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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11999-0.txt b/11999-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9bfbb06 --- /dev/null +++ b/11999-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4208 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11999 *** + +THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + +BY + +CHARLES RANN KENNEDY + + + +BOOKS BY CHARLES RANN KENNEDY + +SEVEN PLAYS FOR SEVEN PLAYERS + Volumes now ready: + THE WINTERFEAST + THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + THE IDOL-BREAKER + THE RIB OF THE MAN + +SHORTER PLAYS FOR SMALL CASTS + Volumes now ready: + THE TERRIBLE MEEK + THE NECESSARY EVIL + + + + +1908 + + + + + TO WALTER HAMPDEN + + "There's a lot o' brothers + knockin' abaht as people + don't know on, eh what? + See wot I mean?" + + + + +"He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is +in darkness even until now. He that loveth his brother abideth +in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him. +But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in +darkness and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness +hath blinded his eyes. . . . If a man say, I love God, and +hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his +brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath +not seen?" + + --I. JOHN, ii. 9-11, iv. 20. + + + +"The hunger for brotherhood is at the bottom of the unrest +of the modern civilized world." + + --GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS. + + + + +ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS + +IN + +THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + +BY + +CHARLES RANN KENNEDY + + + +AS PRESENTED BY + +THE HENRY MILLER ASSOCIATE PLAYERS + +AT + +THE SAVOY THEATRE. NEW YORK + +ON MONDAY, MARCH 23, 1906 + + +A PLAY OF THE PRESENT DAY, IN FIVE ACTS, SCENE INDIVIDABLE +SETTING FORTH THE STORY OF ONE MORNING IN THE EARLY SPRING + + + +PERSONS IN THE PLAY + +JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., The Most Reverend, + The Lord Bishop of Lancashire + Mr. ARTHUR LEWIS + +THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE, Vicar, + Mr. CHARLES DALTON + +AUNTIE, the Vicar's Wife + Miss EDITH WYNNE MATTHISON + +MARY, their niece + Miss MABEL MOORE + +MR. ROBERT SMITH, a gentleman of necessary occupation, + Mr. TYRONE POWER + +ROGERS, a page-boy + Mr. GALWEY HERBERT + +MANSON, a butler + Mr. WALTER HAMPDEN + + +Time--An early morning in Spring. +Place--An English country vicarage. + + + + +CHARACTERS REPRESENTED + + +JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D. +The Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire + +THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE +The Vicar + +AUNTIE +The Vicar's Wife + +MARY +Their niece + +MR. ROBERT SMITH +A gentleman of necessary occupation + +ROGERS +A page-boy + +MANSON +A butler + + +TIME: Now +PLACE: Here + + + + +THE SCENE + +The scene, which remains unchanged throughout the play, is a room +in the vicarage. Jacobean in character, its oak-panelling and +beamed-ceiling, together with some fine pieces of antique +furniture, lend it an air of historical interest, whilst in all +other respects it speaks of solid comfort, refinement, and +unostentatious elegance. Evidently the room of a rich man, who +has, however, apparently come to some compromise on the difficult +question of his entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven; for the +panelled walls possess, among other decorations, a richly +ornamented crucifix, a Virgin and Child by an old master, certain +saints in ecstasy, and a really remarkable modern oil-painting of +the Divine Author of our religion. + +The main door of the room is at the back of the stage, somewhere +towards the middle; it opens upon a hall, at the further side of +which one may perceive, through the open door of another room, a +goodly collection of well-bound and learned-looking volumes--the +vicar's library. At the present moment these tomes of wisdom are +inaccessible, as the library door is blocked up with unsightly +mounds of earth, sewer-pipes, and certain workmen's implements. +The fact is, the vicarage has been greatly disturbed of late, owing +to a defect in the drainage--an unsavory circumstance which +receives further and regretful explication in the play itself. + +Returning, then, to the room, one may see, in addition to the main +door described above, another door, to the right of stage, and near +to the audience. The curious may be glad to learn that this leads +into a drawing-room, and incidentally affords one more means of +communication with the house. Another exit is provided on the +opposite side of the stage [left], where a couple of lofty French +windows lead out into the garden. Above the drawing-room door is a +fine old Jacobean mantel-piece: a fire burns brightly in the grate. +To the left of the main door at the back is a long, low, mullioned +window, through which one may see a blue sky, a thatched top or two +of cottages, and the gray old tower of the church. Through the +French windows are seen a gravel-walk, a lawn, trees, and a +sun-dial. + +Of the essential furniture of the scene, there may be mentioned; +sideboard to right of main door; table, right-centre of stage, with +chairs; arm-chair by fireplace; settee, left, towards front; and a +long oak stool in the window. + +The various properties are described or implied in the text of the +play. + + + + +THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + +THE FIRST ACT + +As the curtain ascends, Rogers and Manson are discovered laying the +table for breakfast, the lad being at the upper end of the table, +facing the audience, Manson, with his back to the audience, being +at the lower end. Rogers is an ordinary little cockney boy in +buttons; Manson is dressed in his native Eastern costume. His face +is not seen until the point indicated lower down. + +ROGERS [glancing across curiously]. Arskin' your pardon, Mr. +Manson. . . . + +MANSON. Yes: what is it, Rogers? + +ROGERS. Funny thing--cawn't get it out of my 'ead as I've knowed +you somewhere before. Don't scarcely seem possible, do it, Mr. +Manson? + +MANSON. Many things are possible in this world, Rogers. + +ROGERS. That's all right; but 'ow long 'av' you been in England, +Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. I landed late last night, if that's what you mean. + +ROGERS. Well, I never been in the continong of Asia, where you +come from; and there you are! + +MANSON [quietly]. Yes: here I am. + +[He goes to the sideboard and busies himself with serviettes, mats, +etc.] + +ROGERS. Perhaps it's this reincarnytion the Daily Mail been +writing about. Ever see the Daily Mail out there, Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. No: we had few advantages. + +ROGERS. Rum idea, reincarnytion! Think, Mr. Manson, perhaps we +wos lords once in ancient Babylon, you an' me! + +MANSON. And now butler and page-boy, eh? + +ROGERS [scratching his head]. Does seem a bit of a come-down, +don't it? + +MANSON. That's one way of looking at it. + +[ROGERS, enticed of Satan, has conveyed a furtive spoonful of jam +towards his mouth.] + +[Without turning.] Isn't there jam in the kitchen, Rogers? + +ROGERS [scared]. Evings! E've got eyes in 'is boots! S'y, do you +call it stealing, Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. Do you? [Persisting.] Do you? + +[ROGERS drops the spoon and moves mournfully away from temptation.] + +ROGERS. 'Pon my word, Mr. Manson, you give me the fair creeps and +no mistike! + +MANSON. You will get over that when you knew me better. + +ROGERS. Mr. Manson! Do you mind if I arst you a question? + +MANSON. No; what is it? + +ROGERS. What d'you wear them togs for? This ain't India. + +MANSON. People don't always recognise me in anything else. + +[He turns for the first time. His face is one of awful sweetness, +dignity, and strength. There is the calm of a great mastery about +him, suited to his habit as a servant.] + +ROGERS. Garn, Mr. Manson, that's a bit orf! Clothes don't make +all that difference, come now! . . . + +MANSON. They are the only things the people of this world see. + +ROGERS [after a pause]. Excuse me, Mr. Manson, you mek me larf. + +MANSON. That's all right, Rogers. I have a sense of humour +myself, or I shouldn't be here. + +ROGERS [suddenly sentimental]. Talking about clothes, Mr. Manson, +I often thinks in my 'ead as I'd like to be a church clergyman, +like master. Them strite-up collars are very becoming. Wouldn't +you, Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. Wouldn't that be rather presuming, Rogers? + +ROGERS. Don't you mek no mistike about it! 'Ere! [He grows +confidential.] _You are_ a butler, ain't you? Ain't you, +now? . . . + +MANSON. Something like that. + +ROGERS. Well, perhaps master 'asn't allus been as 'igh-- See! O' +course, I don't know, but they _do_ s'y as 'e was once only a . . . +Wot oh! 'Ere 'e is! + +[The VICAR'S voice is heard off.] + +VICAR. I shall be in to breakfast at a quarter to nine. Don't +wait for me, dearest. + +[He enters hurriedly from door, right, watch in hand. He has on +his cassock and biretta.] + +So awkward-- Both my curates down with the whooping-cough! +To-day, too! Just when I was expecting . . . + +[As he goes up stage, left of table, MANSON comes down, right, with +serviettes. The VICAR wheels round slowly, facing him. Observing +his astonishment, ROGERS steps forward with explanation.] + +ROGERS. It's the new butler, sir. Mr. Manson, sir. + +VICAR. Surely, I--I've seen you somewhere before. + +MANSON [looking at him]. Have you, sir? + +VICAR. Hm! No, I can't quite . . . + +ROGERS. Beg pardon, sir: getting on for eight. + +[He hands him a small silver paten upon which there is a piece of +bread.] + +VICAR [Taking it mechanically]. Hm! These mysteries are not +always helpful . . . Anyway, I'm glad to see you, Manson. When +did you arrive? + +[He begins to break the bread into fragments whilst talking.] + +MANSON. Early this morning, sir. I should have come sooner; but I +had a little trouble down at the Customs. + +VICAR. Indeed! How was that? + +MANSON. They said something about the new Alien Act, sir. + +VICAR. Of course, of course. Er . . . You speak English +remarkably well. + +MANSON. I have seen a good deal of the English, one time and +another. + +VICAR. That's good: it will save a lot of explanation. By-the-bye +. . . + +My old friend in Brindisi, who recommended you, writes that you +bore a very excellent character with your late employer in India; +but there was one matter he didn't mention-- No doubt you will +recognise its importance in a clergyman's family-- He never +mentioned your religion. + +MANSON. I can soon remedy that, sir. My religion is very simple. +I love God and all my brothers. + +VICAR [after a pause]. God and your brothers . . . + +MANSON. Yes, sir: _all_ of them. + +[The VICAR stands thoughtful for a moment. He places the paten on +the table, beside him.] + +VICAR [slowly]. That is not always so easy, Manson; but it is my +creed, too. + +MANSON. Then-- Brother! + +[Rapt in thought, the VICAR takes his profferred hand mechanically.] + +[MARY enters. She is a slim young girl in her teens, the picture +of rosy sweetness and health.] + +MARY. Good-morning, Uncle William! Oh! . . . I suppose you're +Manson? I must say you look simply ripping! How do you do? My +name's Mary. [She offers her hand.] + +MANSON [kissing it]. A very dear name, too! + +MARY [embarrassed, blurting]. We were wondering last night about +your religion. I said . . . + +VICAR. Mary, my child . . . + +MARY. You don't _look_ like a cannibal. After all, even the devil +isn't as black as he's . . . Oh, I beg your pardon: perhaps I'm +rude. + +VICAR. Yes, indeed you are. Don't take any notice of our little +feather-brain, Manson. + +MARY. I say, has uncle told you who's coming to-day? + +MANSON. No. + +MARY. Not about Uncle Josh? + +VICAR. T-t-t! You mustn't call your uncle Joshua that! It is +irreverent. He may resent it. + +MARY. You know, _you'll_ make me positively dislike him! Just +fancy, Manson, meeting an uncle whom you've never so much as set +eyes on before! I don't even know what he looks like. + +[She is looking MANSON in the face. He returns her gaze curiously.] + +MANSON. Then--you have a surprise in store. + +MARY. _You_ ought to be awfully interested! You will, when you +hear where he comes from! + +MANSON. I _am_--interested. + +MARY. Then guess who he is! + +MANSON. Guess--when I know already? + +MARY. Oh, Uncle Joshua isn't his only name--don't you think that! +He's a very important person, I can tell you! His name's on +everybody's lips! + +MANSON [dryly]. Really! + +MARY. Can't you guess? . . . Think of the very biggest person you +ever heard of in this world! + +MANSON. In _this_ world: that sounds rather like . . . Does he +give free libraries? + +MARY. I can't say I ever heard of that; but he does things quite +as wonderful! Listen! What do you think of the BISHOP OF BENARES!! + +MANSON [unimpressed]. Oh, it's the--Bishop of Benares, is it? + +MARY. I must say, you don't seem very surprised! Surely you've +heard of him? He _comes_ from India. + +MANSON [quietly]. I happen to know him. + +VICAR. No, really: this is most interesting! + +MANSON. As a man might know _his own soul_, sir--As they say in +India. His work has been mine, so to speak. + +VICAR. Bless me, you will know him better than I do. I have never +seen him since I was quite a little lad. + +MARY [with prodigious solemnity]. Just you think, Manson! He's my +uncle--my own father's brother! + +[MANSON is now up stage between the two.] + +MANSON. _Your_ brother, sir? + +VICAR [fervently]. I am grateful to God for it, Manson: he is. + +[MANSON regards him calmly for a moment: then he turns inquiringly +towards Mary.] + +MANSON. Then--Miss Mary? . . . + +VICAR [quickly]. Oh, my niece is the daughter of--of my other +brother. + +MANSON. I see: _two_ brothers? + +VICAR [shortly]. Yes, yes, I have: I--I had. + +MANSON [resuming his work at the table]. Thank you, sir: it's +always helpful, coming to a new place, to know who are--and who are +not--the family connections. + +VICAR. Come, Rogers! My poor brethren in the church are waiting. +I must see to their necessities at once. [He starts for the door.] + +MANSON. Pardon me, sir. + +[He hands him the bread which, among those necessities, he has +forgotten. The VICAR looks at him a moment in troubled thought, +and then goes out, followed by ROGERS.] + +ROGERS [at door]. I'll be back to 'elp you in with the breakfast, +Mr. Manson. [Exit.] + +MARY. Now, Manson: let's talk! You've got nothing more to do? . . . + +MANSON. Not till breakfast. + +MARY. Then come over here, and make ourselves comfy. + +[They go over to the settee: she plumps herself down, gathering her +legs up into a little bunch. He seats himself beside her.] + +Now! Tell me everything you know about the Bishop of Benares! + +MANSON. What--Uncle Josh? + +MARY. Ssh--ssh--ssh! That's naughty, you know! You heard what +Uncle William said! . . . Do you think he'd very much mind if I +called him Uncle Josh? + +MANSON. You may take it from _me_, that you may call him whatever +you like. + +MARY. That's all very well; but you're not Uncle Joshua! + +MANSON. No? . . . + +MARY [hotly]. No, you're not! + +MANSON. Well, since you're so certain . . . + +MARY [with conviction]. I'm perfectly certain he'll never stand a +kid like me cheeking him and calling him names! Uncle William's +quite right! . . . And that's why I've made up my mind that I +sha'n't like him, after all! + +MANSON. Indeed, I hope you will! + +MARY. Do you believe in liking people simply because they're +uncles? + +MANSON. Perhaps I'm a prejudiced person. + +MARY. I know exactly what he'll be--goody-goody, isn't he? You +know--religious, and all that! + +MANSON. God forbid! + +MARY [fearfully]. Oh, perhaps he's the other sort--like auntie's +brother! He's a bishop--the Bishop of Lancashire. You see, I've +heard a lot about bishops in my time, and they're not always quite +nice men. + +MANSON. And what sort is the Bishop of Lancashire? + +MARY. Well, I don't think I ought to tell you; but I once heard +_Uncle William_ call him a devil!--And he's a clergyman! + +MANSON. Your Uncle Joshua's reputation is exactly opposite. + +MARY. There is that; everybody speaks awfully well of him. + +MANSON. I don't think I would go so far as that: some people +blackguard him abominably. + +MARY. No!--Who? + +MANSON. His clergy, chiefly. + +MARY. His clergy! They must be dreadfully wicked men! + +MANSON. No--only blind: perhaps, also, a little deaf. But between +the two they manage to make his work very difficult. + +MARY. Why? What do they do? + +MANSON. It's partly what they do _not_ do. + +MARY. Oh, I see--lazy. + +MANSON. Not precisely--they work: they are not idle; but they +serve other masters. + +MARY. Such as whom? + +MANSON. The Bishop of Lancashire. + +MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success +out there. The papers have been full of it--of the millions of +people who follow him about: they say they almost worship him in +some places. What kind of people are they? + +MANSON. Just common people. + +MARY. And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out +there! . . . + +MANSON. Churches? + +MARY. Yes; didn't he? + +MANSON. He built one. + +MARY. What's it like? + +MANSON. Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on +earth. + +MARY [eagerly]. Have you seen it? + +MANSON. I was there when he built it. + +MARY. From the very beginning? + +MANSON [solemnly]. From the beginning. + +[MARY pauses before speaking: then she says, slowly.] + +MARY. I hope I _shall_ like him. Is he--is he anything like you? + +[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.] + +MANSON. How is it that you know so little about him? + +MARY. Well, you see, I only heard yesterday. + +MANSON. I thought you said his name was on everybody's _lips_. + +MARY. You don't understand. I mean, I never knew that he had +anything to do with _me_--that he was my father's brother. + +MANSON. Didn't _he_ know? + +MARY. Who--father? Oh, you see, I. . . _I don't know my father_ +. . . . . . Uncle William didn't know anything about it until +yesterday. + +MANSON. Hm! That is strange, too! + +MARY. There's a bit of a mystery about it altogether. Would you +like to hear? It is rather like a fairy-tale. + +MANSON. It must be. Yes, do go on. + +MARY. It was all through Uncle William's Restoration Fund. You +see, our old church is in a perfectly rotten state of decay, and +naturally it would take a lot to repair it: so uncle thought of +starting a Fund--Yes! Wasn't it clever of him?--I addressed all +the envelopes. + +Would you believe it, we couldn't get a single halfpenny! Isn't it +a shame?--Such a nice old church, too! + +MANSON. How was that? + +MARY. That's the question! People have been most rude! Oh, the +letters we have had! The funny thing is, for all their +fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!--Some say +the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-glass +windows; but if you ask me . . . + +MANSON. Yes, what do you think? + +MARY. Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old +Bletchley is right . . . + +MANSON. Who's he? + +MARY. Oh, he's a dreadfully wicked man, I know that-- He's the +quack doctor in the village: he's--he's _an atheist_! . . . + +MANSON. Well, what does he think is the matter? + +MARY. He says it's the DRAIN! + +MANSON. The--the drain? . . . + +MARY. Um! You know, in spite of what uncle says, there is a +smell: I had it in my nose all last Sunday morning. Up in the +choir it's bad enough, and round by the pulpit-- Ugh! I can't +think how uncle stands it! + +That's why the people won't come to church-- They _say_ so: they +stand in the market-place listening to old Bletchley, instead of +listening to uncle and trying to be good. + +The odd thing Is, it must be that very same drain that's causing +the trouble in uncle's study-- That's his study out there, where +they've been digging: it's where he writes his sermons. You know, +_I've_ noticed the smell for some time, but uncle got so cross +whenever I mentioned it, that I learned to hold my tongue. At +last, auntie smelt it, too, and that soon brought the men in! Ugh! +Perhaps you've . . . + +MANSON. I have! But what has all this to do with . . . + +MARY. Don't get impatient: it's all part of the story. . . . +Well, we thought we should have poor dear Uncle William perfectly +ill . . . + +MANSON. Because of the drain? . . . + +MARY. No, because of the Fund. He tried everything: all his rich +friends, bazaars, jumble-sales, special intercessions--everything! +And nothing seemed to come of it! + +Then at last, yesterday morning, he was reading the newspaper, and +there was a long piece about the Bishop of Benares. Uncle read it +aloud to us. Suddenly, in the middle, he broke off and said: _Look +at the power this chap seems to have at the back of him! I wish to +God I had some of it_! + +He had scarcely said it, when there was a rat-tat at the door: it +was the postman; and what do you think? IT WAS A LETTER FROM THE +BISHOP OF BENARES? + +MANSON [anticipating the critics]. What a coincidence! + +MARY. Isn't that wonderful? _Isn't_ it just like a fairy-tale? +Wait a bit. There's more yet . . . Here's the letter: uncle gave +it me for my autographs . . . + +[She fishes it out from her pocket. MANSON reads it aloud, slowly +and clearly.] + +MANSON. "_I shall be with you during to-morrow morning. If any +one will help me, I will restore your church. Your brother, +Joshua_." + +MARY [pointing]. And there, do you see, underneath, in brackets: +_The Bishop of Benares_. + +MANSON. Dear me, dear me, just those few words! + +MARY. Wasn't it like an answer to prayer? Auntie saw that at once! + +And the odd part about it is, that Uncle William did have a brother +Joshua who went away and got lost in India years and years ago! +And to think that he was who he was all the time! To think of him +never writing until yesterday! To think that before the day is out +he will be sitting down here, perhaps in this very place, just +like . . . + +[She breaks off suddenly, gazing at him; for his eyes have taken a +strange fire.] + +MANSON. Just like I am now . . . + +MARY [falteringly]. Yes . . . + +MANSON. Talking to you . . . + +MARY. Oh! . . . [She rises, afraid.] + +MANSON [softly], Mary . . . + +MARY [in a whisper]. Who are you? . . . + +MANSON. I am . . . + +[He is interrupted by the great bell of the church, which tolls the +Sanctus. After the third stroke, he continues.] + +I am the servant in this house. I have my work to do. Would you +like to help me? + +MARY. What shall I do? + +MANSON. Help to spin she fairy-tale. Will you? + +MARY. I will. + +MANSON. Then keep the secret--Remember! And wish hard. + +MARY. Do you believe in wishing? + +MANSON. Everything comes true, if you wish hard enough. + +MARY. What shall I wish for? + +MANSON. What have you needed most? What have you not had? Think +it out. + +[Enter AUNTIE in a negligee morning gown. She has a preoccupied +air. She carries her husband's coat over her arm.] + +AUNTIE. Oh, I heard you had arrived. I hope they gave you +something to eat when you came in. + +MANSON. Thank you, ma'am: it will do later. + +AUNTIE. Mary . . . Dearest . . . + +MARY. Oh, I beg your pardon, auntie dear, I . . . + +AUNTIE. Dreaming again! [Putting her arm round her.] Come, I +want you to put your uncle's coat by the fire. He will be cold, +coming out of that draughty church. + +MARY [hugging her]. You darling! I believe you think of nobody +but uncle in the world! + +AUNTIE. And you, sweetheart: you come next--a very near next! +Now, run along. + +[MARY takes the coat to the fire.] + +[Surveying the table]. That's very nice, Manson, very nice indeed! +Perhaps, just a little further this way. . . . [Removes flowers.] +My husband is so fond of them. Ye-es; and I _wanted_ things +_particularly_ nice this morning . . . + +MARY [at the fire, looking up]. I thought you said you--you didn't +expect him till twelve-thirty! . . . + +AUNTIE [absorbed]. Whom? + +MARY [chuckling]. The--the Bishop of Benares. + +AUNTIE. The--the . . . Oh, it's your _uncle_ I am . . . [To +Manson]. By-the-bye, has the postman been yet? + +MANSON [at the window]. I can see him coming up the lane. He's +stopped at the next house. + +AUNTIE. Oh, then, Mary: will you very much mind if you don't have +breakfast with us this morning? I want to have a private talk with +your uncle. + +MARY. Oh, auntie, dear! . . . + +AUNTIE. Don't think of yourself, dear-- Remember, there are other +people in the world besides you. Go down into the village, and +have breakfast with poor old Grannie Durden. Take her some nice +new-laid eggs and a pat of butter-- Poor soul, it would be a +charity! + +MARY. Oh, auntie, she's as deaf as a post! + +AUNTIE. Dearest!