Truly my play must be more needed than I knew; +and yet I thought I knew how little the others know. + +Do not suppose, however, that the consternation of the Press +reflects any consternation among the general public. Anybody can +upset the theatre critics, in a turn of the wrist, by +substituting for the romantic commonplaces of the stage the moral +commonplaces of the pulpit, platform, or the library. Play Mrs +Warren's Profession to an audience of clerical members of the +Christian Social Union and of women well experienced in Rescue, +Temperance, and Girls' Club work, and no moral panic will arise; +every man and woman present will know that as long as poverty +makes virtue hideous and the spare pocket-money of rich +bachelordom makes vice dazzling, their daily hand-to-hand fight +against prostitution with prayer and persuasion, shelters and +scanty alms, will be a losing one. There was a time when they +were able to urge that though "the white-lead factory where Anne +Jane was poisoned" may be a far more terrible place than Mrs +Warren's house, yet hell is still more dreadful. Nowadays they +no longer believe in hell; and the girls among whom they are +working know that they do not believe in it, and would laugh at +them if they did. So well have the rescuers learnt that Mrs +Warren's defence of herself and indictment of society is the +thing that most needs saying, that those who know me personally +reproach me, not for writing this play, but for wasting my +energies on "pleasant plays" for the amusement of frivolous +people, when I can build up such excellent stage sermons on their +own work. Mrs Warren's Profession is the one play of mine which +I could submit to a censorship without doubt of the result; only, +it must not be the censorship of the minor theatre critic, nor of +an innocent court official like the Lord Chamberlain's Examiner, +much less of people who consciously profit by Mrs Warren's +profession, or who personally make use of it, or who hold the +widely whispered view that it is an indispensable safety-valve +for the protection of domestic virtue, or, above all, who are +smitten with a sentimental affection for our fallen sister, and +would "take her up tenderly, lift her with care, fashioned so +slenderly, young, and SO fair." Nor am I prepared to accept the +verdict of the medical gentlemen who would compulsorily sanitate +and register Mrs Warren, whilst leaving Mrs Warren's patrons, +especially her military patrons, free to destroy her health and +anybody else's without fear of reprisals. But I should be quite +content to have my play judged by, say, a joint committee of the +Central Vigilance Society and the Salvation Army. And the +sterner moralists the members of the committee were, the better. + +Some of the journalists I have shocked reason so unripely that +they will gather nothing from this but a confused notion that I +am accusing the National Vigilance Association and the Salvation +Army of complicity in my own scandalous immorality. It will seem +to them that people who would stand this play would stand +anything. They are quite mistaken. Such an audience as I have +described would be revolted by many of our fashionable plays. +They would leave the theatre convinced that the Plymouth Brother +who still regards the playhouse as one of the gates of hell is +perhaps the safest adviser on the subject of which he knows so +little. If I do not draw the same conclusion, it is not because +I am one of those who claim that art is exempt from moral +obligations, and deny that the writing or performance of a play +is a moral act, to be treated on exactly the same footing as +theft or murder if it produces equally mischievous consequences. +I am convinced that fine art is the subtlest, the most seductive, +the most effective instrument of moral propaganda in the world, +excepting only the example of personal conduct; and I waive even +this exception in favor of the art of the stage, because it works +by exhibiting examples of personal conduct made intelligible and +moving to crowds of unobservant, unreflecting people to whom real +life means nothing. I have pointed out again and again that the +influence of the theatre in England is growing so great that +whilst private conduct, religion, law, science, politics, and +morals are becoming more and more theatrical, the theatre itself +remains impervious to common sense, religion, science, politics, +and morals. That is why I fight the theatre, not with pamphlets +and sermons and treatises, but with plays; and so effective do I +find the dramatic method that I have no doubt I shall at last +persuade even London to take its conscience and its brains with +it when it goes to the theatre, instead of leaving them at home +with its prayer-book as it does at present. Consequently, I am +the last man in the world to deny that if the net effect of +performing Mrs Warren's Profession were an increase in the number +of persons entering that profession, its performance should be +dealt with accordingly. + +Now let us consider how such recruiting can be encouraged by the +theatre. Nothing is easier. Let the King's Reader of Plays, +backed by the Press, make an unwritten but perfectly well +understood regulation that members of Mrs Warren's profession +shall be tolerated on the stage only when they are beautiful, +exquisitely dressed, and sumptuously lodged and fed; also that +they shall, at the end of the play, die of consumption to the +sympathetic tears of the whole audience, or step into the next +room to commit suicide, or at least be turned out by their +protectors and passed on to be "redeemed" by old and faithful +lovers who have adored them in spite of their levities. +Naturally, the poorer girls in the gallery will believe in the +beauty, in the exquisite dresses, and the luxurious living, and +will see that there is no real necessity for the consumption, the +suicide, or the ejectment: mere pious forms, all of them, to save +the Censor's face. Even if these purely official catastrophes +carried any conviction, the majority of English girls remain so +poor, so dependent, so well aware that the drudgeries of such +honest work as is within their reach are likely enough to lead +them eventually to lung disease, premature death, and domestic +desertion or brutality, that they would still see reason to +prefer the primrose path to the strait path of virtue, since +both, vice at worst and virtue at best, lead to the same end in +poverty and overwork. It is true that the Board School mistress +will tell you that only girls of a certain kind will reason in +this way. But alas! that certain kind turns out on inquiry to be +simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only kind that gets +the chance of acting on such reasoning. Read the first report of +the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C +4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacred +word, Home!) issued by the Women's Industrial Council [Home +Industries of Women in London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street, +W. C.]; and ask yourself whether, if the lot in life therein +described were your lot in life, you would not prefer the lot of +Cleopatra, of Theodora, of the Lady of the Camellias, of Mrs +Tanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you can go deep enough into +things to be able to say no, how many ignorant half-starved girls +will believe you are speaking sincerely? To them the lot of Iris +is heavenly in comparison with their own. Yet our King, like his +predecessors, says to the dramatist, "Thus, and thus only, shall +you present Mrs Warren's profession on the stage, or you shall +starve. Witness Shaw, who told the untempting truth about it, +and whom We, by the Grace of God, accordingly disallow and +suppress, and do what in Us lies to silence." Fortunately, Shaw +cannot be silenced. "The harlot's cry from street to street" is +louder than the voices of all the kings. I am not dependent on +the theatre, and cannot be starved into making my play a standing +advertisement of the attractive side of Mrs Warren's business. + +Here I must guard myself against a misunderstanding. It is not +the fault of their authors that the long string of wanton's +tragedies, from Antony and Cleopatra to Iris, are snares to poor +girls, and are objected to on that account by many earnest men +and women who consider Mrs Warren's Profession an excellent +sermon. Mr Pinero is in no way bound to suppress the fact that +his Iris is a person to be envied by millions of better women. +If he made his play false to life by inventing fictitious +disadvantages for her, he would be acting as unscrupulously as +any tract writer. If society chooses to provide for its Irises +better than for its working women, it must not expect honest +playwrights to manufacture spurious evidence to save its credit. +The mischief lies in the deliberate suppression of the other side +of the case: the refusal to allow Mrs Warren to expose the +drudgery and repulsiveness of plying for hire among coarse, +tedious drunkards; the determination not to let the Parisian girl +in Brieux's Les Avaries come on the stage and drive into people's +minds what her diseases mean for her and for themselves. All +that, says the King's Reader in effect, is horrifying, loathsome. + +Precisely: what does he expect it to be? would he have us +represent it as beautiful and gratifying? The answer to this +question, I fear, must be a blunt Yes; for it seems impossible to +root out of an Englishman's mind the notion that vice is +delightful, and that abstention from it is privation. At all +events, as long as the tempting side of it is kept towards the +public, and softened by plenty of sentiment and sympathy, it is +welcomed by our Censor, whereas the slightest attempt to place it +in the light of the policeman's lantern or the Salvation Army +shelter is checkmated at once as not merely disgusting, but, if +you please, unnecessary. + +Everybody will, I hope, admit that this state of things is +intolerable; that the subject of Mrs Warren's profession must be +either tapu altogether, or else exhibited with the warning side +as freely displayed as the tempting side. But many persons will +vote for a complete tapu, and an impartial sweep from the boards +of Mrs Warren and Gretchen and the rest; in short, for banishing +the sexual instincts from the stage altogether. Those who think +this impossible can hardly have considered the number and +importance of the subjects which are actually banished from the +stage. Many plays, among them Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, Coriolanus, +Julius Caesar, have no sex complications: the thread of their +action can be followed by children who could not understand a +single scene of Mrs Warren's Profession or Iris. None of our +plays rouse the sympathy of the audience by an exhibition of the +pains of maternity, as Chinese plays constantly do. Each nation +has its own particular set of tapus in addition to the common +human stock; and though each of these tapus limits the scope of +the dramatist, it does not make drama impossible. If the +Examiner were to refuse to license plays with female characters +in them, he would only be doing to the stage what our tribal +customs already do to the pulpit and the bar. I have myself +written a rather entertaining play with only one woman in it, and +she is quite heartwhole; and I could just as easily write a play +without a woman in it at all. I will even go so far as to +promise the Mr Redford my support if he will introduce this +limitation for part of the year, say during Lent, so as to make a +close season for that dullest of stock dramatic subjects, +adultery, and force our managers and authors to find out what all +great dramatists find out spontaneously: to wit, that people who +sacrifice every other consideration to love are as hopelessly +unheroic on the stage as lunatics or dipsomaniacs. Hector is the +world's hero; not Paris nor Antony. + +But though I do not question the possibility of a drama in which +love should be as effectively ignored as cholera is at present, +there is not the slightest chance of that way out of the +difficulty being taken by the Mr Redford. If he attempted it +there would be a revolt in which he would be swept away in spite +of my singlehanded efforts to defend him. A complete tapu is +politically impossible. A complete toleration is equally +impossible to Mr Redford, because his occupation would be gone if +there were no tapu to enforce. He is therefore compelled to +maintain the present compromise of a partial tapu, applied, to +the best of his judgement, with a careful respect to persons and +to public opinion. And a very sensible English solution of the +difficulty, too, most readers will say. I should not dispute it +if dramatic poets really were what English public opinion +generally assumes them to be during their lifetime: that is, a +licentiously irregular group to be kept in order in a rough and +ready way by a magistrate who will stand no nonsense from them. +But I cannot admit that the class represented by Eschylus, +Sophocles, Aristophanes, Euripides, Shakespear, Goethe, Ibsen, +and Tolstoy, not to mention our own contemporary playwrights, is +as much in place in Mr Redford's office as a pickpocket is in Bow +Street. Further, it is not true that the Censorship, though it +certainly suppresses Ibsen and Tolstoy, and would suppress +Shakespear but for the absurd rule that a play once licensed is +always licensed (so that Wycherly is permitted and Shelley +prohibited), also suppresses unscrupulous playwrights. I +challenge Mr Redford to mention any extremity of sexual +misconduct which any manager in his senses would risk presenting +on the London stage that has not been presented under his license +and that of his predecessor. The compromise, in fact, works out +in practice in favor of loose plays as against earnest ones. + +To carry conviction on this point, I will take the extreme course +of narrating the plots of two plays witnessed within the last ten +years by myself at London West End theatres, one licensed by the +late Queen Victoria's Reader of Plays, the other by the present +Reader to the King. Both plots conform to the strictest rules of +the period when La Dame aux Camellias was still a forbidden play, +and when The Second Mrs Tanqueray would have been tolerated only +on condition that she carefully explained to the audience that +when she met Captain Ardale she sinned "but in intention." + +Play number one. A prince is compelled by his parents to marry +the daughter of a neighboring king, but loves another maiden. +The scene represents a hall in the king's palace at night. The +wedding has taken place that day; and the closed door of the +nuptial chamber is in view of the audience. Inside, the princess +awaits her bridegroom. A duenna is in attendance. The +bridegroom enters. His sole desire is to escape from a marriage +which is hateful to him. An idea strikes him. He will assault +the duenna, and get ignominiously expelled from the palace by his +indignant father-in-law. To his horror, when he proceeds to +carry out this stratagem, the duenna, far from raising an alarm, +is flattered, delighted, and compliant. The assaulter becomes +the assaulted. He flings her angrily to the ground, where she +remains placidly. He flies. The father enters; dismisses the +duenna; and listens at the keyhole of his daughter's nuptial +chamber, uttering various pleasantries, and declaring, with a +shiver, that a sound of kissing, which he supposes to proceed +from within, makes him feel young again. + +In deprecation of the scandalized astonishment with which such a +story as this will be read, I can only say that it was not +presented on the stage until its propriety had been certified by +the chief officer of the Queen of England's household. + +Story number two. A German officer finds himself in an inn with +a French lady who has wounded his national vanity. He resolves +to humble her by committing a rape upon her. He announces his +purpose. She remonstrates, implores, flies to the doors and +finds them locked, calls for help and finds none at hand, runs +screaming from side to side, and, after a harrowing scene, is +overpowered and faints. Nothing further being possible on the +stage without actual felony, the officer then relents and leaves +her. When she recovers, she believes that he has carried out his +threat; and during the rest of the play she is represented as +vainly vowing vengeance upon him, whilst she is really falling in +love with him under the influence of his imaginary crime against +her. Finally she consents to marry him; and the curtain falls on +their happiness. + +This story was certified by the present King's Reader, acting for +the Lord Chamberlain, as void in its general tendency of +"anything immoral or otherwise improper for the stage." But let +nobody conclude therefore that Mr Redford is a monster, whose +policy it is to deprave the theatre. As a matter of fact, both +the above stories are strictly in order from the official point +of view. The incidents of sex which they contain, though carried +in both to the extreme point at which another step would be dealt +with, not by the King's Reader, but by the police, do not involve +adultery, nor any allusion to Mrs Warren's profession, nor to the +fact that the children of any polyandrous group will, when they +grow up, inevitably be confronted, as those of Mrs Warren's group +are in my play, with the insoluble problem of their own possible +consanguinity. In short, by depending wholly on the coarse +humors and the physical fascination of sex, they comply with all +the formulable requirements of the Censorship, whereas plays in +which these humors and fascinations are discarded, and the social +problems created by sex seriously faced and dealt with, +inevitably ignore the official formula and are suppressed. If +the old rule against the exhibition of illicit sex relations on +stage were revived, and the subject absolutely barred, the only +result would be that Antony and Cleopatra, Othello (because of +the Bianca episode), Troilus and Cressida, Henry IV, Measure for +Measure, Timon of Athens, La Dame aux Camellias, The Profligate, +The Second Mrs Tanqueray, The Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith, The Gay +Lord Quex, Mrs Dane's Defence, and Iris would be swept from the +stage, and placed under the same ban as Tolstoy's Dominion of +Darkness and Mrs Warren's Profession, whilst such plays as the +two described above would have a monopoly of the theatre as far +as sexual interest is concerned. + +What is more, the repulsiveness of the worst of the certified +plays would protect the Censorship against effective exposure and +criticism. Not long ago an American Review of high standing +asked me for an article on the Censorship of the English stage. +I replied that such an article would involve passages too +disagreeable for publication in a magazine for general family +reading. The editor persisted nevertheless; but not until he had +declared his readiness to face this, and had pledged himself to +insert the article unaltered (the particularity of the pledge +extending even to a specification of the exact number of words in +the article) did I consent to the proposal. What was the result? + +The editor, confronted with the two stories given above, threw +his pledge to the winds, and, instead of returning the article, +printed it with the illustrative examples omitted, and nothing +left but the argument from political principles against the +Censorship. In doing this he fired my broadside after +withdrawing the cannon balls; for neither the Censor nor any +other Englishman, except perhaps Mr Leslie Stephen and a few +other veterans of the dwindling old guard of Benthamism, cares a +dump about political principle. The ordinary Briton thinks that +if every other Briton is not kept under some form of tutelage, +the more childish the better, he will abuse his freedom +viciously. As far as its principle is concerned, the Censorship +is the most popular institution in England; and the playwright +who criticizes it is slighted as a blackguard agitating for +impunity. Consequently nothing can really shake the confidence +of the public in the Lord Chamberlain's department except a +remorseless and unbowdlerized narration of the licentious +fictions which slip through its net, and are hallmarked by it +with the approval of the Throne. But since these narrations +cannot be made public without great difficulty, owing to the +obligation an editor is under not to deal unexpectedly with +matters that are not _virginibus puerisque_, the chances are +heavily in favor of the Censor escaping all remonstrance. With +the exception of such comments as I was able to make in my own +critical articles in The World and The Saturday Review when the +pieces I have described were first produced, and a few ignorant +protests by churchmen against much better plays which they +confessed they had not seen nor read, nothing has been said in +the press that could seriously disturb the easygoing notion that +the stage would be much worse than it admittedly is but for the +vigilance of the King's Reader. The truth is, that no manager +would dare produce on his own responsibility the pieces he can +now get royal certificates for at two guineas per piece. + +I hasten to add that I believe these evils to be inherent in the +nature of all censorship, and not merely a consequence of the +form the institution takes in London. No doubt there is a +staggering absurdity in appointing an ordinary clerk to see that +the leaders of European literature do not corrupt the morals of +the nation, and to restrain Sir Henry Irving, as a rogue and a +vagabond, from presuming to impersonate Samson or David on the +stage, though any other sort of artist may daub these scriptural +figures on a signboard or carve them on a tombstone without +hindrance. If the General Medical Council, the Royal College of +Physicians, the Royal Academy of Arts, the Incorporated Law +Society, and Convocation were abolished, and their functions +handed over to the Mr Redford, the Concert of Europe would +presumably declare England mad, and treat her accordingly. Yet, +though neither medicine nor painting nor law nor the Church +moulds the character of the nation as potently as the theatre +does, nothing can come on the stage unless its dimensions admit +of its passing through Mr Redford's mind! Pray do not think that +I question Mr Redford's honesty. I am quite sure that he +sincerely thinks me a blackguard, and my play a grossly improper +one, because, like Tolstoy's Dominion of Darkness, it produces, +as they are both meant to produce, a very strong and very painful +impression of evil. I do not doubt for a moment that the rapine +play which I have described, and which he licensed, was quite +incapable in manuscript of producing any particular effect on his +mind at all, and that when he was once satisfied that the ill- +conducted hero was a German and not an English officer, he passed +the play without studying its moral tendencies. Even if he had +undertaken that study, there is no more reason to suppose that he +is a competent moralist than there is to suppose that I am a +competent mathematician. But truly it does not matter whether he +is a moralist or not. Let nobody dream for a moment that what is +wrong with the Censorship is the shortcoming of the gentleman who +happens at any moment to be acting as Censor. Replace him to- +morrow by an Academy of Letters and an Academy of Dramatic +Poetry, and the new and enlarged filter will still exclude +original and epoch-making work, whilst passing conventional, old- +fashioned, and vulgar work without question. The conclave which +compiles the index of the Roman Catholic Church is the most +august, ancient, learned, famous, and authoritative censorship in +Europe. Is it more enlightened, more liberal, more tolerant that +the comparatively infinitesimal office of the Lord Chamberlain? +On the contrary, it has reduced itself to a degree of absurdity +which makes a Catholic university a contradiction in terms. All +censorships exist to prevent anyone from challenging current +conceptions and existing institutions. All progress is initiated +by challenging current concepts, and executed by supplanting +existing institutions. Consequently the first condition of +progress is the removal of censorships. There is the whole case +against censorships in a nutshell. + +It will be asked whether theatrical managers are to be allowed to +produce what they like, without regard to the public interest. +But that is not the alternative. The managers of our London +music-halls are not subject to any censorship. They produce +their entertainments on their own responsibility, and have no +two-guinea certificates to plead if their houses are conducted +viciously. They know that if they lose their character, the +County Council will simply refuse to renew their license at the +end of the year; and nothing in the history of popular art is +more amazing than the improvement in music-halls that this simple +arrangement has produced within a few years. Place the theatres +on the same footing, and we shall promptly have a similar +revolution: a whole class of frankly blackguardly plays, in which +unscrupulous low comedians attract crowds to gaze at bevies of +girls who have nothing to exhibit but their prettiness, will +vanish like the obscene songs which were supposed to enliven the +squalid dulness, incredible to the younger generation, of the +music-halls fifteen years ago. On the other hand, plays which +treat sex questions as problems for thought instead of as +aphrodisiacs will be freely performed. Gentlemen of Mr Redford's +way of thinking will have plenty of opportunity of protesting +against them in Council; but the result will be that the Mr +Redford will find his natural level; Ibsen and Tolstoy theirs; so +no harm will be done. + +This question of the Censorship reminds me that I have to +apologize to those who went to the recent performance of Mrs +Warren's Profession expecting to find it what I have just called +an aphrodisiac. That was not my fault; it was Mr Redford's. +After the specimens I have given of the tolerance of his +department, it was natural enough for thoughtless people to infer +that a play which overstepped his indulgence must be a very +exciting play indeed. Accordingly, I find one critic so explicit +as to the nature of his disappointment as to say candidly that +"such airy talk as there is upon the matter is utterly unworthy +of acceptance as being a representation of what people with blood +in them think or do on such occasions." Thus am I crushed +between the upper millstone of the Mr Redford, who thinks me a +libertine, and the nether popular critic, who thinks me a prude. +Critics of all grades and ages, middle-aged fathers of families +no less than ardent young enthusiasts, are equally indignant with +me. They revile me as lacking in passion, in feeling, in +manhood. Some of them even sum the matter up by denying me any +dramatic power: a melancholy betrayal of what dramatic power has +come to mean on our stage under the Censorship! Can I be +expected to refrain from laughing at the spectacle of a number of +respectable gentlemen lamenting because a playwright lures them +to the theatre by a promise to excite their senses in a very +special and sensational manner, and then, having successfully +trapped them in exceptional numbers, proceeds to ignore their +senses and ruthlessly improve their minds? But I protest again +that the lure was not mine. The play had been in print for four +years; and I have spared no pains to make known that my plays are +built to induce, not voluptuous reverie but intellectual +interest, not romantic rhapsody but humane concern. Accordingly, +I do not find those critics who are gifted with intellectual +appetite and political conscience complaining of want of dramatic +power. Rather do they protest, not altogether unjustly, against +a few relapses into staginess and caricature which betray the +young playwright and the old playgoer in this early work of mine. + +As to the voluptuaries, I can assure them that the playwright, +whether he be myself or another, will always disappoint them. +The drama can do little to delight the senses: all the apparent +instances to the contrary are instances of the personal +fascination of the performers. The drama of pure feeling is no +longer in the hands of the playwright: it has been conquered by +the musician, after whose enchantments all the verbal arts seem +cold and tame. Romeo and Juliet with the loveliest Juliet is +dry, tedious, and rhetorical in comparison with Wagner's Tristan, +even though Isolde be both fourteen stone and forty, as she often +is in Germany. Indeed, it needed no Wagner to convince the +public of this. The voluptuous sentimentality of Gounod's Faust +and Bizet's Carmen has captured the common playgoer; and there +is, flatly, no future now for any drama without music except the +drama of thought. The attempt to produce a genus of opera +without music (and this absurdity is what our fashionable +theatres have been driving at for a long time without knowing it) +is far less hopeful than my own determination to accept problem +as the normal materiel of the drama. + +That this determination will throw me into a long conflict with +our theatre critics, and with the few playgoers who go to the +theatre as often as the critics, I well know; but I am too well +equipped for the strife to be deterred by it, or to bear malice +towards the losing side. In trying to produce the sensuous +effects of opera, the fashionable drama has become so flaccid in +its sentimentality, and the intellect of its frequenters so +atrophied by disuse, that the reintroduction of problem, with its +remorseless logic and iron framework of fact, inevitably produces +at first an overwhelming impression of coldness and inhuman +rationalism. But this will soon pass away. When the +intellectual muscle and moral nerve of the critics has been +developed in the struggle with modern problem plays, the pettish +luxuriousness of the clever ones, and the sulky sense of +disadvantaged weakness in the sentimental ones, will clear away; +and it will be seen that only in the problem play is there any +real drama, because drama is no mere setting up of the camera to +nature: it is the presentation in parable of the conflict between +Man's will and his environment: in a word, of problem. The +vapidness of such drama as the pseudo-operatic plays contain lies +in the fact that in them animal passion, sentimentally diluted, +is shewn in conflict, not with real circumstances, but with a set +of conventions and assumptions half of which do not exist off the +stage, whilst the other half can either be evaded by a pretence +of compliance or defied with complete impunity by any reasonably +strong-minded person. Nobody can feel that such conventions are +really compulsory; and consequently nobody can believe in the +stage pathos that accepts them as an inexorable fate, or in the +genuineness of the people who indulge in such pathos. Sitting at +such plays, we do not believe: we make-believe. And the habit of +make-believe becomes at last so rooted that criticism of the +theatre insensibly ceases to be criticism at all, and becomes +more and more a chronicle of the fashionable enterprises of the +only realities left on the stage: that is, the performers in +their own persons. In this phase the playwright who attempts to +revive genuine drama produces the disagreeable impression of the +pedant who attempts to start a serious discussion at a +fashionable at-home. Later on, when he has driven the tea +services out and made the people who had come to use the theatre +as a drawing-room understand that it is they and not the +dramatist who are the intruders, he has to face the accusation +that his plays ignore human feeling, an illusion produced by that +very resistance of fact and law to human feeling which creates +drama. It is the _deus ex machina_ who, by suspending that +resistance, makes the fall of the curtain an immediate necessity, +since drama ends exactly where resistance ends. Yet the +introduction of this resistance produces so strong an impression +of heartlessness nowadays that a distinguished critic has summed +up the impression made on him by Mrs Warren's Profession, by +declaring that "the difference between the spirit of Tolstoy and +the spirit of Mr Shaw is the difference between the spirit of +Christ and the spirit of Euclid." But the epigram would be as +good if Tolstoy's name were put in place of mine and D'Annunzio's +in place of Tolstoy. At the same time I accept the enormous +compliment to my reasoning powers with sincere complacency; and I +promise my flatterer that when he is sufficiently accustomed to +and therefore undazzled by problem on the stage to be able to +attend to the familiar factor of humanity in it as well as to the +unfamiliar one of a real environment, he will both see and feel +that Mrs Warren's Profession is no mere theorem, but a play of +instincts and temperaments in conflict with each other and with a +flinty social problem that never yields an inch to mere +sentiment. + +I go further than this. I declare that the real secret of the +cynicism and inhumanity of which shallower critics accuse me is +the unexpectedness with which my characters behave like human +beings, instead of conforming to the romantic logic of the stage. +The axioms and postulates of that dreary mimanthropometry are so +well known that it is almost impossible for its slaves to write +tolerable last acts to their plays, so conventionally do their +conclusions follow from their premises. Because I have thrown +this logic ruthlessly overboard, I am accused of ignoring, not +stage logic, but, of all things, human feeling. People with +completely theatrified imaginations tell me that no girl would +treat her mother as Vivie Warren does, meaning that no stage +heroine would in a popular sentimental play. They say this just +as they might say that no two straight lines would enclose a +space. They do not see how completely inverted their vision has +become even when I throw its preposterousness in their faces, as +I repeatedly do in this very play. Praed, the sentimental artist +(fool that I was not to make him a theatre critic instead of an +architect!) burlesques them by expecting all through the piece +that the feelings of others will be logically deducible from +their family relationships and from his "conventionally +unconventional" social code. The sarcasm is lost on the critics: +they, saturated with the same logic, only think him the sole +sensible person on the stage. Thus it comes about that the more +completely the dramatist is emancipated from the illusion that +men and women are primarily reasonable beings, and the more +powerfully he insists on the ruthless indifference of their great +dramatic antagonist, the external world, to their whims and +emotions, the surer he is to be denounced as blind to the very +distinction on which his whole work is built. Far from ignoring +idiosyncrasy, will, passion, impulse, whim, as factors in human +action, I have placed them so nakedly on the stage that the +elderly citizen, accustomed to see them clothed with the veil of +manufactured logic about duty, and to disguise even his own +impulses from himself in this way, finds the picture as unnatural +as Carlyle's suggested painting of parliament sitting without its +clothes. + +I now come to those critics who, intellectually baffled by the +problem in Mrs Warren's Profession, have made a virtue of running +away from it. I will illustrate their method by quotation from +Dickens, taken from the fifth chapter of Our Mutual Friend: + +"Hem!" began Wegg. "This, Mr Boffin and Lady, is the first +chapter of the first wollume of the Decline and Fall off ---" +here he looked hard at the book, and stopped. + +"What's the matter, Wegg?" + +"Why, it comes into my mind, do you know, sir," said Wegg with an +air of insinuating frankness (having first again looked hard at +the book), that you made a little mistake this morning, which I +had meant to set you right in; only something put it out of my +head. I think you said Rooshan Empire, sir?" + +"It is Rooshan; ain't it, Wegg?" + +"No, sir. Roman. Roman." + +"What's the difference, Wegg?" + +"The difference, sir?" Mr Wegg was faltering and in danger of +breaking down, when a bright thought flashed upon him. "The +difference, sir? There you place me in a difficulty, Mr Boffin. +Suffice it to observe, that the difference is best postponed to +some other occasion when Mrs Boffin does not honor us with her +company. In Mrs Boffin's presence, sir, we had better drop it." + +Mr Wegg thus came out of his disadvantage with quite a chivalrous +air, and not only that, but by dint of repeating with a manly +delicacy, "In Mrs Boffin's presence, sir, we had better drop it!" +turned the disadvantage on Boffin, who felt that he had committed +himself in a very painful manner. + +I am willing to let Mr Wegg drop it on these terms, provided I am +allowed to mention here that Mrs Warren's Profession is a play +for women; that it was written for women; that it has been +performed and produced mainly through the determination of women +that it should be performed and produced; that the enthusiasm of +women made its first performance excitingly successful; and that +not one of these women had any inducement to support it except +their belief in the timeliness and the power of the lesson the +play teaches. Those who were "surprised to see ladies present" +were men; and when they proceeded to explain that the journals +they represented could not possibly demoralize the public by +describing such a play, their editors cruelly devoted the space +saved by their delicacy to an elaborate and respectful account of +the progress of a young lord's attempt to break the bank at Monte +Carlo. A few days sooner Mrs Warren would have been crowded out +of their papers by an exceptionally abominable police case. I do +not suggest that the police case should have been suppressed; but +neither do I believe that regard for public morality had anything +to do with their failure to grapple with the performance by the +Stage Society. And, after all, there was no need to fall back on +Silas Wegg's subterfuge. Several critics saved the faces of +their papers easily enough by the simple expedient of saying all +they had to say in the tone of a shocked governess lecturing a +naughty child. To them I might plead, in Mrs Warren's words, +"Well, it's only good manners to be ashamed, dearie;" but it +surprises me, recollecting as I do the effect produced by Miss +Fanny Brough's delivery of that line, that gentlemen who shivered +like violets in a zephyr as it swept through them, should so +completely miss the full width of its application as to go home +and straightway make a public exhibition of mock modesty. + +My old Independent Theatre manager, Mr Grein, besides that +reproach to me for shattering his ideals, complains that Mrs +Warren is not wicked enough, and names several romancers who +would have clothed her black soul with all the terrors of +tragedy. I have no doubt they would; but if you please, my dear +Grein, that is just what I did not want to do. Nothing would +please our sanctimonious British public more than to throw the +whole guilt of Mrs Warren's profession on Mrs Warren herself. +Now the whole aim of my play is to throw that guilt on the +British public itself. You may remember that when you produced +my first play, Widowers' Houses, exactly the same +misunderstanding arose. When the virtuous young gentleman rose +up in wrath against the slum landlord, the slum landlord very +effectively shewed him that slums are the product, not of +individual Harpagons, but of the indifference of virtuous young +gentlemen to the condition of the city they live in, provided +they live at the west end of it on money earned by someone else's +labor. The notion that prostitution is created by the wickedness +of Mrs Warren is as silly as the notion--prevalent, nevertheless, +to some extent in Temperance circles--that drunkenness is created +by the wickedness of the publican. Mrs Warren is not a whit a +worse woman than the reputable daughter who cannot endure her. +Her indifference to the ultimate social consequences of her means +of making money, and her discovery of that means by the ordinary +method of taking the line of least resistance to getting it, are +too common in English society to call for any special remark. +Her vitality, her thrift, her energy, her outspokenness, her wise +care of her daughter, and the managing capacity which has enabled +her and her sister to climb from the fried fish shop down by the +Mint to the establishments of which she boasts, are all high +English social virtues. Her defence of herself is so +overwhelming that it provokes the St James Gazette to declare +that "the tendency of the play is wholly evil" because "it +contains one of the boldest and most specious defences of an +immoral life for poor women that has ever been penned." Happily +the St James Gazette here speaks in its haste. Mrs Warren's +defence of herself is not only bold and specious, but valid and +unanswerable. But it is no defence at all of the vice which she +organizes. It is no defence of an immoral life to say that the +alternative offered by society collectively to poor women is a +miserable life, starved, overworked, fetid, ailing, ugly. Though +it is quite natural and RIGHT for Mrs Warren to choose what is, +according to her lights, the least immoral alternative, it is +none the less infamous of society to offer such alternatives. +For the alternatives offered are not morality and immorality, but +two sorts of immorality. The man who cannot see that starvation, +overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as prostitution-- +that they are the vices and crimes of a nation, and not merely +its misfortunes--is (to put it as politely as possible) a +hopelessly Private Person. + +The notion that Mrs Warren must be a fiend is only an example of +the violence and passion which the slightest reference to sex +arouses in undisciplined minds, and which makes it seem natural +for our lawgivers to punish silly and negligible indecencies with +a ferocity unknown in dealing with, for example, ruinous +financial swindling. Had my play been titled Mr Warren's +Profession, and Mr Warren been a bookmaker, nobody would have +expected me to make him a villain as well. Yet gambling is a +vice, and bookmaking an institution, for which there is +absolutely nothing to be said. The moral and economic evil done +by trying to get other people's money without working for it (and +this is the essence of gambling) is not only enormous but +uncompensated. There are no two sides to the question of +gambling, no circumstances which force us to tolerate it lest its +suppression lead to worse things, no consensus of opinion among +responsible classes, such as magistrates and military commanders, +that it is a necessity, no Athenian records of gambling made +splendid by the talents of its professors, no contention that +instead of violating morals it only violates a legal institution +which is in many respects oppressive and unnatural, no possible +plea that the instinct on which it is founded is a vital one. +Prostitution can confuse the issue with all these excuses: +gambling has none of them. Consequently, if Mrs Warren must +needs be a demon, a bookmaker must be a cacodemon. Well, does +anybody who knows the sporting world really believe that +bookmakers are worse than their neighbors? On the contrary, they +have to be a good deal better; for in that world nearly everybody +whose social rank does not exclude such an occupation would be a +bookmaker if he could; but the strength of character for handling +large sums of money and for strict settlements and unflinching +payment of losses is so rare that successful bookmakers are rare +too. It may seem that at least public spirit cannot be one of a +bookmaker's virtues; but I can testify from personal experience +that excellent public work is done with money subscribed by +bookmakers. It is true that there are abysses in bookmaking: for +example, welshing. Mr Grein hints that there are abysses in Mrs +Warren's profession also. So there are in every profession: the +error lies in supposing that every member of them sounds these +depths. I sit on a public body which prosecutes Mrs Warren +zealously; and I can assure Mr Grein that she is often leniently +dealt with because she has conducted her business "respectably" +and held herself above its vilest branches. The degrees in +infamy are as numerous and as scrupulously observed as the +degrees in the peerage: the moralist's notion that there are +depths at which the moral atmosphere ceases is as delusive as the +rich man's notion that there are no social jealousies or +snobberies among the very poor. No: had I drawn Mrs Warren as a +fiend in human form, the very people who now rebuke me for +flattering her would probably be the first to deride me for +deducing her character logically from occupation instead of +observing it accurately in society. + +One critic is so enslaved by this sort of logic that he calls my +portraiture of the Reverend Samuel Gardner an attack on religion. + +According to this view Subaltern Iago is an attack on the army, +Sir John Falstaff an attack on knighthood, and King Claudius an +attack on royalty. Here again the clamor for naturalness and +human feeling, raised by so many critics when they are confronted +by the real thing on the stage, is really a clamor for the most +mechanical and superficial sort of logic. The dramatic reason +for making the clergyman what Mrs Warren calls "an old stick-in- +the-mud," whose son, in spite of much capacity and charm, is a +cynically worthless member of society, is to set up a mordant +contrast between him and the woman of infamous profession, with +her well brought-up, straightforward, hardworking daughter. The +critics who have missed the contrast have doubtless observed +often enough that many clergymen are in the Church through no +genuine calling, but simply because, in circles which can command +preferment, it is the refuge of "the fool of the family"; and +that clergymen's sons are often conspicuous reactionists against +the restraints imposed on them in childhood by their father's +profession. These critics must know, too, from history if not +from experience, that women as unscrupulous as Mrs Warren have +distinguished themselves as administrators and rulers, both +commercially and politically. But both observation and knowledge +are left behind when journalists go to the theatre. Once in +their stalls, they assume that it is "natural" for clergymen to +be saintly, for soldiers to be heroic, for lawyers to be hard- +hearted, for sailors to be simple and generous, for doctors to +perform miracles with little bottles, and for Mrs Warren to be a +beast and a demon. All this is not only not natural, but not +dramatic. A man's profession only enters into the drama of his +life when it comes into conflict with his nature. The result of +this conflict is tragic in Mrs Warren's case, and comic in the +clergyman's case (at least we are savage enough to laugh at it); +but in both cases it is illogical, and in both cases natural. I +repeat, the critics who accuse me of sacrificing nature to logic +are so sophisticated by their profession that to them logic is +nature, and nature absurdity. + +Many friendly critics are too little skilled in social questions +and moral discussions to be able to conceive that respectable +gentlemen like themselves, who would instantly call the police to +remove Mrs Warren if she ventured to canvass them personally, +could possibly be in any way responsible for her proceedings. +They remonstrate sincerely, asking me what good such painful +exposures can possibly do. They might as well ask what good Lord +Shaftesbury did by devoting his life to the exposure of evils (by +no means yet remedied) compared to which the worst things brought +into view or even into surmise by this play are trifles. The +good of mentioning them is that you make people so extremely +uncomfortable about them that they finally stop blaming "human +nature" for them, and begin to support measures for their reform. + +Can anything be more absurd than the copy of The Echo which +contains a notice of the performance of my play? It is edited by +a gentleman who, having devoted his life to work of the +Shaftesbury type, exposes social evils and clamors for their +reform in every column except one; and that one is occupied by +the declaration of the paper's kindly theatre critic, that the +performance left him "wondering what useful purpose the play was +intended to serve." The balance has to be redressed by the more +fashionable papers, which usually combine capable art criticism +with West-End solecism on politics and sociology. It is very +noteworthy, however, on comparing the press explosion