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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/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> |