--Remember what your uncle said last Sunday about +_Pure religion and undefiled_! He mentioned Mrs. Durden only a +week ago; but I forgot. Now, run along. + +MARY [reluctantly]. Very well, auntie. + +[She goes out by the main door.] + +AUNTIE [laughing]. Inconsiderate little monkey! + +I am glad you have not thought of changing your pretty, native +costume, Manson. It is very picturesque; and, besides, to-day +there is a special reason why it may be considered complimentary. + +[A double knock is heard at the outer door.] + +Ah! Quick, Manson! The postman! + +[MANSON goes out. AUNTIE takes a look at the coat: rearranges the +flowers, humming, meanwhile, "The Church's One Foundation"; and +then stands impatiently awaiting MANSON'S reappearance. Presently +he returns with a letter on server.] + +MANSON. A letter for you, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. Ah! What I expected! + +[She breaks open the letter and reads it eagerly.] + +Excellent! [More dubiously]. Excellent . . . + +Manson, we shall have to be very busy to-day. There will be quite +a Church Congress to lunch--two bishops! + +MANSON. Oh, not as bad as that, ma'am! + +AUNTIE. Manson! + +MANSON. Beg pardon, ma'am; but master mentioned only one--his +brother, the Bishop of Benares. + +AUNTIE. _My_ brother will join us also--the Bishop of Lancashire. +This is his letter. + +And now let's have breakfast, at once. The vicar is sure to be +earlier than he said; and I'm hungry. + +[MANSON goes to the door. As he opens it, the VICAR and ROGERS +reappear.] + +MANSON. Here is master. I'll hurry up the breakfast, ma'am. + +VICAR [entering]. Do, Manson. Let's get it over. + +[MANSON goes out.] + +Excuse me, my dear. + +[ROGERS helps him off with the cassock.] + +So tiresome! Not a place in the house to do anything! Confound +the drains! Just run up-stairs for my coat, Rogers. + +AUNTIE. It's here, dear. I have it warming for you. + +VICAR [more graciously]. Oh, thank you, Martha. That will do, +then, Rogers. Tell Manson to hurry up. + +[ROGERS helps him on and goes out. The cassock is left lying on +the long stool by the window.] + +[The VICAR crosses moodily to the fireplace. AUNTIE stands +undecided, watching him, the letter in her hand.] + +AUNTIE. You're back early, dear. + +VICAR. What can you expect? Not a soul there, of course! + +AUNTIE. My poor William! I'm glad I thought to hurry up the +breakfast. + +VICAR. Thanks, dear. You are always thoughtful. + +AUNTIE. William . . . + +[He looks up.] + +I--I want to have a little talk with you. + +VICAR. What is it? Any more--worry? + +AUNTIE. You needn't make it so. + +VICAR.. Ah! + +AUNTIE [moving over to him and stroking his hair]. My dearest is +not well. + +VICAR. I think you are right, Martha. I am not well. + +AUNTIE [alarmed]. Not the trouble with your heart again? + +VICAR. No; I fancy it goes deeper than that! + +AUNTIE. William! What do you mean? + +VICAR [suddenly facing her]. Martha! Do you know the sort of man +you have been living with all these years? Do you see through me? +Do you know me?--No: don't speak: I see your answer already--Your +own love blinds you! Ha! I am a good man!--I don't drink, I don't +swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley! Oh yes, +and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about +God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little +pedantries of my trade! But do you know what I am? Do you know +what your husband is in the sight of God? He is a LIAR! + +AUNTIE. William! + +VICAR. A liar! I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ's +altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed! I +heard it in my prayers! I heard it whilst I tasted . . . whilst I +drank . . . whilst I . . . + +[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.] + +AUNTIE. Oh, you are ill! + +VICAR [breaking down]. O wretched man that I am! Who shall +deliver me out of the body of this death? + +[She stands above him, hesitating. After a moment, she says, +determinedly.] + +AUNTIE. I know: it's this money trouble. It's what Joshua said in +his letter about your having to get somebody to help him. Well, +that's just what I wanted to speak to you about. I have a way out +of the difficulty. + +VICAR. It's not the church. I could wish every Stone of it were +crumbled into dust! + +AUNTIE. William, how wicked of you! . . . + +Is it--is it anything to do with your brother Joshua? Why don't +you answer? + +VICAR. _It has to do with my brother--Robert_. + +AUNTIE. Mary's fa . . . + +William, did you send him that telegram yesterday? + +VICAR. Yes: that was a lie, too! + +AUNTIE. Nonsense! Don't be absurd! + +VICAR. It was a lie! + +AUNTIE. You told him we couldn't do with him because the house was +upset: that's true! You told him that the drains were up in the +study: that's true! + +VICAR. Was that the real reason why we refused to have him here? +Was it? + +AUNTIE. I can't think what possessed him to write and say he'd +come. We've not heard from him for fifteen years! + +VICAR. Whose fault is that? + +AUNTIE. Why, his own, of course! He can't expect to be treated +decently! [She walks up and down with anger.] It's perfectly +absurd, it really is, dear, making all this fuss and trouble about +a wretched-- + +Have you told Mary? + +VICAR. No: the _silent_ lie was comparatively easy! + +AUNTIE. My dear, do try and be reasonable. Think of what he is! + +VICAR. Isn't he my brother? + +AUNTIE. No, he's not your brother--at least, nothing that a +brother ought to be! Ridicules everything that you hold sacred! +Hates everything you love! Loves everything you hate! . . . + +VICAR. _That's_ true! + +AUNTIE. A scoffer, an atheist, a miserable drunkard! + +VICAR. That was fifteen years ago, remember, after Mary's mother +died! . . . + +AUNTIE. A man like that never changes! What would have become of +that poor child if we hadn't stepped in? Have you ever dared to +tell her what her father's like? Of course not! To-day, too, of +all days! It's utterly preposterous! + +VICAR. That is all the more reason why . . . + +AUNTIE. My dear, think of his _occupation_! + +VICAR. I think the child ought to be told. + +AUNTIE. Of his _occupation_? + +VICAR. That, and everything. + +AUNTIE. My dear, have you gone perfectly mad? Do you know who's +coming? Do you want to advertise his _occupation_ to all the world? + +VICAR. Do you think his brother Joshua would mind that? + +AUNTIE. It isn't only your brother Joshua! You think of nobody +but your brother Joshua! Some one else is coming. + +VICAR. Who? + +AUNTIE. _My brother James_! [She throws down the letter.] Now +you've heard it all! + +[There is a long silence. Then the VICAR speaks in a low, intense +voice of bitter contempt.] + +VICAR. Your brother James is coming here today? You have brought +him here to help my brother Joshua! _Him_! + +AUNTIE. Why not? He's rich! He can do it! + +VICAR. So, he can recognise me at last! + +AUNTIE. It was as much your fault as his, that you have never met! +He naturally resented our marriage. + +VICAR [ironically]. But, of course, now that I'm related to the +great and _wealthy_ Bishop of Benares ... + +AUNTIE [warmly]. He's as much a bishop as your brother is! + +VICAR. He! That gaitered snob! + +AUNTIE. William, how dare you! + +VICAR. Yes, he's a bishop! A bishop of stocks and shares! A +bishop of the counting-house! A bishop of Mammon! + +AUNTIE. William! + +VICAR. The devil's own bishop! + +AUNTIE. _At least, he isn't a WORKING-MAN_! + +VICAR [as though stung]. Ah! . . . + +[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with +passion. They remain so.] + +[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast. ROGERS goes out +immediately.] + +MANSON. Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to +nine, didn't you, sir? + +VICAR. Yes. + +MANSON. Breakfasts served, ma'am. It's served, sir. + +[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he +goes to each separately.] + +[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.] + +Beg pardon, sir: what time did you expect the Bishop of Benares? + +VICAR. Oh!--_During the morning_, he said. That will mean the +twelve-thirty, I suppose. It's the only convenient service. + +MANSON. And the Bishop of Lancashire, ma'am? + +AUNTIE. He didn't say; but I think we may expect him by the same +train. He would scarcely think of catching the . . . + +[There is heard a loud Ringing of the Bell--a bishop at the very +least. All three heads turn automatically.] + +Good gracious! Already! + +MANSON. It doesn't sound like the Bishop of Benares, ma'am. He +generally comes very quietly. + +AUNTIE. Quick! + +MANSON. Yes, ma'am. + +[He goes out by the main door.] + +AUNTIE [rapidly], William, I'm sorry! Really, I didn't mean you: I +never thought of you; I was only thinking of Robert. I only think +of you as a great scholar and a saint--yes, you are one!--and as +the man I love! I would sacrifice everything to your happiness. +Robert's nothing to me; that's why I . . . Think of what it might +mean to Mary--we must think of others, William!--our own little +child, as we try to imagine . . . + +[The VICAR makes a gesture of anguish.] + +As for James, God knows I did it for the best. I love you, my +dear, I love you: I wouldn't have vexed you for the world! After +all, he is my brother, William! . . . . I thought of patching up +the enmity between you: I thought of all your hopes of rebuilding +the church, and James was the only rich man I thought might be +induced--under the circumstances . . . + +VICAR. I am in the darkness. I don't know what to do. God has +left me stranded. + +[MANSON re-enters. They look at him inquiringly.] + +MANSON. It isn't the Bishop of Benares, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. Well, who is it? + +MANSON. I didn't ask his name, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. T-t-t! How is he dressed? + +MANSON. Rather oddly, ma'am: I noticed that his legs . . . + +AUNTIE. William, it's James! I can't be seen like this. Shew him +in. I can slip out this way. + +[MANSON goes out.] + +William, try and treat him like . . . + +VICAR. How? Like a brother? + +AUNTIE. I was going to say, like a Priest and a Christian, William. + +VICAR. Like a Christian, then. + +AUNTIE. My dear! + +[She goes out by the door to the right, as MANSON begins to turn +the handle of the other door.] + +MANSON [outside]. This way, if you please. + +[The VICAR, braces himself up and turns towards the door with an +effort at cordiality.] + +VICAR. Just in time for breakfast, my lord. + +[Enter ROBERT SMITH and MANSON. ROBERT'S costume is a navvy's, the +knees tied With string.] + +ROBERT [grimly]. Thanks, Bill Awlmighty, don't mind if I do. My +belly's fair aching. + +VICAR. Robert! + +ROBERT. Yus, it's me, my 'oly brother! + +VICAR. Didn't you--didn't you get my wire? + +ROBERT. Yus, I gorit-: _Drains wrong_, eh? Thought I'd like to +'av' a look at 'em--my job, yer know, _drains_! So you'll excuse +the togs: remind you of old days, eh what? + +VICAR. Robert, what have you come here for? + +ROBERT. You arsk me that? + +VICAR. Yes, I do. Bob . . . + +ROBERT. Why, to see my little gel, o' course--Gawd curse you! . . . + +Now go an tell your ole woman. + +[The VICAR stands as though stricken.] + +Did you 'ear me speak? Tell 'er! + +[The VICAR wavers a moment, and then staggers out silently through +the door, right. ROBERT watches him off with a look of iron. He +pays no heed to MANSON, who stands quite close to him, on the left.] + +See that blighter? That's the bloke as was born with no bowels! +'E might a-made a man o' me once, if 'e'd tried; but 'e didn't--'im +and 'is like. Hm! Dam foolish, I call it, don't you? + +MANSON. Yes, both: foolish and--damned! + +[ROBERT turns and looks into his face for the first time as the +curtain slowly falls on the First Act.] + + + + +THE SECOND ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. +Presently, Robert, having completed his inspection of the other's +face and costume, moves away with a characteristic interjection. + +ROBERT. Oh, Jeeroosalem! . . . + +'Ere, 'elp us orf, comride: I'm wet through. Rainin' cats an' +dorgs dahn at the Junction! 'Ere, I cawn't . . . Wot oh! The +very identical! . . . + +[MANSON has helped him off with his coat, and now hands him the +cassock.] + +[Getting into it.] Don't know oo you are, ole pal, but you're a +bit of orl right! . . . Don't I look a corf-drop? 'Ere, where ye +teking it to? . . . + +[He watches MANSON suspiciously as he places his coat before the +fire to dry.] + +Bit 'andy, ain't yer? . . . + +So this is where 'e lives! A bloomin' palace, as never I did +see! . . . + +[MANSON prepares a place for him at the table, and pours out a cup +of tea, etc.] + +Right you are, ole comride! 'E said breakfast, an' breakfast it +shall be, I don't fink! Blimey! Sossingers! Ain't 'ad the taste +of sossingers in my gizzard for I don't know 'ow long! + +[He sits and devours whilst MANSON breaks and hands him bread, +waiting upon him.] + +[Between bites.] Wouldn't think as I was 'is brother, would +yer--not to look at me? But strooth, _I am_; an' wot's more, 'e +cawn't deny it! . . . [He labours with a little joke.] There's a +lot o' brothers knockin' abaht as people don't know on, eh what? +See wot I mean? [Suddenly serious.] Not as I'm one o' them sort, +mind yer: my father married my mother honest, same as I married my +little . . . + +[After a moment's reflection, he makes fresh onslaught upon the +sausages. Presently he looks up.] + +'Ere, ain't you goin' ter 'av' none? . . . Cawn't yer speak? + +MANSON. Yes. + +ROBERT. Well, why cawn't yer arnser a bloke when 'e arsks yer +civil? + +MANSON. You didn't make it dear that you wanted to eat with me. + +ROBERT. Want a bit of 'eart in it, eh? + +MANSON. Yes, that's all. + +ROBERT [largely]. Sit dahn, ole pal! Mek yourself at 'ome! + +[MANSON obeys.] + +See, wot was I tawkin' abaht. Just afore you turned narsty? + +MANSON. You were going to say something about--your little girl's +mother. + +[ROBERT'S cutlery bristles up like bayonets.] + +ROBERT. Look 'ere, mate, don't you come tryin' it on with me! I +don't care _oo_ you are! + +MANSON. I know that. + +ROBERT. Then let me be, I tell yer! You tek all the taste out o' +my sossingers. + +MANSON. I should like to hear about her, comrade. + +ROBERT. _You_ cawn't bring 'er back. She's dead. + +MANSON. What was her name? + +ROBERT. Mary--same as the little gel's. + +MANSON. I wonder whether they are anything alike. + +ROBERT. That's wot I come to see! . . . + +She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby--_and_ 'er eyes! +Gorstrike, she was the very spit--far as a biby could be! . . . + +Swelp me Moses, if I find 'er anything like Bill's ole geezer, I'll +cut 'er throat! + +MANSON. And if she's like her mother? What then? + +ROBERT. Why, then . . . there's allus my own. I nearly did it +once. + +MANSON [after a pause]. How did you come to lose her? + +ROBERT [roughly]. Never you mind! + +MANSON. How did you come to lose her? + +ROBERT [sullenly]. Typhoid fever. + +[MANSON notes the evasion with a glance. He helps ROBERT to more +tea, and waits for him to speak. ROBERT wriggles under his gaze, +and at last he says, reluctantly.] + +Oh, it was my own fault, as I lost the kid! + +MANSON. That was a sore loss, comrade. + +ROBERT. _I_ know it! Needn't rub it in! . . . Look, 'ere, +comride, I 'adn't a bad nature to begin with. Didn't me an' my +brother Joshua pinch an' slave the skin orf our bones to send that +spotted swine to school? Didn't we 'elp 'im out with 'is books an' +'is mortar-boards an' 'is bits of clothes to try an' mek 'im look +respectable? That's wot we did, till 'e got 'is lousy scholyships, +an' run away to get spliced with that she-male pup of a +blood-'ound! Cos why? Cos we was proud of the little +perisher!--proud of 'is 'ead-piece! We 'adn't gone none +ourselves--leastways, _I_ 'adn't: Joshua was different to me; and +now . . . + +MANSON. And your brother Joshua: what of him? Where is _he_ now? + +ROBERT. _I_ don't know--gone to pot, like me! P'r'aps eatin' is +bleedin' 'eart out, same as I am, at the base ingratitood of the +world! + +MANSON. Perhaps so! + +ROBERT. Where was I? You mek me lose my air, shoving in with your +bit! + +MANSON. You were saying that you hadn't a bad nature to begin with. + +ROBERT [truculently]. No more I 'adn't! . . . + +O' course, when she took an'--an' died, things was different: I +couldn't 'old up the same-- Somehow, I don't know, I lost my 'eart, +and . . . + +MANSON. Yes? . . . + +ROBERT. That's 'ow I come to lose my kid, my little kid . . . +Mind you, that was fifteen years ago: I was a rotter then, same as +you might be. I wasn't 'arf the man I am now . . . + +_You_ can larf! A man can change a lot in fifteen years! + +MANSON. _I_ didn't laugh. + +ROBERT. Do you want to know wot's come over me since then? I +_work_--and work well: that's more than some of 'em can say-- And +I don't get much money for it, either! That ought to mek 'em feel +ashamed! I'm not the drunkard I was--not by 'arf! If I'm bitter, +oo's made me bitter? You cawn't be very sweet and perlite on +eighteen bob a week--_when yer get it_! I'll tell yer summat else: +I've eddicated myself since then--I'm not the gory fool I was-- +_And_ they know it! They can't come playin' the 'anky with us, +same as they used to! It's _Nice Mister Working-man This and Nice +Mister Working-man That, will yer be so 'ighly hobliging as to 'and +over your dear little voting-paper_--you poor, sweet, muddy-nosed +old Idiot, as can't spot your natural enemy when yer see 'im! That +orter mek some on 'em sit up! + +Fifteen years ago me an' my like 'adn't got a religion! By Gawd, +we 'av' one now! Like to 'ear wot it is? + +MANSON. Yes. + +ROBERT. SOCIALISM! Funny, ain't it? + +MANSON. _I_ don't think so. It's mine, too. + +ROBERT. I believe in fighting with my clarss! + +MANSON. Oh, against whom? + +ROBERT. Why, agin all the other clarsses--curse 'em! + +MANSON. Isn't that a bit of the old Robert left, comrade? + +ROBERT. Oh, leave me alone. I cawn't be allus pickin' an' +choosin' my words! I ain't no scholar--thank Gawd! + +MANSON. All the same, I'm right, eh, comrade? Comrade . . . + +ROBERT [grudgingly]. Well, yus! [Savagely.] Yus, I tell yer! +Cawn't a bloke speak 'otter than 'e means without _you_ scrapin' at +'is innards? + +[Exploding again.] Wait till I set eyes on that bleedin' brother +of mine again, that's all! + +MANSON. Which bleeding brother? + +ROBERT [with a thumb-jerk]. Why, '_im_, o' course! [Sneering.] +The Reverend William! 'Im as you said was damned! . . . Allus did +'ate parsons! I 'ates the sight of their 'arf-baked, silly mugs! + +[There is a very loud Ringing of the Bell.] + +'Ello! 'Ello! Did I mek a row like that? + +MANSON. You tried, didn't you? + +ROBERT. So I did, not 'arf! Thought if I kicked up an 'ell of a +shindy they'd think some big bug was comin'; and then when they'd +be all smiles an' bowin' an' scrapin', in pops me, real low! + +[ROGERS enters. On seeing them at the table, he is apparently +troubled with his inside.] + +ROGERS. Oh, my 'oly Evings! + +MANSON. Who is it, Rogers? + +ROGERS [awed]. It's the Bishop of Lancashire! + +MANSON [imperturbably]. Shew him in, Rogers. + +ROGERS. Beg pardon, Mr. Manson . . . + +MANSON. I said, shew him in. + +Quick, Rogers. Keep a bishop waiting! + +ROGERS. Well, I'm jiggered! + +[He is; and goes out.] + +ROBERT. 'Ere! Did 'e say _bishop_? + +MANSON. Yes. + +ROBERT. Comin' 'ere? Now? + +[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.] + +Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a +bloomin' archangel, see! + +[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., +the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire. He looks his +name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to +the resemblance.] + +[MANSON has risen: ROBERT, imperturbable, discusses sossingers: +ROGERS, with a last excruciation of his ailment, vanishes.] + +[The Most Reverend Father in God stands blinking for recognition. +Pained at the non-fulfilment of this worthy expectation, he +moves--a little blindly--towards the table. Here he encounters the +oppugnant back of the voracious ROBERT, who grows quite annoyed. +Indeed, be as good as says so.] + +'Ere, where ye comin' to? + +BISHOP [peering closely into his face, the other edging away]. Ah! +Mr. Smythe, or I am mistaken. + +ROBERT. Smith's my name! Don't you call me Smythe! + +BISHOP. My dear sir, don't mention it: my sister has explained +everything. I bear you no grudge--none whatever! + +ROBERT. What's the silly ole josser jawin' abaht now? + +BISHOP. But I perceive that I have--er--[sniffing] disturbed you +at your morning meal . . . + +ROBERT [with conviction]. You 'av' that! + +BISHOP. Eh? . . . + +ROBERT [louder]. I say, you 'av'! + +BISHOP [fixing his ear-trumpet]. Just once more . . . + +ROB ERT. Oh, Moses! [Roaring, and indicating his breakfast.] You +'av' blarst you! + +BISHOP [mistaking the gesticulation]. Thank you, you are very +kind. I think I will. I could get nothing on the journey but a +cup of coffee and a bun. + +[He sits at the table without ever having perceived MANSON, who has +nevertheless been serving him.] + +ROBERT. Yus, you look as if you fed on buns! + +[Throughout the play the audience will understand where the BISHOP +does, and where he does not, hear by his use or non-use of the +ear-trumpet. Perhaps the reader will be good enough to imagine +these occasions for himself, as he may have observed a reluctance +on the part of the author to encumber the text with stage +directions.] + +BISHOP [eating, and at the same time addressing the becassocked +ROBERT]. And you must not think, on account of the little coolness +between us, that I have not followed your career with great +interest--very great interest! Your scholastic achievements have +been most praiseworthy--especially under the unfortunate +circumstances. . . . Although, by-the-way, I cannot at all agree +with your gloss on Romans fourteen, twenty-three; _Katakekritai_ +either means _damned_ or nothing at all. + +ROBERT [gesticulating]. It was _'im_ as said _damned_! + +BISHOP. No, no, sir: it is perfectly indefensible! + +ROBERT. I'll use what langwidge I like! + +BISHOP [warming]. You said _katakekritai_ . . . + +ROBERT. I never did, _I_ tek my oath! + +BISHOP. My dear sir, I learned my Greek at Shrewsbury, before you +were born! Don't argue, sir! + +ROBERT. Oo is argufying? . . . Talking to me about yer +Katama-what-d'you-call-it! + +BISHOP. We had better drop the subject! . . . Boeotian! After +all, it is not precisely the matter which has brought us together. +And that reminds me . . . [Trumpet.] Has he come yet? + +ROBERT. Oo? + +BISHOP. Your brother, of course. + +ROBERT. My brother! Oh, you'll see _'im_ soon enough! + +BISHOP. I gather from your remark that he has not arrived yet. +Good! The fact is, I should like a preliminary discussion with +yourself before meeting your illustrious brother. + +ROBERT. Then you'd better look slippy! + +BISHOP. I beg your pardon? . . . + +ROBERT [with a flap at the trumpet]. Go on: you 'eard. + +BISHOP. Of course, the _financial_ undertaking is considerable: +it's not like an _investment_, where there is some reasonable hope +of a return: it's merely a matter of charity! The money's--gone, +so to speak. + +ROBERT. Yus, I've noticed that about money, myself. + +BISHOP. At the same time, I should like my _name_ to be associated +with your brother's, in so worthy an enterprise . . . + +ROBERT [mildly sarcastic]. You don't say! + +BISHOP. And then again, I _trust_--I say I _trust_--I am not +impervious to the more sacred obligations involved; but . . . + +[He gropes blindly for bread.] + +ROBERT. I allus notice that sort of 'igh talk ends with a +"but" . . . + +BISHOP. Naturally, I should like to learn a little, beforehand, of +your brother's _views_. From what I gather, they are not +altogether likely to coincide with my own. Of course, he is an +idealist, a dreamer. Now, under these circumstances, perhaps . . . + +Eh, what-- Oh! Bless my soul! + +[MANSON has been offering him bread for some time. He has just +tumbled to the fact of his presence. He rises.] + +My--my Brother from Benares, I presume? + +ROBERT. What, _my_ pal, _'is_ brother! Oh, Je'oshaphat! + +BISHOP. Ten thousand pardons! Really, my eyesight is deplorable! +Delighted to meet you! . . . + +I was just observing to our charming host that--er-- Humph! . . . + +Bless me! Now what _was_ I . . . + +MANSON. Something about your sacred obligations, I believe. + +BISHOP. May I trouble you again? + +[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.] + +ROBERT. That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole, +comride! + +MANSON [through the trumpet]. Your sacred obligations. + +BISHOP. Precisely, precisely! Er-- Shall we sit? + +[They do so. The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin. MANSON, failing +him, the spirit begins to work within himself.] + +Well--er---speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother, +I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously--as I am sure +you do. The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an +overwhelming responsibility. To begin with, it--it costs quite a +lot. Doesn't it? + +MANSON. It does: quite a lot. + +BISHOP. Hm, yes--yes! . . . You mentioned _Sacred obligations_ +just now, and I think that on the whole I am inclined to agree with +you. It is an admirable way of putting it. We must awaken people +to a sense of their _sacred obligations_. This is a work in which +everybody can do something: the rich man can give of the abundance +with which it has pleased Providence specially to favour him: the +poor man with his slender savings need have no fear for the poverty +of his gift-- Let him give all: it will be accepted. Those of us +who, like yourself, my dear brother--and I say it in all modesty, +perhaps _my_self--are in possession of the endowments of learning, +of influence, of authority--we can lend our _names_ to the good +work. As you say so very beautifully: _sacred obligations_. + +By-the-way, I don't think I quite caught your views as to the +probable cost. Eh, what do you think? + +MANSON. I think that should depend upon the obligations; and then, +of course, the sacredness might count for something. + +BISHOP. Yes, yes, we've discussed all that. But bringing it down +to a _practical_ basis: how much could we manage with? + +MANSON. What do you say to--everything you have? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, I'm not talking about myself! + +MANSON. Well--everything the others have? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, they're not fools! Do discuss the matter +like a man of the world! + +MANSON. _God's not watching: let's give as little, and grab as +much as we can_! + +BISHOP. Ssh! My dear brother! Remember who's present! [He +glances toward Robert.] However . . . [Coughs.] We will return to +this later. I begin to understand you. + +ROBERT. Yus: you think you do! + +BISHOP. At the same time, I do think we ought to come to some +general understanding; we must count the cost. Now, from all +accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in +India--not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited +would be either possible or desirable in this country--oh, no! +Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without +the aid of expensive buildings! However, I should like to hear +your views. How did you manage it? + +MANSON. Sacrifice. + +BISHOP. Of course, of course; but _practically_. They say it's an +enormous concern! + +MANSON. So it is. + +BISHOP. Well, what would such an establishment as that represent? +In round numbers, now? + +MANSON [calmly]. Numberless millions. + +BISHOP. Numberless mil . . . ! [He drops his fork.] My dear sir, +absurd! . . . Why, the place must be a palace--fit for a king! + +MANSON. It is! + +BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that one man alone, on his own +naked credit, could obtain numberless millions for such an object +as that? How could you possibly get them together? + +MANSON. They came freely from every quarter of the world. + +BISHOP. On the security of your own name alone? + +MANSON. No other, I assure you. + +BISHOP. For Heaven's sake, tell me all about it! What sort of a +place is it? + +MANSON [seriously]. Are you quite sure you can hear? + +BISHOP. Perhaps your voice is _not_ quite so clear as it was. +However . . . + +[He wipes the inside of the ear-trumpet, and fixes it afresh.] + +Now! Tell me about your church. + +[During the following speech the BISHOP is occupied with his own +thoughts: after the first few words he makes no attempt at +listening: indeed, the trumpet goes down to the table again in no +time. On the other hand, ROBERT, at first apathetic, gradually +awakens to the keenest interest in what MANSON says.] + +MANSON [very simply]. I am afraid you may not consider it an +altogether substantial concern. It has to be seen in a certain +way, under certain conditions. Some people never _see_ it at all. +You must understand, this is no dead pile of stones and unmeaning +timber. _It is a living thing_. + +BISHOP [in a hoarse whisper, self-engrossed]. Numberless millions! + +MANSON. When you enter it you hear a sound--a sound as of some +mighty poem chanted. Listen long enough, and you will learn that +it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music +of men's souls--that is, if you have ears. If you have eyes, you +will presently see the church itself--a looming mystery of many +shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome. The work of +no ordinary builder! + +BISHOP [trumpet down]. On the security of one man's name! + +MANSON. The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes: +the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its +bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh +out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it +are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces +there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of +the world. It is yet building--building and built upon. Sometimes +the work goes forward in deep darkness: sometimes in blinding +light: now beneath the burden of unutterable anguish: now to the +tune of a great laughter and heroic shoutings like the cry of +thunder. [Softer.] Sometimes, in the silence of the night-time, +one may hear the tiny hammerings of the comrades at work up in the +dome--the comrades that have climbed ahead. + +[There is a short silence, broken only by the champing jaws of the +BISHOP, who has resumed his sausages. ROBERT speaks first.] + +ROBERT [slowly]. I think I begin to understand you, comride: +especially that bit abaht . . . [his eyes stray upwards] . . . +the 'ammerins' an' the--the harches--an' . . . Humph! I'm only an +'og! . . . + +S'pose there's no drain 'ands wanted in that there church o' yours? + +MANSON. Drains are a very important question there at present. + +ROBERT. Why, I'd be cussin' over every stinkin' pipe I laid. + +MANSON. I should make that a condition, comrade. + +ROBERT [rising, he pulls off the cassock; goes to fire for his +coat: returns: drags it on]. I don't know! Things 'av' got in a +bit of a muck with me! I'm rather like a drain-pipe myself. + +[With sudden inspiration]. There's one thing I _can_ do! + +MANSON. What's that? + +ROBERT. Renahnce ole Beelzebub an' all 'is bloomin' wirks! 'And +us that brarss-band! + +[He alludes to the ear-trumpet. MANSON obeying, ROBERT jabs it +into the ear of the BISHOP, who seems quite surprised.] + +'Ere! 'Av' you ever 'eard of 'ell? + +BISHOP. Of what? + +ROBERT. 'Ell. [Spelling.] H, E, double L, 'ell. + +BISHOP. Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to! + +ROBERT. Then, go there! Aymen . . . + +Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes! + +[He goes out through the main door, repentant.] + +BISHOP. The scoundrel! Did you hear what he said? I shall +certainly report him to his bishop! + +MANSON. I don't think I should. _His_ bishop doesn't mind a +little plain speech now and again. + +BISHOP. A little plain speech! Do you think it's right for a +clergyman to--to direct me to perdition? + +MANSON. I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you +your--direction is not a clergyman. He's a scavenger. + +BISHOP. A scavenger! + +MANSON. Yes--looks after drains. + +BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to +breakfast with a common working-man? + +MANSON. Yes; have you never done that before? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, whatever do you take me for? + +MANSON. A bishop of God's church. + +BISHOP. Precisely! Is it _your_ custom to breakfast with +working-men? + +MANSON. Every morning. You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself, +once. + +BISHOP. You? . . . + +MANSON. Yes--a long time ago, though: people have forgotten. + +BISHOP. But, my dear brother, I am perfectly sure you never told +people to go to . . . + +MANSON. Oh yes, quite frequently: it would shock you to learn the +language I really did use. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it +might be advisable to drop the subject at this point. + +BISHOP [emphatically]. I most certainly agree with you there! +After all, it is a digression from the purpose for which we are +here! . . . Let me see, then: where were we? . . . Oh yes, I +remember-- Although, by the way, it was very ill-advised of you to +speak your mind so openly in that man's presence! However . . . + +To resume our--how shall I call it ?--our--little understanding, eh? + +MANSON. That describes it most accurately. + +BISHOP. Now, you said, _Let's give as little, and grab as much as +we can_. Of course, that is a playful way of putting it; but +between ourselves, it expresses my sentiments exactly. + +MANSON. I knew that when I said it. + +BISHOP [delighted]. My dear brother, your comprehension makes my +heart warm. I trust our relations may always remain as warm. + +MANSON. Oh, warmer, warmer! + +BISHOP. Very well then, to business! I tell you, candidly, I +agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of +our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless +generosity! If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice +for it! Why should _we_ do anything? + +I am sure you will appreciate my candour? + +MANSON. At its full value. Go on. + +BISHOP. At the same time, there is no reason why we should throw +cold water upon the project. On the contrary, we might promote it, +encourage it, even lend it the influence of our patronage and our +names. _But on one understanding_! + +MANSON. And that? + +BISHOP. That it is extended--imperialised, so to speak: that it is +made the vehicle of a much vaster, of a much more momentous project +behind it! + +MANSON. You interest me intensely. Explain. + +BISHOP. I will. + +[He looks around to assure himself that they are alone.] + +There is in existence a society, a very influential society, in +which I happen to have an interest--very great interest. Hm! I am +one of the directors. + +I may say that it is already very well established, financially; +but it is always open to consider the--extension of its influence +in that way. + +MANSON. And the name of the society? + +BISHOP. Rather long, but I trust explicit. It is called "_The +Society for the Promotion and Preservation of Emoluments for the +Higher Clergy_." + +MANSON. I do not seem to have heard it _named_ before. + +BISHOP. Well, no: its movements have always been characterised by +a certain modesty. It is an invisible society, so to speak; but I +can assure you its principles are very clearly understood--among +the parties most concerned. + +MANSON. And your project? + +BISHOP. Affiliate the subsidiary question of the building of the +Church, with the larger interests of the Society. + +MANSON. Yes, but since people have already refused to subscribe to +the more trivial project . . . + +BISHOP. They have not been properly approached. My dear sir, in +order to awaken public generosity, It is necessary to act like men +of the world: _we must have names_. People will subscribe to any +amount, if you can only get the right names. + +That Is where _you_ come in. + +MANSON. I! Do you propose to place my name at the head of +your--prospectus? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, invaluable! Didn't you say yourself that you +brought in numberless millions, on your own credit, out there in +India? Why shouldn't you do the same in England? Think of your +reputation, your achievements, your name for sanctity-- Not a +word, sir: I _mean_ it! . . . Why, there's no end to the amount it +would bring in: it would mean billions! + +Well, what do you say? + +MAMSON [slowly]. Let us clearly understand one another. I am to +lend you my name--just my name--and you are to do all the rest. + +BISHOP [quickly]. Oh yes: I'd _rather_ you kept out of the +business negotiations! + +MANSON. It is rather a dangerous name to play with! + +BISHOP, I take that responsibility entirely upon myself! + +MANSON. And when all's over and done with, what are we going to +gain out of the transaction? + +BISHOP. We shall have to come to some private settlement between +ourselves. + +MANSON. When? + +BISHOP. Oh, hereafter. + +MANSON. Hereafter, then. + +[Enter AUNTIE and VICAR by door to right.] + +AUNTIE [off]. Leave him to me, William! I'll soon settle the +matter! [Entering.] The man must be possessed of some evil +spirit! . . . + +Why--it's my brother James! . . . + +[MANSON has risen, and is now the butler once more. He speaks into +the ear-trumpet.] + +MANSON. Your sister and the vicar, my lord. + +BISHOP [behind table, rising]. Ah! Well, Martha!--No, no, no, if +you please! [He restrains her approach.] Observe the retribution +of an unchastened will. You have never seen my face for sixteen +years! However, like a cloud, I blot out your transgressions from +this hour! + +And so this is your husband ?--Not a word, sir; not a single +word!--the sausages were delicious, and your place has been most +agreeably occupied by your brother! + +VICAR. My brother! Then you . . . What do you mean? + +BISHOP [testily]. I mean what I say, sir! Your brother, _my_ +brother, _our_ brother here, of course, our Oriental brother! + +AUNTIE. James, you are making a mistake: this is our new +butler--our _Indian_ butler. + +BISHOP. Your Indian--WHAT? + +[He stands cogitating horribly until the end of the act, facing +towards MANSON.] + +AUNTIE. What has made him like this? He seems possessed! + +MANSON. He is! . . . + +I have just been having some trouble with _another_ devil, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. Meaning, of course . . . What has become of him? + +MANSON [with his eye]. _He_ is cast out forever. + +AUNTIE. Where is he now? + +MANSON. He walks through dry places seeking--[he probes her +soul]--_other_ habitations. + +AUNTIE. Manson! This is your doing! Oh, you have saved us! + +MANSON. I am trying to, ma'am; but, God knows, you make it rather +difficult! + +[A change comes over her face, as the curtain slowly falls.] + + + + +THE THIRD ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged; but +attention now centres in the Bishop, who appears to be struggling +apoplectically for speech. + +BISHOP [bursting]. Before we proceed a step further, I have a most +extraordinary request to make! The fact is, you interrupted me in +the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . . +that is to say, with your . . . in short, with that person +standing over there! My request is, that I be permitted a few +minutes further conversation with him--alone, and at once! + +ALL. ) With Manson! . . . +MANSON. ) With me! . . . + +BISHOP. Not a word! I know my request will appear singular--most +singular! But I assure you it is most necessary. The peace, the +security of a human soul depends upon it! Come, sir! Where shall +we go? + +MANSON. Have I your permission, ma'am + +AUNTIE. Certainly; but it is most extraordinary! + +MANSON [crossing]. Then I think this way, my lord, in the +drawing-room . . . [He leads the way.] + +BISHOP [following]. And you may be sure, my good fellow, I will +give anything--I say, anything--to remedy your misapprehensions! +Hm! + +[They go into the drawing-room, right, MANSON holding the door for +the other to pass.] + +VICAR. Martha! It's no use! I can't do it! + +AUNTIE [preoccupied]. Can't do what, William? + +VICAR. Behave towards that man like a Christian! He stirs some +nameless devil like murder in my heart! I want to clutch him by +the throat, as I would some noisome beast, and strangle him! + +AUNTIE [slowly]. He is greatly changed! + +VICAR. It is you who have changed, Martha. You see him now with +different eyes. + +AUNTIE. Do I? I wonder! . . . + +VICAR. After all, why should we invite him here? Why should we be +civil to him? What possible kinship can there be between us? As +for his filthy money--how did he scrape it together? How did he +come by it? . . . + +AUNTIE. Yes, William, that's true, but the opportunity of turning +it to God's service . . . + +VICAR. Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church +whose every stone is reeking with the bloody sweat and anguish of +the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to +despair? Shall we base God's altar in the bones of harlots, +plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it +over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves? + +AUNTIE. Why will you exaggerate, my dear?--It is not as bad as +that. Why don't you compose yourself and try and be contented +and--and happy? + +VICAR. How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I +breathe? + +AUNTIE. You are not always like this, dear! . . . + +VICAR. Happy! How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I +have made him! + +AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking of _you_! +Think of our love, William--our great and beautiful love! Isn't +that something to make you happy? + +VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had +better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love? + +AUNTIE. Oh, William, you _know_ . . . + +VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world +like Satan, to slay men's souls? + +AUNTIE. Oh, now you're exaggerating again! What do you mean? + +VICAR. I mean my brother Robert! What has love done for him? + +AUNTIE. Oh, Robert, Robert--I'm sick to death of Robert! Why +can't you think of yourself? + +VICAR. Well, I will! What has love done for me? + +AUNTIE. William! . . . + +[The slightest pause. The scene takes on another complexion.] + +VICAR. Do you remember that day when I first came to you and told +you of my love? Did I lie to you? Did I try to hide things? Did +I despise my birth? Did _you_? + +AUNTIE. No, no, William, I loved you: I told you so. + +VICAR. Did you mind the severance from your family because of me? + +AUNTIE. Didn't I always say that I was proud to be able to give up +so much for you, William? . . . + +VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for +me, what followed? + +AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you +see? _You_ were not made to live out your life in any little odd +hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your +fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful +preacher-- All this required position, influence, social prestige. +You don't think I was ambitious for myself: it was for you. + +VICAR. For _me_--yes! And how do you imagine I have benefited by +all your scheming, your contriving, your compromising, your . . . + +AUNTIE. In the way I willed! I am glad of it! I worked for +that--_and I won_! . . . + +Well, what are you troubling about now? + +VICAR [slowly]. I am thinking of the fact that there has been no +child to bless our marriage, Martha--that is, no child of our very +own, no child whose love we have not stolen. + +AUNTIE. My dear . . . + +VICAR. We have spoken about it sometimes, haven't we? Or, +rather--_not_ spoken! + +AUNTIE. William, why will you think of these things? + +VICAR. In those first days, dearest, I brought you two children of +our own to cherish, little unborn souls crying for you to mother +them-- You have fostered only the one. That one is called the +Scholar. Shall I tell you the name of the other? + +AUNTIE [after a moment]. Yes . . . + +VICAR. I hardly know: I hardly dare to name him, but perhaps it +was--the Saint. + +AUNTIE. What I have done, William, has been done for love of +you--you only--you only in the world! + +VICAR. Yes: that's what I _mean_! + +[The thought troubles her for a moment; then she paces up and down +in agitated rebellion.] + +AUNTIE. No! I can't believe it! I can't think that love is as +wrong as you say! + +VICAR. Love is a spirit of many shapes and shadows: a spirit of +fire and darkness--a minister of heaven and hell: Sometimes I think +the very damned know love--in a way. It can inform men's souls +with the gladness of high archangels, or possess them with the +despair of devils! + +[She suddenly stands still, struck by the echo in his last phrase.] + +Yes? + +AUNTIE. I was wondering . . . + +Wondering what Manson meant just now. + +VICAR. When? + +AUNTIE. When he spoke about your brother Robert. + +VICAR. I think he made it clear. He said we were--rid of him +forever! + +AUNTIE [thoughtfully]. Ye-es . . . + +William, I begin to fear that man. + +VICAR. Whom--Robert? + +AUNTIE. No, Manson. + +[Re-enter MANSON from door, right. He carries a five-pound note in +his hand.] + +MANSON. His lordship will be glad to see you. + +AUNTIE. Very well, Manson. Why, what have you there? + +MANSON. A remedy for misapprehension, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. It's a five-pound note. + +MANSON. Yes. + +AUNTIE. Come, William. + +[She goes to the drawing-room door, her head anxiously turned +towards MANSON.] + +VICAR [at the door]. What are we going to do, Martha? + +AUNTIE. I don't know: God help me, I can't see the way! + +[They both go out, MANSON watching them. He then moves up to the +fire, and burns the five-pound note. He watches the flames leap up +as he speaks.] + +MANSON. _Thou givest thy mouth to evil, and thy tongue frameth +deceit. Thou sittest and speakest against thy brother: thou +slanderest thine own mother's son. These things hast thou done, +and I kept silence: thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an +one as thyself: but I will reprove thee, and set them in order +before thine eyes_. [Footnote: Psalms 1. 19-21] + +[He comes down to the middle of the room. MARY enters eagerly. +Seeing him alone, she gives a little cry of gladness.] + +MARY. Oh, how jolly! Where are they? + +MANSON. In the next room. + +MARY. Ah! AH! + +[She comes to his out-stretched arms. He folds her to his heart, +facing the audience.] + +[Looking up into his face.] Isn't it a great secret? What shall I +call you, now we are alone? + +MANSON. Ssh! They may hear you! + +MARY. If I whisper . . . + +MANSON. They are very near! . . . + +[Disengaging himself.] I must be about my business. Is this the +bell to the kitchen? + +MARY. Yes. Let me help you. + +[MANSON having rung the bell, they begin to remove the breakfast +things. MARY employs herself with the crumb-scoop.] + +If auntie and uncle could see me now! If they only knew! I've +kept the secret: I've told nobody! . . . + +These will do for the birds. Look, I'll take them now. [She +throws the crumbs out of the French windows.] Poor little mites! +[She returns to the table.] + +MANSON. You are fond of the birds? + +MARY. Just love them! Don't you? + +MANSON, They are my very good friends. Now, take the cassock. +Fold it up and put it on the chair. + +[ROGERS enters whilst he gives this command.] + +ROGERS. Well, I'm . . . + +'Owever, it's no business of mine! + +MARY [brightly]. What's up with you, Rogers? + +ROGERS [with reservation]. Nuthin', miss. [He fetches the tray.] + +MARY. Then why look so solemn? + +ROGERS [lugubriously]. Ain't lookin' solemn, miss. + +MANSON. Hold up the tray, Rogers. + +ROGERS. _Am_ 'oldin' it up, Mr. Manson. MARY [loading him up]. +I'm sure there is something the matter! + +ROGERS. Well, since you arsk me, miss, it's the goin's on in this +'ouse! I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and +improbabilities in my life! I shall 'av' to give in my notice! + +MARY. Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful! Why? + +MANSON. Now the cloth, Mary . . . + +ROGERS. Cos why? _That's_ why!--What you're doin' now! I likes +people to keep their proper stytion! I was brought up +middle-clarss myself, an' taught to be'ave myself before my +betters!--No offence to you, Mr. Manson! [He says this with a jib, +belying his words.] + +MARY. Nonsense, Rogers! I like helping. + +ROGERS. My poor farver taught me. 'E led a godly, righteous, an' +sober life. 'E was a grocer. + +MANSON. Come, Rogers. Take them to the kitchen. + +[ROGERS obeys with some asperity of mien. At the door he delivers +a Parthian shot.] + +ROGERS. If my poor farver could see what I've seen to-day, 'e +would roll over in 'is grave! + +[MANSON opens the door for him. He goes.] + +MARY [gayly]. Isn't he funny? Just because his silly old +father . . . + +MANSON. Ssh! His father's _dead_, Mary! + +[There is a sudden pause. He comes down to her.] + +Well, have you thought any more about . . . + +MARY. About wishing?--Yes, lots. + +MANSON. And have you? . . . + +MARY. I don't know what to think. You see, I never believed +properly in wishing before. Wishing is a dreadfully difficult +thing, when you really set about it, isn't it? + +MANSON. Yes. + +MARY. You see, ordinary things won't do: they're all wrong, +somehow. You'd feel a bit of a sneak to wish for them, wouldn't +you? + +MANSON. Yes. + +MARY. Even if you got them, you wouldn't care, after all. They'd +all turn to dust and ashes in your hand. + +That last bit is what Grannie Durden said. + +MANSON. Who's she? + +MARY. She's the poor old woman I've been having breakfast with. +Do you know, she said a funny thing about wishing. I must tell you +first that she's quite blind and very deaf-- Well, she's been +wishing ever so long to see and hear; and at last she says she can! + +MANSON. What--see and hear? [He glances towards the drawing-room.] + +MARY. Um! I must say, I didn't notice any difference myself; but +that's what she said. + +She agreed with you, that wishing was the only way; and if you +didn't know how, then you had to keep on wishing to wish, until you +could. + +MANSON. And so . . . + +MARY. Well, that's as far as I've got. + +[ROGERS re-enters.] + +MANSON. Yes, what is it, Rogers? + +ROGERS. Cook's compliments, Mr. Manson, and might she make so bold +as to request your presence in the kitchen, seein' as she's 'ad no +orders for lunch yet. O' course, she says, it will do when you've +_quite_ finished any private business you may 'av' in the upper +part of the 'ouse! + +[He delivers this with distinct hauteur. MANSON, smiling, goes up +to him and takes his head in his hands.] + +MANSON. Why do you dislike me so, Rogers? + +ROGERS [taken aback]. Me? Me dislike you, Mr. Manson? _Oh no_! + +MANSON. Come along, little comrade. + +[They go out like brothers, MANSON'S arm round the lad's shoulders.] + +[MARY is left seated on the table, chuckling at the situation. +Suddenly her face becomes serious again: she is lost in thought. +After a while she speaks softly to herself.] + +MARY. What have I needed most? What have I not had? . . . Oh! I +know! . . . + +[Her face flames with the sudden inspiration.] + +And I never dreamed of it till now! + +[ROBERT enters by the main door. The child turns round, and, +seeing him, gives a startled little cry. They stand facing each +other, silent. Presently ROBERT falters.] + +ROBERT. Beg pawdon, miss: I . . . + +MARY. Who are you? What are you doing here? + +ROBERT. I'm . . . + +I was goin' ter see what's--what's in that room . . . + +MARY. If you do, I'll . . . + +[She moves swiftly to the bell.] + +ROBERT. It's a mistake, miss. P'r'aps I'd--I'd better tek my 'ook. + +MARY. Stop! . . . + +How dare you! Don't you know you're a very wicked man? + +ROBERT. Me, miss? + +MARY. Yes, you. + +ROBERT. Yus, I know it. + +MARY [trying to save the sinner]. That isn't the way to be happy, +you know. Thieves are never _really_ happy in their hearts. + +ROBERT. Wot's that? . . . + +Do you tike me for a thief, miss? You? . . . + +[He advances to the table: she edges away.] + +Why don't you arnser? + +MARY. I had rather not say. + +ROBERT. Cos why? + +MARY. I don't want to be unkind. + +[ROBERT sinks stricken into the chair behind him.] + +ROBERT, Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd! + +MARY [relenting]. Of course, if--if you're sorry, that makes a +difference. Being sorry makes a lot of difference. Doesn't it? + +ROBERT. Yus, a fat lot! + +MARY. Only you must never give way to such a wicked temptation +again. Oh, don't cry! [She goes to him.] + +ROBERT. Oo is cryin'? I'm not cryin'--not a cryin' sort! +On'y--you 'adn't no right to talk to me like that, miss. + +MARY. Why, didn't you own . . . + +ROBERT. No, I didn't. It was you as jumped down my throat, an' +took up my words afore I got 'em out. + +MARY. Oh: I'm sorry. Did I make a mistake? + +ROBERT. Yus, miss--a whopper. + +MARY. Then you're not a . . . + +ROBERT. _No_, swelp me Gaw-- [He pulls himself up.] I assure +you, no. I'm a bit of a low un; but I never come so stinkin' low +as that. + +You thought I looked like one, all the same. Didn't yer, now? + +MARY. Well, you see, I thought you said so; and then there's your +. . . + +ROBERT. I know! You don't like my mug. It ain't much of a mug to +look at, is it? Sort of a physog for a thief, eh? See them +lines?