produced by +Mrs Warren's Profession in 1902 with that produced by Widowers' +Houses about ten years earlier, that whereas in 1892 the facts +were frantically denied and the persons of the drama flouted as +monsters of wickedness, in 1902 the facts are admitted and the +characters recognized, though it is suggested that this is +exactly why no gentleman should mention them in public. Only one +writer has ventured to imply this time that the poverty mentioned +by Mrs Warren has since been quietly relieved, and need not have +been dragged back to the footlights. I compliment him on his +splendid mendacity, in which he is unsupported, save by a little +plea in a theatrical paper which is innocent enough to think that +ten guineas a year with board and lodging is an impossibly low +wage for a barmaid. It goes on to cite Mr Charles Booth as +having testified that there are many laborers' wives who are +happy and contented on eighteen shillings a week. But I can go +further than that myself. I have seen an Oxford agricultural +laborer's wife looking cheerful on eight shillings a week; but +that does not console me for the fact that agriculture in England +is a ruined industry. If poverty does not matter as long as it +is contented, then crime does not matter as long as it is +unscrupulous. The truth is that it is only then that it does +matter most desperately. Many persons are more comfortable when +they are dirty than when they are clean; but that does not +recommend dirt as a national policy. + +Here I must for the present break off my arduous work of +educating the Press. We shall resume our studies later on; but +just now I am tired of playing the preceptor; and the eager +thirst of my pupils for improvement does not console me for the +slowness of their progress. Besides, I must reserve space to +gratify my own vanity and do justice to the six artists who acted +my play, by placing on record the hitherto unchronicled success +of the first representation. It is not often that an author, +after a couple of hours of those rare alternations of excitement +and intensely attentive silence which only occur in the theatre +when actors and audience are reacting on one another to the +utmost, is able to step on the stage and apply the strong word +genius to the representation with the certainty of eliciting an +instant and overwhelming assent from the audience. That was my +good fortune on the afternoon of Sunday, the fifth of January +last. I was certainly extremely fortunate in my interpreters in +the enterprise, and that not alone in respect of their artistic +talent; for had it not been for their superhuman patience, their +imperturbable good humor and good fellowship, there could have +been no performance. The terror of the Censor's power gave us +trouble enough to break up any ordinary commercial enterprise. +Managers promised and even engaged their theatres to us after the +most explicit warnings that the play was unlicensed, and at the +last moment suddenly realized that Mr Redford had their +livelihoods in the hollow of his hand, and backed out. Over and +over again the date and place were fixed and the tickets printed, +only to be canceled, until at last the desperate and overworked +manager of the Stage Society could only laugh, as criminals +broken on the wheel used to laugh at the second stroke. We +rehearsed under great difficulties. Christmas pieces and plays +for the new year were being produced in all directions; and my +six actor colleagues were busy people, with engagements in these +pieces in addition to their current professional work every +night. On several raw winter days stages for rehearsal were +unattainable even by the most distinguished applicants; and we +shared corridors and saloons with them whilst the stage was given +over to children in training for Boxing night. At last we had to +rehearse at an hour at which no actor or actress has been out of +bed within the memory of man; and we sardonically congratulated +one another every morning on our rosy matutinal looks and the +improvement wrought by our early rising in our health and +characters. And all this, please observe, for a society without +treasury or commercial prestige, for a play which was being +denounced in advance as unmentionable, for an author without +influence at the fashionable theatres! I victoriously challenge +the West End managers to get as much done for interested motives, +if they can. + +Three causes made the production the most notable that has fallen +to my lot. First, the veto of the Censor, which put the +supporters of the play on their mettle. Second, the chivalry of +the Stage Society, which, in spite of my urgent advice to the +contrary, and my demonstration of the difficulties, dangers, and +expenses the enterprise would cost, put my discouragements to +shame and resolved to give battle at all costs to the attempt of +the Censorship to suppress the play. Third, the artistic spirit +of the actors, who made the play their own and carried it through +triumphantly in spite of a series of disappointments and +annoyances much more trying to the dramatic temperament than mere +difficulties. + +The acting, too, required courage and character as well as skill +and intelligence. The veto of the Censor introduced quite a +novel element of moral responsibility into the undertaking. And +the characters were very unusual on the English stage. The +younger heroine is, like her mother, an Englishwoman to the +backbone, and not, like the heroines of our fashionable drama, a +prima donna of Italian origin. Consequently she was sure to be +denounced as unnatural and undramatic by the critics. The most +vicious man in the play is not in the least a stage villain; +indeed, he regards his own moral character with the sincere +complacency of a hero of melodrama. The amiable devotee of +romance and beauty is shewn at an age which brings out the +futilization which these worships are apt to produce if they are +made the staple of life instead of the sauce. The attitude of +the clever young people to their elders is faithfully represented +as one of pitiless ridicule and unsympathetic criticism, and +forms a spectacle incredible to those who, when young, were not +cleverer than their nearest elders, and painful to those +sentimental parents who shrink from the cruelty of youth, which +pardons nothing because it knows nothing. In short, the +characters and their relations are of a kind that the routineer +critic has not yet learned to place; so that their +misunderstanding was a foregone conclusion. Nevertheless, there +was no hesitation behind the curtain. When it went up at last, a +stage much too small for the company was revealed to an +auditorium much too small for the audience. But the players, +though it was impossible for them to forget their own discomfort, +at once made the spectators forget theirs. It certainly was a +model audience, responsive from the first line to the last; and +it got no less than it deserved in return. + +I grieve to add that the second performance, given for the +edification of the London Press and of those members of the Stage +Society who cannot attend the Sunday performances, was a less +inspiriting one than the first. A solid phalanx of theatre-weary +journalists in an afternoon humor, most of them committed to +irreconcilable disparagement of problem plays, and all of them +bound by etiquette to be as undemonstrative as possible, is not +exactly the sort of audience that rises at the performers and +cures them of the inevitable reaction after an excitingly +successful first night. The artist nature is a sensitive and +therefore a vindictive one; and masterful players have a way with +recalcitrant audiences of rubbing a play into them instead of +delighting them with it. I should describe the second +performance of Mrs Warren's Profession, especially as to its +earlier stages, as decidedly a rubbed-in one. The rubbing was no +doubt salutary; but it must have hurt some of the thinner skins. +The charm of the lighter passages fled; and the strong scenes, +though they again carried everything before them, yet discharged +that duty in a grim fashion, doing execution on the enemy rather +than moving them to repentance and confession. Still, to those +who had not seen the first performance, the effect was +sufficiently impressive; and they had the advantage of witnessing +a fresh development in Mrs Warren, who, artistically jealous, as +I took it, of the overwhelming effect of the end of the second +act on the previous day, threw herself into the fourth act in +quite a new way, and achieved the apparently impossible feat of +surpassing herself. The compliments paid to Miss Fanny Brough by +the critics, eulogistic as they are, are the compliments of men +three-fourths duped as Partridge was duped by Garrick. By much +of her acting they were so completely taken in that they did not +recognize it as acting at all. Indeed, none of the six players +quite escaped this consequence of their own thoroughness. There +was a distinct tendency among the less experienced critics to +complain of their sentiments and behavior. Naturally, the author +does not share that grievance. + +PICCARD'S COTTAGE, JANUARY 1902. + + + +[Mrs Warren's Profession was performed for the first time in the +theatre of the New Lyric Club, London, on the 5th and 6th January +1902, with Madge McIntosh as Vivie, Julius Knight as Praed, Fanny +Brough as Mrs Warren, Charles Goodhart as Crofts, Harley +Granville-Barker as Frank, and Cosmo Stuart as the Reverend +Samuel Gardner.] + + + +ACT I + + +[Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a +hill a little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, +the cottage is seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with +its thatched roof and porch, and a large latticed window to the +left of the porch. A paling completely shuts in the garden, +except for a gate on the right. The common rises uphill beyond +the paling to the sky line. Some folded canvas garden chairs are +leaning against the side bench in the porch. A lady's bicycle is +propped against the wall, under the window. A little to the +right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big +canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the +hammock, in which a young lady is reading and making notes, her +head towards the cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front +of the hammock, and within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen +chair, with a pile of serious-looking books and a supply of +writing paper on it.] + +[A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind +the cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the +artist about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and +clean-shaven except for a moustache, with an eager susceptible +face and very amiable and considerate manners. He has silky +black hair, with waves of grey and white in it. His eyebrows are +white, his moustache black. He seems not certain of his way. He +looks over the palings; takes stock of the place; and sees the +young lady.] + +THE GENTLEMAN [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you +direct me to Hindhead View--Mrs Alison's? + +THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs Alison's. +[She resumes her work]. + +THE GENTLEMAN. Indeed! Perhaps--may I ask are you Miss Vivie +Warren? + +THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good +look at him] Yes. + +THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I'm afraid I appear +intrusive. My name is Praed. [Vivie at once throws her books +upon the chair, and gets out of the hammock]. Oh, pray don't let +me disturb you. + +VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr +Praed. [He comes in]. Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand +and takes his with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an +attractive specimen of the sensible, able, highly-educated young +middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22. Prompt, strong, confident, +self-possessed. Plain business-like dress, but not dowdy. She +wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen and a paper +knife among its pendants]. + +PRAED. Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate +with a vigorous slam. He passes in to the middle of the garden, +exercising his fingers, which are slightly numbed by her +greeting]. Has your mother arrived? + +VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming? + +PRAED [surprised] Didn't you expect us? + +VIVIE. No. + +PRAED. Now, goodness me, I hope Ive not mistaken the day. That +would be just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she +was to come down from London and that I was to come over from +Horsham to be introduced to you. + +VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? Hm! My mother has rather a +trick of taking me by surprise--to see how I behave myself while +she's away, I suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much +by surprise one of these days, if she makes arrangements that +concern me without consulting me beforehand. She hasnt come. + +PRAED [embarrassed] I'm really very sorry. + +VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It's not your fault, Mr +Praed, is it? And I'm very glad youve come. You are the only +one of my mother's friends I have ever asked her to bring to see +me. + +PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good +of you, Miss Warren! + +VIVIE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here +and talk? + +PRAED. It will be nicer out here, dont you think? + +VIVIE. Then I'll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch +for a garden chair]. + +PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands +on the chair]. + +VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers; theyre +rather dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair +with the books on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings +the chair forward with one swing]. + +PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now d o let me take +that hard chair. I like hard chairs. + +VIVIE. So do I. Sit down, Mr Praed. [This invitation she gives +with a genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly +striking her as a sign of weakness of character on his part. But +he does not immediately obey]. + +PRAED. By the way, though, hadnt we better go to the station to +meet your mother? + +VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way. + +PRAED [disconcerted] Er--I suppose she does [he sits down]. + +VIVIE. Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope +you are disposed to be friends with me. + +PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my d e a r Miss Warren; thank +you. Dear me! I'm so glad your mother hasnt spoilt you! + +VIVIE. How? + +PRAED. Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear +Miss Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils +the relations between parent and child; even between mother and +daughter. Now I was always afraid that your mother would strain +her authority to make you very conventional. It's such a relief +to find that she hasnt. + +VIVIE. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally? + +PRAED. Oh no: oh dear no. At least, not conventionally +unconventionally, you understand. [She nods and sits down. He +goes on, with a cordial outburst] But it was so charming of you +to say that you were disposed to be friends with me! You modern +young ladies are splendid: perfectly splendid! + +VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment +as to the quality of his brains and character]. + +PRAED. When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of +each other: there was no good fellowship. Nothing real. Only +gallantry copied out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it +could be. Maidenly reserve! gentlemanly chivalry! always saying +no when you meant yes! simple purgatory for shy and sincere +souls. + +VIVIE. Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of +time. Especially women's time. + +PRAED. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are +improving. Do you know, I have been in a positive state of +excitement about meeting you ever since your magnificent +achievements at Cambridge: a thing unheard of in my day. It was +perfectly splendid, your tieing with the third wrangler. Just +the right place, you know. The first wrangler is always a +dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the length +of a disease. + +VIVIE. It doesnt pay. I wouldnt do it again for the same money. + +PRAED [aghast] The same money! + +VIVIE. Yes. Fifty pounds. Perhaps you dont know how it was. +Mrs Latham, my tutor at Newnham, told my mother that I could +distinguish myself in the mathematical tripos if I went in for it +in earnest. The papers were full just then of Phillipa Summers +beating the senior wrangler. You remember about it, of course. + +PRAED [shakes his head energetically] !!! + +VIVIE. Well, anyhow, she did; and nothing would please my mother +but that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was +not worth my while to face the grind since I was not going in for +teaching; but I offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts +for fifty pounds. She closed with me at that, after a little +grumbling; and I was better than my bargain. But I wouldnt do it +again for that. Two hundred pounds would have been nearer the +mark. + +PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! Thats a very practical way of +looking at it. + +VIVIE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical person? + +PRAED. But surely it's practical to consider not only the work +these honors cost, but also the culture they bring. + +VIVIE. Culture! My dear Mr Praed: do you know what the +mathematical tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind for six +to eight hours a day at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics. + +I'm supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing +except the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for +engineers, electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I +know next to nothing about engineering or electricity or +insurance. I dont even know arithmetic well. Outside +mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping, cycling, and walking, +I'm a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could possibly be +who hadnt gone in for the tripos. + +PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I +knew it! I felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes +womanhood beautiful! + +VIVIE. I dont object to it on that score in the least. I shall +turn it to very good account, I assure you. + +PRAED. Pooh! In what way? + +VIVIE. I shall set up chambers in the City, and work at +actuarial calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I +shall do some law, with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the +time. Ive come down here by myself to read law: not for a +holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate holidays. + +PRAED. You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, +no beauty in your life? + +VIVIE. I dont care for either, I assure you. + +PRAED. You cant mean that. + +VIVIE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. +When I'm tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a +little whisky, and a novel with a good detective story in it. + +PRAED [rising in a frenzy of repudiation] I dont believe it. I +am an artist; and I cant believe it: I refuse to believe it. +It's only that you havnt discovered yet what a wonderful world +art can open up to you. + +VIVIE. Yes I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with +Honoria Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of +sightseeing together; but I was really at Honoria's chambers in +Chancery Lane every day, working away at actuarial calculations +for her, and helping her as well as a greenhorn could. In the +evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt of going out +except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my life. + +I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business +without a fee in the bargain. + +PRAED. But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call +that discovering art? + +VIVIE. Wait a bit. That wasnt the beginning. I went up to town +on an invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn's Avenue: +one of the girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the +National Gallery-- + +PRAED [approving] Ah!! [He sits down, much relieved]. + +VIVIE [continuing] --to the Opera-- + +PRAED [still more pleased] Good! + +VIVIE. --and to a concert where the band played all the evening: +Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldnt go through that +experience again for anything you could offer me. I held out for +civility's sake until the third day; and then I said, plump out, +that I couldnt stand any more of it, and went off to Chancery +Lane. N o w you know the sort of perfectly splendid modern young +lady I am. How do you think I shall get on with my mother? + +PRAED [startled] Well, I hope--er-- + +VIVIE. It's not so much what you hope as what you believe, that +I want to know. + +PRAED. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little +disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part, you know: I +dont mean that. But you are so different from her ideal. + +VIVIE. Her what?! + +PRAED. Her ideal. + +VIVIE. Do you mean her ideal of ME? + +PRAED. Yes. + +VIVIE. What on earth is it like? + +PRAED. Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people +who are dissatisfied with their own bringing-up generally think +that the world would be all right if everybody were to be brought +up quite differently. Now your mother's life has been--er--I +suppose you know-- + +VIVIE. Dont suppose anything, Mr Praed. I hardly know my +mother. Since I was a child I have lived in England, at school +or at college, or with people paid to take charge of me. I have +been boarded out all my life. My mother has lived in Brussels or +Vienna and never let me go to her. I only see her when she +visits England for a few days. I dont complain: it's been very +pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there has +always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But dont +imagine I know anything about my mother. I know far less than +you do. + +PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case-- [He stops, quite at a +loss. Then, with a forced attempt at gaiety] But what nonsense +we are talking! Of course you and your mother will get on +capitally. [He rises, and looks abroad at the view]. What a +charming little place you have here! + +VIVIE [unmoved] Rather a violent change of subject, Mr Praed. +Why wont my mother's life bear being talked about? + +PRAED. Oh, you mustnt say that. Isnt it natural that I should +have a certain delicacy in talking to my old friend's daughter +about her behind her back? You and she will have plenty of +opportunity of talking about it when she comes. + +VIVIE. No: s h e wont talk about it either. [Rising] However, I +daresay you have good reasons for telling me nothing. Only, mind +this, Mr Praed, I expect there will be a battle royal when my +mother hears of my Chancery Lane project. + +PRAED [ruefully] I'm afraid there will. + +VIVIE. Well, I shall win because I want nothing but my fare to +London to start there to-morrow earning my own living by +devilling for Honoria. Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; +and it seems she has. I shall use that advantage over her if +necessary. + +PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh no! No, pray. Youd not do such a +thing. + +VIVIE. Then tell me why not. + +PRAED. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She +smiles at his sentimentality]. Besides, you may be too bold. +Your mother is not to be trifled with when she's angry. + +VIVIE. You cant frighten me, Mr Praed. In that month at +Chancery Lane I had opportunities of taking the measure of one or +two women v e r y like my mother. You may back me to win. But +if I hit harder in my ignorance than I need, remember it is you +who refuse to enlighten me. Now, let us drop the subject. [She +takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock with the same +vigorous swing as before]. + +PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I +had better tell you. It's very difficult; but-- + +[Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the gate. Mrs Warren +is between 40 and 50, formerly pretty, showily dressed in a +brilliant hat and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and +flanked by fashionable sleeves. Rather spoilt and domineering, +and decidedly vulgar, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly +presentable old blackguard of a woman.] + +[Crofts is a tall powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably +dressed in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than +might be expected from his strong frame. Clean-shaven bulldog +jaws, large flat ears, and thick neck: gentlemanly combination of +the most brutal types of city man, sporting man, and man about +town.] + +VIVIE. Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden] +How do, mater? Mr Praed's been here this half hour, waiting for +you. + +MRS WARREN. Well, if youve been waiting, Praddy, it's your own +fault: I thought youd have had the gumption to know I was coming +by the 3.10 train. Vivie: put your hat on, dear: youll get +sunburnt. Oh, I forgot to introduce you. Sir George Crofts: my +little Vivie. + +[Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly manner. She +nods, but makes no motion to shake hands.] + +CROFTS. May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by +reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends? + +VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like. + +[She takes his tenderly proferred hand and gives it a squeeze +that makes him open his eyes; then turns away, and says to her +mother] Will you come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? +[She goes into the porch for the chairs]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, George, what do you think of her? + +CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands +with her, Praed? + +PRAED. Yes: it will pass off presently. + +CROFTS. I hope so. [Vivie reappears with two more chairs. He +hurries to her assistance]. Allow me. + +MRS WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the +chairs, dear. + +VIVIE [pitching them into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her +hands and turns to Mrs Warren]. Youd like some tea, wouldnt you? + +MRS WARREN [sitting in Praed's chair and fanning herself] I'm +dying for a drop to drink. + +VIVIE. I'll see about it. [She goes into the cottage]. + +[Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant +it by Mrs Warren, on her left. He throws the other on the grass +and sits down, looking dejected and rather foolish, with the +handle of his stick in his mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, +fidgets around the garden on their right.] + +MRS WARREN [to Praed, looking at Crofts] Just look at him, +Praddy: he looks cheerful, dont he? He's been worrying my life +out these three years to have that little girl of mine shewn to +him; and now that Ive done it, he's quite out of countenance. +[Briskly] Come! sit up, George; and take your stick out of your +mouth. [Crofts sulkily obeys]. + +PRAED. I think, you know--if you dont mind my saying so--that we +had better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little +girl. You see she has really distinguished herself; and I'm not +sure, from what I have seen of her, that she is not older than +any of us. + +MRS WARREN [greatly amused] Only listen to him, George! Older +than any of us! Well she h a s been stuffing you nicely with her +importance. + +PRAED. But young people are particularly sensitive about being +treated in that way. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and young people have to get all that nonsense +taken out of them, and good deal more besides. Dont you +interfere, Praddy: I know how to treat my own child as well as +you do. [Praed, with a grave shake of his head, walks up the +garden with his hands behind his back. Mrs Warren pretends to +laugh, but looks after him with perceptible concern. Then, she +whispers to Crofts] Whats the matter with him? What does he take +it like that for? + +CROFTS [morosely] Youre afraid of Praed. + +MRS WARREN. What! Me! Afraid of dear old Praddy! Why, a fly +wouldnt be afraid of him. + +CROFTS. Y o u r e afraid of him. + +MRS WARREN [angry] I'll trouble you to mind your own business, +and not try any of your sulks on me. I'm not afraid of y o u, +anyhow. If you cant make yourself agreeable, youd better go +home. [She gets up, and, turning her back on him, finds herself +face to face with Praed]. Come, Praddy, I know it was only your +tender-heartedness. Youre afraid I'll bully her. + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: you think I'm offended. Dont imagine +that: pray dont. But you know I often notice things that escape +you; and though you never take my advice, you sometimes admit +afterwards that you ought to have taken it. + +MRS WARREN. Well, what do you notice now? + +PRAED. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray, Kitty, treat her +with every respect. + +MRS WARREN [with genuine amazement] Respect! Treat my own +daughter with respect! What next, pray! + +VIVIE [appearing at the cottage door and calling to Mrs Warren] +Mother: will you come to my room before tea? + +MRS WARREN. Yes, dearie. [She laughs indulgently at Praed's +gravity, and pats him on the cheek as she passes him on her way +to the porch]. Dont be cross, Praddy. [She follows Vivie into +the cottage]. + +CROFTS [furtively] I say, Praed. + +PRAED. Yes. + +CROFTS. I want to ask you a rather particular question. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He takes Mrs Warren's chair and sits close +to Crofts]. + +CROFTS. Thats right: they might hear us from the window. Look +here: did Kitty every tell you who that girl's father is? + +PRAED. Never. + +CROFTS. Have you any suspicion of who it might be? + +PRAED. None. + +CROFTS [not believing him] I know, of course, that you perhaps +might feel bound not to tell if she had said anything to you. +But it's very awkward to be uncertain about it now that we shall +be meeting the girl every day. We dont exactly know how we ought +to feel towards her. + +PRAED. What difference can that make? We take her on her own +merits. What does it matter who her father was? + +CROFTS [suspiciously] Then you know who he was? + +PRAED [with a touch of temper] I said no just now. Did you not +hear me? + +CROFTS. Look here, Praed. I ask you as a particular favor. If +you d o know [movement of protest from Praed] --I only say, if +you know, you might at least set my mind at rest about her. The +fact is, I fell attracted. + +PRAED [sternly] What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Oh, dont be alarmed: it's quite an innocent feeling. +Thats what puzzles me about it. Why, for all I know, _I_ might +be her father. + +PRAED. You! Impossible! + +CROFTS [catching him up cunningly] You know for certain that I'm +not? + +PRAED. I know nothing about it, I tell you, any more than you. +But really, Crofts--oh no, it's out of the question. Theres not +the least resemblance. + +CROFTS. As to that, theres no resemblance between her and her +mother that I can see. I suppose she's not y o u r daughter, is +she? + +PRAED [rising indignantly] Really, Crofts--! + +CROFTS. No offence, Praed. Quite allowable as between two men +of the world. + +PRAED [recovering himself with an effort and speaking gently and +gravely] Now listen to me, my dear Crofts. [He sits down again]. + +I have nothing to do with that side of Mrs Warren's life, and +never had. She has never spoken to me about it; and of course I +have never spoken to her about it. Your delicacy will tell you +that a handsome woman needs some friends who are not--well, not +on that footing with her. The effect of her own beauty would +become a torment to her if she could not escape from it +occasionally. You are probably on much more confidential terms +with Kitty than I am. Surely you can ask her the question +yourself. + +CROFTS. I h a v e asked her, often enough. But she's so +determined to keep the child all to herself that she would deny +that it ever had a father if she could. [Rising] I'm thoroughly +uncomfortable about it, Praed. + +PRAED [rising also] Well, as you are, at all events, old enough +to be her father, I dont mind agreeing that we both regard Miss +Vivie in a parental way, as a young girl who we are bound to +protect and help. What do you say? + +CROFTS [aggressively] I'm no older than you, if you come to that. + +PRAED. Yes you are, my dear fellow: you were born old. I was +born a boy: Ive never been able to feel the assurance of a grown- +up man in my life. [He folds his chair and carries it to the +porch]. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within the cottage] Prad-dee! George! +Tea-ea-ea-ea! + +CROFTS [hastily] She's calling us. [He hurries in]. + +[Praed shakes his head bodingly, and is following Crofts when he +is hailed by a young gentleman who has just appeared on the +common, and is making for the gate. He is pleasant, pretty, +smartly dressed, cleverly good-for-nothing, not long turned 20, +with a charming voice and agreeably disrespectful manners. He +carries a light sporting magazine rifle.] + +THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Hallo! Praed! + +PRAED. Why, Frank Gardner! [Frank comes in and shakes hands +cordially]. What on earth are you doing here? + +FRANK. Staying with my father. + +PRAED. The Roman father? + +FRANK. He's rector here. I'm living with my people this autumn +for the sake of economy. Things came to a crisis in July: the +Roman father had to pay my debts. He's stony broke in +consequence; and so am I. What are you up to in these parts? do +you know the people here? + +PRAED. Yes: I'm spending the day with a Miss Warren. + +FRANK [enthusiastically] What! Do you know Vivie? Isnt she a +jolly girl? I'm teaching her to shoot with this [putting down +the rifle]. I'm so glad she knows you: youre just the sort of +fellow she ought to know. [He smiles, and raises the charming +voice almost to a singing tone as he exclaims] It's e v e r so +jolly to find you here, Praed. + +PRAED. I'm an old friend of her mother. Mrs Warren brought me +over to make her daughter's acquaintance. + +FRANK. The mother! Is s h e here? + +PRAED. Yes: inside, at tea. + +MRS WARREN [calling from within] Prad-dee-ee-ee-eee! The tea- +cake'll be cold. + +PRAED [calling] Yes, Mrs Warren. In a moment. Ive just met a +friend here. + +MRS WARREN. A what? + +PRAED [louder] A friend. + +MRS WARREN. Bring him in. + +PRAED. All right. [To Frank] Will you accept the invitation? + +FRANK [incredulous, but immensely amused] Is that Vivie's mother? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK. By Jove! What a lark! Do you think she'll like me? + +PRAED. Ive no doubt youll make yourself popular, as usual. Come +in and try [moving towards the house]. + +FRANK. Stop a bit. [Seriously] I want to take you into my +confidence. + +PRAED. Pray dont. It's only some fresh folly, like the barmaid +at Redhill. + +FRANK. It's ever so much more serious than that. You say youve +only just met Vivie for the first time? + +PRAED. Yes. + +FRANK [rhapsodically] Then you can have no idea what a girl she +is. Such character! Such sense! And her cleverness! Oh, my +eye, Praed, but I can tell you she is clever! And--need I add?-- +she loves me. + +CROFTS [putting his head out of the window] I say, Praed: what +are you about? Do come along. [He disappears]. + +FRANK. Hallo! Sort of chap that would take a prize at a dog +show, aint he? Who's he? + +PRAED. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs Warren's. I +think we had better come in. + +[On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from +the gate. Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over +it.] + +THE CLERGYMAN [calling] Frank! + +FRANK. Hallo! [To Praed] The Roman father. [To the clergyman] +Yes, gov'nor: all right: presently. [To Praed] Look here, Praed: +youd better go in to tea. I'll join you directly. + +PRAED. Very good. [He goes into the cottage]. + +[The clergyman remains outside the gate, with his hands on the +top of it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the +Established Church, is over 50. Externally he is pretentious, +booming, noisy, important. Really he is that obsolescent +phenomenon the fool of the family dumped on the Church by his +father the patron, clamorously asserting himself as father and +clergyman without being able to command respect in either +capacity.] + +REV. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask? + +FRANK. Oh, it's all right, gov'nor! Come in. + +REV. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering. + +FRANK. It's all right. It's Miss Warren's. + +REV. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. + +FRANK. Of course not: she's a third wrangler. Ever so +intellectual. Took a higher degree than you did; so why should +she go to hear you preach? + +REV. S. Dont be disrespectful, sir. + +FRANK. Oh, it dont matter: nobody hears us. Come in. [He opens +the gate, unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the +garden]. I want to introduce you to her. Do you remember the +advice you gave me last July, gov'nor? + +REV. S. [severely] Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness +and flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession +and live on it and not upon me. + +FRANK. No: thats what you thought of afterwards. What you +actually said was that since I had neither brains nor money, I'd +better turn my good looks to account by marrying someone with +both. Well, look here. Miss Warren has brains: you cant deny +that. + +REV. S. Brains are not everything. + +FRANK. No, of course not: theres the money-- + +REV. S. [interrupting him austerely] I was not thinking of money, +sir. I was speaking of higher things. Social position, for +instance. + +FRANK. I dont care a rap about that. + +REV. S. But I do, sir. + +FRANK. Well, nobody wants y o u to marry her. Anyhow, she has +what amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as +much money as she wants. + +REV. S. [sinking into a feeble vein of humor] I greatly doubt +whether she has as much money as y o u will want. + +FRANK. Oh, come: I havnt been so very extravagant. I live ever +so quietly; I dont drink; I dont bet much; and I never go +regularly to the razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age. + +REV. S. [booming hollowly] Silence, sir. + +FRANK. Well, you told me yourself, when I was making every such +an ass of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once +offered a woman fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her +when-- + +REV. S. [terrified] Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven's sake! [He +looks round apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he +plucks up courage to boom again, but more subduedly]. You are +taking an ungentlemanly advantage of what I confided to you for +your own good, to save you from an error you would have repented +all your life long. Take warning by your father's follies, sir; +and dont make them an excuse for your own. + +FRANK. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and +his letters? + +REV. S. No, sir; and I dont want to hear it. + +FRANK. The old Iron Duke didnt throw away fifty pounds: not he. +He just wrote: "Dear Jenny: publish and be damned! Yours +affectionately, Wellington." Thats what you should have done. + +REV. S. [piteously] Frank, my boy,: when I wrote those letters I +put myself into that woman's power. When I told you about them I +put myself, to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. +She refused my money with these words, which I shall never +forget. "Knowledge is power" she said; "and I never sell power." + +Thats more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of +her power or caused me a moment's uneasiness. You are behaving +worse to me than she did, Frank. + +FRANK. Oh yes I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way +you preach at me every day? + +REV. S. [wounded almost to tears] I leave you, sir. You are +incorrigible. [He turns towards the gate]. + +FRANK [utterly unmoved] Tell them I shant be home to tea, will +you, gov'nor, like a good fellow? [He moves towards the cottage +door and is met by Praed and Vivie coming out]. + +VIVIE [to Frank] Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to +meet him. + +FRANK. Certainly. [Calling after his father] Gov'nor. Youre +wanted. [The parson turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his +hat. Praed crosses the garden to the opposite side, beaming in +anticipation of civilities]. My father: Miss Warren. + +VIVIE [going to the clergyman and shaking his hand] Very glad to +see you here, Mr Gardner. [Calling to the cottage] Mother: come +along: youre wanted. + +[Mrs Warren appears on the threshold, and is immediately +transfixed, recognizing the clergyman.] + +VIVIE [continuing] Let me introduce-- + +MRS WARREN [swooping on the Reverend Samuel] Why it's Sam +Gardner, gone into the Church! Well, I never! Dont you know us, +Sam? This is George Crofts, as large as life and twice as +natural. Dont you remember me? + +REV. S. [very red] I really--er-- + +MRS WARREN. Of course you do. Why, I have a whole album of your +letters still: I came across them only the other day. + +REV. S. [miserably confused] Miss Vavasour, I believe. + +MRS WARREN [correcting him quickly in a loud whisper] Tch! +Nonsense! Mrs Warren: dont you see my daughter there? + + + +ACT II + + +[Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward from +within instead of westward from without, the latticed window, +with its curtains drawn, is now seen in the middle of the front +wall of the cottage, with the porch door to the left of it. In +the left-hand side wall is the door leading to the kitchen. +Farther back against the same wall is a dresser with a candle and +matches on it, and Frank's rifle standing beside them, with the +barrel resting in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands +with a lighted lamp on it. Vivie's books and writing materials +are on a table to the right of the window, against the wall. The +fireplace is on the right, with a settle: there is no fire. Two +of the chairs are set right and left of the table.] + +[The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night without; +and Mrs Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl borrowed from +Vivie, enters, followed by Frank, who throws his cap on the +window seat. She has had enough of walking, and gives a gasp of +relief as she unpins her hat; takes it off; sticks the pin +through the crown; and puts it on the table.] + +MRS WARREN. O Lord! I dont know which is the worst of the +country, the walking or the sitting at home with nothing to do. +I could do with a whisky and soda now very well, if only they had +such a things in this place. + +FRANK. Perhaps Vivie's got some. + +MRS WARREN. Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing +with such things! Never mind: it dont matter. I wonder how she +passes her time here! I'd a good deal rather be in Vienna. + +FRANK. Let me take you there. [He helps her to take off her +shawl, gallantly giving her shoulders a very perceptible squeeze +as he does so]. + +MRS WARREN. Ah! would you? I'm beginning to think youre a chip +of the old block. + +FRANK. Like the gov'nor, eh? [He hangs the shawl on the nearest +chair, and sits down]. + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind. What do you know about such things? + +Youre only a boy. [She goes to the hearth to be farther from +temptation]. + +FRANK. Do come to Vienna with me? It'd be ever such larks. + +MRS WARREN. No, thank you. Vienna is no place for you--at least +not until youre a little older. [She nods at him to emphasize +this piece of advice. He makes a mock-piteous face, belied by +his laughing eyes. She looks at him; then comes back to him]. +Now, look here, little boy [taking his face in her hands and +turning it up to her]: I know you through and through by your +likeness to your father, better than you know yourself. Dont you +go taking any silly ideas into your head about me. Do you hear? + +FRANK [gallantly wooing her with his voice] Cant help it, my dear +Mrs Warren: it runs in the family. + +[She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty laughing +upturned face of a moment, tempted. At last she kisses him, and +immediately turns away, out of patience with herself.] + +MRS WARREN. There! I shouldnt have done that. I a m wicked. +Never you mind, my dear: it's only a motherly kiss. Go and make +love to Vivie. + +FRANK. So I have. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him with a sharp note of alarm in her +voice] What! + +FRANK. Vivie and I are ever such chums. + +MRS WARREN. What do you mean? Now see here: I wont have any +young scamp tampering with my little girl. Do you hear? I wont +have it. + +FRANK [quite unabashed] My dear Mrs Warren: dont you be alarmed. +My intentions are honorable: ever so honorable; and your little +girl is jolly well able to take care of herself. She dont need +looking after half so much as her mother. She aint so handsome, +you know. + +MRS WARREN [taken aback by his assurance] Well, you have got a +nice healthy two inches of cheek all over you. I dont know where +you got it. Not from your father, anyhow. + +CROFTS [in the garden] The gipsies, I suppose? + +REV. S. [replying] The broomsquires are far worse. + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] S-sh! Remember! youve had your warning. + +[Crofts and the Reverend Samuel Gardner come in from the garden, +the clergyman continuing his conversation as he enters.] + +REV. S. The perjury at the Winchester assizes is deplorable. + +MRS WARREN. Well? what became of you two? And wheres Praddy and +Vivie? + +CROFTS [putting his hat on the settle and his stick in the +chimney corner] They went up the hill. We went to the village. +I wanted a drink. [He sits down on the settle, putting his legs +up along the seat]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, she oughtnt to go off like that without +telling me. [To Frank] Get your father a chair, Frank: where are +your manners? [Frank springs up and gracefully offers his father +his chair; then takes another from the wall and sits down at the +table, in the middle, with his father on his right and Mrs Warren +on his left]. George: where are you going to stay to-night? You +cant stay here. And whats Praddy going to do? + +CROFTS. Gardner'll put me up. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, no doubt youve taken care of yourself! But what +about Praddy? + +CROFTS. Dont know. I suppose he can sleep at the inn. + +MRS WARREN. Havnt you room for him, Sam? + +REV. S. Well--er--you see, as rector here, I am not free to do +as I like. Er--what is Mr Praed's social position? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, he's all right: he's an architect. What an old +stick-in-the-mud you are, Sam! + +FRANK. Yes, it's all right, gov'nor. He built that place down +in Wales for the Duke. Caernarvon Castle they call it. You must +have heard of it. [He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs +Warren, and regards his father blandly]. + +REV. S. Oh, in that case, of course we shall only be too happy. +I suppose he knows the Duke personally. + +FRANK. Oh, ever so intimately! We can stick him in Georgina's +old room. + +MRS WARREN. Well, thats settled. Now if those two would only +come in and let us have supper. Theyve no right to stay out +after dark like this. + +CROFTS [aggressively] What harm are they doing you? + +MRS WARREN. Well, harm or not, I dont like it. + +FRANK. Better not wait for them, Mrs Warren. Praed will stay +out as long as possible. He has never known before what it is to +stray over the heath on a summer night with my Vivie. + +CROFTS [sitting up in some consternation] I say, you know! Come! + +REV. S. [rising, startled out of his professional manner into +real force and sincerity] Frank, once and for all, it's out of +the question. Mrs Warren will tell you that it's not to be +thought of. + +CROFTS. Of course not. + +FRANK [with enchanting placidity] Is that so, Mrs Warren? + +MRS WARREN [reflectively] Well, Sam, I dont know. If the girl +wants to get married, no good can come of keeping her unmarried. + +REV. S. [astounded] But married to h i m!