--Want to know what them stand for? That's drink, an' +starvation, an' 'ard work, an' a damned lonely life. + +MARY. Oh, you poor man! + +ROBERT. Yus, miss, I am. + +MARY. You mustn't say "damned," you know. + +ROBERT. No, miss. + +MARY. _That's_ wicked, at any rate. + +ROBERT. Yus, miss. + +MARY. And you owned yourself that you drank. That's not very +good, either. + +ROBERT. No, miss. + +MARY. So, you see, you _are_ a little bit naughty, after all, +aren't you? + +ROBERT. Yus, miss. + +MARY. Now, isn't it much nicer for you to try and look at things +in this way? I'm sure you feel a great deal better already. + +Do you know-- Wait a moment . . . + +[She resumes her seat, turning it towards him, the passion of +salvation in her eyes.] + +Do you know, I'd like to do you some good! + +ROBERT. You, miss? + +MARY. Yes, wouldn't you like me to? + +ROBERT. You're the on'y person in the world I'd--I'd like to see +try, miss. + +MARY [glad in the consciousness of "being used"]. That's because +you know I'm interested in you, that I mean it, that I'm not trying +to think only of myself. + +ROBERT [a little stupidly]. Aren't you, miss? + +MARY. No: we must always remember that there are other people in +the world besides ourselves. + +[This coincides with his experience: he says so.] + +ROBERT. Yus, miss, there are. + +MARY. Very well: now I'll see what I can do to help you. + +ROBERT. Thank you, miss. + +MARY. Now, don't you think, if you were really _to wish_ very +hard, it would make things better for you? + +ROBERT. I don't know what you mean, miss. + +MARY. Well, it's like this: if you only wish very very hard, +everything comes true. + +ROBERT. Wot _I_ want, ain't no use wishing for! + +MARY. It doesn't matter what it is! Anything you like! It will +all happen! + +ROBERT. Blimey, wot's the good o' talkin'? + +MARY. Oh, wouldn't you like to help to spin the fairy-tale? + +ROBERT [roughly], I don't believe in no fairy-tales! + +MARY. I do! I don't believe there's anything else in the world, +if we only knew! And that's why I'm wishing! I'm wishing now! +I'm wishing hard! + +ROBERT [passionately]. So am I, Gawd 'elp me! But it's no use! + +MARY. It is! It is! What are you wishing for? + +ROBERT. Never you mind! Summat as impossible as--fairy-tales! + +MARY. So's mine! That's what it has to be! Mine's the most +impossible thing in the world! + +ROBERT. Not more than mine! + +MARY. What's yours? + +ROBERT. What's yours? + +MARY. _I want my father_! + +ROBERT. I WANT MY LITTLE KID! + +[There is a second's pause.] + +MARY. Your--what? . . . + +ROBERT [brokenly]. My--daughter. + +MARY. Oh! . . . + +[She goes towards him: they face each other.] + +[Softly.] Is she dead? + +[He stands looking at her.] + +Is she? + +[He turns away from her.] + +ROBERT. Fur as I am concerned--yus. + +MARY. What do you mean? _Isn't_ she dead? + +ROBERT. She's alive, right enough. + +MARY. Perhaps--perhaps she ran away? . . . + +ROBERT. She got took. + +MARY. How do you mean--gypsies? + +ROBERT. I _give_ 'er up. 'Ad to. + +MARY. Why? + +ROBERT. Look at me! . . . + +_That_--an' the drink, an' the low wages, an' my ole woman dyin'! +That's why I give 'er up. + +MARY. Where is she now? + +ROBERT. Never you mind. She's bein' looked arfter. + +MARY. By whom? + +ROBERT. By people as I've allus 'ated like poison! + +MARY. Why, aren't they kind to her? + +ROBERT. Yus: they've made 'er summat, as I couldn't 'a' done. + +MARY. Then why do you hate them ? + +ROBERT. I don't any longer. I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I +live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into! + +MARY. Your wife's dead, you say? + +ROBERT. Yus. + +MARY. What would she think about it all? + +ROBERT [hollowly, without variation]. I don't know: I don't know: +I don't know. + +[MARY sits down beside him.] + +MARY [thoughtfully]. Isn't it strange--both our wishes alike! You +want your little girl; and I, my father! + +ROBERT. What sort of a . . . + +MARY. Yes? + +ROBERT. What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss? + +MARY. I don't know. I have never seen him. + +ROBERT. Got no idea? Never--'eard _tell_ of 'im? + +MARY. Never. + +ROBERT. 'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose? Wasn't +particular worth while, eh? + +MARY. It's not that. I've been selfish. I never thought anything +about him until to-day. + +ROBERT. What made you think of 'im--to-day? + +MARY. I can't quite say. At least . . . + +ROBERT. Mebbe 'e wrote--sent a telingram or summat, eh?--t' say as +'e was comin'? + +MARY [quickly]. Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him. +That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it? + +ROBERT [after a moment]. Looks like it, don't it? + +MARY. But I don't think he can be really selfish, after all. + +ROBERT [with a ray of brightness]. Cos why? + +MARY. Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and Uncle +Joshua. + +[He looks at her curiously.] + +ROBERT. Like your . . . + +MARY. Yes--they're his brothers, you know. + +This is Uncle William's house. + +ROBERT. Yes, but what do you know about. . . + +MARY. About Uncle Joshua? Well, I happen to know a good deal more +than I can say. It's a secret. + +ROBERT. S'pose your _Uncle William_ spoke to you about 'im? + +MARY. Well, yes. Uncle William spoke about him, too. + +ROBERT. But never about your father? + +MARY. Oh no, never. + +ROBERT. Why, miss? + +MARY [slowly]. I--don't--know. + +ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e ain't--good enough--to be--to be the brother of +your Uncle William--and-- Uncle--Joshua--eh, miss? + +MARY. Oh, I can't think that! + +ROBERT. Why not, miss? Three good brothers in a family don't +scarcely seem possible--not as families go--do they, miss? + +MARY. You mustn't talk like that! A father must be much--much +better than anybody else! + +ROBERT. But s'pose, miss--s'pose 'e ain't . . . + +MARY. He is! I know it! Why, that's what I'm wishing! . . . + +ROBERT. P'r'aps it ain't altogether 'is fault, miss! . . . + +MARY. Oh, don't! Don't. . . + +ROBERT. Things may 'a' bin agin 'im, miss! . . . + +MARY. Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . . + +ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e's 'ad a 'ard life--a bitter 'ard life--same as +I 'av', miss . . . [He breaks down.] + +MARY. Ssh! Please! Please! . . . + +I can quite understand: indeed, indeed, I can! I'm sorry--oh, so +sorry for you. You are thinking of yourself and of your own little +girl--the little girl who doesn't know what you have been telling +me. Don't be miserable! I'm sure it will all turn out right in +the end--things always do; far better than you dream! Only . . . +don't take away _my_ little dream! + +[She turns away her face. ROBERT rises heavily.] + +ROBERT. All right, miss--I won't: swelp me Gawd, I won't. Don't +cry, miss. Don't, miss! Breaks my 'eart--after all you've done +for me. I ort never to 'a' bin born--mekin' you cry! Thank you +kindly, miss: thank you very kindly. I'll--I'll tek my 'ook. + +MARY. Oh, but I'm so sorry for _you_! + +ROBERT. Thank you, miss. + +MARY. I did so want to help you. + +ROBERT. You 'av', miss. + +MARY. Before you go, won't you tell me your name? Who are you? + +ROBERT. I . . . + +I got no name worth speakin' of, miss: I'm--just the bloke wot's +a-lookin' arter the drains. + +Good-bye, miss. + +[At the door, he turns.] + +Sorry I used bad words, miss. + +[She runs to him and offers her hand. He takes it.] + +MARY. Good-bye, + +ROBERT. Good-bye, miss. + +[He goes out.] + +[She shuts the door after him, and turns a wretched little face +towards the audience as the curtain falls.] + + + + +THE FOURTH ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. +After a moment, Mary comes down to the settee, left, and buries her +face in the cushions, weeping. Shortly, the handle of the +drawing-room door is turned, and from within there emerges a murmur +of voices, the Vicar's uppermost. + +VICAR [within]. Very well, then, after you have finished your +letters! . . . + +[The voices continue confusedly: MARY rises quickly and goes into +the garden.] + +[The VICAR enters and goes to the mantel-piece weariedly: a moment +later, AUNTIE.] + +BISHOP [within], I shall only be about twenty minutes. + +AUNTIE [entering]. All right, don't hurry, James: you have all the +morning. + +[She closes the door upon the BISHOP'S grunts, and comes, to the +middle of the room.] + +VICAR. Hm! When he has finished his letters! + +AUNTIE. Yes, things seem to be shaping better than we thought, +William. Perhaps we have a little misjudged him. + +[He looks at her curiously.] + +To think, my dear, that the rebuilding of the church is becoming +possible at last! All your hopes, all your enthusiasms, about to +be realised! Now, it only remains to gain your brother Joshua's +approval and help, and the scheme is complete! + +VICAR. Supposing he--doesn't approve of the scheme? + +AUNTIE. My dear, he must approve: he will see the advantages at +once. I think James made that perfectly clear! . . . + +And then, look at the opportunities it creates for _you_! Not only +the church, William, the beautiful big church of your dreams, with +the great spires and flashing crosses and glorious windows; but a +much larger sphere of usefulness than you ever dared to dream! +Think of your work, William, of your great gifts--even James had to +acknowledge them, didn't he?--Think of the influence for good you +will be able to wield! Ah! And then I shall see my beloved, +_himself_ again--No more worry, no more feverish nights and days, +none of the wretched frets and fancies that have been troubling him +all this morning; but the great Scholar and Saint again, the master +of men's souls, the priest in the congregation! + +VICAR. Suppose you try and forget me for a moment. Do you think +you can? + +AUNTIE. William, that's unkind! Of course I can't. + +VICAR. It might mean the salvation of my soul. + +AUNTIE. Oh, William! Now you're going to begin to worry again! + +VICAR. Oh no: I'm quite calm. Your brother's powers of reasoning +have left me philosophical. . . . + +Tell me, are you quite sure that you have grasped the full meaning +of his project? + +AUNTIE. Of course! You think no one can understand a simple +business dealing but men! Women are every bit as clever! + +VICAR. Well, then, this project: what was it? + +AUNTIE. James explained clearly enough: the affiliation of your +brother's scheme with that of the society he mentioned. + +VICAR. Yes--_what_ society? + +AUNTIE. _The Society for the Extension of Greater Usefulness among +the Clergy_. . . . It was an admirable suggestion--one that ought +to appeal particularly to you. Haven't you always said, yourself, +that if only you had enough money to . . . + +VICAR. Did you happen to realise his explanation as to the +constitution of the society? + +AUNTIE. To tell the truth, I wasn't listening just then: I was +thinking of you. + +VICAR. The _financial_ possibilities of the scheme--Did his +eloquence on that point escape you? + +AUNTIE. Figures always bore me, and James uses dreadfully long +words. + +VICAR. Did you hear nothing of _profits_? + +AUNTIE. I only heard him say that you were to . . . + +VICAR. Well, didn't it strike you that throughout the entire +discussion he spoke rather like a _tradesman_? + +AUNTIE. My dear, you can't expect everybody to be an idealist! +Remember, he's a practical man: he's a bishop. + +VICAR. Didn't it strike you that there are some things in this +world which are not to be bought at _any_ price? + +AUNTIE. My dear William, bricks and mortar require money: you +can't run a society without funds! + +VICAR. Yes, but what of flesh and blood? What of reputation? +What of a man's name? + +AUNTIE. Whatever do you mean now? + +VICAR. Didn't his proposal practically amount to this: that we +should turn my brother Joshua's name and reputation into a bogus +Building Society, of which the funds were to be scraped together +from all the naked bodies and the starving bellies of the world, +whilst _we_ and our thieving co-directors should collar all the +swag? + +AUNTIE. Now, that's exactly where I think you are so unjust! +Didn't you yourself refuse, before he spoke a word, to let him put +a penny of his own into the concern? I must say, you were +unnecessarily rude to him about that, William! + +VICAR. Yes, and didn't he jump at the suggestion! + +AUNTIE. He offers to give his patronage, his influence, his time. +All he asks of your brother is his bare name. + +VICAR. Yes, and all he asks of me is simply my eloquence, my gift +of words, my power of lying plausibly! + +AUNTIE. William, he is offering you the opportunity of your life! + +VICAR. Damnation take my life! + +AUNTIE. William, why are you so violent? + +VICAR. Because violence is the only way of coming to the truth +between you and me! + +AUNTIE [now thoroughly afraid]. What do you mean by the truth, +William? + +VICAR. I mean this: What is the building of this church to you? +Are you so mightily interested in architecture, in clerical +_usefulness_, in the furtherance of God's work? + +AUNTIE. I am interested in your work, William. Do you take me for +an atheist? + +VICAR. No: far worse--for an idolater! + +AUNTIE. William . . . + +VICAR. What else but idolatry is this precious husband-worship you +have set up in your heart--you and all the women of your kind? You +barter away your own souls in the service of it: you build up your +idols in the fashion of your own respectable desires: you struggle +silently amongst yourselves, one against another, to push your own +god foremost in the miserable little pantheon of prigs and +hypocrites you have created! + +AUNTIE [roused]. It is for your own good we do it! + +VICAR. Our own good! What have you made of me? You have plucked +me down from whatever native godhead I had by gift of heaven, and +hewed and hacked me into the semblance of your own idolatrous +imagination! By God, it shall go on no longer! If you have made +me less than a man, at least I will prove myself to be a priest! + +AUNTIE. Do you call it a priest's work to . . . + +VICAR. It is _my_ work to deliver you and me from the bondage of +lies! Can't you see, woman, that God and Mammon are about us, +fighting for our souls? + +AUNTIE [determinedly]. Listen to me, William, listen to me . . . + +VICAR. I have listened to you too long! + +AUNTIE. You would always take my counsel before . . . + +VICAR. All that is done with! I am resolved to be a free man from +this hour--free of lies, free of love if needs be, free even of +you, free of everything that clogs and hinders me in the work I +have to do! I will do my own deed, not yours! + +AUNTIE [with deadly quietness]. If I were not certain of one +thing, I could never forgive you for those cruel words: William, +this is some madness of sin that has seized you: it is the +temptation of the devil! + +VICAR. It is the call of God! + +AUNTIE [still calmly]. That's blasphemy, William! But I will save +you--yes, I will--in spite of yourself. I am stronger than you. + +[They look at each other steadily for a moment, neither yielding,] + +VICAR. Then I accept the challenge! It is God and I against you, +Martha! + +AUNTIE. God and I against _you_, William. + +VICAR. So now--for my work! + +AUNTIE [quietly]. Yes: what are you going to do? + +VICAR. Three things. + +AUNTIE. Yes--and they? . . . + +VICAR. Tell Mary everything: send for my brother, Robert: and +then--answer that monster in there. + +AUNTIE [fearfully]. William, you would never dare! . . . + +VICAR. Look! . . . + +[MARY re-enters from the garden.] + +MARY. Auntie! Uncle! I want to speak to you at once--both of you! + +VICAR. You are just in time: I wanted to speak to _you_ at once. + +MARY. Is it important, uncle? Mine's dreadfully important. + +VICAR. So is mine. + +AUNTIE [quickly]. Let the child speak, William. Perhaps . . . + +MARY. I hardly know how to begin. Perhaps it's only my cowardice. +Perhaps it isn't really dreadful, after all . . . + +AUNTIE [troubled]. Why, what are you thinking of, Mary? + +MARY. It's about something we have never spoken of before; +something I've never been told. + +VICAR [searchingly]. Yes? . . . + +AUNTIE [falteringly]. Yes? . . . + +MARY. I want to know about my father. + +[There is a short silence. The VICAR looks at AUNTIE.] + +VICAR. Now: is God with you or me, Martha? + +MARY. What do you mean by that? Is it very terrible, uncle? + +[He stands silent, troubled. MARY crosses him, going to AUNTIE.] + +Auntie . . . + +AUNTIE. Don't ask me, child: I have nothing to tell you about your +father. + +MARY. Why, isn't he . . . + +AUNTIE. I have nothing to tell you. + +VICAR. I have. + +AUNTIE. William! . . . + +VICAR. I have, I say! Come, sit here, Mary. + +[She sits to left of him, on the settee. AUNTIE is down stage on +the other side of him.] + +Now! What do you want to know about your father? + +MARY [passionately]. Everything there is to know! + +AUNTIE. William, this is brutal! . . . + +VICAR. It is _my work_, Martha!--God's work! Haven't I babbled in +the pulpit long enough about fatherhood and brotherhood, that I +should shirk His irony when He takes me at my word! + +Now: what put this thought into your head to-day? + +MARY. I don't know. I've been puzzling about something all the +morning; but there was nothing clear. It only came clear a few +minutes ago--just before I went into the garden. But I think it +must have begun quite early--before breakfast, when I was talking +to my--to Manson, + +AUNTIE. Manson! . . . + +MARY. And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the +fireplace, _it came_--all in a flash, you understand! I found +myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him: +despising myself that I had never thought of him before. + +VICAR. Well, what then? + +MARY. I tried to picture him to myself. I imagined all that he +must be. I thought of you. Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and +of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my +life; but still--that wasn't quite like a father, was it? I +thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in +the world! He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be +good! I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little +song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good! +[Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle? Isn't it? + +VICAR. A father ought to be all these things. + +MARY. And then . . . then . . . + +VICAR. Yes? . . . + +MARY. I met a man, a poor miserable man--it still seems like a +dream, the way I met him--and he said something dreadful to me, +something that hurt me terribly. He seemed to think that my +father--that perhaps my father--might be nothing of the sort! + +AUNTIE. Why, who was he--the man? + +MARY. He wouldn't tell me his name: I mistook him for a thief at +first; but afterwards I felt very, very sorry for him. You see, +his case was rather like my own. _He was wishing for his little +girl_. + +[There is a short silence.] + +VICAR. Where did you meet with him? + +MARY. Here, in this room. + +AUNTIE. When was this? + +MARY. A few minutes ago--just before you came in. + +AUNTIE. Where is he now? + +MARY. He said good-bye. He has gone away. + +AUNTIE. For good? + +MARY. Yes, I think so: I understood him to mean that. + +VICAR. Was he--a rough-looking man? + +MARY. Dreadfully; and he swore once--but afterwards he said he was +sorry for that. + +VICAR. Did he frighten you at all? + +MARY. No, not exactly frighten: you see, I felt sorry for him. + +VICAR [slowly]. _And he wouldn't tell you his name_? . . . + +MARY. No: I asked him, but he wouldn't. + +[The VICAR ponders this for a moment.] + +AUNTIE. Now, is it God with you or with me, William? + +[For a moment this unnerves him. Then setting his teeth together, +he faces his task stubbornly.] + +VICAR. Have you any idea about this man? + +MARY. How do you mean--any idea? + +VICAR. As to why he put this doubt into your head about your +father. + +MARY. He seemed to be thinking about himself, and how unworthy he +was of his own little girl. + +VICAR. Did he say--unworthy? + +MARY. That's what I think he meant. What he said was that perhaps +my father wasn't good enough to be your brother, uncle. That's not +true, is it? + +VICAR. No, by Heaven! That's not true! + +MARY [rapturously]. Oh, I knew it, I knew it! + +VICAR [in an agony]. Stop! You don't understand! + +MARY. I understand quite enough! That's all I wanted to know! + +VICAR. Listen, child! Listen! I mean that it is I who am not +worthy to be called his brother. + +AUNTIE. William, this is absurd! + +MARY [snuggling up to him]. Isn't he a dear? + +VICAR [freeing himself]. Listen to me, Mary: I have something +awful to tell you: try and bear it bravely. You will hate me for +it--never love me again! . . . No, listen! . . . + +Supposing your father were--not what you imagine him to be? . . . + +MARY. Uncle, didn't you just say . . . + +VICAR. Supposing that wretched man you spoke with just now were +right, after all! What would you say? + +MARY. Uncle! . . . + +VICAR. Supposing he were one upon whom a11 the curses of the world +had been most cruelly visited--his poor body scarred and graven out +of human semblance; his soul the prey of hate and bitterness; his +immortal spirit tortured and twisted away from every memory of God! +What would you say? + +MARY. Uncle, it would be terrible--terrible! + +VICAR. What will you say, then, to the man who has brought him to +such ruin? What will you say to that man being God's priest? What +word of loathing have you for the thief who has stolen the love of +another man's child, for the murderer who has slain his brother's +soul? + +MARY. Uncle, do you mean . . . do you mean . . . + +VICAR. I mean that I am the man! + +MARY. You! . . . + +AUNTIE [passionately]. It is not true! It is a lie! It's +entirely your father's own fault! + +MARY. I don't understand. Why should Uncle William lie to me? + +AUNTIE. He is overwrought: he is ill. It is like your uncle +William to take upon himself another man's wickedness! + +MARY. Then, _that_ is true, at least: my father is a wicked +man! . . . + +AUNTIE. I don't want to speak about your father! + +MARY. He is nothing that I have wished him to be: not _brave_ . . . + +VICAR. Yes--_that_ at least! + +MARY [turning towards him]. _Beautiful_? . . . + +VICAR. What do you mean by beautiful? + +MARY. You know what I mean: What you once said God was, when you +called _Him_ beautiful. + +VICAR. I have no right to judge your father. + +[She perceives the evasion.] + +MARY. Not even--_good_? . . . + +VICAR. He is what I have made him. I and no other! + +[She stands looking at him piteously.] + +AUNTIE. There is another--I! I kept them apart: I poisoned your +uncle against him: I took you away from him: It was I who kept you +in ignorance of your father! + +MARY. Why? . . . + +AUNTIE. Because he stands in the way of my husband's happiness! +Because, even, he is your father! Because I hate him! I could +almost _wish him dead_! + +VICAR. Martha! . . . + +[There is a long pause.] + +MARY. Then I have nobody, now. It's no use wishing any more. + +AUNTIE. Mary . . . + +MARY. No! . . . I want to be alone. + +[She goes out into the garden. They follow her out with their +eyes.] + +VICAR. So! God has revealed His partisanship!--He has beggared us +both! + +[AUNTIE considers this for a moment. Then, with sudden +determination, she rises.] + +AUNTIE. I am not going to be beggared without a struggle for it, +William! + +[She moves briskly across to the bell.] + +VICAR. What are you going to do, Martha? + +AUNTIE, [flashing round passionately, before she can ring the +bell]. Do you think I am going to stand by and see your life +wrecked--yours and that child's? + +VICAR. We are not the only persons concerned, Martha. + +AUNTIE. As far as I care, you are! + +VICAR. And what of Robert? . . . + +AUNTIE. Robert! That's what I'm going to see to now! + +[She rings the bell.] + +There's only one way of dealing with a brute like that! + +VICAR. What's that? + +AUNTIE. Pack him off to Australia, Africa--anywhere, so long as we +are never pestered with him again! + +VICAR, Do you think you'll get him to go? + +AUNTIE. Oh, I'll find the money! A drunkard like that will do +anything for money! Well, he shall have plenty: perhaps he'll +drink himself to . . . + +VICAR. By Heaven, but I say no! + +AUNTIE. By Heaven, but I say yes! It's about time I took things +in hand again! Do you think I'm going to risk that child learning +everything? She knows more than enough already! Providentially, +she does not know the worst! + +VICAR. And what knowledge do you consider Providence has so kindly +spared her? + +AUNTIE. The knowledge who that man was! She shall never know, if +I can have my way! [She rings the bell again, impatiently.] Why +doesn't he come? Why doesn't he come? + +VICAR. Who? + +AUNTIE. Manson. + +[Enter MANSON by the main door. There is a subtle change in the +manner of him, a look in his eye, as of the servant merging in the +master.] + +MANSON. You rang. + +AUNTIE. Yes, come in, Manson. I want to have a little +confidential talk with you--confidential, you understand. + +MANSON [eying her]. If you please. I expected this. + +[He has the air of a judge. She hurries on, unheeding.] + +AUNTIE. Manson, you saw everything. You were here when that +dreadful creature arrived. + +MANSON. Which? + +AUNTIE. Why, my husband's brother, Robert. Didn't you tell me, +William, that Manson heard everything he said? + +VICAR. Yes. + +AUNTIE. Then you will know the wretched plight we are in. Manson, +it's terrible. I want your help. By-the-way, you have not spoken +about it to the other servants? + +MANSON. I am always most discreet. + +AUNTIE [touched]. Thank you, Manson, thank you: I felt that I +could trust you. It's to prove my trust that I've sent for you +now. Perhaps I'd better begin by explaining everything quite +clearly, so that you . . . + +MANSON. There is no need. I know everything already. + +AUNTIE, Everything! How? . . . + +MANSON. A certain gift of divination--mine by birth. And, +besides, you forget that I had a long conversation with your +brother-in-law after master left the room. + +AUNTIE. What! Whilst my brother was here? + +MANSON. Yes: we all three had breakfast together. + +AUNTIE. Breakfast together! Then James has heard all! + +MANSON. Not quite all. You may have observed that your brother is +a little deaf. + +AUNTIE. But surely-- What did he think? + +MANSON. He mistook him for your husband. + +AUNTIE. My husband! + +MANSON. Your brother is also a little blind, remember. + +AUNTIE [delighted]. Then James never found out? . . . + +MANSON. Oh yes: I took care to undeceive him on the point. + +AUNTIE. Good gracious! How did he take it? + +MANSON. At first, a little angrily; but, after a while, some few +poor words of my own chanced to move him to more--_profitable_ +meditation. + +AUNTIE. Manson, you're perfectly wonderful! I respect you very, +very much! + +MANSON. It is not enough. I shall require more. + +AUNTIE [embarrassed]. Oh, of course, I shall be glad to do +anything that . . . + +Why, what do you mean? . . . + +MANSON. I mean that service such as mine demands a greater +recompense! + +AUNTIE. You may be sure that anything in reason . . . + +MANSON. It must go beyond that! + +AUNTIE. Well, what do you ask? + +MANSON. The uttermost obedience, loyalty, and love! + +AUNTIE. Manson, how dare you! By what right . . . + +MANSON. By my own right! + +AUNTIE. This is insolence! What right do you mean? + +MANSON. The right of understanding, the right of purpose, and the +right of will! + +AUNTIE. You force me to speak angrily to you! Do you forget that +you are my servant? + +MANSON. No! And, therefore, it is my office to command you now! + +Sit down, and hear me speak! + +VICAR. He has been sent to help us! Martha, this is God! + +MANSON. Over here, please. [He points to the settee.] + +AUNTIE. I . . . I . . . + +[MANSON still points. She wavers as in a dream, and at length +moves mechanically across the room, obeying him.] + +MANSON. Now, let me tell you exactly why you have sent for me +here. There is a strange and wretched turmoil in your soul: you +have done wrong, and you know it--but you don't know all! You +would keep what miserable little right you have by bolstering it up +with further wrong. And you have sent for me to help you in that +wrong! + +AUNTIE. How dare you say that? + +MANSON. Haven't you sent for me to help you in your plans about +his brother, Robert? + +AUNTIE [faintly]. What plans? . . . + +MANSON. The plan of banishing him further from your lives than +ever! The plan of _providing_ for him! The plan of patching up +his bitter wrongs with gold! + +AUNTIE. How did you know that? + +MANSON. I know _you_! What, do you think that God's eyes are like +your brother's--blind? Or do you think these things can be done in +darkness without crying aloud to Heaven for light? + +AUNTIE. I am here to work my will, not yours! + +MANSON. What gain do you hope to bring yourself by that? + +AUNTIE. I am not thinking of myself! I am thinking only of my +husband's happiness! + +MANSON. Behold the happiness you have already brought him! + +AUNTIE. There is the child! It would break her heart! + +MANSON. What is her heart but broken now--by you? + +AUNTIE, Robert himself would be the first to repudiate any other +plan. + +MANSON. Have you tried him? + +AUNTIE. Of course not; but he must see the impossibility. + +MANSON. What impossibility? + +AUNTIE. The impossibility of having him here: the impossibility of +letting him see the child: the impossibility of him and his brother +ever meeting again! + +MANSON. Is that your only difficulty? + +AUNTIE. Only difficulty! What, would you have me welcome him with +open arms? + +MANSON. Yes, and heart, too! + +AUNTIE. Have him here, entertain him, treat him as a guest? + +MANSON. As an honoured guest! + +AUNTIE. In this house? + +MANSON. This house. + +AUNTIE. Good Heavens! what else? + +MANSON. Sweep and garnish it throughout, seek out and cleanse its +hidden corners, make it fair and ready to lodge him royally as a +brother! + +AUNTIE [desperately]. I won't do it! I can't! I can't! + +MANSON. With my assistance, you can! + +VICAR. Manson, how can we bring it about? + +AUNTIE, I daren't! I daren't! + +VICAR. I dare! I will! + +AUNTIE. In God's name, how is it possible? + +MANSON. _Make me the lord and master of this house for one little +hour_! + +VICAR. By Heaven, yes! + +MANSON. And you? You? . . . + +[She falters a few moments: then, utterly broken down, she +whispers, feebly.] + +AUNTIE. Yes. + +MANSON. Then first TO CLEANSE IT OF ITS ABOMINATIONS! + +[The BISHOP enters from the drawing-room. He carries a letter in +his hand.] + +BISHOP. Well, here is the letter I have written to the secretary +of our Society: I have explained everything quite nicely; and have +warned him, of course, against doing anything definite in the +matter until we have consulted your dear brother. Now . . . Eh, +what? Oh! . . . + +[MANSON has tapped his ear, peremptorily: he fixes his ear-trumpet.] + +MANSON. I bear you a message from the master of this house. Leave +it. + +BISHOP. Really, I . . . . . . . Most extraordinary! Hm! + +[He blows down the ear-trumpet, and afterwards wipes it very +carefully with his handkerchief. MANSON stands, as though carven +in marble, waiting for him to fix it again.] + +Now: again, please. + +MANSON. You are no longer necessary. Leave this house. + +BISHOP. You scoundrel! You impudent scoundrel! You . . . +You . . . + +Give me back my five-pound note! + +MANSON [pointing to the fire]. It is invested for you. + +BISHOP. I will have it back at once! + +MANSON. Hereafter, was the arrangement. + +BISHOP. Mr. Smythe! Where are you? Do you hear what this +blackguard says? + +VICAR. I endorse it, every word. + +BISHOP. Martha! . . . + +[She turns away from him as from some horror of sin. The BISHOP +stands dumfounded for a moment or two: then he boils over.] + +Now I see it all! I've been trapped, I've been tricked! Martha, +this is all your doing! Brought me here on a trumped-up story of +relationship with the Bishop of Benares, to insult me! Oh, what +would that godly man say if he heard of it!--And he shall hear of +it, believe me! Your infamy shall be spread abroad! So this is +your revenge, sir--[he turns to the VICAR]--your revenge for the +contumely with which I have very properly treated you, sir! Now I +understand why I was made to sit down and eat sausages with a +butler--yes, sir, with a butler and a common working-man! Oh! I +could die with shame! You have bereft me of all words! You . . . +You . . . You are no scholar, sir! And your Greek is +contemptible! . . . + +[He crosses to AUNTIE.] Martha! You are no sister of mine +henceforward! [Going, he returns to her.] Anathema maranatha! + +[He bounces up to the door, but turns back again for a last word +with MANSON.] + +And I have one word for you, sir! You are a scoundrel, sir--a +cheat, an impostor! And if I could have my way with you, I would +have you publicly whipped: I would visit you with the utmost rigour +of the law: I would nail you up, sir, for an example! + +MANSON. I have encountered similar hostility before, my lord--from +gentlemen very like your lordship. Allow me . . . + +[He opens the door, his eyes flashing.] + +BISHOP. Don't trouble, sir. I can get my hat and my stick and my +portmanteau for myself! I can do very well without your +assistance--thank God! + +[He stumps out. MANSON closes the door after him, barring it, as +it were, with his great left arm. He lifts the other arm slowly, +as commanding silence. After a moment the front door is heard +slamming noisily.] + +[AUNTIE sinks, weeping, upon the settee. The VICAR goes over to +comfort her. The uplifted hand of MANSON assumes the BISHOP'S sign +of blessing as the curtain slowly falls.] + + + + +THE FIFTH ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. + +[There is heard a Ring of the Bell. All three turn their heads, +alert.] + +VICAR. If it's my brother . . . + +MANSON. Which? + +VICAR. I meant--the Bishop of Benares; but . . . + +AUNTIE [hand on his arm, apprehensively]. William . . . + +MANSON. It wants ten minutes of the time you said you expected +him. [Goes to door: turns.] Only ten minutes. + +[He goes out, closing the door softly.] + +VICAR. Ten minutes! . . . + +AUNTIE. We shall never be able to do it, William! How can we +possibly undo the work of all these years in ten minutes? It wants +a miracle. + +VICAR. We must make the attempt, somehow. + +AUNTIE. Yes--yes: how? Oh, I have been blind--blind! [She walks +across the room in agitation.] Where has he gone, I wonder? We +don't even know that--where he is! + +VICAR [making a movement]. Perhaps Manson . . . + +AUNTIE. No, no, no: it must be ourselves . . . + +Ten minutest--And no assistance on _his_ side: we can't expect it, +after our treatment of him. He will hate me most of all: there's +the chief difficulty! . . . + +VICAR. You would say me, if you had seen his face and heard his +voice this morning! + +AUNTIE. God help us. God pity us! + +VICAR. Amen . . . + +Then, there's the child, too! That difficulty must be faced. + +AUNTIE. Yes--no escape! We shall have to pay the whole debt, +William: I see that. + +VICAR. Who knows! Perhaps the child will have to pay most, when +all is done. + +AUNTIE. The innocent for the guilty--yes . . . Oh, William, +William, can you ever forgive me? + +VICAR. There is much to forgive, both sides, Martha. My sin has +been greater than yours. You have only loved unworthily in +blindness: I have seen clearly and been a coward. + +[Enter MARY from the garden.] + +Mary! . . . + +MARY. Let me speak, uncle. I have been thinking, out there in the +garden--thinking very hard: I've been trying to put things together +again and make them straight; but it's still very difficult. Only +there's one thing--I'm sorry I was unkind just now: I didn't mean +it: you are everything I have--everything I have ever had; and as +for what uncle said--about himself, I mean--I can't believe it. +No, I'm sure there's a mistake somewhere; and mistakes can always +be put right, if we only help one another and mean it. Shall we +try, uncle? Shall we, auntie? + +AUNTIE. If it's not too late! . . . + +MARY. It can't be too late, auntie dear, if we all wish very hard. +I was a coward to give up wishing. That was _my_ sin, too! + +AUNTIE. God knows, I wish, Mary! . . . + +VICAR. And I! . . . + +MARY. And, indeed, I do! . . . + +Now, I've been thinking: I've been trying to look the worst in the +face. Supposing my father is the wicked man you say--the very, +very wickedest man that ever lived, don't you think if we tried to +love him very much it might make a difference? + +VICAR. What made you think of that, Mary? . . . + +MARY [simply]. It's what you taught me, uncle, in your sermons. + +VICAR. _I_ taught you? . . . + +MARY. Yes: and, besides, there's another reason. . . I've been +thinking of the poor man I met this morning. + +AUNTIE. ) Yes . . . +VICAR. ) What of him? . . . + +MARY. _He_ said he was a wicked man, and at first he looked so +dreadfully wicked, I believed him; but when I began to look at him +closely, and heard him talk about his little girl, everything +seemed different! I could no more believe him, than I can believe +you, uncle, when you say such awful things about yourself! I +believe he was a much better man than he ever dreamed! And so I +think we might find my father just the same, if he was properly +loved and looked after! + +VICAR [with determination]. Then listen to me, Mary: I have +something to tell you: that very man you spoke to . . . + +[ROGERS enters, his face betraying signs of his morning's +affliction.] + +ROGERS. Beg your pardon, sir; but . . . + +VICAR. Yes, Rogers: what is it? + +ROGERS. Mr. Manson sent me, sir; it ain't my fault! . . . + +VICAR. Do explain yourself, Rogers! + +ROGERS. Well, sir, it's a bit orkard: it's . . . I really don't +know what you'll say, sir, I don't really . . . + +VICAR [impatiently]. Come, come, come, what is it? + +ROGERS. _It's a man, sir_! + +VICAR. Well, there's nothing very extraordinary in that. Wants to +see me, eh? + +ROGERS. Yes, sir; and what's more, Mr. Manson told me to _bring +'im in_! + +VICAR. Well, why don't you? + +ROGERS. 'E's mucked up to the eyes, sir! Bin down the drains! +_It's the same chap as come an' made so free 'ere this mornin'_! + +[There is a general rapturous excitement.] + +VICAR. Praise God! Shew him in at once! + +ROGERS [flabbergasted]. What! In '_ere_, sir? . . . + +VICAR. Come, come, come! + +[ROGERS'S cosmos is fast slipping away: he crawls abjectly to the +door: his hand on the knob, he turns once more a face of bewildered +inquiry upon the VICAR, who snaps his fingers impatiently.] + +ROGERS [with a sickly smile]. 'E's just outside, sir. + +[Opening the door, he whines.] + +Oh, do come in. + +[ROBERT enters, amply fulfilling the lad's description. The latter +lags out, nauseated with the world.] + +[ROBERT stands up stage, in the middle: AUNTIE and VICAR, down +stage, one on either side. MARY with her aunt.] + +ROBERT. Can I be 'eard civil in this 'ouse, if I speak a few words? + +[They make a movement as towards him.] + +'Old back! Don't you come near me! Don't you so much as speak +till I've done! . . . + +[To Auntie and Vicar respectively]. You don't know me: you don't +know me . . . Understand? + +There's no one 'ere as knows oo I am, excep' one little gel--'er +over there. Now, keep quiet! 'Ere! . . . + +[MARY goes up to him.] + +Tell 'em oo I am. + +MARY. Why, it's my friend--the man I was telling you about! The +man who looks after the drains! + +ROBERT. That's about it: I'm the drain-man, _see_? Thought you +might be mistakin' me for--summat else, if you wasn't told. Now +you know. + +[MARY'S face, as she returns, bears the first dawn of an idea. The +VICAR lifts a hand of warning to AUNTIE.] + +VICAR. Go on. + +ROBERT. That's what I come 'ere to talk abaht--my job. P'r'aps +you'll think as it ain't a tasty subjic, before a lot o' nice, +clean, respectable people as never 'ad anythin' worse on their +fingers than a bit of lawn-dirt, playin' crokey; but _some one_ 'as +to see to the drains, _some one_ 'as to clear up the muck of the +world! I'm the one. + +An' I'm 'ere to tell you about it. + +AUNTIE [involuntarily]. Oh! . . . + +ROBERT. You don't like that, ma'am? 'Urts your feelin's, eh? + +AUNTIE. Yes; but not in the way you mean, + +MARY. But you know, you really are a little unpleasant! + +ROBERT. I'm not 'ere to be pleasant, young leddy: I'm 'ere to +edicate you. + +VICAR. Yes, I think I see! + +AUNTIE [breathlessly]. Go on: go on! + +ROBERT. Well, I come to this 'ouse this mornin', I don't mind +ownin' it, in a rotten bad frame of mind: I 'ad a little job on +'and--a job a bit above my 'ead, an' it got me dahn an' worried me: +yus it did--worried me. That young leddy 'll tell you wot I was +like when _she_ fust saw me: I looked that bad, she thought I come +to steal summat! Well, p'r'aps I did, arter al!--summat as I 'ad +no right to, summat as don't properly belong to a streaky swine +like me. That was when _she_ fust saw me; but I was wuss before +that, I tell you strite! + +MARY [self-consciously]. What changed you? + +ROBERT. A bloke I met, miss, as knowed me better than I knowed +myself. 'E changed me. + +AUNTIE. ) Manson! . . . +VICAR. ) Manson! . . . +MARY. ) Oh, I thought, perhaps . . . + +ROBERT. Don't know 'is name; 'e was a fair knock-aht-- Got togs +on 'im like an Earl's Court Exhibition . . . '_E_ changed me: 'e +taught me my own mind; 'e brought me back to my own job--_drains_. + +AUNTIE. Yes . . . + +ROBERT. Funny thing, ma'am, peopled born different: some's born +without noses in their 'eads, worth speakin' of. I wasn't--I can +smell out a stink anywhere. + +AUNTIE [fascinated]. I am sure you can. This is most interesting! + +ROBERT [warming]. Moment I stuck my 'ead in this 'ouse, I knowed +as summat was wrong in my line, and I ses to myself: _Wot oh, 'e +ain't such an awl-mighty liar, arter all--that's drains_! An' +drains it was, strike me dead--arskin' your pawdon! + +MARY, Now, didn't I always say . . . + +ROBERT. Yus, miss, you're one o' the nosey uns, I can see! Well, +soon as ole Togs got done with 'is talk, I got my smeller dahn, +follered up the scent, an' afore I knowed where I was, I was in it, +up to my eyes!--Out there in the room with the blood-red 'eap o' +books! Blimey, you never did see! Muck, ma'am!--Just look at my +'ands! Ain't that pretty? + +'Owever, I got there, right enough, I don't fink! Fancy I put that +little bit strite afore I done! + +AUNTIE. Oh, this is too beautiful of you! . . . + +ROBERT [burning with enthusiasm, and manifestly affected by her +appreciation]. Wait a bit: I got more yet! Talk abaht +bee-utiful!--That bit was on'y an ash-pan! Look 'ere, ma'am, I got +the loveliest little job on as ever yer soiled yer 'ands in! . . . + +MARY. Oh, do tell us! . . . + +AUNTIE. ) Yes, do! . . . +VICAR. ) Yes, yes! . . . + +[A splendid rapture infects them all.] + +ROBERT. I followed up that drain--_I_ wasn't goin' to stick till +kingdom come inside your little mouse-'ole out there: No, I said, +_Where's this leadin to? What's the 'ell-an-glory use o' flushin' +out this blarsted bit of a sink, with devil-know-wot stinkin' +cess-pool at the end of it_! That's wot I said, ma'am! . . . + +AUNTIE. Very rightly! I see! I see! . . . + +ROBERT. So up I go through the sludge, puffin' an' blowin' like a +bally ole cart-'orse--strooth, it seemed miles! Talk abaht +bee-utiful, ma'am, it ud 'a' done your 'eart good, it would really! +_Rats_!--'Undreds on em, ma'am: I'm bitten clean through in places! +'Owever, I pushed my way through, somehow, 'oldin' my nose an +fightin' for my breath, till at last I got to the end--_and then I +soon saw wot was the matter_! . . . + +It's under the church--that's where it is! I know it's the church, +cos I 'eard "The Church's One Foundation" on the orgin, rumblin' up +over my 'ead! Well, I . . . + +ALL. Yes . . . yes . . . + +AUNTIE. Why don't you go on? . . . + +ROBERT. You'd never guess wot I saw there, not if you was to try +from now till glory 'allelooyer! . . . + +The biggest back-'ander, I ever did 'av', swelp me! . . . + +[They hang on his words expectantly.] + +IT AIN'T NO DRAIN AT ALL! + +ALL [breathlessly]. Why, what is it, then? . . . + +ROBERT. IT'S A GRIVE! + +ALL. A grave! . . . + +ROBERT. Yus, one o' them whoppin' great beer-vaults as you shove +big bugses' corpses inter! What d'yer think o' that now? + +MARY. ) Oh! . . . +AUNTIE. ) Horrible! . . . + +VICAR. I seem to remember some tradition . . . + +ROBERT, You'd 'a' said so if you'd seen wot I seen! Talk abaht +corfins an' shrouds an' bones an' dead men gone to rot, they wasn't +in it, wot I saw dahn there! Madame Twosoes is a flea-bite to it! +Lord!--I never thought there could be such a lot o' muck an' dead +things all in one place before! It was a fair treat, it was, I tek +my oath! . . . + +[Rapturously]. Why--why, it may cost a man 'is LIFE to deal with +that little job! + +VICAR. My God! The thing's impossible! + +ROBERT. Impossible! Means a bit of work, that's all! + +VICAR. Why, no one would ever dare . . . + +ROBERT. Dare! Why, wot d'you think I come 'ere for? . . . + +VICAR. _You_! . . . + +ROBERT. Yus--makin' myself unpleasant . . . + +VICAR. Do you mean . . . Do I understand . . . + +ROBERT. I mean as I've found _my place_, or I don't know a good +thing when I see it! + +AUNTIE. What! To go into that dreadful vault, and . . . + +ROBERT. Why not: ain't it my job? + +AUNTIE. But you said--perhaps--_death_ . . . + +ROBERT. It's worth it, it's a lovely bit of work! + +VICAR. No, ten thousand times, no! The sacrifice is too much! + +ROBERT. You call that sacrifice?--It's fun: not 'arf! + +VICAR. I had rather see the church itself . . . + +ROBERT. What, you call yourself a clergyman! + +VICAR. I call myself nothing: I _am_ nothing--less than nothing in +all this living world! + +ROBERT. By God, but I call myself summat--I'M THE _DRAIN-MAN_, +THAT'S WOT I AM! + +VICAR [feverishly]. You shall not go! . . . + +ROBERT. Why, wot is there to fear? Ain't it worth while, to move +away that load o' muck! + +VICAR. The stench--the horror--the darkness . . . + +ROBERT. What's it matter, if the comrides up above 'av' light an' +joy an' a breath of 'olesome air to sing by? . . . + +VICAR. Hour by hour--dying--alone . . . + +ROBERT. The comrides up in the spans an arches, joinin' 'ands . . . + +VICAR. Fainter and fainter, below there, and at last--an endless +silence! . . . + +ROBERT. 'Igh in the dome, the 'ammerin's of the comrides as 'av' +climbed aloft! + +AUNTIE. William, there is yet one other way! . . . + +VICAR. Yes, yes, I see: I see! . . . [To ROBERT]. Then--you mean +to go? + +ROBERT. By 'Eaven, yus! + +VICAR. Then, by God and all the powers of grace, you shall not go +alone! Off with these lies and make-believes! Off with these +prisoner's shackles! They cramp, they stifle me! Freedom! +Freedom! This is no priest's work--it calls for a man! . . . + +[He tears off his parson's coat and collar, casting them furiously +aside. He rolls up his sleeves.] + +Now, if you're ready, Comrade: you and I together! + +AUNTIE. God's might go with you, William! Accept him, Christ! + +[There is a silence. Then ROBERT speaks with slow consideration.] + +ROBERT. I--don't--know. It's dangerous, you understand! + +VICAR. I go with you. + +ROBERT. This ain't psalms an 'ymns an' ole maids' tea-parties, +mind you! It may mean typhoid! + +VICAR. I understand. + +ROBERT. Rats. + +VICAR. Yes. + +ROBERT. They don't leave you alone: they got teeth, +remember--poison in 'em! + +VICAR. I will go with you. + +[A slight pause. Then ROBERT, dropping into a quite ordinary tone, +says.] + +ROBERT. Then let's 'av' summat so eat, an' get along. There's +nuthin' more to say. + +MARY [inspired]. Yes, there is! + +ROBERT. What do you mean, miss? + +MARY. I mean that I understand: that I know who you are. + +ROBERT. Me? . . . + +MARY [simply]. Yes, you are my father. + +ROBERT. 'Ow the everlastin' did you know that? + +MARY [going up to him]. Because you are my wish come true: because +you are brave, because you are very beautiful, because you are good! + +ROBERT. My little kid! My little kid! + +[They embrace each other.] + +VICAR. Robert! [Taking his left hand]. + +AUNTIE. Brother! [Taking his other hand.] + +[They form a kind of cross.] + +[MANSON and ROGERS re-enter with table-cloth, etc., for lunch.] + +MANSON. Come along, Rogers. Take that end. + +[They lay the cloth, as it were with ceremonial gravity, MANSON +being at the upper end of the table. They pay no heed to the +others, who watch them interestedly.] + +ROBERT. I could just do with a good, square feed. My work meks me +'ungry. + +MANSON. Flowers, Rogers. + +[ROGERS brings vase from side-board and places it on the VICAR'S +side of the table. MANSON removes it to a more communal position. +Presently looking up, he sees the group to his left watching him.] + +Oh, beg pardon, sir: perhaps you'd like to know--the Bishop of +Benares is here. + +VICAR. What, already! Let's have him in at once! + +[MANSON deliberates with the flowers before he speaks.] + +MANSON. He is here. + +[The VICAR crosses towards him.] + +VICAR. What do you mean? Where is he? + +[MANSON looks at him over the flowers.] + +MANSON. Here. + +[The VICAR steps back, gazing at him. After a moment he gasps.] + +VICAR. In God's name, who are you? + +MANSON. In God's Name--your brother. + +[He holds out his hand. The VICAR takes it, sinking to his knees +and sobbing as one broken yet healed.] + +[The curtain descends slowly.] + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Servant in the House, by Charles Rann Kennedy + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11999 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a643d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #11999 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11999) diff --git a/old/11999.txt b/old/11999.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6cca0b5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11999.