--your daughter to my +son! Only think: it's impossible. + +CROFTS. Of course it's impossible. Dont be a fool, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [nettled] Why not? Isnt my daughter good enough for +your son? + +REV. S. But surely, my dear Mrs Warren, you know the reasons-- + +MRS WARREN [defiantly] I know no reasons. If you know any, you +can tell them to the lad, or to the girl, or to your +congregation, if you like. + +REV. S. [collapsing helplessly into his chair] You know very well +that I couldnt tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will believe +me when I tell him there a r e reasons. + +FRANK. Quite right, Dad: he will. But has your boy's conduct +ever been influenced by your reasons? + +CROFTS. You cant marry her; and thats all about it. [He gets up +and stands on the hearth, with his back to the fireplace, +frowning determinedly]. + +MRS WARREN [turning on him sharply] What have you got to do with +it, pray? + +FRANK [with his prettiest lyrical cadence] Precisely what I was +going to ask, myself, in my own graceful fashion. + +CROFTS [to Mrs Warren] I suppose you dont want to marry the girl +to a man younger than herself and without either a profession or +twopence to keep her on. Ask Sam, if you dont believe me. [To +the parson] How much more money are you going to give him? + +REV. S. Not another penny. He has had his patrimony; and he +spent the last of it in July. [Mrs Warren's face falls]. + +CROFTS [watching her] There! I told you. [He resumes his place +on the settle and puts his legs on the seat again, as if the +matter were finally disposed of]. + +FRANK [plaintively] This is ever so mercenary. Do you suppose +Miss Warren's going to marry for money? If we love one another-- + +MRS WARREN. Thank you. Your love's a pretty cheap commodity, my +lad. If you have no means of keeping a wife, that settles it; +you cant have Vivie. + +FRANK [much amused] What do y o u say, gov'nor, eh? + +REV. S. I agree with Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. And good old Crofts has already expressed his opinion. + +CROFTS [turning angrily on his elbow] Look here: I want none of +your cheek. + +FRANK [pointedly] I'm e v e r so sorry to surprise you, Crofts; +but you allowed yourself the liberty of speaking to me like a +father a moment ago. One father is enough, thank you. + +CROFTS [contemptuously] Yah! [He turns away again]. + +FRANK [rising] Mrs Warren: I cannot give my Vivie up, even for +your sake. + +MRS WARREN [muttering] Young scamp! + +FRANK [continuing] And as you no doubt intend to hold out other +prospects to her, I shall lose no time in placing my case before +her. [They stare at him; and he begins to declaim gracefully] He +either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That +dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. + +[The cottage doors open whilst he is reciting; and Vivie and +Praed come in. He breaks off. Praed puts his hat on the +dresser. There is an immediate improvement in the company's +behavior. Crofts takes down his legs from the settle and pulls +himself together as Praed joins him at the fireplace. Mrs Warren +loses her ease of manner and takes refuge in querulousness.] + +MRS WARREN. Wherever have you been, Vivie? + +VIVIE [taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly on the +table] On the hill. + +MRS WARREN. Well, you shouldnt go off like that without letting +me know. How could I tell what had become of you? And night +coming on too! + +VIVIE [going to the door of the kitchen and opening it, ignoring +her mother] Now, about supper? [All rise except Mrs Warren] We +shall be rather crowded in here, I'm afraid. + +MRS WARREN. Did you hear what I said, Vivie? + +VIVIE [quietly] Yes, mother. [Reverting to the supper +difficulty] How many are we? [Counting] One, two, three, four, +five, six. Well, two will have to wait until the rest are done: +Mrs Alison has only plates and knives for four. + +PRAED. Oh, it doesnt matter about me. I-- + +VIVIE. You have had a long walk and are hungry, Mr Praed: you +shall have your supper at once. I can wait myself. I want one +person to wait with me. Frank: are you hungry? + +FRANK. Not the least in the world. Completely off my peck, in +fact. + +MRS WARREN [to Crofts] Neither are you, George. You can wait. + +CROFTS. Oh, hang it, Ive eaten nothing since tea-time. Cant Sam +do it? + +FRANK. Would you starve my poor father? + +REV. S. [testily] Allow me to speak for myself, sir. I am +perfectly willing to wait. + +VIVIE [decisively] There's no need. Only two are wanted. [She +opens the door of the kitchen]. Will you take my mother in, Mr +Gardner. [The parson takes Mrs Warren; and they pass into the +kitchen. Praed and Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly +disapprove of the arrangement, but do not know how to resist it. +Vivie stands at the door looking in at them]. Can you squeeze +past to that corner, Mr Praed: it's rather a tight fit. Take +care of your coat against the white-wash: that right. Now, are +you all comfortable? + +PRAED [within] Quite, thank you. + +MRS WARREN [within] Leave the door open, dearie. [Vivie frowns; +but Frank checks her with a gesture, and steals to the cottage +door, which he softly sets wide open]. Oh Lor, what a draught! +Youd better shut it, dear. + +[Vivie shuts it with a slam, and then, noting with disgust that +her mother's hat and shawl are lying about, takes them tidily to +the window seat, whilst Frank noiselessly shuts the cottage +door.] + +FRANK [exulting] Aha! Got rid of em. Well, Vivvums: what do you +think of my governor? + +VIVIE [preoccupied and serious] Ive hardly spoken to him. He +doesnt strike me as a particularly able person. + +FRANK. Well, you know, the old man is not altogether such a fool +as he looks. You see, he was shoved into the Church, rather; and +in trying to live up to it he makes a much bigger ass of himself +than he really is. I dont dislike him as much as you might +expect. He means well. How do you think youll get on with him? + +VIVIE [rather grimly] I dont think my future life will be much +concerned with him, or with any of that old circle of my +mother's, except perhaps Praed. [She sits down on the settle] +What do you think of my mother? + +FRANK. Really and truly? + +VIVIE. Yes, really and truly. + +FRANK. Well, she's ever so jolly. But she's rather a caution, +isnt she? And Crofts! Oh, my eye, Crofts! [He sits beside +her]. + +VIVIE. What a lot, Frank! + +FRANK. What a crew! + +VIVIE [with intense contempt for them] If I thought that _I_ was +like that--that I was going to be a waster, shifting along from +one meal to another with no purpose, and no character, and no +grit in me, I'd open an artery and bleed to death without one +moment's hesitation. + +FRANK. Oh no, you wouldnt. Why should they take any grind when +they can afford not to? I wish I had their luck. No: what I +object to is their form. It isnt the thing: it's slovenly, ever +so slovenly. + +VIVIE. Do you think your form will be any better when youre as +old as Crofts, if you dont work? + +FRANK. Of course I do. Ever so much better. Vivvums mustnt +lecture: her little boy's incorrigible. [He attempts to take her +face caressingly in his hands]. + +VIVIE [striking his hands down sharply] Off with you: Vivvums is +not in a humor for petting her little boy this evening. [She +rises and comes forward to the other side of the room]. + +FRANK [following her] How unkind! + +VIVIE [stamping at him] Be serious. I'm serious. + +FRANK. Good. Let us talk learnedly, Miss Warren: do you know +that all the most advanced thinkers are agreed that half the +diseases of modern civilization are due to starvation of the +affections of the young. Now, _I_-- + +VIVIE [cutting him short] You are very tiresome. [She opens the +inner door] Have you room for Frank there? He's complaining of +starvation. + +MRS WARREN [within] Of course there is [clatter of knives and +glasses as she moves the things on the table]. Here! theres room +now beside me. Come along, Mr Frank. + +FRANK. Her little boy will be ever so even with his Vivvums for +this. [He passes into the kitchen]. + +MRS WARREN [within] Here, Vivie: come on you too, child. You +must be famished. [She enters, followed by Crofts, who holds the +door open with marked deference. She goes out without looking at +him; and he shuts the door after her]. Why George, you cant be +done: youve eaten nothing. Is there anything wrong with you? + +CROFTS. Oh, all I wanted was a drink. [He thrusts his hands in +his pockets, and begins prowling about the room, restless and +sulky]. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I like enough to eat. But a little of that +cold beef and cheese and lettuce goes a long way. [With a sigh +of only half repletion she sits down lazily on the settle]. + +CROFTS. What do you go encouraging that young pup for? + +MRS WARREN [on the alert at once] Now see here, George: what are +you up to about that girl? Ive been watching your way of looking +at her. Remember: I know you and what your looks mean. + +CROFTS. Theres no harm in looking at her, is there? + +MRS WARREN. I'd put you out and pack you back to London pretty +soon if I saw any of your nonsense. My girl's little finger is +more to me than your whole body and soul. [Crofts receives this +with a sneering grin. Mrs Warren, flushing a little at her +failure to impose on him in the character of a theatrically +devoted mother, adds in a lower key] Make your mind easy: the +young pup has no more chance than you have. + +CROFTS. Maynt a man take an interest in a girl? + +MRS WARREN. Not a man like you. + +CROFTS. How old is she? + +MRS WARREN. Never you mind how old she is. + +CROFTS. Why do you make such a secret of it? + +MRS WARREN. Because I choose. + +CROFTS. Well, I'm not fifty yet; and my property is as good as +it ever was-- + +MRS [interrupting him] Yes; because youre as stingy as youre +vicious. + +CROFTS [continuing] And a baronet isnt to be picked up every day. + +No other man in my position would put up with you for a mother- +in-law. Why shouldnt she marry me? + +MRS WARREN. You! + +CROFTS. We three could live together quite comfortably. I'd die +before her and leave her a bouncing widow with plenty of money. +Why not? It's been growing in my mind all the time Ive been +walking with that fool inside there. + +MRS WARREN [revolted] Yes; it's the sort of thing that w o u l d +grow in your mind. + +[He halts in his prowling; and the two look at one another, she +steadfastly, with a sort of awe behind her contemptuous disgust: +he stealthily, with a carnal gleam in his eye and a loose grin.] + +CROFTS [suddenly becoming anxious and urgent as he sees no sign +of sympathy in her] Look here, Kitty: youre a sensible woman: you +neednt put on any moral airs. I'll ask no more questions; and +you need answer none. I'll settle the whole property on her; and +if you want a checque for yourself on the wedding day, you can +name any figure you like--in reason. + +MRS WARREN. So it's come to that with you, George, like all the +other worn-out old creatures! + +CROFTS [savagely] Damn you! + +[Before she can retort the door of the kitchen is opened; and the +voices of the others are heard returning. Crofts, unable to +recover his presence of mind, hurries out of the cottage. The +clergyman appears at the kitchen door.] + +REV. S. [looking round] Where is Sir George? + +MRS WARREN. Gone out to have a pipe. [The clergyman takes his +hat from the table, and joins Mrs Warren at the fireside. +Meanwhile, Vivie comes in, followed by Frank, who collapses into +the nearest chair with an air of extreme exhaustion. Mrs Warren +looks round at Vivie and says, with her affectation of maternal +patronage even more forced than usual] Well, dearie: have you had +a good supper? + +VIVIE. You know what Mrs Alison's suppers are. [She turns to +Frank and pets him] Poor Frank! was all the beef gone? did it get +nothing but bread and cheese and ginger beer? [Seriously, as if +she had done quite enough trifling for one evening] Her butter is +really awful. I must get some down from the stores. + +FRANK. Do, in Heaven's name! + +[Vivie goes to the writing-table and makes a memorandum to order +the butter. Praed comes in from the kitchen, putting up his +handkerchief, which he has been using as a napkin.] + +REV. S. Frank, my boy: it is time for us to be thinking of home. + +Your mother does not know yet that we have visitors. + +PRAED. I'm afraid we're giving trouble. + +FRANK [rising] Not the least in the world: my mother will be +delighted to see you. She's a genuinely intellectual artistic +woman; and she sees nobody here from one year's end to another +except the gov'nor; so you can imagine how jolly dull it pans out +for her. [To his father] Y o u r e not intellectual or artistic: +are you pater? So take Praed home at once; and I'll stay here +and entertain Mrs Warren. Youll pick up Crofts in the garden. +He'll be excellent company for the bull-pup. + +PRAED [taking his hat from the dresser, and coming close to +Frank] Come with us, Frank. Mrs Warren has not seen Miss Vivie +for a long time; and we have prevented them from having a moment +together yet. + +FRANK [quite softened, and looking at Praed with romantic +admiration] Of course. I forgot. Ever so thanks for reminding +me. Perfect gentleman, Praddy. Always were. My ideal through +life. [He rises to go, but pauses a moment between the two older +men, and puts his hand on Praed's shoulder]. Ah, if you had only +been my father instead of this unworthy old man! [He puts his +other hand on his father's shoulder]. + +REV. S. [blustering] Silence, sir, silence: you are profane. + +MRS WARREN [laughing heartily] You should keep him in better +order, Sam. Good-night. Here: take George his hat and stick +with my compliments. + +REV. S. [taking them] Good-night. [They shake hands. As he +passes Vivie he shakes hands with her also and bids her good- +night. Then, in booming command, to Frank] Come along, sir, at +once. [He goes out]. + +MRS WARREN. Byebye, Praddy. + +PRAED. Byebye, Kitty. + +[They shake hands affectionately and go out together, she +accompanying him to the garden gate.] + +FRANK [to Vivie] Kissums? + +VIVIE [fiercely] No. I hate you. [She takes a couple of books +and some paper from the writing-table, and sits down with them at +the middle table, at the end next the fireplace]. + +FRANK [grimacing] Sorry. [He goes for his cap and rifle. Mrs +Warren returns. He takes her hand] Good-night, dear Mrs Warren. +[He kisses her hand. She snatches it away, her lips tightening, +and looks more than half disposed to box his ears. He laughs +mischievously and runs off, clapping-to the door behind him]. + +MRS WARREN [resigning herself to an evening of boredom now that +the men are gone] Did you ever in your life hear anyone rattle on +so? Isnt he a tease? [She sits at the table]. Now that I think +of it, dearie, dont you go encouraging him. I'm sure he's a +regular good-for-nothing. + +VIVIE [rising to fetch more books] I'm afraid so. Poor Frank! I +shall have to get rid of him; but I shall feel sorry for him, +though he's not worth it. That man Crofts does not seem to me to +be good for much either: is he? [She throws the books on the +table rather roughly]. + +MRS WARREN [galled by Vivie's indifference] What do you know of +men, child, to talk that way of them? Youll have to make up your +mind to see a good deal of Sir George Crofts, as he's a friend of +mine. + +VIVIE [quite unmoved] Why? [She sits down and opens a book]. Do +you expect that we shall be much together? You and I, I mean? + +MRS WARREN [staring at her] Of course: until youre married. +Youre not going back to college again. + +VIVIE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? I doubt it. + +MRS WARREN. Y o u r way of life! What do you mean? + +VIVIE [cutting a page of her book with the paper knife on her +chatelaine] Has it really never occurred to you, mother, that I +have a way of life like other people? + +MRS WARREN. What nonsense is this youre trying to talk? Do you +want to shew your independence, now that youre a great little +person at school? Dont be a fool, child. + +VIVIE [indulgently] Thats all you have to say on the subject, is +it, mother? + +MRS WARREN [puzzled, then angry] Dont you keep on asking me +questions like that. [Violently] Hold your tongue. [Vivie works +on, losing no time, and saying nothing]. You and your way of +life, indeed! What next? [She looks at Vivie again. No reply]. + +Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another +pause]. Ive been noticing these airs in you ever since you got +that tripos or whatever you call it. If you think I'm going to +put up with them, youre mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, +the better. [Muttering] All I have to say on the subject, +indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily] Do you know who youre +speaking to, Miss? + +VIVIE [looking across at her without raising her head from her +book] No. Who are you? What are you? + +MRS WARREN [rising breathless] You young imp! + +VIVIE. Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and +the profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. +What is that way of life which you invite me to share with you +and Sir George Crofts, pray? + +MRS WARREN. Take care. I shall do something I'll be sorry for +after, and you too. + +VIVIE [putting aside her books with cool decision] Well, let us +drop the subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking +critically at her mother] You want some good walks and a little +lawn tennis to set you up. You are shockingly out of condition: +you were not able to manage twenty yards uphill today without +stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere rolls of fat. Look at +mine. [She holds out her wrists]. + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper] +Vivie-- + +VIVIE [springing up sharply] Now pray dont begin to cry. +Anything but that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go +out of the room if you do. + +MRS WARREN [piteously] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on +me? Have I no rights over you as your mother? + +VIVIE. A r e you my mother? + +MRS WARREN. A m I your mother? Oh, Vivie! + +VIVIE. Then where are our relatives? my father? our family +friends? You claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me +fool and child; to speak to me as no woman in authority over me +at college dare speak to me; to dictate my way of life; and to +force on me the acquaintance of a brute whom anyone can see to be +the most vicious sort of London man about town. Before I give +myself the trouble to resist such claims, I may as well find out +whether they have any real existence. + +MRS WARREN [distracted, throwing herself on her knees] Oh no, no. + +Stop, stop. I a m your mother: I swear it. Oh, you cant mean to +turn on me--my own child! it's not natural. You believe me, dont +you? Say you believe me. + +VIVIE. Who was my father? + +MRS WARREN. You dont know what youre asking. I cant tell you. + +VIVIE [determinedly] Oh yes you can, if you like. I have a right +to know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can +refuse to tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the +last of me tomorrow morning. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it's too horrible to hear you talk like that. +You wouldnt--you c o u l d n t leave me. + +VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment's hesitation, if you +trifle with me about this. [Shivering with disgust] How can I +feel sure that I may not have the contaminated blood of that +brutal waster in my veins? + +MRS WARREN. No, no. On my oath it's not he, nor any of the rest +that you have ever met. I'm certain of that, at least. + +[Vivie's eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of +this flashes on her.] + +VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at l e a s t. Ah! You +mean that that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully] I see. +[Mrs Warren buries her face in her hands]. Dont do that, mother: +you know you dont feel it a bit. [Mrs Warren takes down her +hands and looks up deplorably at Vivie, who takes out her watch +and says] Well, that is enough for tonight. At what hour would +you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too early for you? + +MRS WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you? + +VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should +hope. Otherwise I dont understand how it gets its business done. + +Come [taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty +resolutely]: pull yourself together. Thats right. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Youre very rough with me, Vivie. + +VIVIE. Nonsense. What about bed? It's past ten. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] Whats the use of my going to bed? Do +you think I could sleep? + +VIVIE. Why not? I shall. + +MRS WARREN. You! youve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out +vehemently in her natural tongue--the dialect of a woman of the +people--with all her affectations of maternal authority and +conventional manners gone, and an overwhelming inspiration of +true conviction and scorn in her] Oh, I wont bear it: I wont put +up with the injustice of it. What right have you to set yourself +up above me like this? You boast of what you are to me--to m e, +who gave you a chance of being what you are. What chance had I? +Shame on you for a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude! + +VIVIE [sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her +replies, which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, +now begin to ring rather woodenly and even priggishly against the +new tone of her mother] Dont think for a moment I set myself +above you in any way. You attacked me with the conventional +authority of a mother: I defended myself with the conventional +superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not going to +stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not +expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your +right to your own opinions and your own way of life. + +MRS WARREN. My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to +her talking! Do you think I was brought up like you? able to +pick and choose my own way of life? Do you think I did what I +did because I liked it, or thought it right, or wouldnt rather +have gone to college and been a lady if I'd had the chance? + +VIVIE. Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl +alive may not be able to choose between being Queen of England or +Principal of Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and +flowerselling, according to her taste. People are always blaming +circumstances for what they are. I dont believe in +circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the +people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, +if they cant find them, make them. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it's easy to talk, isnt it? Here! would you +like to know what m y circumstances were? + +VIVIE. Yes: you had better tell me. Wont you sit down? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, I'll sit down: dont you be afraid. [She plants +her chair farther forward with brazen energy, and sits down. +Vivie is impressed in spite of herself]. D'you know what your +gran'mother was? + +VIVIE. No. + +MRS WARREN. No, you dont. I do. She called herself a widow and +had a fried-fish shop down by the Mint, and kept herself and four +daughters out of it. Two of us were sisters: that was me and +Liz; and we were both good-looking and well made. I suppose our +father was a well-fed man: mother pretended he was a gentleman; +but I dont know. The other two were only half sisters: +undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, honest poor +creatures: Liz and I would have half-murdered them if mother +hadnt half-murdered us to keep our hands off them. They were the +respectable ones. Well, what did they get by their +respectability? I'll tell you. One of them worked in a +whitelead factory twelve hours a day for nine shillings a week +until she died of lead poisoning. She only expected to get her +hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other was always +held up to us as a model because she married a Government laborer +in the Deptford victualling yard, and kept his room and the three +children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week--until he +took to drink. That was worth being respectable for, wasnt it? + +VIVIE [now thoughtfully attentive] Did you and your sister think +so? + +MRS WARREN. Liz didnt, I can tell you: she had more spirit. We +both went to a church school--that was part of the ladylike airs +we gave ourselves to be superior to the children that knew +nothing and went nowhere--and we stayed there until Liz went out +one night and never came back. I know the schoolmistress thought +I'd soon follow her example; for the clergyman was always warning +me that Lizzie'd end by jumping off Waterloo Bridge. Poor fool: +that was all he knew about it! But I was more afraid of the +whitelead factory than I was of the river; and so would you have +been in my place. That clergyman got me a situation as a +scullery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent out for +anything you liked. Then I was a waitress; and then I went to +the bar at Waterloo station: fourteen hours a day serving drinks +and washing glasses for four shillings a week and my board. That +was considered a great promotion for me. Well, one cold, +wretched night, when I was so tired I could hardly keep myself +awake, who should come up for a half of Scotch but Lizzie, in a +long fur cloak, elegant and comfortable, with a lot of sovereigns +in her purse. + +VIVIE [grimly] My aunt Lizzie! + +MRS WARREN. Yes; and a very good aunt to have, too. She's +living down at Winchester now, close to the cathedral, one of the +most respectable ladies there. Chaperones girls at the country +ball, if you please. No river for Liz, thank you! You remind me +of Liz a little: she was a first-rate business woman--saved money +from the beginning--never let herself look too like what she was- +-never lost her head or threw away a chance. When she saw I'd +grown up good-looking she said to me across the bar "What are you +doing there, you little fool? wearing out your health and your +appearance for other people's profit!" Liz was saving money then +to take a house for herself in Brussels; and she thought we two +could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and gave +me a start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and +then went into business with her as a partner. Why shouldnt I +have done it? The house in Brussels was real high class: a much +better place for a woman to be in than the factory where Anne +Jane got poisoned. None of the girls were ever treated as I was +treated in the scullery of that temperance place, or at the +Waterloo bar, or at home. Would you have had me stay in them and +become a worn out old drudge before I was forty? + +VIVIE [intensely interested by this time] No; but why did you +choose that business? Saving money and good management will +succeed in any business. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the +money to save in any other business? Could y o u save out of +four shillings a week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not +you. Of course, if youre a plain woman and cant earn anything +more; or if you have a turn for music, or the stage, or +newspaper-writing: thats different. But neither Liz nor I had +any turn for such things at all: all we had was our appearance +and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such fools +as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us as +shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in +them ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation +wages? Not likely. + +VIVIE. You were certainly quite justified--from the business +point of view. + +MRS WARREN. Yes; or any other point of view. What is any +respectable girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man's +fancy and get the benefit of his money by marrying him?--as if a +marriage ceremony could make any difference in the right or wrong +of the thing! Oh, the hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz +and I had to work and save and calculate just like other people; +elseways we should be as poor as any good-for-nothing drunken +waster of a woman that thinks her luck will last for ever. [With +great energy] I despise such people: theyve no character; and if +theres a thing I hate in a woman, it's want of character. + +VIVIE. Come now, mother: frankly! Isnt it part of what you call +character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way +of making money? + +MRS WARREN. Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work +and make money; but they have to do it all the same. I'm sure +Ive often pitied a poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, +having to try to please some man that she doesnt care two straws +for--some half-drunken fool that thinks he's making himself +agreeable when he's teasing and worrying and disgusting a woman +so that hardly any money could pay her for putting up with it. +But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the rough with +the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. It's +not work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; +though to hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a +bed of roses. + +VIVIE. Still, you consider it worth while. It pays. + +MRS WARREN. Of course it's worth while to a poor girl, if she +can resist temptation and is good-looking and well conducted and +sensible. It's far better than any other employment open to her. + +I always thought that it oughtnt to be. It c a n t be right, +Vivie, that there shouldnt be better opportunities for women. I +stick to that: it's wrong. But it's so, right or wrong; and a +girl must make the best of it. But of course it's not worth +while for a lady. If you took to it youd be a fool; but I should +have been a fool if I'd taken to anything else. + +VIVIE [more and more deeply moved] Mother: suppose we were both +as poor as you were in those wretched old days, are you quite +sure that you wouldnt advise me to try the Waterloo bar, or marry +a laborer, or even go into the factory? + +MRS WARREN [indignantly] Of course not. What sort of mother do +you take me for! How could you keep your self-respect in such +starvation and slavery? And whats a woman worth? whats life +worth? without self-respect! Why am I independent and able to +give my daughter a first-rate education, when other women that +had just as good opportunities are in the gutter? Because I +always knew how to respect myself and control myself. Why is Liz +looked up to in a cathedral town? The same reason. Where would +we be now if we'd minded the clergyman's foolishness? Scrubbing +floors for one and sixpence a day and nothing to look forward to +but the workhouse infirmary. Dont you be led astray by people +who dont know the world, my girl. The only way for a woman to +provide for herself decently is for her to be good to some man +that can afford to be good to her. If she's in his own station +of life, let her make him marry her; but if she's far beneath him +she cant expect it: why should she? it wouldnt be for her own +happiness. Ask any lady in London society that has daughters; +and she'll tell you the same, except that I tell you straight and +she'll tell you crooked. Thats all the difference. + +VIVIE [fascinated, gazing at her] My dear mother: you are a +wonderful woman: you are stronger than all England. And are you +really and truly not one wee bit doubtful--or--or--ashamed? + +MRS WARREN. Well, of course, dearie, it's only good manners to +be ashamed of it: it's expected from a woman. Women have to +pretend to feel a great deal that they dont feel. Liz used to be +angry with me for plumping out the truth about it. She used to +say that when every woman could learn enough from what was going +on in the world before her eyes, there was no need to talk about +it to her. But then Liz was such a perfect lady! She had the +true instinct of it; while I was always a bit of a vulgarian. I +used to be so pleased when you sent me your photos to see that +you were growing up like Liz: youve just her ladylike, determined +way. But I cant stand saying one thing when everyone knows I +mean another. Whats the use in such hypocrisy? If people +arrange the world that way for women, theres no good pretending +it's arranged the other way. No: I never was a bit ashamed +really. I consider I had a right to be proud of how we managed +everything so respectably, and never had a word against us, and +how the girls were so well taken care of. Some of them did very +well: one of them married an ambassador. But of course now I +darent talk about such things: whatever would they think of us! +[She yawns]. Oh dear! I do believe I'm getting sleepy after +all. [She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her +explosion, and placidly ready for her night's rest]. + +VIVIE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. +[She goes to the dresser and lights the candle. Then she +extinguishes the lamp, darkening the room a good deal]. Better +let in some fresh air before locking up. [She opens the cottage +door, and finds that it is broad moonlight]. What a beautiful +night! Look! [She draws the curtains of the window. The +landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon +rising over Blackdown]. + +MRS WARREN [with a perfunctory glance at the scene] Yes, dear; +but take care you dont catch your death of cold from the night +air. + +VIVIE [contemptuously] Nonsense. + +MRS WARREN [querulously] Oh yes: everything I say is nonsense, +according to you. + +VIVIE [turning to her quickly] No: really that is not so, mother. + +You have got completely the better of me tonight, though I +intended it to be the other way. Let us be good friends now. + +MRS WARREN [shaking her head a little ruefully] So it h a s been +the other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got +the worst of it from Liz; and now I suppose it'll be the same +with you. + +VIVIE. Well, never mind. Come: good-night, dear old mother. +[She takes her mother in her arms]. + +MRS WARREN [fondly] I brought you up well, didnt I, dearie? + +VIVIE. You did. + +MRS WARREN. And youll be good to your poor old mother for it, +wont you? + +VIVIE. I will, dear. [Kissing her] Good-night. + +MRS WARREN [with unction] Blessings on my own dearie darling! a +mother's blessing! + +[She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking +upward for divine sanction.] + + + +ACT III + + +[In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining from a +cloudless sky. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, +wide enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate +hangs a bell on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull +outside. The carriage drive comes down the middle of the garden +and then swerves to its left, where it ends in a little gravelled +circus opposite the Rectory porch. Beyond the gate is seen the +dusty high road, parallel with the wall, bounded on the farther +side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine wood. On the lawn, +between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew tree, with a +garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden is +shut in by a box hedge; and there is a little sundial on the +turf, with an iron chair near it. A little path leads through +the box hedge, behind the sundial.] + +[Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which he has +placed the morning paper, is reading The Standard. His father +comes from the house, red-eyed and shivery, and meets Frank's eye +with misgiving.] + +FRANK [looking at his watch] Half-past eleven. Nice your for a +rector to come down to breakfast! + +REV. S. Dont mock, Frank: dont mock. I am a little--er-- +[Shivering]-- + +FRANK. Off color? + +REV. S. [repudiating the expression] No, sir: u n w e l l this +morning. Wheres your mother? + +FRANK. Dont be alarmed: she's not here. Gone to town by the +11.13 with Bessie. She left several messages for you. Do you +feel equal to receiving them now, or shall I wait til youve +breakfasted? + +REV. S. I h a v e breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at your +mother going to town when we have people staying with us. Theyll +think it very strange. + +FRANK. Possibly she has considered that. At all events, if +Crofts is going to stay here, and you are going to sit up every +night with him until four, recalling the incidents of your fiery +youth, it is clearly my mother's duty, as a prudent housekeeper, +to go up to the stores and order a barrel of whisky and a few +hundred siphons. + +REV. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank excessively. + +FRANK. You were not in a condition to, gov'nor. + +REV. S. Do you mean to say that _I_--? + +FRANK [calmly] I never saw a beneficed clergyman less sober. The +anecdotes you told about your past career were so awful that I +really dont think Praed would have passed the night under your +roof if it hadnt been for the way my mother and he took to one +another. + +REV. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts' host. I must +talk to him about something; and he has only one subject. Where +is Mr Praed now? + +FRANK. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the station. + +REV. S. Is Crofts up yet? + +FRANK. Oh, long ago. He hasnt turned a hair: he's in much +better practice than you. Has kept it up ever since, probably. +He's taken himself off somewhere to smoke. + +[Frank resumes his paper. The parson turns disconsolately +towards the gate; then comes back irresolutely.] + +REV. S. Er--Frank. + +FRANK. Yes. + +REV. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be asked here +after yesterday afternoon? + +FRANK. Theyve been asked already. + +REV. S. [appalled] What!!! + +FRANK. Crofts informed us at breakfast that you told him to +bring Mrs Warren and Vivie over here to-day, and to invite them +to make this house their home. My mother then found she must go +to town by the 11.13 train. + +REV. S. [with despairing vehemence] I never gave any such +invitation. I never thought of such a thing. + +FRANK [compassionately] How do you know, gov'nor, what you said +and thought last night? + +PRAED [coming in through the hedge] Good morning. + +REV. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not having met you +at breakfast. I have a touch of--of-- + +FRANK. Clergyman's sore throat, Praed. Fortunately not chronic. + +PRAED [changing the subject] Well I must say your house is in a +charming spot here. Really most charming. + +REV. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for a walk, Mr +Praed, if you like. I'll ask you to excuse me: I must take the +opportunity to write my sermon while Mrs Gardner is away and you +are all amusing yourselves. You wont mind, will you? + +PRAED. Certainly not. Dont stand on the slightest ceremony with +me. + +REV. S. Thank you. I'll--er--er-- [He stammers his way to the +porch and vanishes into the house]. + +PRAED. Curious thing it must be writing a sermon every week. + +FRANK. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys em. He's gone +for some soda water. + +PRAED. My dear boy: I wish you would be more respectful to your +father. You know you can be so nice when you like. + +FRANK. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to live with the +governor. When two people live together--it dont matter whether +theyre father and son or husband and wife or brother and sister-- +they cant keep up the polite humbug thats so easy for ten minutes +on an afternoon call. Now the governor, who unites to many +admirable domestic qualities the irresoluteness of a sheep and +the pompousness and aggressiveness of a jackass-- + +PRAED. No, pray, pray, my dear Frank, remember! He is your +father. + +FRANK. I give him due credit for that. [Rising and flinging +down his paper] But just imagine his telling Crofts to bring the +Warrens over here! He must have been ever so drunk. You know, +my dear Praddy, my mother wouldnt stand Mrs Warren for a moment. +Vivie mustnt come here until she's gone back to town. + +PRAED. But your mother doesnt know anything about Mrs Warren, +does she? [He picks up the paper and sits down to read it]. + +FRANK. I dont know. Her journey to town looks as if she did. +Not that my mother would mind in the ordinary way: she has stuck +like a brick to lots of women who had got into trouble. But they +were all nice women. Thats what makes the real difference. Mrs +Warren, no doubt, has her merits; but she's ever so rowdy; and my +mother simply wouldnt put up with her. So--hallo! [This +exclamation is provoked by the reappearance of the clergyman, who +comes out of the house in haste and dismay]. + +REV. S. Frank: Mrs Warren and her daughter are coming across the +heath with Crofts: I saw them from the study windows. What a m I +to say about your mother? + +FRANK. Stick on your hat and go out and say how delighted you +are to see them; and that Frank's in the garden; and that mother +and Bessie have been called to the bedside of a sick relative, +and were ever so sorry they couldnt stop; and that you hope Mrs +Warren slept well; and--and--say any blessed thing except the +truth, and leave the rest to Providence. + +REV. S. But how are we to get rid of them afterwards? + +FRANK. Theres no time to think of that now. Here! [He bounds +into the house]. + +REV. S. He's so impetuous. I dont know what to do with him, Mr +Praed. + +FRANK [returning with a clerical felt hat, which he claps on his +father's head]. Now: off with you. [Rushing him through the +gate]. Praed and I'll wait here, to give the thing an +unpremeditated air. [The clergyman, dazed but obedient, hurries +off]. + +FRANK. We must get the old girl back to town somehow, Praed. +Come! Honestly, dear Praddy, do you like seeing them together? + +PRAED. Oh, why not? + +FRANK [his teeth on edge] Dont it make your flesh creep ever so +little? that wicked old devil, up to every villainy under the +sun, I'll swear, and Vivie--ugh! + +PRAED. Hush, pray. Theyre coming. + +[The clergyman and Crofts are seen coming along the road, +followed by Mrs Warren and Vivie walking affectionately +together.] + +FRANK. Look: she actually has her arm round the old woman's +waist. It's her right arm: she began it. She's gone +sentimental, by God! Ugh! ugh! Now do you feel the creeps? +[The clergyman opens the gate: and Mrs Warren and Vivie pass him +and stand in the middle of the garden looking at the house. +Frank, in an ecstasy of dissimulation, turns gaily to Mrs Warren, +exclaiming] Ever so delighted to see you, Mrs Warren. This quiet +old rectory garden becomes you perfectly. + +MRS WARREN. Well, I never! Did you hear that, George? He says +I look well in a quiet old rectory garden. + +REV. S. [still holding the gate for Crofts, who loafs through it, +heavily bored] You look well everywhere, Mrs Warren. + +FRANK. Bravo, gov'nor! Now look here: lets have a treat before +lunch. First lets see the church. Everyone has to do that. +It's a regular old thirteenth century church, you know: the +gov'nor's ever so fond of it, because he got up a restoration +fund and had it completely rebuilt six years ago. Praed will be +able to shew its points. + +PRAED [rising] Certainly, if the restoration has left any to +shew. + +REV. S. [mooning hospitably at them] I shall be pleased, I'm +sure, if Sir George and Mrs Warren really care about it. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, come along and get it over. + +CROFTS [turning back toward the gate] Ive no objection. + +REV. S. Not that way. We go through the fields, if you dont +mind. Round here. [He leads the way by the little path through +the box hedge]. + +CROFTS. Oh, all right. [He goes with the parson]. + +[Praed follows with Mrs Warren. Vivie does not stir: she watches +them until they have gone, with all the lines of purpose in her +face marking it strongly.] + +FRANK. Aint you coming? + +VIVIE. No. I want to give you a warning, Frank. You were +making fun of my mother just now when you said that about the +rectory garden. That is barred in the future. Please treat my +mother with as much respect as you treat your own. + +FRANK. My dear Viv: she wouldnt appreciate it: the two cases +require different treatment. But what on earth has happened to +you? Last night we were perfectly agreed as to your mother and +her set. This morning I find you attitudinizing sentimentally +with your arm around your parent's waist. + +VIVIE [flushing] Attitudinizing! + +FRANK. That was how it struck me. First time I ever saw you do +a second-rate thing. + +VIVIE [controlling herself] Yes, Frank: there has been a change: +but I dont think it a change for the worse. Yesterday I was a +little prig. + +FRANK. And today? + +VIVIE [wincing; then looking at him steadily] Today I know my +mother better than you do. + +FRANK. Heaven forbid! + +VIVIE. What do you mean? + +FRANK. Viv: theres a freemasonry among thoroughly immoral people +that you know nothing of. Youve too much character. T h a t s +the bond between your mother and me: thats why I know her better +than youll ever know her. + +VIVIE. You are wrong: you know nothing about her. If you knew +the circumstances against which my mother had to struggle-- + +FRANK [adroitly finishing the sentence for her] I should know why +she is what she is, shouldnt I? What difference would that make? + +Circumstances or no circumstances, Viv, you wont be able to stand +your mother. + +VIVIE [very angry] Why not? + +FRANK. Because she's an old wretch, Viv. If you ever put your +arm around her waist in my presence again, I'll shoot myself +there and then as a protest against an exhibition which revolts +me. + +VIVIE. Must I choose between dropping your acquaintance and +dropping my mother's? + +FRANK [gracefully] That would put the old lady at ever such a +disadvantage. No, Viv: your infatuated little boy will have to +stick to you in any case. But he's all the more anxious that you +shouldnt make mistakes. It's no use, Viv: your mother's +impossible. She may be a good sort; but she's a bad lot, a very +bad lot. + +VIVIE [hotly] Frank--! [He stands his ground. She turns away +and sits down on the bench under the yew tree, struggling to +recover her self-command. Then she says] Is she to be deserted +by the world because she's what you call a bad lot? Has she no +right to live? + +FRANK. No fear of that, Viv: s h e wont ever be deserted. [He +sits on the bench beside her]. + +VIVIE. But I am to desert her, I suppose. + +FRANK [babyishly, lulling her and making love to her with his +voice] Mustnt go live with her. Little family group of mother +and daughter wouldnt be a success. Spoil o u r little group. + +VIVIE [falling under the spell] What little group? + +FRANK. The babes in the wood: Vivie and little Frank. [He +nestles against her like a weary child]. Lets go and get covered +up with leaves. + +VIVIE [rhythmically, rocking him like a nurse] Fast asleep, hand +in hand, under the trees. + +FRANK. The wise little girl with her silly little boy. + +VIVIE. The deal little boy with his dowdy little girl. + +FRANK. Ever so peaceful, and relieved from the imbecility of the +little boy's father and the questionableness of the little girl's +-- + +VIVIE [smothering the word against her breast] Sh-sh-sh-sh! +little girl wants to forget all about her mother. [They are +silent for some moments, rocking one another. Then Vivie wakes +up with a shock, exclaiming] What a pair of fools we are! Come: +sit up. Gracious! your hair. [She smooths it]. I wonder do all +grown up people play in that childish way when nobody is looking. + +I never did it when I was a child. + +FRANK. Neither did I. You are my first playmate. [He catches +her hand to kiss it, but checks himself to look around first. +Very unexpectedly, he sees Crofts emerging from the box hedge]. +Oh damn! + +VIVIE. Why damn, dear? + +FRANK [whispering] Sh! Here's this brute Crofts. [He sits +farther away from her with an unconcerned air]. + +CROFTS. Could I have a few words with you, Miss Vivie? + +VIVIE. Certainly. + +CROFTS [to Frank] Youll excuse me, Gardner. Theyre waiting for +you in the church, if you dont mind. + +FRANK [rising] Anything to oblige you, Crofts--except church. If +you should happen to want me, Vivvums, ring the gate bell. [He +goes into the house with unruffled suavity]. + +CROFTS [watching him with a crafty air as he disappears, and +speaking to Vivie with an assumption of being on privileged terms +with her] Pleasant young fellow that, Miss Vivie. Pity he has no +money, isnt it? + +VIVIE. Do you think so? + +CROFTS. Well, whats he to do? No profession. No property. +Whats he good for? + +VIVIE. I realize his disadvantages, Sir George. + +CROFTS [a little taken aback at being so precisely interpreted] +Oh, it's not that. But while we're in this world we're in it; +and money's money. [Vivie does not answer]. Nice day, isnt it? + +VIVIE [with scarcely veiled contempt for this effort at +conversation] Very. + +CROFTS [with brutal good humor, as if he liked her pluck] Well +thats not what I came to say. [Sitting down beside her] Now +listen, Miss Vivie. I'm quite aware that I'm