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4626 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Servant in the House, by Charles Rann Kennedy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Servant in the House + +Author: Charles Rann Kennedy + +Release Date: April 11, 2004 [EBook #11999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + +THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + +BY + +CHARLES RANN KENNEDY + + + +BOOKS BY CHARLES RANN KENNEDY + +SEVEN PLAYS FOR SEVEN PLAYERS + Volumes now ready: + THE WINTERFEAST + THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + THE IDOL-BREAKER + THE RIB OF THE MAN + +SHORTER PLAYS FOR SMALL CASTS + Volumes now ready: + THE TERRIBLE MEEK + THE NECESSARY EVIL + + + + +1908 + + + + + TO WALTER HAMPDEN + + "There's a lot o' brothers + knockin' abaht as people + don't know on, eh what? + See wot I mean?" + + + + +"He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is +in darkness even until now. He that loveth his brother abideth +in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him. +But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in +darkness and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness +hath blinded his eyes. . . . If a man say, I love God, and +hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his +brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath +not seen?" + + --I. JOHN, ii. 9-11, iv. 20. + + + +"The hunger for brotherhood is at the bottom of the unrest +of the modern civilized world." + + --GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS. + + + + +ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS + +IN + +THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + +BY + +CHARLES RANN KENNEDY + + + +AS PRESENTED BY + +THE HENRY MILLER ASSOCIATE PLAYERS + +AT + +THE SAVOY THEATRE. NEW YORK + +ON MONDAY, MARCH 23, 1906 + + +A PLAY OF THE PRESENT DAY, IN FIVE ACTS, SCENE INDIVIDABLE +SETTING FORTH THE STORY OF ONE MORNING IN THE EARLY SPRING + + + +PERSONS IN THE PLAY + +JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., The Most Reverend, + The Lord Bishop of Lancashire + Mr. ARTHUR LEWIS + +THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE, Vicar, + Mr. CHARLES DALTON + +AUNTIE, the Vicar's Wife + Miss EDITH WYNNE MATTHISON + +MARY, their niece + Miss MABEL MOORE + +MR. ROBERT SMITH, a gentleman of necessary occupation, + Mr. TYRONE POWER + +ROGERS, a page-boy + Mr. GALWEY HERBERT + +MANSON, a butler + Mr. WALTER HAMPDEN + + +Time--An early morning in Spring. +Place--An English country vicarage. + + + + +CHARACTERS REPRESENTED + + +JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D. +The Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire + +THE REVEREND WILLIAM SMYTHE +The Vicar + +AUNTIE +The Vicar's Wife + +MARY +Their niece + +MR. ROBERT SMITH +A gentleman of necessary occupation + +ROGERS +A page-boy + +MANSON +A butler + + +TIME: Now +PLACE: Here + + + + +THE SCENE + +The scene, which remains unchanged throughout the play, is a room +in the vicarage. Jacobean in character, its oak-panelling and +beamed-ceiling, together with some fine pieces of antique +furniture, lend it an air of historical interest, whilst in all +other respects it speaks of solid comfort, refinement, and +unostentatious elegance. Evidently the room of a rich man, who +has, however, apparently come to some compromise on the difficult +question of his entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven; for the +panelled walls possess, among other decorations, a richly +ornamented crucifix, a Virgin and Child by an old master, certain +saints in ecstasy, and a really remarkable modern oil-painting of +the Divine Author of our religion. + +The main door of the room is at the back of the stage, somewhere +towards the middle; it opens upon a hall, at the further side of +which one may perceive, through the open door of another room, a +goodly collection of well-bound and learned-looking volumes--the +vicar's library. At the present moment these tomes of wisdom are +inaccessible, as the library door is blocked up with unsightly +mounds of earth, sewer-pipes, and certain workmen's implements. +The fact is, the vicarage has been greatly disturbed of late, owing +to a defect in the drainage--an unsavory circumstance which +receives further and regretful explication in the play itself. + +Returning, then, to the room, one may see, in addition to the main +door described above, another door, to the right of stage, and near +to the audience. The curious may be glad to learn that this leads +into a drawing-room, and incidentally affords one more means of +communication with the house. Another exit is provided on the +opposite side of the stage [left], where a couple of lofty French +windows lead out into the garden. Above the drawing-room door is a +fine old Jacobean mantel-piece: a fire burns brightly in the grate. +To the left of the main door at the back is a long, low, mullioned +window, through which one may see a blue sky, a thatched top or two +of cottages, and the gray old tower of the church. Through the +French windows are seen a gravel-walk, a lawn, trees, and a +sun-dial. + +Of the essential furniture of the scene, there may be mentioned; +sideboard to right of main door; table, right-centre of stage, with +chairs; arm-chair by fireplace; settee, left, towards front; and a +long oak stool in the window. + +The various properties are described or implied in the text of the +play. + + + + +THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE + +THE FIRST ACT + +As the curtain ascends, Rogers and Manson are discovered laying the +table for breakfast, the lad being at the upper end of the table, +facing the audience, Manson, with his back to the audience, being +at the lower end. Rogers is an ordinary little cockney boy in +buttons; Manson is dressed in his native Eastern costume. His face +is not seen until the point indicated lower down. + +ROGERS [glancing across curiously]. Arskin' your pardon, Mr. +Manson. . . . + +MANSON. Yes: what is it, Rogers? + +ROGERS. Funny thing--cawn't get it out of my 'ead as I've knowed +you somewhere before. Don't scarcely seem possible, do it, Mr. +Manson? + +MANSON. Many things are possible in this world, Rogers. + +ROGERS. That's all right; but 'ow long 'av' you been in England, +Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. I landed late last night, if that's what you mean. + +ROGERS. Well, I never been in the continong of Asia, where you +come from; and there you are! + +MANSON [quietly]. Yes: here I am. + +[He goes to the sideboard and busies himself with serviettes, mats, +etc.] + +ROGERS. Perhaps it's this reincarnytion the Daily Mail been +writing about. Ever see the Daily Mail out there, Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. No: we had few advantages. + +ROGERS. Rum idea, reincarnytion! Think, Mr. Manson, perhaps we +wos lords once in ancient Babylon, you an' me! + +MANSON. And now butler and page-boy, eh? + +ROGERS [scratching his head]. Does seem a bit of a come-down, +don't it? + +MANSON. That's one way of looking at it. + +[ROGERS, enticed of Satan, has conveyed a furtive spoonful of jam +towards his mouth.] + +[Without turning.] Isn't there jam in the kitchen, Rogers? + +ROGERS [scared]. Evings! E've got eyes in 'is boots! S'y, do you +call it stealing, Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. Do you? [Persisting.] Do you? + +[ROGERS drops the spoon and moves mournfully away from temptation.] + +ROGERS. 'Pon my word, Mr. Manson, you give me the fair creeps and +no mistike! + +MANSON. You will get over that when you knew me better. + +ROGERS. Mr. Manson! Do you mind if I arst you a question? + +MANSON. No; what is it? + +ROGERS. What d'you wear them togs for? This ain't India. + +MANSON. People don't always recognise me in anything else. + +[He turns for the first time. His face is one of awful sweetness, +dignity, and strength. There is the calm of a great mastery about +him, suited to his habit as a servant.] + +ROGERS. Garn, Mr. Manson, that's a bit orf! Clothes don't make +all that difference, come now! . . . + +MANSON. They are the only things the people of this world see. + +ROGERS [after a pause]. Excuse me, Mr. Manson, you mek me larf. + +MANSON. That's all right, Rogers. I have a sense of humour +myself, or I shouldn't be here. + +ROGERS [suddenly sentimental]. Talking about clothes, Mr. Manson, +I often thinks in my 'ead as I'd like to be a church clergyman, +like master. Them strite-up collars are very becoming. Wouldn't +you, Mr. Manson? + +MANSON. Wouldn't that be rather presuming, Rogers? + +ROGERS. Don't you mek no mistike about it! 'Ere! [He grows +confidential.] _You are_ a butler, ain't you? Ain't you, +now? . . . + +MANSON. Something like that. + +ROGERS. Well, perhaps master 'asn't allus been as 'igh-- See! O' +course, I don't know, but they _do_ s'y as 'e was once only a . . . +Wot oh! 'Ere 'e is! + +[The VICAR'S voice is heard off.] + +VICAR. I shall be in to breakfast at a quarter to nine. Don't +wait for me, dearest. + +[He enters hurriedly from door, right, watch in hand. He has on +his cassock and biretta.] + +So awkward-- Both my curates down with the whooping-cough! +To-day, too! Just when I was expecting . . . + +[As he goes up stage, left of table, MANSON comes down, right, with +serviettes. The VICAR wheels round slowly, facing him. Observing +his astonishment, ROGERS steps forward with explanation.] + +ROGERS. It's the new butler, sir. Mr. Manson, sir. + +VICAR. Surely, I--I've seen you somewhere before. + +MANSON [looking at him]. Have you, sir? + +VICAR. Hm! No, I can't quite . . . + +ROGERS. Beg pardon, sir: getting on for eight. + +[He hands him a small silver paten upon which there is a piece of +bread.] + +VICAR [Taking it mechanically]. Hm! These mysteries are not +always helpful . . . Anyway, I'm glad to see you, Manson. When +did you arrive? + +[He begins to break the bread into fragments whilst talking.] + +MANSON. Early this morning, sir. I should have come sooner; but I +had a little trouble down at the Customs. + +VICAR. Indeed! How was that? + +MANSON. They said something about the new Alien Act, sir. + +VICAR. Of course, of course. Er . . . You speak English +remarkably well. + +MANSON. I have seen a good deal of the English, one time and +another. + +VICAR. That's good: it will save a lot of explanation. By-the-bye +. . . + +My old friend in Brindisi, who recommended you, writes that you +bore a very excellent character with your late employer in India; +but there was one matter he didn't mention-- No doubt you will +recognise its importance in a clergyman's family-- He never +mentioned your religion. + +MANSON. I can soon remedy that, sir. My religion is very simple. +I love God and all my brothers. + +VICAR [after a pause]. God and your brothers . . . + +MANSON. Yes, sir: _all_ of them. + +[The VICAR stands thoughtful for a moment. He places the paten on +the table, beside him.] + +VICAR [slowly]. That is not always so easy, Manson; but it is my +creed, too. + +MANSON. Then-- Brother! + +[Rapt in thought, the VICAR takes his profferred hand mechanically.] + +[MARY enters. She is a slim young girl in her teens, the picture +of rosy sweetness and health.] + +MARY. Good-morning, Uncle William! Oh! . . . I suppose you're +Manson? I must say you look simply ripping! How do you do? My +name's Mary. [She offers her hand.] + +MANSON [kissing it]. A very dear name, too! + +MARY [embarrassed, blurting]. We were wondering last night about +your religion. I said . . . + +VICAR. Mary, my child . . . + +MARY. You don't _look_ like a cannibal. After all, even the devil +isn't as black as he's . . . Oh, I beg your pardon: perhaps I'm +rude. + +VICAR. Yes, indeed you are. Don't take any notice of our little +feather-brain, Manson. + +MARY. I say, has uncle told you who's coming to-day? + +MANSON. No. + +MARY. Not about Uncle Josh? + +VICAR. T-t-t! You mustn't call your uncle Joshua that! It is +irreverent. He may resent it. + +MARY. You know, _you'll_ make me positively dislike him! Just +fancy, Manson, meeting an uncle whom you've never so much as set +eyes on before! I don't even know what he looks like. + +[She is looking MANSON in the face. He returns her gaze curiously.] + +MANSON. Then--you have a surprise in store. + +MARY. _You_ ought to be awfully interested! You will, when you +hear where he comes from! + +MANSON. I _am_--interested. + +MARY. Then guess who he is! + +MANSON. Guess--when I know already? + +MARY. Oh, Uncle Joshua isn't his only name--don't you think that! +He's a very important person, I can tell you! His name's on +everybody's lips! + +MANSON [dryly]. Really! + +MARY. Can't you guess? . . . Think of the very biggest person you +ever heard of in this world! + +MANSON. In _this_ world: that sounds rather like . . . Does he +give free libraries? + +MARY. I can't say I ever heard of that; but he does things quite +as wonderful! Listen! What do you think of the BISHOP OF BENARES!! + +MANSON [unimpressed]. Oh, it's the--Bishop of Benares, is it? + +MARY. I must say, you don't seem very surprised! Surely you've +heard of him? He _comes_ from India. + +MANSON [quietly]. I happen to know him. + +VICAR. No, really: this is most interesting! + +MANSON. As a man might know _his own soul_, sir--As they say in +India. His work has been mine, so to speak. + +VICAR. Bless me, you will know him better than I do. I have never +seen him since I was quite a little lad. + +MARY [with prodigious solemnity]. Just you think, Manson! He's my +uncle--my own father's brother! + +[MANSON is now up stage between the two.] + +MANSON. _Your_ brother, sir? + +VICAR [fervently]. I am grateful to God for it, Manson: he is. + +[MANSON regards him calmly for a moment: then he turns inquiringly +towards Mary.] + +MANSON. Then--Miss Mary? . . . + +VICAR [quickly]. Oh, my niece is the daughter of--of my other +brother. + +MANSON. I see: _two_ brothers? + +VICAR [shortly]. Yes, yes, I have: I--I had. + +MANSON [resuming his work at the table]. Thank you, sir: it's +always helpful, coming to a new place, to know who are--and who are +not--the family connections. + +VICAR. Come, Rogers! My poor brethren in the church are waiting. +I must see to their necessities at once. [He starts for the door.] + +MANSON. Pardon me, sir. + +[He hands him the bread which, among those necessities, he has +forgotten. The VICAR looks at him a moment in troubled thought, +and then goes out, followed by ROGERS.] + +ROGERS [at door]. I'll be back to 'elp you in with the breakfast, +Mr. Manson. [Exit.] + +MARY. Now, Manson: let's talk! You've got nothing more to do? . . . + +MANSON. Not till breakfast. + +MARY. Then come over here, and make ourselves comfy. + +[They go over to the settee: she plumps herself down, gathering her +legs up into a little bunch. He seats himself beside her.] + +Now! Tell me everything you know about the Bishop of Benares! + +MANSON. What--Uncle Josh? + +MARY. Ssh--ssh--ssh! That's naughty, you know! You heard what +Uncle William said! . . . Do you think he'd very much mind if I +called him Uncle Josh? + +MANSON. You may take it from _me_, that you may call him whatever +you like. + +MARY. That's all very well; but you're not Uncle Joshua! + +MANSON. No? . . . + +MARY [hotly]. No, you're not! + +MANSON. Well, since you're so certain . . . + +MARY [with conviction]. I'm perfectly certain he'll never stand a +kid like me cheeking him and calling him names! Uncle William's +quite right! . . . And that's why I've made up my mind that I +sha'n't like him, after all! + +MANSON. Indeed, I hope you will! + +MARY. Do you believe in liking people simply because they're +uncles? + +MANSON. Perhaps I'm a prejudiced person. + +MARY. I know exactly what he'll be--goody-goody, isn't he? You +know--religious, and all that! + +MANSON. God forbid! + +MARY [fearfully]. Oh, perhaps he's the other sort--like auntie's +brother! He's a bishop--the Bishop of Lancashire. You see, I've +heard a lot about bishops in my time, and they're not always quite +nice men. + +MANSON. And what sort is the Bishop of Lancashire? + +MARY. Well, I don't think I ought to tell you; but I once heard +_Uncle William_ call him a devil!--And he's a clergyman! + +MANSON. Your Uncle Joshua's reputation is exactly opposite. + +MARY. There is that; everybody speaks awfully well of him. + +MANSON. I don't think I would go so far as that: some people +blackguard him abominably. + +MARY. No!--Who? + +MANSON. His clergy, chiefly. + +MARY. His clergy! They must be dreadfully wicked men! + +MANSON. No--only blind: perhaps, also, a little deaf. But between +the two they manage to make his work very difficult. + +MARY. Why? What do they do? + +MANSON. It's partly what they do _not_ do. + +MARY. Oh, I see--lazy. + +MANSON. Not precisely--they work: they are not idle; but they +serve other masters. + +MARY. Such as whom? + +MANSON. The Bishop of Lancashire. + +MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success +out there. The papers have been full of it--of the millions of +people who follow him about: they say they almost worship him in +some places. What kind of people are they? + +MANSON. Just common people. + +MARY. And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out +there! . . . + +MANSON. Churches? + +MARY. Yes; didn't he? + +MANSON. He built one. + +MARY. What's it like? + +MANSON. Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on +earth. + +MARY [eagerly]. Have you seen it? + +MANSON. I was there when he built it. + +MARY. From the very beginning? + +MANSON [solemnly]. From the beginning. + +[MARY pauses before speaking: then she says, slowly.] + +MARY. I hope I _shall_ like him. Is he--is he anything like you? + +[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.] + +MANSON. How is it that you know so little about him? + +MARY. Well, you see, I only heard yesterday. + +MANSON. I thought you said his name was on everybody's _lips_. + +MARY. You don't understand. I mean, I never knew that he had +anything to do with _me_--that he was my father's brother. + +MANSON. Didn't _he_ know? + +MARY. Who--father? Oh, you see, I. . . _I don't know my father_ +. . . . . . Uncle William didn't know anything about it until +yesterday. + +MANSON. Hm! That is strange, too! + +MARY. There's a bit of a mystery about it altogether. Would you +like to hear? It is rather like a fairy-tale. + +MANSON. It must be. Yes, do go on. + +MARY. It was all through Uncle William's Restoration Fund. You +see, our old church is in a perfectly rotten state of decay, and +naturally it would take a lot to repair it: so uncle thought of +starting a Fund--Yes! Wasn't it clever of him?--I addressed all +the envelopes. + +Would you believe it, we couldn't get a single halfpenny! Isn't it +a shame?--Such a nice old church, too! + +MANSON. How was that? + +MARY. That's the question! People have been most rude! Oh, the +letters we have had! The funny thing is, for all their +fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!--Some say +the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-glass +windows; but if you ask me . . . + +MANSON. Yes, what do you think? + +MARY. Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old +Bletchley is right . . . + +MANSON. Who's he? + +MARY. Oh, he's a dreadfully wicked man, I know that-- He's the +quack doctor in the village: he's--he's _an atheist_! . . . + +MANSON. Well, what does he think is the matter? + +MARY. He says it's the DRAIN! + +MANSON. The--the drain? . . . + +MARY. Um! You know, in spite of what uncle says, there is a +smell: I had it in my nose all last Sunday morning. Up in the +choir it's bad enough, and round by the pulpit-- Ugh! I can't +think how uncle stands it! + +That's why the people won't come to church-- They _say_ so: they +stand in the market-place listening to old Bletchley, instead of +listening to uncle and trying to be good. + +The odd thing Is, it must be that very same drain that's causing +the trouble in uncle's study-- That's his study out there, where +they've been digging: it's where he writes his sermons. You know, +_I've_ noticed the smell for some time, but uncle got so cross +whenever I mentioned it, that I learned to hold my tongue. At +last, auntie smelt it, too, and that soon brought the men in! Ugh! +Perhaps you've . . . + +MANSON. I have! But what has all this to do with . . . + +MARY. Don't get impatient: it's all part of the story. . . . +Well, we thought we should have poor dear Uncle William perfectly +ill . . . + +MANSON. Because of the drain? . . . + +MARY. No, because of the Fund. He tried everything: all his rich +friends, bazaars, jumble-sales, special intercessions--everything! +And nothing seemed to come of it! + +Then at last, yesterday morning, he was reading the newspaper, and +there was a long piece about the Bishop of Benares. Uncle read it +aloud to us. Suddenly, in the middle, he broke off and said: _Look +at the power this chap seems to have at the back of him! I wish to +God I had some of it_! + +He had scarcely said it, when there was a rat-tat at the door: it +was the postman; and what do you think? IT WAS A LETTER FROM THE +BISHOP OF BENARES? + +MANSON [anticipating the critics]. What a coincidence! + +MARY. Isn't that wonderful? _Isn't_ it just like a fairy-tale? +Wait a bit. There's more yet . . . Here's the letter: uncle gave +it me for my autographs . . . + +[She fishes it out from her pocket. MANSON reads it aloud, slowly +and clearly.] + +MANSON. "_I shall be with you during to-morrow morning. If any +one will help me, I will restore your church. Your brother, +Joshua_." + +MARY [pointing]. And there, do you see, underneath, in brackets: +_The Bishop of Benares_. + +MANSON. Dear me, dear me, just those few words! + +MARY. Wasn't it like an answer to prayer? Auntie saw that at once! + +And the odd part about it is, that Uncle William did have a brother +Joshua who went away and got lost in India years and years ago! +And to think that he was who he was all the time! To think of him +never writing until yesterday! To think that before the day is out +he will be sitting down here, perhaps in this very place, just +like . . . + +[She breaks off suddenly, gazing at him; for his eyes have taken a +strange fire.] + +MANSON. Just like I am now . . . + +MARY [falteringly]. Yes . . . + +MANSON. Talking to you . . . + +MARY. Oh! . . . [She rises, afraid.] + +MANSON [softly], Mary . . . + +MARY [in a whisper]. Who are you? . . . + +MANSON. I am . . . + +[He is interrupted by the great bell of the church, which tolls the +Sanctus. After the third stroke, he continues.] + +I am the servant in this house. I have my work to do. Would you +like to help me? + +MARY. What shall I do? + +MANSON. Help to spin she fairy-tale. Will you? + +MARY. I will. + +MANSON. Then keep the secret--Remember! And wish hard. + +MARY. Do you believe in wishing? + +MANSON. Everything comes true, if you wish hard enough. + +MARY. What shall I wish for? + +MANSON. What have you needed most? What have you not had? Think +it out. + +[Enter AUNTIE in a negligee morning gown. She has a preoccupied +air. She carries her husband's coat over her arm.] + +AUNTIE. Oh, I heard you had arrived. I hope they gave you +something to eat when you came in. + +MANSON. Thank you, ma'am: it will do later. + +AUNTIE. Mary . . . Dearest . . . + +MARY. Oh, I beg your pardon, auntie dear, I . . . + +AUNTIE. Dreaming again! [Putting her arm round her.] Come, I +want you to put your uncle's coat by the fire. He will be cold, +coming out of that draughty church. + +MARY [hugging her]. You darling! I believe you think of nobody +but uncle in the world! + +AUNTIE. And you, sweetheart: you come next--a very near next! +Now, run along. + +[MARY takes the coat to the fire.] + +[Surveying the table]. That's very nice, Manson, very nice indeed! +Perhaps, just a little further this way. . . . [Removes flowers.] +My husband is so fond of them. Ye-es; and I _wanted_ things +_particularly_ nice this morning . . . + +MARY [at the fire, looking up]. I thought you said you--you didn't +expect him till twelve-thirty! . . . + +AUNTIE [absorbed]. Whom? + +MARY [chuckling]. The--the Bishop of Benares. + +AUNTIE. The--the . . . Oh, it's your _uncle_ I am . . . [To +Manson]. By-the-bye, has the postman been yet? + +MANSON [at the window]. I can see him coming up the lane. He's +stopped at the next house. + +AUNTIE. Oh, then, Mary: will you very much mind if you don't have +breakfast with us this morning? I want to have a private talk with +your uncle. + +MARY. Oh, auntie, dear! . . . + +AUNTIE. Don't think of yourself, dear-- Remember, there are other +people in the world besides you. Go down into the village, and +have breakfast with poor old Grannie Durden. Take her some nice +new-laid eggs and a pat of butter-- Poor soul, it would be a +charity! + +MARY. Oh, auntie, she's as deaf as a post! + +AUNTIE. Dearest!--Remember what your uncle said last Sunday about +_Pure religion and undefiled_! He mentioned Mrs. Durden only a +week ago; but I forgot. Now, run along. + +MARY [reluctantly]. Very well, auntie. + +[She goes out by the main door.] + +AUNTIE [laughing]. Inconsiderate little monkey! + +I am glad you have not thought of changing your pretty, native +costume, Manson. It is very picturesque; and, besides, to-day +there is a special reason why it may be considered complimentary. + +[A double knock is heard at the outer door.] + +Ah! Quick, Manson! The postman! + +[MANSON goes out. AUNTIE takes a look at the coat: rearranges the +flowers, humming, meanwhile, "The Church's One Foundation"; and +then stands impatiently awaiting MANSON'S reappearance. Presently +he returns with a letter on server.] + +MANSON. A letter for you, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. Ah! What I expected! + +[She breaks open the letter and reads it eagerly.] + +Excellent! [More dubiously]. Excellent . . . + +Manson, we shall have to be very busy to-day. There will be quite +a Church Congress to lunch--two bishops! + +MANSON. Oh, not as bad as that, ma'am! + +AUNTIE. Manson! + +MANSON. Beg pardon, ma'am; but master mentioned only one--his +brother, the Bishop of Benares. + +AUNTIE. _My_ brother will join us also--the Bishop of Lancashire. +This is his letter. + +And now let's have breakfast, at once. The vicar is sure to be +earlier than he said; and I'm hungry. + +[MANSON goes to the door. As he opens it, the VICAR and ROGERS +reappear.] + +MANSON. Here is master. I'll hurry up the breakfast, ma'am. + +VICAR [entering]. Do, Manson. Let's get it over. + +[MANSON goes out.] + +Excuse me, my dear. + +[ROGERS helps him off with the cassock.] + +So tiresome! Not a place in the house to do anything! Confound +the drains! Just run up-stairs for my coat, Rogers. + +AUNTIE. It's here, dear. I have it warming for you. + +VICAR [more graciously]. Oh, thank you, Martha. That will do, +then, Rogers. Tell Manson to hurry up. + +[ROGERS helps him on and goes out. The cassock is left lying on +the long stool by the window.] + +[The VICAR crosses moodily to the fireplace. AUNTIE stands +undecided, watching him, the letter in her hand.] + +AUNTIE. You're back early, dear. + +VICAR. What can you expect? Not a soul there, of course! + +AUNTIE. My poor William! I'm glad I thought to hurry up the +breakfast. + +VICAR. Thanks, dear. You are always thoughtful. + +AUNTIE. William . . . + +[He looks up.] + +I--I want to have a little talk with you. + +VICAR. What is it? Any more--worry? + +AUNTIE. You needn't make it so. + +VICAR.. Ah! + +AUNTIE [moving over to him and stroking his hair]. My dearest is +not well. + +VICAR. I think you are right, Martha. I am not well. + +AUNTIE [alarmed]. Not the trouble with your heart again? + +VICAR. No; I fancy it goes deeper than that! + +AUNTIE. William! What do you mean? + +VICAR [suddenly facing her]. Martha! Do you know the sort of man +you have been living with all these years? Do you see through me? +Do you know me?