not a young lady's +man. + +VIVIE. Indeed, Sir George? + +CROFTS. No; and to tell you the honest truth I dont want to be +either. But when I say a thing I mean it; and when I feel a +sentiment I feel it in earnest; and what I value I pay hard money +for. Thats the sort of man I am. + +VIVIE. It does you great credit, I'm sure. + +CROFTS. Oh, I dont mean to praise myself. I have my faults, +Heaven knows: no man is more sensible of that than I am. I know +I'm not perfect: thats one of the advantages of being a middle- +aged man; for I'm not a young man, and I know it. But my code is +a simple one, and, I think, a good one. Honor between man and +man; fidelity between man and woman; and no cant about this +religion or that religion, but an honest belief that things are +making for good on the whole. + +VIVIE [with biting irony] "A power, not ourselves, that makes for +righteousness," eh? + +CROFTS [taking her seriously] Oh certainly. Not ourselves, of +course. Y o u understand what I mean. Well, now as to practical +matters. You may have an idea that Ive flung my money about; but +I havnt: I'm richer today than when I first came into the +property. Ive used my knowledge of the world to invest my money +in ways that other men have overlooked; and whatever else I may +be, I'm a safe man from the money point of view. + +VIVIE. It's very kind of you to tell me all this. + +CROFTS. Oh well, come, Miss Vivie: you neednt pretend you dont +see what I'm driving at. I want to settle down with a Lady +Crofts. I suppose you think me very blunt, eh? + +VIVIE. Not at all: I am very much obliged to you for being so +definite and business-like. I quite appreciate the offer: the +money, the position, L a d y C r o f t s, and so on. But I +think I will say no, if you dont mind, I'd rather not. [She +rises, and strolls across to the sundial to get out of his +immediate neighborhood]. + +CROFTS [not at all discouraged, and taking advantage of the +additional room left him on the seat to spread himself +comfortably, as if a few preliminary refusals were part of the +inevitable routine of courtship] I'm in no hurry. It was only +just to let you know in case young Gardner should try to trap +you. Leave the question open. + +VIVIE [sharply] My no is final. I wont go back from it. + +[Crofts is not impressed. He grins; leans forward with his +elbows on his knees to prod with his stick at some unfortunate +insect in the grass; and looks cunningly at her. She turns away +impatiently.] + +CROFTS. I'm a good deal older than you. Twenty-five years: +quarter of a century. I shant live for ever; and I'll take care +that you shall be well off when I'm gone. + +VIVIE. I am proof against even that inducement, Sir George. +Dont you think youd better take your answer? There is not the +slightest chance of my altering it. + +CROFTS [rising, after a final slash at a daisy, and coming nearer +to her] Well, no matter. I could tell you some things that would +change your mind fast enough; but I wont, because I'd rather win +you by honest affection. I was a good friend to your mother: ask +her whether I wasnt. She'd never have make the money that paid +for your education if it hadnt been for my advice and help, not +to mention the money I advanced her. There are not many men who +would have stood by her as I have. I put not less than forty +thousand pounds into it, from first to last. + +VIVIE [staring at him] Do you mean to say that you were my +mother's business partner? + +CROFTS. Yes. Now just think of all the trouble and the +explanations it would save if we were to keep the whole thing in +the family, so to speak. Ask your mother whether she'd like to +have to explain all her affairs to a perfect stranger. + +VIVIE. I see no difficulty, since I understand that the business +is wound up, and the money invested. + +CROFTS [stopping short, amazed] Wound up! Wind up a business +thats paying 35 per cent in the worst years! Not likely. Who +told you that? + +VIVIE [her color quite gone] Do you mean that it is still--? +[She stops abruptly, and puts her hand on the sundial to support +herself. Then she gets quickly to the iron chair and sits down]. + +What business are you talking about? + +CROFTS. Well, the fact is it's not what would considered exactly +a high-class business in my set--the country set, you know--o u r +set it will be if you think better of my offer. Not that theres +any mystery about it: dont think that. Of course you know by +your mother's being in it that it's perfectly straight and +honest. Ive known her for many years; and I can say of her that +she'd cut off her hands sooner than touch anything that was not +what it ought to be. I'll tell you all about it if you like. I +dont know whether youve found in travelling how hard it is to +find a really comfortable private hotel. + +VIVIE [sickened, averting her face] Yes: go on. + +CROFTS. Well, thats all it is. Your mother has got a genius for +managing such things. We've got two in Brussels, one in Ostend, +one in Vienna, and two in Budapest. Of course there are others +besides ourselves in it; but we hold most of the capital; and +your mother's indispensable as managing director. Youve noticed, +I daresay, that she travels a good deal. But you see you cant +mention such things in society. Once let out the word hotel and +everybody thinks you keep a public-house. You wouldnt like +people to say that of your mother, would you? Thats why we're so +reserved about it. By the way, youll keep it to yourself, wont +you? Since it's been a secret so long, it had better remain so. + +VIVIE. And this is the business you invite me to join you in? + +CROFTS. Oh no. My wife shant be troubled with business. Youll +not be in it more than youve always been. + +VIVIE. _I_ always been! What do you mean? + +CROFTS. Only that youve always lived on it. It paid for your +education and the dress you have on your back. Dont turn up your +nose at business, Miss Vivie: where would your Newnhams and +Girtons be without it? + +VIVIE [rising, almost beside herself] Take care. I know what +this business is. + +CROFTS [starting, with a suppressed oath] Who told you? + +VIVIE. Your partner. My mother. + +CROFTS [black with rage] The old-- + +VIVIE. Just so. + +[He swallows the epithet and stands for a moment swearing and +raging foully to himself. But he knows that his cue is to be +sympathetic. He takes refuge in generous indignation.] + +CROFTS. She ought to have had more consideration for you. _I_'d +never have told you. + +VIVIE. I think you would probably have told me when we were +married: it would have been a convenient weapon to break me in +with. + +CROFTS [quite sincerely] I never intended that. On my word as a +gentleman I didnt. + +[Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his protest +cools and braces her. She replies with contemptuous self- +possession.] + +VIVIE. It does not matter. I suppose you understand that when +we leave here today our acquaintance ceases. + +CROFTS. Why? Is it for helping your mother? + +VIVIE. My mother was a very poor woman who had no reasonable +choice but to do as she did. You were a rich gentleman; and you +did the same for the sake of 35 per cent. You are a pretty +common sort of scoundrel, I think. That is my opinion of you. + +CROFTS [after a stare: not at all displeased, and much more at +his ease on these frank terms than on their former ceremonious +ones] Ha! ha! ha! ha! Go it, little missie, go it: it doesnt +hurt me and it amuses you. Why the devil shouldnt I invest my +money that way? I take the interest on my capital like other +people: I hope you dont think I dirty my own hands with the work. + +Come! you wouldnt refuse the acquaintance of my mother's cousin +the Duke of Belgravia because some of the rents he gets are +earned in queer ways. You wouldnt cut the Archbishop of +Canterbury, I suppose, because the Ecclesiastical Commissioners +have a few publicans and sinners among their tenants. Do you +remember your Crofts scholarship at Newnham? Well, that was +founded by my brother the M.P. He gets his 22 per cent out of a +factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting wages +enough to live on. How d'ye suppose they manage when they have +no family to fall back on? Ask your mother. And do you expect +me to turn my back on 35 per cent when all the rest are pocketing +what they can, like sensible men? No such fool! If youre going +to pick and choose your acquaintances on moral principles, youd +better clear out of this country, unless you want to cut yourself +out of all decent society. + +VIVIE [conscience stricken] You might go on to point out that I +myself never asked where the money I spent came from. I believe +I am just as bad as you. + +CROFTS [greatly reassured] Of course you are; and a very good +thing too! What harm does it do after all? [Rallying her +jocularly] So you dont think me such a scoundrel now you come to +think it over. Eh? + +VIVIE. I have shared profits with you: and I admitted you just +now to the familiarity of knowing what I think of you. + +CROFTS [with serious friendliness] To be sure you did. You wont +find me a bad sort: I dont go in for being superfine +intellectually; but Ive plenty of honest human feeling; and the +old Crofts breed comes out in a sort of instinctive hatred of +anything low, in which I'm sure youll sympathize with me. +Believe me, Miss Vivie, the world isnt such a bad place as the +croakers make out. As long as you dont fly openly in the face of +society, society doesnt ask any inconvenient questions; and it +makes precious short work of the cads who do. There are no +secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses. In the +class of people I can introduce you to, no lady or gentleman +would so far forget themselves as to discuss my business affairs +or your mothers. No man can offer you a safer position. + +VIVIE [studying him curiously] I suppose you really think youre +getting on famously with me. + +CROFTS. Well, I hope I may flatter myself that you think better +of me than you did at first. + +VIVIE [quietly] I hardly find you worth thinking about at all +now. When I think of the society that tolerates you, and the +laws that protect you! when I think of how helpless nine out of +ten young girls would be in the hands of you and my mother! the +unmentionable woman and her capitalist bully-- + +CROFTS [livid] Damn you! + +VIVIE. You need not. I feel among the damned already. + +[She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. He +follows her and puts his hand heavily on the top bar to prevent +its opening.] + +CROFTS [panting with fury] Do you think I'll put up with this +from you, you young devil? + +VIVIE [unmoved] Be quiet. Some one will answer the bell. +[Without flinching a step she strikes the bell with the back of +her hand. It clangs harshly; and he starts back involuntarily. +Almost immediately Frank appears at the porch with his rifle]. + +FRANK [with cheerful politeness] Will you have the rifle, Viv; or +shall I operate? + +VIVIE. Frank: have you been listening? + +FRANK [coming down into the garden] Only for the bell, I assure +you; so that you shouldnt have to wait. I think I shewed great +insight into your character, Crofts. + +CROFTS. For two pins I'd take that gun from you and break it +across your head. + +FRANK [stalking him cautiously] Pray dont. I'm ever so careless +in handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal accident, with a +reprimand from the coroner's jury for my negligence. + +VIVIE. Put the rifle away, Frank: it's quite unnecessary. + +FRANK. Quite right, Viv. Much more sportsmanlike to catch him +in a trap. [Crofts, understanding the insult, makes a +threatening movement]. Crofts: there are fifteen cartridges in +the magazine here; and I am a dead shot at the present distance +and at an object of your size. + +CROFTS. Oh, you neednt be afraid. I'm not going to touch you. + +FRANK. Ever so magnanimous of you under the circumstances! +Thank you. + +CROFTS. I'll just tell you this before I go. It may interest +you, since youre so fond of one another. Allow me, Mister Frank, +to introduce you to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the +Reverend Samuel Gardner. Miss Vivie: you half-brother. Good +morning! [He goes out through the gate and along the road]. + +FRANK [after a pause of stupefaction, raising the rifle] Youll +testify before the coroner that it's an accident, Viv. [He takes +aim at the retreating figure of Crofts. Vivie seizes the muzzle +and pulls it round against her breast]. + +VIVIE. Fire now. You may. + +FRANK [dropping his end of the rifle hastily] Stop! take care. +[She lets it go. It falls on the turf]. Oh, youve given your +little boy such a turn. Suppose it had gone off! ugh! [He sinks +on the garden seat, overcome]. + +VIVIE. Suppose it had: do you think it would not have been a +relief to have some sharp physical pain tearing through me? + +FRANK [coaxingly] Take it ever so easy, dear Viv. Remember: even +if the rifle scared that fellow into telling the truth for the +first time in his life, that only makes us the babes in the woods +in earnest. [He holds out his arms to her]. Come and be covered +up with leaves again. + +VIVIE [with a cry of disgust] Ah, not that, not that. You make +all my flesh creep. + +FRANK. Why, whats the matter? + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [She makes for the gate]. + +FRANK [jumping up] Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! [She turns in the +gateway] Where are you going to? Where shall we find you? + +VIVIE. At Honoria Fraser's chambers, 67 Chancery Lane, for the +rest of my life. [She goes off quickly in the opposite direction +to that taken by Crofts]. + +FRANK. But I say--wait--dash it! [He runs after her]. + + + +ACT IV + + +[Honoria Fraser's chambers in Chancery Lane. An office at the +top of New Stone Buildings, with a plate-glass window, +distempered walls, electric light, and a patent stove. Saturday +afternoon. The chimneys of Lincoln's Inn and the western sky +beyond are seen through the window. There is a double writing +table in the middle of the room, with a cigar box, ash pans, and +a portable electric reading lamp almost snowed up in heaps of +papers and books. This table has knee holes and chairs right and +left and is very untidy. The clerk's desk, closed and tidy, with +its high stool, is against the wall, near a door communicating +with the inner rooms. In the opposite wall is the door leading +to the public corridor. Its upper panel is of opaque glass, +lettered in black on the outside, FRASER AND WARREN. A baize +screen hides the corner between this door and the window.] + +[Frank, in a fashionable light-colored coaching suit, with his +stick, gloves, and white hat in his hands, is pacing up and down +in the office. Somebody tries the door with a key.] + +FRANK [calling] Come in. It's not locked. + +[Vivie comes in, in her hat and jacket. She stops and stares at +him.] + +VIVIE [sternly] What are you doing here? + +FRANK. Waiting to see you. Ive been here for hours. Is this +the way you attend to your business? [He puts his hat and stick +on the table, and perches himself with a vault on the clerk's +stool, looking at her with every appearance of being in a +specially restless, teasing, flippant mood]. + +VIVIE. Ive been away exactly twenty minutes for a cup of tea. +[She takes off her hat and jacket and hangs them behind the +screen]. How did you get in? + +FRANK. The staff had not left when I arrived. He's gone to play +cricket on Primrose Hill. Why dont you employ a woman, and give +your sex a chance? + +VIVIE. What have you come for? + +FRANK [springing off the stool and coming close to her] Viv: lets +go and enjoy the Saturday half-holiday somewhere, like the staff. + +What do you say to Richmond, and then a music hall, and a jolly +supper? + +VIVIE. Cant afford it. I shall put in another six hours work +before I go to bed. + +FRANK. Cant afford it, cant we? Aha! Look here. [He takes out +a handful of sovereigns and makes them chink]. Gold, Viv: gold! + +VIVIE. Where did you get it? + +FRANK. Gambling, Viv: gambling. Poker. + +VIVIE. Pah! It's meaner than stealing it. No: I'm not coming. +[She sits down to work at the table, with her back to the glass +door, and begins turning over the papers]. + +FRANK [remonstrating piteously] But, my dear Viv, I want to talk +to you ever so seriously. + +VIVIE. Very well: sit down in Honoria's chair and talk here. I +like ten minutes chat after tea. [He murmurs]. No use groaning: +I'm inexorable. [He takes the opposite seat disconsolately]. +Pass that cigar box, will you? + +FRANK [pushing the cigar box across] Nasty womanly habit. Nice +men dont do it any longer. + +VIVIE. Yes: they object to the smell in the office; and weve had +to take to cigarets. See! [She opens the box and takes out a +cigaret, which she lights. She offers him one; but he shakes his +head with a wry face. She settles herself comfortably in her +chair, smoking]. Go ahead. + +FRANK. Well, I want to know what youve done--what arrangements +youve made. + +VIVIE. Everything was settled twenty minutes after I arrived +here. Honoria has found the business too much for her this year; +and she was on the point of sending for me and proposing a +partnership when I walked in and told her I hadnt a farthing in +the world. So I installed myself and packed her off for a +fortnight's holiday. What happened at Haslemere when I left? + +FRANK. Nothing at all. I said youd gone to town on particular +business. + +VIVIE. Well? + +FRANK. Well, either they were too flabbergasted to say anything, +or else Crofts had prepared your mother. Anyhow, she didnt say +anything; and Crofts didnt say anything; and Praddy only stared. +After tea they got up and went; and Ive not seen them since. + +VIVIE [nodding placidly with one eye on a wreath of smoke] Thats +all right. + +FRANK [looking round disparagingly] Do you intend to stick in +this confounded place? + +VIVIE [blowing the wreath decisively away, and sitting straight +up] Yes. These two days have given me back all my strength and +self-possession. I will never take a holiday again as long as I +live. + +FRANK [with a very wry face] Mps! You look quite happy. And as +hard as nails. + +VIVIE [grimly] Well for me that I am! + +FRANK [rising] Look here, Viv: we must have an explanation. We +parted the other day under a complete misunderstanding. [He sits +on the table, close to her]. + +VIVIE [putting away the cigaret] Well: clear it up. + +FRANK. You remember what Crofts said. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. That revelation was supposed to bring about a complete +change in the nature of our feeling for one another. It placed +us on the footing of brother and sister. + +VIVIE. Yes. + +FRANK. Have you ever had a brother? + +VIVIE. No. + +FRANK. Then you dont know what being brother and sister feels +like? Now I have lots of sisters; and the fraternal feeling is +quite familiar to me. I assure you my feeling for you is not the +least in the world like it. The girls will go t h e i r way; I +will go mine; and we shant care if we never see one another +again. Thats brother and sister. But as to you, I cant be easy +if I have to pass a week without seeing you. Thats not brother +and sister. Its exactly what I felt an hour before Crofts made +his revelation. In short, dear Viv, it's love's young dream. + +VIVIE [bitingly] The same feeling, Frank, that brought your +father to my mother's feet. Is that it? + +FRANK [so revolted that he slips off the table for a moment] I +very strongly object, Viv, to have my feelings compared to any +which the Reverend Samuel is capable of harboring; and I object +still more to a comparison of you to your mother. [Resuming his +perch] Besides, I dont believe the story. I have taxed my father +with it, and obtained from him what I consider tantamount to a +denial. + +VIVIE. What did he say? + +FRANK. He said he was sure there must be some mistake. + +VIVIE. Do you believe him? + +FRANK. I am prepared to take his word against Crofts'. + +VIVIE. Does it make any difference? I mean in your imagination +or conscience; for of course it makes no real difference. + +FRANK [shaking his head] None whatever to m e. + +VIVIE. Nor to me. + +FRANK [staring] But this is ever so surprising! [He goes back to +his chair]. I thought our whole relations were altered in your +imagination and conscience, as you put it, the moment those words +were out of that brute's muzzle. + +VIVIE. No: it was not that. I didnt believe him. I only wish I +could. + +FRANK. Eh? + +VIVIE. I think brother and sister would be a very suitable +relation for us. + +FRANK. You really mean that? + +VIVIE. Yes. It's the only relation I care for, even if we could +afford any other. I mean that. + +FRANK [raising his eyebrows like one on whom a new light has +dawned, and rising with quite an effusion of chivalrous +sentiment] My dear Viv: why didnt you say so before? I am ever +so sorry for persecuting you. I understand, of course. + +VIVIE [puzzled] Understand what? + +FRANK. Oh, I'm not a fool in the ordinary sense: only in the +Scriptural sense of doing all the things the wise man declared to +be folly, after trying them himself on the most extensive scale. +I see I am no longer Vivvums's little boy. Dont be alarmed: I +shall never call you Vivvums again--at least unless you get tired +of your new little boy, whoever he may be. + +VIVIE. My new little boy! + +FRANK [with conviction] Must be a new little boy. Always happens +that way. No other way, in fact. + +VIVIE. None that you know of, fortunately for you. + +[Someone knocks at the door.] + +FRANK. My curse upon yon caller, whoe'er he be! + +VIVIE. It's Praed. He's going to Italy and wants to say +goodbye. I asked him to call this afternoon. Go and let him in. + +FRANK. We can continue our conversation after his departure for +Italy. I'll stay him out. [He goes to the door and opens it]. +How are you, Praddy? Delighted to see you. Come in. + +[Praed, dressed for travelling, comes in, in high spirits.] + +PRAED. How do you do, Miss Warren? [She presses his hand +cordially, though a certain sentimentality in his high spirits +jars upon her]. I start in an hour from Holborn Viaduct. I wish +I could persuade you to try Italy. + +VIVIE. What for? + +PRAED. Why, to saturate yourself with beauty and romance, of +course. + +[Vivie, with a shudder, turns her chair to the table, as if the +work waiting for her there were a support to her. Praed sits +opposite to her. Frank places a chair near Vivie, and drops +lazily and carelessly into it, talking at her over his shoulder.] + +FRANK. No use, Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. She is +indifferent to m y romance, and insensible to m y beauty. + +VIVIE. Mr Praed: once for all, there is no beauty and no romance +in life for me. Life is what it is; and I am prepared to take it +as it is. + +PRAED [enthusiastically] You will not say that if you come with +me to Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with delight at +living in such a beautiful world. + +FRANK. This is most eloquent, Praddy. Keep it up. + +PRAED. Oh, I assure you _I_ have cried--I shall cry again, I +hope--at fifty! At your age, Miss Warren, you would not need to +go so far as Verona. Your spirits would absolutely fly up at the +mere sight of Ostend. You would be charmed with the gaiety, the +vivacity, the happy air of Brussels. + +VIVIE [springing up with an exclamation of loathing] Agh! + +PRAED [rising] Whats the matter? + +FRANK [rising] Hallo, Viv! + +VIVIE [to Praed, with deep reproach] Can you find no better +example of your beauty and romance than Brussels to talk to me +about? + +PRAED [puzzled] Of course it's very different from Verona. I +dont suggest for a moment that-- + +VIVIE [bitterly] Probably the beauty and romance come to much the +same in both places. + +PRAED [completely sobered and much concerned] My dear Miss +Warren: I-- [looking enquiringly at Frank] Is anything the +matter? + +FRANK. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous, Praddy. She's had +ever such a serious call. + +VIVIE [sharply] Hold your tongue, Frank. Dont be silly. + +FRANK [sitting down] Do you call this good manners, Praed? + +PRAED [anxious and considerate] Shall I take him away, Miss +Warren? I feel sure we have disturbed you at your work. + +VIVIE. Sit down: I'm not ready to go back to work yet. [Praed +sits]. You both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of +it. But there are two subjects I want dropped, if you dont mind. + +One of them [to Frank] is love's young dream in any shape or +form: the other [to Praed] is the romance and beauty of life, +especially Ostend and the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to +any illusions you may have left on these subjects: I have none. +If we three are to remain friends, I must be treated as a woman +of business, permanently single [to Frank] and permanently +unromantic [to Praed]. + +FRANK. I also shall remain permanently single until you change +your mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be eloquent about +something else. + +PRAED [diffidently] I'm afraid theres nothing else in the world +that I c a n talk about. The Gospel of Art is the only one I can +preach. I know Miss Warren is a great devotee of the Gospel of +Getting On; but we cant discuss that without hurting your +feelings, Frank, since you are determined not to get on. + +FRANK. Oh, dont mind my feelings. Give me some improving advice +by all means: it does me ever so much good. Have another try to +make a successful man of me, Viv. Come: lets have it all: +energy, thrift, foresight, self-respect, character. Dont you +hate people who have no character, Viv? + +VIVIE [wincing] Oh, stop, stop. Let us have no more of that +horrible cant. Mr Praed: if there are really only those two +gospels in the world, we had better all kill ourselves; for the +same taint is in both, through and through. + +FRANK [looking critically at her] There is a touch of poetry +about you today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking. + +PRAED [remonstrating] My dear Frank: arnt you a little +unsympathetic? + +VIVIE [merciless to herself] No: it's good for me. It keeps me +from being sentimental. + +FRANK [bantering her] Checks your strong natural propensity that +way, dont it? + +VIVIE [almost hysterically] Oh yes: go on: dont spare me. I was +sentimental for one moment in my life--beautifully sentimental-- +by moonlight; and now-- + +FRANK [quickly] I say, Viv: take care. Dont give yourself away. + +VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr Praed does not know all about my +mother? [Turning on Praed] You had better have told me that +morning, Mr Praed. You are very old fashioned in your +delicacies, after all. + +PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your +prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as +an artist, and believing that the most intimate human +relationships are far beyond and above the scope of the law, that +though I know that your mother is an unmarried woman, I do not +respect her the less on that account. I respect her more. + +FRANK [airily] Hear! hear! + +VIVIE [staring at him] Is that a l l you know? + +PRAED. Certainly that is all. + +VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are +innocence itself compared with the truth. + +PRAED [rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his +politeness with an effort] I hope not. [More emphatically] I +hope not, Miss Warren. + +FRANK [whistles] Whew! + +VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr Praed. + +PRAED [his chivalry drooping before their conviction] If there is +anything worse--that is, anything else--are you sure you are +right to tell us, Miss Warren? + +VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the +rest of my life in telling everybody--stamping and branding it +into them until they all felt their part in its abomination as I +feel mine. There is nothing I despise more than the wicked +convention that protects these things by forbidding a woman to +mention them. And yet I cant tell you. The two infamous words +that describe what my mother is are ringing in my ears and +struggling on my tongue; but I cant utter them: the shame of them +is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The +two men, astonished, stare at one another and then at her. She +raises her head again desperately and snatches a sheet of paper +and a pen]. Here: let me draft you a prospectus. + +FRANK. Oh, she's mad. Do you hear, Viv? mad. Come! pull +yourself together. + +VIVIE. You shall see. [She writes]. "Paid up capital: not less +than forty thousand pounds standing in the name of Sir George +Crofts, Baronet, the chief shareholder. Premises at Brussels, +Ostend, Vienna, and Budapest. Managing director: Mrs Warren"; +and now dont let us forget h e r qualifications: the two words. +[She writes the words and pushes the paper to them]. There! Oh +no: dont read it: dont! [She snatches it back and tears it to +pieces; then seizes her head in her hands and hides her face on +the table]. + +[Frank, who has watched the writing over her shoulder, and opened +his eyes very widely at it, takes a card from his pocket; +scribbles the two words on it; and silently hands it to Praed, +who reads it with amazement, and hides it hastily in his pocket.] + +FRANK [whispering tenderly] Viv, dear: thats all right. I read +what you wrote: so did Praddy. We understand. And we remain, as +this leaves us at present, yours ever so devotedly. + +PRAED. We do indeed, Miss Warren. I declare you are the most +splendidly courageous woman I ever met. + +[This sentimental compliment braces Vivie. She throws it away +from her with an impatient shake, and forces herself to stand up, +though not without some support from the table.] + +FRANK. Dont stir, Viv, if you dont want to. Take it easy. + +VIVIE. Thank you. You an always depend on me for two things: +not to cry and not to faint. [She moves a few steps towards the +door of the inner room, and stops close to Praed to say] I shall +need much more courage than that when I tell my mother that we +have come to a parting of the ways. Now I must go into the next +room for a moment to make myself neat again, if you dont mind. + +PRAED. Shall we go away? + +VIVIE. No: I'll be back presently. Only for a moment. [She +goes into the other room, Praed opening the door for her]. + +PRAED. What an amazing revelation! I'm extremely disappointed +in Crofts: I am indeed. + +FRANK. I'm not in the least. I feel he's perfectly accounted +for at last. But what a facer for me, Praddy! I cant marry her +now. + +PRAED [sternly] Frank! [The two look at one another, Frank +unruffled, Praed deeply indignant]. Let me tell you, Gardner, +that if you desert her now you will behave very despicably. + +FRANK. Good old Praddy! Ever chivalrous! But you mistake: it's +not the moral aspect of the case: it's the money aspect. I +really cant bring myself to touch the old woman's money now. + +PRAED. And was that what you were going to marry on? + +FRANK. What else? _I_ havnt any money, nor the smallest turn +for making it. If I married Viv now she would have to support +me; and I should cost her more than I am worth. + +PRAED. But surely a clever bright fellow like you can make +something by your own brains. + +FRANK. Oh yes, a little. [He takes out his money again]. I +made all that yesterday in an hour and a half. But I made it in +a highly speculative business. No, dear Praddy: even if Bessie +and Georgina marry millionaires and the governor dies after +cutting them off with a shilling, I shall have only four hundred +a year. And he wont die until he's three score and ten: he hasnt +originality enough. I shall be on short allowance for the next +twenty years. No short allowance for Viv, if I can help it. I +withdraw gracefully and leave the field to the gilded youth of +England. So that settled. I shant worry her about it: I'll just +send her a little note after we're gone. She'll understand. + +PRAED [grasping his hand] Good fellow, Frank! I heartily beg +your pardon. But must you never see her again? + +FRANK. Never see her again! Hang it all, be reasonable. I +shall come along as often as possible, and be her brother. I can +n o t understand the absurd consequences you romantic people +expect from the most ordinary transactions. [A knock at the +door]. I wonder who this is. Would you mind opening the door? +If it's a client it will look more respectable than if I +appeared. + +PRAED. Certainly. [He goes to the door and opens it. Frank +sits down in Vivie's chair to scribble a note]. My dear Kitty: +come in: come in. + +[Mrs Warren comes in, looking apprehensively around for Vivie. +She has done her best to make herself matronly and dignified. +The brilliant hat is replaced by a sober bonnet, and the gay +blouse covered by a costly black silk mantle. She is pitiably +anxious and ill at ease: evidently panic-stricken.] + +MRS WARREN [to Frank] What! Y o u r e here, are you? + +FRANK [turning in his chair from his writing, but not rising] +Here, and charmed to see you. You come like a breath of spring. + +MRS WARREN. Oh, get out with your nonsense. [In a low voice] +Where's Vivie? + +[Frank points expressively to the door of the inner room, but +says nothing.] + +MRS WARREN [sitting down suddenly and almost beginning to cry] +Praddy: wont she see me, dont you think? + +PRAED. My dear Kitty: dont distress yourself. Why should she +not? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, you never can see why not: youre too innocent. +Mr Frank: did she say anything to you? + +FRANK [folding his note] She m u s t see you, if [very +expressively] you wait til she comes in. + +MRS WARREN [frightened] Why shouldnt I wait? + +[Frank looks quizzically at her; puts his note carefully on the +ink-bottle, so that Vivie cannot fail to find it when next she +dips her pen; then rises and devotes his attention entirely to +her.] + +FRANK. My dear Mrs Warren: suppose you were a sparrow--ever so +tiny and pretty a sparrow hopping in the roadway--and you saw a +steam roller coming in your direction, would you wait for it? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, dont bother me with your sparrows. What did she +run away from Haslemere like that for? + +FRANK. I'm afraid she'll tell you if you rashly await her +return. + +MRS WARREN. Do you want me to go away? + +FRANK. No: I always want you to stay. But I a d v i s e you to +go away. + +MRS WARREN. What! And never see her again! + +FRANK. Precisely. + +MRS WARREN [crying again] Praddy: dont let him be cruel to me. +[She hastily checks her tears and wipes her eyes]. She'll be so +angry if she sees Ive been crying. + +FRANK [with a touch of real compassion in his airy tenderness] +You know that Praddy is the soul of kindness, Mrs Warren. +Praddy: what do you say? Go or stay? + +PRAED [to Mrs Warren] I really should be very sorry to cause you +unnecessary pain; but I think perhaps you had better not wait. +The fact is-- [Vivie is heard at the inner door]. + +FRANK. Sh! Too late. She's coming. + +MRS WARREN. Dont tell her I was crying. [Vivie comes in. She +stops gravely on seeing Mrs Warren, who greets her with +hysterical cheerfulness]. Well, dearie. So here you are at +last. + +VIVIE. I am glad you have come: I want to speak to you. You +said you were going, Frank, I think. + +FRANK. Yes. Will you come with me, Mrs Warren? What do you say +to a trip to Richmond, and the theatre in the evening? There is +safety in Richmond. No steam roller there. + +VIVIE. Nonsense, Frank. My mother will stay here. + +MRS WARREN [scared] I dont know: perhaps I'd better go. We're +disturbing you at your work. + +VIVIE [with quiet decision] Mr Praed: please take Frank away. +Sit down, mother. [Mrs Warren obeys helplessly]. + +PRAED. Come, Frank. Goodbye, Miss Vivie. + +VIVIE [shaking hands] Goodbye. A pleasant trip. + +PRAED. Thank you: thank you. I hope so. + +FRANK [to Mrs Warren] Goodbye: youd ever so much better have +taken my advice. [He shakes hands with her. Then airily to +Vivie] Byebye, Viv. + +VIVIE. Goodbye. [He goes out gaily without shaking hands with +her]. + +PRAED [sadly] Goodbye, Kitty. + +MRS WARREN [snivelling] --oobye! + +[Praed goes. Vivie, composed and extremely grave, sits down in +Honoria's chair, and waits for her mother to speak. Mrs Warren, +dreading a pause, loses no time in beginning.] + +MRS WARREN. Well, Vivie, what did you go away like that for +without saying a word to me! How could you do such a thing! And +what have you done to poor George? I wanted him to come with me; +but he shuffled out of it. I could see that he was quite afraid +of you. Only fancy: he wanted me not to come. As if [trembling] +I should be afraid of you, dearie. [Vivie's gravity deepens]. +But of course I told him it was all settled and comfortable +between us, and that we were on the best of terms. [She breaks +down]. Vivie: whats the meaning of this? [She produces a +commercial envelope, and fumbles at the enclosure with trembling +fingers]. I got it from the bank this morning. + +VIVIE. It is my month's allowance. They sent it to me as usual +the other day. I simply sent it back to be placed to your +credit, and asked them to send you the lodgment receipt. In +future I shall support myself. + +MRS WARREN [not daring to understand] Wasnt it enough? Why didnt +you tell me? [With a cunning gleam in her eye] I'll double it: I +was intending to double it. Only let me know how much you want. + +VIVIE. You know very well that that has nothing to do with it. +From this time I go my own way in my own business and among my +own friends. And you will go yours. [She rises]. Goodbye. + +MRS WARREN [rising, appalled] Goodbye? + +VIVIE. Yes: goodbye. Come: dont let us make a useless scene: +you understand perfectly well. Sir George Crofts has told me the +whole business. + +MRS WARREN [angrily] Silly old-- [She swallows an epithet, and +then turns white at the narrowness of her escape from uttering +it]. + +VIVIE. Just so. + +MRS WARREN. He ought to have his tongue cut out. But I thought +it was ended: you said you didnt mind. + +VIVIE [steadfastly] Excuse me: I d o mind. + +MRS WARREN. But I explained-- + +VIVIE. You explained how it came about. You did not tell me +that it is still going on [She sits]. + +[Mrs Warren, silenced for a moment, looks forlornly at Vivie, who +waits, secretly hoping that the combat is over. But the cunning +expression comes back into Mrs Warren's face; and she bends +across the table, sly and urgent, half whispering.] + +MRS WARREN. Vivie: do you know how rich I am? + +VIVIE. I have no doubt you are very rich. + +MRS WARREN. But you dont know all that that means; youre too +young. It means a new dress every day; it means theatres and +balls every night; it means having the pick of all the gentlemen +in Europe at your feet; it means a lovely house and plenty of +servants; it means the choicest of eating and drinking; it means +everything you like, everything you want, everything you can +think of. And what are you here? A mere drudge, toiling and +moiling early and late for your bare living and two cheap dresses +a year. Think over it. [Soothingly] Youre shocked, I know. I +can enter into your feelings; and I think they do you credit; but +trust me, nobody will blame you: you may take my word for that. +I know what young girls are; and I know youll think better of it +when youve turned it over in your mind. + +VIVIE. So that's how it is done, is it? You must have said all +that to many a woman, to have it so pat. + +MRS WARREN [passionately] What harm am I asking you to do? +[Vivie turns away contemptuously. Mrs Warren continues +desperately] Vivie: listen to me: you dont understand: you were +taught wrong on purpose: you dont know what the world is really +like. + +VIVIE [arrested] Taught wrong on purpose! What do you mean? + +MRS WARREN. I mean that youre throwing away all your chances for +nothing. You think that people are what they pretend to be: that +the way you were taught at school and college to think right and +proper is the way things really are. But it's not: it's all only +a pretence, to keep the cowardly slavish common run of people +quiet. Do you want to find that out, like other women, at forty, +when youve thrown yourself away and lost your chances; or wont +you take it in good time now from your own mother, that loves you +and swears to you that it's truth: gospel truth? [Urgently] +Vivie: the big people, the clever people, the managing people, +all know it. They do as I do, and think what I think. I know +plenty of them. I know them to speak to, to introduce you to, to +make friends of for you. I dont mean anything wrong: thats what +you dont understand: your head is full of ignorant ideas about +me. What do the people that taught you know about life or about +people like me? When did they ever meet me, or speak to me, or +let anyone tell them about me? the fools! Would they ever have +done anything for you if I hadnt paid them? Havnt I told you +that I want you to be respectable? Havnt I brought you up to be +respectable? And how can you keep it up without my money and my +influence and Lizzie's friends? Cant you see that youre cutting +your own throat as well as breaking my heart in turning your back +on me? + +VIVIE. I recognize the Crofts philosophy of life, mother. I +heard it all from him that day at the Gardners'. + +MRS WARREN. You think I want to force that played-out old sot on +you! I dont, Vivie: on my oath I dont. + +VIVIE. It would not matter if you did: you would not succeed. +[Mrs Warren winces, deeply hurt by the implied indifference +towards her affectionate intention. Vivie, neither understanding +this nor concerning herself about it, goes on calmly] Mother: you +dont at all know the sort of person I am. I dont object to +Crofts more than to any other coarsely built man of his class. +To tell you the truth, I rather admire him for being strongminded +enough to enjoy himself in his own way and make plenty of money +instead of living the usual shooting, hunting, dining-out, +tailoring, loafing life of his set merely because all the rest do +it. And I'm perfectly aware that if I'd been in the same +circumstances as my aunt Liz, I'd have done exactly what she did. + +I dont think I'm more prejudiced or straitlaced than you: I think +I'm less. I'm certain I'm less sentimental. I know very well +that fashionable morality is all a pretence, and that if I took +your money and devoted the rest of my life to spending it +fashionably, I might be as worthless and vicious as the silliest +woman could possibly be without having a word said to me about +it. But I dont want to be worthless. I shouldnt enjoy trotting +about the park to advertize my dressmaker and carriage builder, +or being bored at the opera to shew off a shopwindowful of +diamonds. + +MRS WARREN [bewildered] But-- + +VIVIE. Wait a moment: Ive not done. Tell me why you continue +your business now that you are independent of it. Your sister, +you told me, has left all that behind her. Why dont you do the +same? + +MRS WARREN. Oh, it's all very easy for Liz: she likes good +society, and has the air of being a lady. Imagine m e in a +cathedral town! Why, the very rooks in the trees would find me +out even if I could stand the dulness of it. I must have work +and excitement, or I should go melancholy mad. And what else is +there for me to do? The life suits me: I'm fit for it and not +for anything else. If I didnt do it somebody else would; so I +dont do any real harm by it. And then it brings in money; and I +like making money. No: it's no use: I cant give it up--not for +anybody. But what need you know about it? I'll never mention +it. I'll keep Crofts away. I'll not trouble you much: you see I +have to be constantly running about from one place to another. +Youll be quit of me altogether when I die. + +VIVIE. No: I am my mother's daughter. I am like you: I must +have work, and must make more money than I spend. But my work is +not your work, and my way is not your way. We must part. It +will not make much difference to us: instead of meeting one +another for perhaps a few months in twenty years, we shall never +meet: thats all. + +MRS WARREN [her voice stifled in tears] Vivie: I meant to have +been more with you: I did indeed. + +VIVIE. It's no use, mother: I am not to be changed by a few +cheap tears and entreaties any more than you are, I daresay. + +MRS WARREN [wildly] Oh, you call a mother's tears cheap. + +VIVIE. They cost you nothing; and you ask me to give you the +peace and quietness of my whole life in exchange for them. What +use would my company be to you if you could get it? What have we +two in common that could make either of us happy together? + +MRS WARREN [lapsing recklessly into her dialect] We're mother and +daughter. I want my daughter. Ive a right to you. Who is to +care for me when I'm old? Plenty of girls have taken to me like +daughters and cried at leaving me; but I let them all go because +I had you to look forward to. I kept myself lonely for you. +Youve no right to turn on me now and refuse to do your duty as a +daughter. + +VIVIE [jarred and antagonized by the echo of the slums in her +mother's voice] My duty as a daughter! I thought we should come +to that presently. Now once for all, mother, you want a daughter +and Frank wants a wife. I dont want a mother; and I dont want a +husband. I have spared neither Frank nor myself in sending him +about his business. Do you think I will spare you? + +MRS WARREN [violently] Oh, I know the sort you are: no mercy for +yourself or anyone else. _I_ know. My experience has done that +for me anyhow: I can tell the pious, canting, hard, selfish woman +when I meet her. Well, keep yourself to yourself: _I_ dont want +you. But listen to this. Do you know what I would do with you +if you were a baby again? aye, as sure as there's a Heaven above +us. + +VIVIE. Strangle me, perhaps. + +MRS WARREN. No: I'd bring you up to be a real daughter to me, +and not what you are now, with your pride and your prejudices and +the college education you stole from me: yes, stole: deny it if +you can: what was it but stealing? I'd bring you up in my own +house, I would. + +VIVIE [quietly] In one of your own houses. + +MRS WARREN [screaming] Listen to her! listen to how she spits on +her mother's grey hairs! Oh, may you live to have your own +daughter tear and trample on you as you have trampled on me. And +you will: you will. No woman ever had luck with a mother's curse +on her. + +VIVIE. I wish you wouldnt rant, mother. It only hardens me. +Come: I suppose I am the only young woman you ever had in your +power that you did good to. Dont spoil it all now. + +MRS WARREN. Yes, Heaven forgive me, it's true; and you are the +only one that ever turned on me. Oh, the injustice of it! the +injustice! the injustice! I always wanted to be a good woman. I +tried honest work; and I was slave-driven until I cursed the day +I ever heard of honest work. I was a good mother; and because I +made my daughter a good woman she turns me out as if I were a +leper. Oh, if I only had my life to live over again! I'd talk +to that lying clergyman in the school. From this time forth, so +help me Heaven in my last hour, I'll do wrong and nothing but +wrong. And I'll prosper on it. + +VIVIE. Yes: it's better to choose your line and go through with +it. If I had been you, mother, I might have done as you did; but +I should not have lived one life and believed in another. You +are a conventional woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you +goodbye now. I am right, am I not? + +MRS WARREN [taken aback] Right to throw away all my money! + +VIVIE. No: right to get rid of you? I should be a fool not to. +Isnt that so? + +MRS WARREN [sulkily] Oh well, yes, if you come to that, I suppose +you are. But Lord help the world if everybody took to doing the +right thing! And now I'd better go than stay where I'm not +wanted. [She turns to the door]. + +VIVIE [kindly] Wont you shake hands? + +MRS WARREN [after looking at her fiercely for a moment with a +savage impulse to strike her] No, thank you. Goodbye. + +VIVIE [matter-of-factly] Goodbye. [Mrs Warren goes out, slamming +the door behind her. The strain on Vivie's face relaxes; her +grave expression breaks up into one of joyous content; her breath +goes out in a half sob, half laugh of intense relief. She goes +buoyantly to her place at the writing table; pushes the electric +lamp out of the way; pulls over a great sheaf of papers; and is +in the act of dipping her pen in the ink when she finds Frank's +note. She opens it unconcernedly and reads it quickly, giving a +little laugh at some quaint turn of expression in it]. And +goodbye, Frank. [She tears the note up and tosses the pieces +into the wastepaper basket without a second thought. Then she +goes at her work with a plunge, and soon becomes absorbed in its +figures]. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Mrs. Warren's Profession by Shaw + diff --git a/old/old/wrpro10.zip b/old/old/wrpro10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ecee67 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/wrpro10.zip |