--No: don't speak: I see your answer already--Your +own love blinds you! Ha! I am a good man!--I don't drink, I don't +swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley! Oh yes, +and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about +God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little +pedantries of my trade! But do you know what I am? Do you know +what your husband is in the sight of God? He is a LIAR! + +AUNTIE. William! + +VICAR. A liar! I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ's +altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed! I +heard it in my prayers! I heard it whilst I tasted . . . whilst I +drank . . . whilst I . . . + +[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.] + +AUNTIE. Oh, you are ill! + +VICAR [breaking down]. O wretched man that I am! Who shall +deliver me out of the body of this death? + +[She stands above him, hesitating. After a moment, she says, +determinedly.] + +AUNTIE. I know: it's this money trouble. It's what Joshua said in +his letter about your having to get somebody to help him. Well, +that's just what I wanted to speak to you about. I have a way out +of the difficulty. + +VICAR. It's not the church. I could wish every Stone of it were +crumbled into dust! + +AUNTIE. William, how wicked of you! . . . + +Is it--is it anything to do with your brother Joshua? Why don't +you answer? + +VICAR. _It has to do with my brother--Robert_. + +AUNTIE. Mary's fa . . . + +William, did you send him that telegram yesterday? + +VICAR. Yes: that was a lie, too! + +AUNTIE. Nonsense! Don't be absurd! + +VICAR. It was a lie! + +AUNTIE. You told him we couldn't do with him because the house was +upset: that's true! You told him that the drains were up in the +study: that's true! + +VICAR. Was that the real reason why we refused to have him here? +Was it? + +AUNTIE. I can't think what possessed him to write and say he'd +come. We've not heard from him for fifteen years! + +VICAR. Whose fault is that? + +AUNTIE. Why, his own, of course! He can't expect to be treated +decently! [She walks up and down with anger.] It's perfectly +absurd, it really is, dear, making all this fuss and trouble about +a wretched-- + +Have you told Mary? + +VICAR. No: the _silent_ lie was comparatively easy! + +AUNTIE. My dear, do try and be reasonable. Think of what he is! + +VICAR. Isn't he my brother? + +AUNTIE. No, he's not your brother--at least, nothing that a +brother ought to be! Ridicules everything that you hold sacred! +Hates everything you love! Loves everything you hate! . . . + +VICAR. _That's_ true! + +AUNTIE. A scoffer, an atheist, a miserable drunkard! + +VICAR. That was fifteen years ago, remember, after Mary's mother +died! . . . + +AUNTIE. A man like that never changes! What would have become of +that poor child if we hadn't stepped in? Have you ever dared to +tell her what her father's like? Of course not! To-day, too, of +all days! It's utterly preposterous! + +VICAR. That is all the more reason why . . . + +AUNTIE. My dear, think of his _occupation_! + +VICAR. I think the child ought to be told. + +AUNTIE. Of his _occupation_? + +VICAR. That, and everything. + +AUNTIE. My dear, have you gone perfectly mad? Do you know who's +coming? Do you want to advertise his _occupation_ to all the world? + +VICAR. Do you think his brother Joshua would mind that? + +AUNTIE. It isn't only your brother Joshua! You think of nobody +but your brother Joshua! Some one else is coming. + +VICAR. Who? + +AUNTIE. _My brother James_! [She throws down the letter.] Now +you've heard it all! + +[There is a long silence. Then the VICAR speaks in a low, intense +voice of bitter contempt.] + +VICAR. Your brother James is coming here today? You have brought +him here to help my brother Joshua! _Him_! + +AUNTIE. Why not? He's rich! He can do it! + +VICAR. So, he can recognise me at last! + +AUNTIE. It was as much your fault as his, that you have never met! +He naturally resented our marriage. + +VICAR [ironically]. But, of course, now that I'm related to the +great and _wealthy_ Bishop of Benares ... + +AUNTIE [warmly]. He's as much a bishop as your brother is! + +VICAR. He! That gaitered snob! + +AUNTIE. William, how dare you! + +VICAR. Yes, he's a bishop! A bishop of stocks and shares! A +bishop of the counting-house! A bishop of Mammon! + +AUNTIE. William! + +VICAR. The devil's own bishop! + +AUNTIE. _At least, he isn't a WORKING-MAN_! + +VICAR [as though stung]. Ah! . . . + +[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with +passion. They remain so.] + +[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast. ROGERS goes out +immediately.] + +MANSON. Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to +nine, didn't you, sir? + +VICAR. Yes. + +MANSON. Breakfasts served, ma'am. It's served, sir. + +[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he +goes to each separately.] + +[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.] + +Beg pardon, sir: what time did you expect the Bishop of Benares? + +VICAR. Oh!--_During the morning_, he said. That will mean the +twelve-thirty, I suppose. It's the only convenient service. + +MANSON. And the Bishop of Lancashire, ma'am? + +AUNTIE. He didn't say; but I think we may expect him by the same +train. He would scarcely think of catching the . . . + +[There is heard a loud Ringing of the Bell--a bishop at the very +least. All three heads turn automatically.] + +Good gracious! Already! + +MANSON. It doesn't sound like the Bishop of Benares, ma'am. He +generally comes very quietly. + +AUNTIE. Quick! + +MANSON. Yes, ma'am. + +[He goes out by the main door.] + +AUNTIE [rapidly], William, I'm sorry! Really, I didn't mean you: I +never thought of you; I was only thinking of Robert. I only think +of you as a great scholar and a saint--yes, you are one!--and as +the man I love! I would sacrifice everything to your happiness. +Robert's nothing to me; that's why I . . . Think of what it might +mean to Mary--we must think of others, William!--our own little +child, as we try to imagine . . . + +[The VICAR makes a gesture of anguish.] + +As for James, God knows I did it for the best. I love you, my +dear, I love you: I wouldn't have vexed you for the world! After +all, he is my brother, William! . . . . I thought of patching up +the enmity between you: I thought of all your hopes of rebuilding +the church, and James was the only rich man I thought might be +induced--under the circumstances . . . + +VICAR. I am in the darkness. I don't know what to do. God has +left me stranded. + +[MANSON re-enters. They look at him inquiringly.] + +MANSON. It isn't the Bishop of Benares, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. Well, who is it? + +MANSON. I didn't ask his name, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. T-t-t! How is he dressed? + +MANSON. Rather oddly, ma'am: I noticed that his legs . . . + +AUNTIE. William, it's James! I can't be seen like this. Shew him +in. I can slip out this way. + +[MANSON goes out.] + +William, try and treat him like . . . + +VICAR. How? Like a brother? + +AUNTIE. I was going to say, like a Priest and a Christian, William. + +VICAR. Like a Christian, then. + +AUNTIE. My dear! + +[She goes out by the door to the right, as MANSON begins to turn +the handle of the other door.] + +MANSON [outside]. This way, if you please. + +[The VICAR, braces himself up and turns towards the door with an +effort at cordiality.] + +VICAR. Just in time for breakfast, my lord. + +[Enter ROBERT SMITH and MANSON. ROBERT'S costume is a navvy's, the +knees tied With string.] + +ROBERT [grimly]. Thanks, Bill Awlmighty, don't mind if I do. My +belly's fair aching. + +VICAR. Robert! + +ROBERT. Yus, it's me, my 'oly brother! + +VICAR. Didn't you--didn't you get my wire? + +ROBERT. Yus, I gorit-: _Drains wrong_, eh? Thought I'd like to +'av' a look at 'em--my job, yer know, _drains_! So you'll excuse +the togs: remind you of old days, eh what? + +VICAR. Robert, what have you come here for? + +ROBERT. You arsk me that? + +VICAR. Yes, I do. Bob . . . + +ROBERT. Why, to see my little gel, o' course--Gawd curse you! . . . + +Now go an tell your ole woman. + +[The VICAR stands as though stricken.] + +Did you 'ear me speak? Tell 'er! + +[The VICAR wavers a moment, and then staggers out silently through +the door, right. ROBERT watches him off with a look of iron. He +pays no heed to MANSON, who stands quite close to him, on the left.] + +See that blighter? That's the bloke as was born with no bowels! +'E might a-made a man o' me once, if 'e'd tried; but 'e didn't--'im +and 'is like. Hm! Dam foolish, I call it, don't you? + +MANSON. Yes, both: foolish and--damned! + +[ROBERT turns and looks into his face for the first time as the +curtain slowly falls on the First Act.] + + + + +THE SECOND ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. +Presently, Robert, having completed his inspection of the other's +face and costume, moves away with a characteristic interjection. + +ROBERT. Oh, Jeeroosalem! . . . + +'Ere, 'elp us orf, comride: I'm wet through. Rainin' cats an' +dorgs dahn at the Junction! 'Ere, I cawn't . . . Wot oh! The +very identical! . . . + +[MANSON has helped him off with his coat, and now hands him the +cassock.] + +[Getting into it.] Don't know oo you are, ole pal, but you're a +bit of orl right! . . . Don't I look a corf-drop? 'Ere, where ye +teking it to? . . . + +[He watches MANSON suspiciously as he places his coat before the +fire to dry.] + +Bit 'andy, ain't yer? . . . + +So this is where 'e lives! A bloomin' palace, as never I did +see! . . . + +[MANSON prepares a place for him at the table, and pours out a cup +of tea, etc.] + +Right you are, ole comride! 'E said breakfast, an' breakfast it +shall be, I don't fink! Blimey! Sossingers! Ain't 'ad the taste +of sossingers in my gizzard for I don't know 'ow long! + +[He sits and devours whilst MANSON breaks and hands him bread, +waiting upon him.] + +[Between bites.] Wouldn't think as I was 'is brother, would +yer--not to look at me? But strooth, _I am_; an' wot's more, 'e +cawn't deny it! . . . [He labours with a little joke.] There's a +lot o' brothers knockin' abaht as people don't know on, eh what? +See wot I mean? [Suddenly serious.] Not as I'm one o' them sort, +mind yer: my father married my mother honest, same as I married my +little . . . + +[After a moment's reflection, he makes fresh onslaught upon the +sausages. Presently he looks up.] + +'Ere, ain't you goin' ter 'av' none? . . . Cawn't yer speak? + +MANSON. Yes. + +ROBERT. Well, why cawn't yer arnser a bloke when 'e arsks yer +civil? + +MANSON. You didn't make it dear that you wanted to eat with me. + +ROBERT. Want a bit of 'eart in it, eh? + +MANSON. Yes, that's all. + +ROBERT [largely]. Sit dahn, ole pal! Mek yourself at 'ome! + +[MANSON obeys.] + +See, wot was I tawkin' abaht. Just afore you turned narsty? + +MANSON. You were going to say something about--your little girl's +mother. + +[ROBERT'S cutlery bristles up like bayonets.] + +ROBERT. Look 'ere, mate, don't you come tryin' it on with me! I +don't care _oo_ you are! + +MANSON. I know that. + +ROBERT. Then let me be, I tell yer! You tek all the taste out o' +my sossingers. + +MANSON. I should like to hear about her, comrade. + +ROBERT. _You_ cawn't bring 'er back. She's dead. + +MANSON. What was her name? + +ROBERT. Mary--same as the little gel's. + +MANSON. I wonder whether they are anything alike. + +ROBERT. That's wot I come to see! . . . + +She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby--_and_ 'er eyes! +Gorstrike, she was the very spit--far as a biby could be! . . . + +Swelp me Moses, if I find 'er anything like Bill's ole geezer, I'll +cut 'er throat! + +MANSON. And if she's like her mother? What then? + +ROBERT. Why, then . . . there's allus my own. I nearly did it +once. + +MANSON [after a pause]. How did you come to lose her? + +ROBERT [roughly]. Never you mind! + +MANSON. How did you come to lose her? + +ROBERT [sullenly]. Typhoid fever. + +[MANSON notes the evasion with a glance. He helps ROBERT to more +tea, and waits for him to speak. ROBERT wriggles under his gaze, +and at last he says, reluctantly.] + +Oh, it was my own fault, as I lost the kid! + +MANSON. That was a sore loss, comrade. + +ROBERT. _I_ know it! Needn't rub it in! . . . Look, 'ere, +comride, I 'adn't a bad nature to begin with. Didn't me an' my +brother Joshua pinch an' slave the skin orf our bones to send that +spotted swine to school? Didn't we 'elp 'im out with 'is books an' +'is mortar-boards an' 'is bits of clothes to try an' mek 'im look +respectable? That's wot we did, till 'e got 'is lousy scholyships, +an' run away to get spliced with that she-male pup of a +blood-'ound! Cos why? Cos we was proud of the little +perisher!--proud of 'is 'ead-piece! We 'adn't gone none +ourselves--leastways, _I_ 'adn't: Joshua was different to me; and +now . . . + +MANSON. And your brother Joshua: what of him? Where is _he_ now? + +ROBERT. _I_ don't know--gone to pot, like me! P'r'aps eatin' is +bleedin' 'eart out, same as I am, at the base ingratitood of the +world! + +MANSON. Perhaps so! + +ROBERT. Where was I? You mek me lose my air, shoving in with your +bit! + +MANSON. You were saying that you hadn't a bad nature to begin with. + +ROBERT [truculently]. No more I 'adn't! . . . + +O' course, when she took an'--an' died, things was different: I +couldn't 'old up the same-- Somehow, I don't know, I lost my 'eart, +and . . . + +MANSON. Yes? . . . + +ROBERT. That's 'ow I come to lose my kid, my little kid . . . +Mind you, that was fifteen years ago: I was a rotter then, same as +you might be. I wasn't 'arf the man I am now . . . + +_You_ can larf! A man can change a lot in fifteen years! + +MANSON. _I_ didn't laugh. + +ROBERT. Do you want to know wot's come over me since then? I +_work_--and work well: that's more than some of 'em can say-- And +I don't get much money for it, either! That ought to mek 'em feel +ashamed! I'm not the drunkard I was--not by 'arf! If I'm bitter, +oo's made me bitter? You cawn't be very sweet and perlite on +eighteen bob a week--_when yer get it_! I'll tell yer summat else: +I've eddicated myself since then--I'm not the gory fool I was-- +_And_ they know it! They can't come playin' the 'anky with us, +same as they used to! It's _Nice Mister Working-man This and Nice +Mister Working-man That, will yer be so 'ighly hobliging as to 'and +over your dear little voting-paper_--you poor, sweet, muddy-nosed +old Idiot, as can't spot your natural enemy when yer see 'im! That +orter mek some on 'em sit up! + +Fifteen years ago me an' my like 'adn't got a religion! By Gawd, +we 'av' one now! Like to 'ear wot it is? + +MANSON. Yes. + +ROBERT. SOCIALISM! Funny, ain't it? + +MANSON. _I_ don't think so. It's mine, too. + +ROBERT. I believe in fighting with my clarss! + +MANSON. Oh, against whom? + +ROBERT. Why, agin all the other clarsses--curse 'em! + +MANSON. Isn't that a bit of the old Robert left, comrade? + +ROBERT. Oh, leave me alone. I cawn't be allus pickin' an' +choosin' my words! I ain't no scholar--thank Gawd! + +MANSON. All the same, I'm right, eh, comrade? Comrade . . . + +ROBERT [grudgingly]. Well, yus! [Savagely.] Yus, I tell yer! +Cawn't a bloke speak 'otter than 'e means without _you_ scrapin' at +'is innards? + +[Exploding again.] Wait till I set eyes on that bleedin' brother +of mine again, that's all! + +MANSON. Which bleeding brother? + +ROBERT [with a thumb-jerk]. Why, '_im_, o' course! [Sneering.] +The Reverend William! 'Im as you said was damned! . . . Allus did +'ate parsons! I 'ates the sight of their 'arf-baked, silly mugs! + +[There is a very loud Ringing of the Bell.] + +'Ello! 'Ello! Did I mek a row like that? + +MANSON. You tried, didn't you? + +ROBERT. So I did, not 'arf! Thought if I kicked up an 'ell of a +shindy they'd think some big bug was comin'; and then when they'd +be all smiles an' bowin' an' scrapin', in pops me, real low! + +[ROGERS enters. On seeing them at the table, he is apparently +troubled with his inside.] + +ROGERS. Oh, my 'oly Evings! + +MANSON. Who is it, Rogers? + +ROGERS [awed]. It's the Bishop of Lancashire! + +MANSON [imperturbably]. Shew him in, Rogers. + +ROGERS. Beg pardon, Mr. Manson . . . + +MANSON. I said, shew him in. + +Quick, Rogers. Keep a bishop waiting! + +ROGERS. Well, I'm jiggered! + +[He is; and goes out.] + +ROBERT. 'Ere! Did 'e say _bishop_? + +MANSON. Yes. + +ROBERT. Comin' 'ere? Now? + +[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.] + +Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a +bloomin' archangel, see! + +[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., +the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire. He looks his +name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to +the resemblance.] + +[MANSON has risen: ROBERT, imperturbable, discusses sossingers: +ROGERS, with a last excruciation of his ailment, vanishes.] + +[The Most Reverend Father in God stands blinking for recognition. +Pained at the non-fulfilment of this worthy expectation, he +moves--a little blindly--towards the table. Here he encounters the +oppugnant back of the voracious ROBERT, who grows quite annoyed. +Indeed, be as good as says so.] + +'Ere, where ye comin' to? + +BISHOP [peering closely into his face, the other edging away]. Ah! +Mr. Smythe, or I am mistaken. + +ROBERT. Smith's my name! Don't you call me Smythe! + +BISHOP. My dear sir, don't mention it: my sister has explained +everything. I bear you no grudge--none whatever! + +ROBERT. What's the silly ole josser jawin' abaht now? + +BISHOP. But I perceive that I have--er--[sniffing] disturbed you +at your morning meal . . . + +ROBERT [with conviction]. You 'av' that! + +BISHOP. Eh? . . . + +ROBERT [louder]. I say, you 'av'! + +BISHOP [fixing his ear-trumpet]. Just once more . . . + +ROB ERT. Oh, Moses! [Roaring, and indicating his breakfast.] You +'av' blarst you! + +BISHOP [mistaking the gesticulation]. Thank you, you are very +kind. I think I will. I could get nothing on the journey but a +cup of coffee and a bun. + +[He sits at the table without ever having perceived MANSON, who has +nevertheless been serving him.] + +ROBERT. Yus, you look as if you fed on buns! + +[Throughout the play the audience will understand where the BISHOP +does, and where he does not, hear by his use or non-use of the +ear-trumpet. Perhaps the reader will be good enough to imagine +these occasions for himself, as he may have observed a reluctance +on the part of the author to encumber the text with stage +directions.] + +BISHOP [eating, and at the same time addressing the becassocked +ROBERT]. And you must not think, on account of the little coolness +between us, that I have not followed your career with great +interest--very great interest! Your scholastic achievements have +been most praiseworthy--especially under the unfortunate +circumstances. . . . Although, by-the-way, I cannot at all agree +with your gloss on Romans fourteen, twenty-three; _Katakekritai_ +either means _damned_ or nothing at all. + +ROBERT [gesticulating]. It was _'im_ as said _damned_! + +BISHOP. No, no, sir: it is perfectly indefensible! + +ROBERT. I'll use what langwidge I like! + +BISHOP [warming]. You said _katakekritai_ . . . + +ROBERT. I never did, _I_ tek my oath! + +BISHOP. My dear sir, I learned my Greek at Shrewsbury, before you +were born! Don't argue, sir! + +ROBERT. Oo is argufying? . . . Talking to me about yer +Katama-what-d'you-call-it! + +BISHOP. We had better drop the subject! . . . Boeotian! After +all, it is not precisely the matter which has brought us together. +And that reminds me . . . [Trumpet.] Has he come yet? + +ROBERT. Oo? + +BISHOP. Your brother, of course. + +ROBERT. My brother! Oh, you'll see _'im_ soon enough! + +BISHOP. I gather from your remark that he has not arrived yet. +Good! The fact is, I should like a preliminary discussion with +yourself before meeting your illustrious brother. + +ROBERT. Then you'd better look slippy! + +BISHOP. I beg your pardon? . . . + +ROBERT [with a flap at the trumpet]. Go on: you 'eard. + +BISHOP. Of course, the _financial_ undertaking is considerable: +it's not like an _investment_, where there is some reasonable hope +of a return: it's merely a matter of charity! The money's--gone, +so to speak. + +ROBERT. Yus, I've noticed that about money, myself. + +BISHOP. At the same time, I should like my _name_ to be associated +with your brother's, in so worthy an enterprise . . . + +ROBERT [mildly sarcastic]. You don't say! + +BISHOP. And then again, I _trust_--I say I _trust_--I am not +impervious to the more sacred obligations involved; but . . . + +[He gropes blindly for bread.] + +ROBERT. I allus notice that sort of 'igh talk ends with a +"but" . . . + +BISHOP. Naturally, I should like to learn a little, beforehand, of +your brother's _views_. From what I gather, they are not +altogether likely to coincide with my own. Of course, he is an +idealist, a dreamer. Now, under these circumstances, perhaps . . . + +Eh, what-- Oh! Bless my soul! + +[MANSON has been offering him bread for some time. He has just +tumbled to the fact of his presence. He rises.] + +My--my Brother from Benares, I presume? + +ROBERT. What, _my_ pal, _'is_ brother! Oh, Je'oshaphat! + +BISHOP. Ten thousand pardons! Really, my eyesight is deplorable! +Delighted to meet you! . . . + +I was just observing to our charming host that--er-- Humph! . . . + +Bless me! Now what _was_ I . . . + +MANSON. Something about your sacred obligations, I believe. + +BISHOP. May I trouble you again? + +[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.] + +ROBERT. That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole, +comride! + +MANSON [through the trumpet]. Your sacred obligations. + +BISHOP. Precisely, precisely! Er-- Shall we sit? + +[They do so. The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin. MANSON, failing +him, the spirit begins to work within himself.] + +Well--er---speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother, +I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously--as I am sure +you do. The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an +overwhelming responsibility. To begin with, it--it costs quite a +lot. Doesn't it? + +MANSON. It does: quite a lot. + +BISHOP. Hm, yes--yes! . . . You mentioned _Sacred obligations_ +just now, and I think that on the whole I am inclined to agree with +you. It is an admirable way of putting it. We must awaken people +to a sense of their _sacred obligations_. This is a work in which +everybody can do something: the rich man can give of the abundance +with which it has pleased Providence specially to favour him: the +poor man with his slender savings need have no fear for the poverty +of his gift-- Let him give all: it will be accepted. Those of us +who, like yourself, my dear brother--and I say it in all modesty, +perhaps _my_self--are in possession of the endowments of learning, +of influence, of authority--we can lend our _names_ to the good +work. As you say so very beautifully: _sacred obligations_. + +By-the-way, I don't think I quite caught your views as to the +probable cost. Eh, what do you think? + +MANSON. I think that should depend upon the obligations; and then, +of course, the sacredness might count for something. + +BISHOP. Yes, yes, we've discussed all that. But bringing it down +to a _practical_ basis: how much could we manage with? + +MANSON. What do you say to--everything you have? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, I'm not talking about myself! + +MANSON. Well--everything the others have? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, they're not fools! Do discuss the matter +like a man of the world! + +MANSON. _God's not watching: let's give as little, and grab as +much as we can_! + +BISHOP. Ssh! My dear brother! Remember who's present! [He +glances toward Robert.] However . . . [Coughs.] We will return to +this later. I begin to understand you. + +ROBERT. Yus: you think you do! + +BISHOP. At the same time, I do think we ought to come to some +general understanding; we must count the cost. Now, from all +accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in +India--not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited +would be either possible or desirable in this country--oh, no! +Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without +the aid of expensive buildings! However, I should like to hear +your views. How did you manage it? + +MANSON. Sacrifice. + +BISHOP. Of course, of course; but _practically_. They say it's an +enormous concern! + +MANSON. So it is. + +BISHOP. Well, what would such an establishment as that represent? +In round numbers, now? + +MANSON [calmly]. Numberless millions. + +BISHOP. Numberless mil . . . ! [He drops his fork.] My dear sir, +absurd! . . . Why, the place must be a palace--fit for a king! + +MANSON. It is! + +BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that one man alone, on his own +naked credit, could obtain numberless millions for such an object +as that? How could you possibly get them together? + +MANSON. They came freely from every quarter of the world. + +BISHOP. On the security of your own name alone? + +MANSON. No other, I assure you. + +BISHOP. For Heaven's sake, tell me all about it! What sort of a +place is it? + +MANSON [seriously]. Are you quite sure you can hear? + +BISHOP. Perhaps your voice is _not_ quite so clear as it was. +However . . . + +[He wipes the inside of the ear-trumpet, and fixes it afresh.] + +Now! Tell me about your church. + +[During the following speech the BISHOP is occupied with his own +thoughts: after the first few words he makes no attempt at +listening: indeed, the trumpet goes down to the table again in no +time. On the other hand, ROBERT, at first apathetic, gradually +awakens to the keenest interest in what MANSON says.] + +MANSON [very simply]. I am afraid you may not consider it an +altogether substantial concern. It has to be seen in a certain +way, under certain conditions. Some people never _see_ it at all. +You must understand, this is no dead pile of stones and unmeaning +timber. _It is a living thing_. + +BISHOP [in a hoarse whisper, self-engrossed]. Numberless millions! + +MANSON. When you enter it you hear a sound--a sound as of some +mighty poem chanted. Listen long enough, and you will learn that +it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music +of men's souls--that is, if you have ears. If you have eyes, you +will presently see the church itself--a looming mystery of many +shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome. The work of +no ordinary builder! + +BISHOP [trumpet down]. On the security of one man's name! + +MANSON. The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes: +the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its +bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh +out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it +are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces +there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of +the world. It is yet building--building and built upon. Sometimes +the work goes forward in deep darkness: sometimes in blinding +light: now beneath the burden of unutterable anguish: now to the +tune of a great laughter and heroic shoutings like the cry of +thunder. [Softer.] Sometimes, in the silence of the night-time, +one may hear the tiny hammerings of the comrades at work up in the +dome--the comrades that have climbed ahead. + +[There is a short silence, broken only by the champing jaws of the +BISHOP, who has resumed his sausages. ROBERT speaks first.] + +ROBERT [slowly]. I think I begin to understand you, comride: +especially that bit abaht . . . [his eyes stray upwards] . . . +the 'ammerins' an' the--the harches--an' . . . Humph! I'm only an +'og! . . . + +S'pose there's no drain 'ands wanted in that there church o' yours? + +MANSON. Drains are a very important question there at present. + +ROBERT. Why, I'd be cussin' over every stinkin' pipe I laid. + +MANSON. I should make that a condition, comrade. + +ROBERT [rising, he pulls off the cassock; goes to fire for his +coat: returns: drags it on]. I don't know! Things 'av' got in a +bit of a muck with me! I'm rather like a drain-pipe myself. + +[With sudden inspiration]. There's one thing I _can_ do! + +MANSON. What's that? + +ROBERT. Renahnce ole Beelzebub an' all 'is bloomin' wirks! 'And +us that brarss-band! + +[He alludes to the ear-trumpet. MANSON obeying, ROBERT jabs it +into the ear of the BISHOP, who seems quite surprised.] + +'Ere! 'Av' you ever 'eard of 'ell? + +BISHOP. Of what? + +ROBERT. 'Ell. [Spelling.] H, E, double L, 'ell. + +BISHOP. Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to! + +ROBERT. Then, go there! Aymen . . . + +Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes! + +[He goes out through the main door, repentant.] + +BISHOP. The scoundrel! Did you hear what he said? I shall +certainly report him to his bishop! + +MANSON. I don't think I should. _His_ bishop doesn't mind a +little plain speech now and again. + +BISHOP. A little plain speech! Do you think it's right for a +clergyman to--to direct me to perdition? + +MANSON. I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you +your--direction is not a clergyman. He's a scavenger. + +BISHOP. A scavenger! + +MANSON. Yes--looks after drains. + +BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to +breakfast with a common working-man? + +MANSON. Yes; have you never done that before? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, whatever do you take me for? + +MANSON. A bishop of God's church. + +BISHOP. Precisely! Is it _your_ custom to breakfast with +working-men? + +MANSON. Every morning. You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself, +once. + +BISHOP. You? . . . + +MANSON. Yes--a long time ago, though: people have forgotten. + +BISHOP. But, my dear brother, I am perfectly sure you never told +people to go to . . . + +MANSON. Oh yes, quite frequently: it would shock you to learn the +language I really did use. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it +might be advisable to drop the subject at this point. + +BISHOP [emphatically]. I most certainly agree with you there! +After all, it is a digression from the purpose for which we are +here! . . . Let me see, then: where were we? . . . Oh yes, I +remember-- Although, by the way, it was very ill-advised of you to +speak your mind so openly in that man's presence! However . . . + +To resume our--how shall I call it ?--our--little understanding, eh? + +MANSON. That describes it most accurately. + +BISHOP. Now, you said, _Let's give as little, and grab as much as +we can_. Of course, that is a playful way of putting it; but +between ourselves, it expresses my sentiments exactly. + +MANSON. I knew that when I said it. + +BISHOP [delighted]. My dear brother, your comprehension makes my +heart warm. I trust our relations may always remain as warm. + +MANSON. Oh, warmer, warmer! + +BISHOP. Very well then, to business! I tell you, candidly, I +agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of +our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless +generosity! If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice +for it! Why should _we_ do anything? + +I am sure you will appreciate my candour? + +MANSON. At its full value. Go on. + +BISHOP. At the same time, there is no reason why we should throw +cold water upon the project. On the contrary, we might promote it, +encourage it, even lend it the influence of our patronage and our +names. _But on one understanding_! + +MANSON. And that? + +BISHOP. That it is extended--imperialised, so to speak: that it is +made the vehicle of a much vaster, of a much more momentous project +behind it! + +MANSON. You interest me intensely. Explain. + +BISHOP. I will. + +[He looks around to assure himself that they are alone.] + +There is in existence a society, a very influential society, in +which I happen to have an interest--very great interest. Hm! I am +one of the directors. + +I may say that it is already very well established, financially; +but it is always open to consider the--extension of its influence +in that way. + +MANSON. And the name of the society? + +BISHOP. Rather long, but I trust explicit. It is called "_The +Society for the Promotion and Preservation of Emoluments for the +Higher Clergy_." + +MANSON. I do not seem to have heard it _named_ before. + +BISHOP. Well, no: its movements have always been characterised by +a certain modesty. It is an invisible society, so to speak; but I +can assure you its principles are very clearly understood--among +the parties most concerned. + +MANSON. And your project? + +BISHOP. Affiliate the subsidiary question of the building of the +Church, with the larger interests of the Society. + +MANSON. Yes, but since people have already refused to subscribe to +the more trivial project . . . + +BISHOP. They have not been properly approached. My dear sir, in +order to awaken public generosity, It is necessary to act like men +of the world: _we must have names_. People will subscribe to any +amount, if you can only get the right names. + +That Is where _you_ come in. + +MANSON. I! Do you propose to place my name at the head of +your--prospectus? + +BISHOP. My dear sir, invaluable! Didn't you say yourself that you +brought in numberless millions, on your own credit, out there in +India? Why shouldn't you do the same in England? Think of your +reputation, your achievements, your name for sanctity-- Not a +word, sir: I _mean_ it! . . . Why, there's no end to the amount it +would bring in: it would mean billions! + +Well, what do you say? + +MAMSON [slowly]. Let us clearly understand one another. I am to +lend you my name--just my name--and you are to do all the rest. + +BISHOP [quickly]. Oh yes: I'd _rather_ you kept out of the +business negotiations! + +MANSON. It is rather a dangerous name to play with! + +BISHOP, I take that responsibility entirely upon myself! + +MANSON. And when all's over and done with, what are we going to +gain out of the transaction? + +BISHOP. We shall have to come to some private settlement between +ourselves. + +MANSON. When? + +BISHOP. Oh, hereafter. + +MANSON. Hereafter, then. + +[Enter AUNTIE and VICAR by door to right.] + +AUNTIE [off]. Leave him to me, William! I'll soon settle the +matter! [Entering.] The man must be possessed of some evil +spirit! . . . + +Why--it's my brother James! . . . + +[MANSON has risen, and is now the butler once more. He speaks into +the ear-trumpet.] + +MANSON. Your sister and the vicar, my lord. + +BISHOP [behind table, rising]. Ah! Well, Martha!--No, no, no, if +you please! [He restrains her approach.] Observe the retribution +of an unchastened will. You have never seen my face for sixteen +years! However, like a cloud, I blot out your transgressions from +this hour! + +And so this is your husband ?--Not a word, sir; not a single +word!--the sausages were delicious, and your place has been most +agreeably occupied by your brother! + +VICAR. My brother! Then you . . . What do you mean? + +BISHOP [testily]. I mean what I say, sir! Your brother, _my_ +brother, _our_ brother here, of course, our Oriental brother! + +AUNTIE. James, you are making a mistake: this is our new +butler--our _Indian_ butler. + +BISHOP. Your Indian--WHAT? + +[He stands cogitating horribly until the end of the act, facing +towards MANSON.] + +AUNTIE. What has made him like this? He seems possessed! + +MANSON. He is! . . . + +I have just been having some trouble with _another_ devil, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. Meaning, of course . . . What has become of him? + +MANSON [with his eye]. _He_ is cast out forever. + +AUNTIE. Where is he now? + +MANSON. He walks through dry places seeking--[he probes her +soul]--_other_ habitations. + +AUNTIE. Manson! This is your doing! Oh, you have saved us! + +MANSON. I am trying to, ma'am; but, God knows, you make it rather +difficult! + +[A change comes over her face, as the curtain slowly falls.] + + + + +THE THIRD ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged; but +attention now centres in the Bishop, who appears to be struggling +apoplectically for speech. + +BISHOP [bursting]. Before we proceed a step further, I have a most +extraordinary request to make! The fact is, you interrupted me in +the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . . +that is to say, with your . . . in short, with that person +standing over there! My request is, that I be permitted a few +minutes further conversation with him--alone, and at once! + +ALL. ) With Manson! . . . +MANSON. ) With me! . . . + +BISHOP. Not a word! I know my request will appear singular--most +singular! But I assure you it is most necessary. The peace, the +security of a human soul depends upon it! Come, sir! Where shall +we go? + +MANSON. Have I your permission, ma'am + +AUNTIE. Certainly; but it is most extraordinary! + +MANSON [crossing]. Then I think this way, my lord, in the +drawing-room . . . [He leads the way.] + +BISHOP [following]. And you may be sure, my good fellow, I will +give anything--I say, anything--to remedy your misapprehensions! +Hm! + +[They go into the drawing-room, right, MANSON holding the door for +the other to pass.] + +VICAR. Martha! It's no use! I can't do it! + +AUNTIE [preoccupied]. Can't do what, William? + +VICAR. Behave towards that man like a Christian! He stirs some +nameless devil like murder in my heart! I want to clutch him by +the throat, as I would some noisome beast, and strangle him! + +AUNTIE [slowly]. He is greatly changed! + +VICAR. It is you who have changed, Martha. You see him now with +different eyes. + +AUNTIE. Do I? I wonder! . . . + +VICAR. After all, why should we invite him here? Why should we be +civil to him? What possible kinship can there be between us? As +for his filthy money--how did he scrape it together? How did he +come by it? . . . + +AUNTIE. Yes, William, that's true, but the opportunity of turning +it to God's service . . . + +VICAR. Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church +whose every stone is reeking with the bloody sweat and anguish of +the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to +despair? Shall we base God's altar in the bones of harlots, +plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it +over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves? + +AUNTIE. Why will you exaggerate, my dear?--It is not as bad as +that. Why don't you compose yourself and try and be contented +and--and happy? + +VICAR. How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I +breathe? + +AUNTIE. You are not always like this, dear! . . . + +VICAR. Happy! How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I +have made him! + +AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking of _you_! +Think of our love, William--our great and beautiful love! Isn't +that something to make you happy? + +VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had +better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love? + +AUNTIE. Oh, William, you _know_ . . . + +VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world +like Satan, to slay men's souls? + +AUNTIE. Oh, now you're exaggerating again! What do you mean? + +VICAR. I mean my brother Robert! What has love done for him? + +AUNTIE. Oh, Robert, Robert--I'm sick to death of Robert! Why +can't you think of yourself? + +VICAR. Well, I will! What has love done for me? + +AUNTIE. William! . . . + +[The slightest pause. The scene takes on another complexion.] + +VICAR. Do you remember that day when I first came to you and told +you of my love? Did I lie to you? Did I try to hide things? Did +I despise my birth? Did _you_? + +AUNTIE. No, no, William, I loved you: I told you so. + +VICAR. Did you mind the severance from your family because of me? + +AUNTIE. Didn't I always say that I was proud to be able to give up +so much for you, William? . . . + +VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for +me, what followed? + +AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you +see? _You_ were not made to live out your life in any little odd +hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your +fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful +preacher-- All this required position, influence, social prestige. +You don't think I was ambitious for myself: it was for you. + +VICAR. For _me_--yes! And how do you imagine I have benefited by +all your scheming, your contriving, your compromising, your . . . + +AUNTIE. In the way I willed! I am glad of it! I worked for +that--_and I won_! . . . + +Well, what are you troubling about now? + +VICAR [slowly]. I am thinking of the fact that there has been no +child to bless our marriage, Martha--that is, no child of our very +own, no child whose love we have not stolen. + +AUNTIE. My dear . . . + +VICAR. We have spoken about it sometimes, haven't we? Or, +rather--_not_ spoken! + +AUNTIE. William, why will you think of these things? + +VICAR. In those first days, dearest, I brought you two children of +our own to cherish, little unborn souls crying for you to mother +them-- You have fostered only the one. That one is called the +Scholar. Shall I tell you the name of the other? + +AUNTIE [after a moment]. Yes . . . + +VICAR. I hardly know: I hardly dare to name him, but perhaps it +was--the Saint. + +AUNTIE. What I have done, William, has been done for love of +you--you only--you only in the world! + +VICAR. Yes: that's what I _mean_! + +[The thought troubles her for a moment; then she paces up and down +in agitated rebellion.] + +AUNTIE. No! I can't believe it! I can't think that love is as +wrong as you say! + +VICAR. Love is a spirit of many shapes and shadows: a spirit of +fire and darkness--a minister of heaven and hell: Sometimes I think +the very damned know love--in a way. It can inform men's souls +with the gladness of high archangels, or possess them with the +despair of devils! + +[She suddenly stands still, struck by the echo in his last phrase.] + +Yes? + +AUNTIE. I was wondering . . . + +Wondering what Manson meant just now. + +VICAR. When? + +AUNTIE. When he spoke about your brother Robert. + +VICAR. I think he made it clear. He said we were--rid of him +forever! + +AUNTIE [thoughtfully]. Ye-es . . . + +William, I begin to fear that man. + +VICAR. Whom--Robert? + +AUNTIE. No, Manson. + +[Re-enter MANSON from door, right. He carries a five-pound note in +his hand.] + +MANSON. His lordship will be glad to see you. + +AUNTIE. Very well, Manson. Why, what have you there? + +MANSON. A remedy for misapprehension, ma'am. + +AUNTIE. It's a five-pound note. + +MANSON. Yes. + +AUNTIE. Come, William. + +[She goes to the drawing-room door, her head anxiously turned +towards MANSON.] + +VICAR [at the door]. What are we going to do, Martha? + +AUNTIE. I don't know: God help me, I can't see the way! + +[They both go out, MANSON watching them. He then moves up to the +fire, and burns the five-pound note. He watches the flames leap up +as he speaks.] + +MANSON. _Thou givest thy mouth to evil, and thy tongue frameth +deceit. Thou sittest and speakest against thy brother: thou +slanderest thine own mother's son. These things hast thou done, +and I kept silence: thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an +one as thyself: but I will reprove thee, and set them in order +before thine eyes_. [Footnote: Psalms 1. 19-21] + +[He comes down to the middle of the room. MARY enters eagerly. +Seeing him alone, she gives a little cry of gladness.] + +MARY. Oh, how jolly! Where are they? + +MANSON. In the next room. + +MARY. Ah! AH! + +[She comes to his out-stretched arms. He folds her to his heart, +facing the audience.] + +[Looking up into his face.] Isn't it a great secret? What shall I +call you, now we are alone? + +MANSON. Ssh! They may hear you! + +MARY. If I whisper . . . + +MANSON. They are very near! . . . + +[Disengaging himself.] I must be about my business. Is this the +bell to the kitchen? + +MARY. Yes. Let me help you. + +[MANSON having rung the bell, they begin to remove the breakfast +things. MARY employs herself with the crumb-scoop.] + +If auntie and uncle could see me now! If they only knew! I've +kept the secret: I've told nobody! . . . + +These will do for the birds. Look, I'll take them now. [She +throws the crumbs out of the French windows.] Poor little mites! +[She returns to the table.] + +MANSON. You are fond of the birds? + +MARY. Just love them! Don't you? + +MANSON, They are my very good friends. Now, take the cassock. +Fold it up and put it on the chair. + +[ROGERS enters whilst he gives this command.] + +ROGERS. Well, I'm . . . + +'Owever, it's no business of mine! + +MARY [brightly]. What's up with you, Rogers? + +ROGERS [with reservation]. Nuthin', miss. [He fetches the tray.] + +MARY. Then why look so solemn? + +ROGERS [lugubriously]. Ain't lookin' solemn, miss. + +MANSON. Hold up the tray, Rogers. + +ROGERS. _Am_ 'oldin' it up, Mr. Manson. MARY [loading him up]. +I'm sure there is something the matter! + +ROGERS. Well, since you arsk me, miss, it's the goin's on in this +'ouse! I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and +improbabilities in my life! I shall 'av' to give in my notice! + +MARY. Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful! Why? + +MANSON. Now the cloth, Mary . . . + +ROGERS. Cos why? _That's_ why!--What you're doin' now! I likes +people to keep their proper stytion! I was brought up +middle-clarss myself, an' taught to be'ave myself before my +betters!--No offence to you, Mr. Manson! [He says this with a jib, +belying his words.] + +MARY. Nonsense, Rogers! I like helping. + +ROGERS. My poor farver taught me. 'E led a godly, righteous, an' +sober life. 'E was a grocer. + +MANSON. Come, Rogers. Take them to the kitchen. + +[ROGERS obeys with some asperity of mien. At the door he delivers +a Parthian shot.] + +ROGERS. If my poor farver could see what I've seen to-day, 'e +would roll over in 'is grave! + +[MANSON opens the door for him. He goes.] + +MARY [gayly]. Isn't he funny? Just because his silly old +father . . . + +MANSON. Ssh! His father's _dead_, Mary! + +[There is a sudden pause. He comes down to her.] + +Well, have you thought any more about . . . + +MARY. About wishing?--Yes, lots. + +MANSON. And have you? . . . + +MARY. I don't know what to think. You see, I never believed +properly in wishing before. Wishing is a dreadfully difficult +thing, when you really set about it, isn't it? + +MANSON. Yes. + +MARY. You see, ordinary things won't do: they're all wrong, +somehow. You'd feel a bit of a sneak to wish for them, wouldn't +you? + +MANSON. Yes. + +MARY. Even if you got them, you wouldn't care, after all. They'd +all turn to dust and ashes in your hand. + +That last bit is what Grannie Durden said. + +MANSON. Who's she? + +MARY. She's the poor old woman I've been having breakfast with. +Do you know, she said a funny thing about wishing. I must tell you +first that she's quite blind and very deaf-- Well, she's been +wishing ever so long to see and hear; and at last she says she can! + +MANSON. What--see and hear? [He glances towards the drawing-room.] + +MARY. Um! I must say, I didn't notice any difference myself; but +that's what she said. + +She agreed with you, that wishing was the only way; and if you +didn't know how, then you had to keep on wishing to wish, until you +could. + +MANSON. And so . . . + +MARY. Well, that's as far as I've got. + +[ROGERS re-enters.] + +MANSON. Yes, what is it, Rogers? + +ROGERS. Cook's compliments, Mr. Manson, and might she make so bold +as to request your presence in the kitchen, seein' as she's 'ad no +orders for lunch yet. O' course, she says, it will do when you've +_quite_ finished any private business you may 'av' in the upper +part of the 'ouse! + +[He delivers this with distinct hauteur. MANSON, smiling, goes up +to him and takes his head in his hands.] + +MANSON. Why do you dislike me so, Rogers? + +ROGERS [taken aback]. Me? Me dislike you, Mr. Manson? _Oh no_! + +MANSON. Come along, little comrade. + +[They go out like brothers, MANSON'S arm round the lad's shoulders.] + +[MARY is left seated on the table, chuckling at the situation. +Suddenly her face becomes serious again: she is lost in thought. +After a while she speaks softly to herself.] + +MARY. What have I needed most? What have I not had? . . . Oh! I +know! . . . + +[Her face flames with the sudden inspiration.] + +And I never dreamed of it till now! + +[ROBERT enters by the main door. The child turns round, and, +seeing him, gives a startled little cry. They stand facing each +other, silent. Presently ROBERT falters.] + +ROBERT. Beg pawdon, miss: I . . . + +MARY. Who are you? What are you doing here? + +ROBERT. I'm . . . + +I was goin' ter see what's--what's in that room . . . + +MARY. If you do, I'll . . . + +[She moves swiftly to the bell.] + +ROBERT. It's a mistake, miss. P'r'aps I'd--I'd better tek my 'ook. + +MARY. Stop! . . . + +How dare you! Don't you know you're a very wicked man? + +ROBERT. Me, miss? + +MARY. Yes, you. + +ROBERT. Yus, I know it. + +MARY [trying to save the sinner]. That isn't the way to be happy, +you know. Thieves are never _really_ happy in their hearts. + +ROBERT. Wot's that? . . . + +Do you tike me for a thief, miss? You? . . . + +[He advances to the table: she edges away.] + +Why don't you arnser? + +MARY. I had rather not say. + +ROBERT. Cos why? + +MARY. I don't want to be unkind. + +[ROBERT sinks stricken into the chair behind him.] + +ROBERT, Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd! + +MARY [relenting]. Of course, if--if you're sorry, that makes a +difference. Being sorry makes a lot of difference. Doesn't it? + +ROBERT. Yus, a fat lot! + +MARY. Only you must never give way to such a wicked temptation +again. Oh, don't cry! [She goes to him.] + +ROBERT. Oo is cryin'? I'm not cryin'--not a cryin' sort! +On'y--you 'adn't no right to talk to me like that, miss. + +MARY. Why, didn't you own . . . + +ROBERT. No, I didn't. It was you as jumped down my throat, an' +took up my words afore I got 'em out. + +MARY. Oh: I'm sorry. Did I make a mistake? + +ROBERT. Yus, miss--a whopper. + +MARY. Then you're not a . . . + +ROBERT. _No_, swelp me Gaw-- [He pulls himself up.] I assure +you, no. I'm a bit of a low un; but I never come so stinkin' low +as that. + +You thought I looked like one, all the same. Didn't yer, now? + +MARY. Well, you see, I thought you said so; and then there's your +. . . + +ROBERT. I know! You don't like my mug. It ain't much of a mug to +look at, is it? Sort of a physog for a thief, eh? See them +lines?--Want to know what them stand for? That's drink, an' +starvation, an' 'ard work, an' a damned lonely life. + +MARY. Oh, you poor man! + +ROBERT. Yus, miss, I am. + +MARY. You mustn't say "damned," you know. + +ROBERT. No, miss. + +MARY. _That's_ wicked, at any rate. + +ROBERT. Yus, miss. + +MARY. And you owned yourself that you drank. That's not very +good, either. + +ROBERT. No, miss. + +MARY. So, you see, you _are_ a little bit naughty, after all, +aren't you? + +ROBERT. Yus, miss. + +MARY. Now, isn't it much nicer for you to try and look at things +in this way? I'm sure you feel a great deal better already. + +Do you know-- Wait a moment . . . + +[She resumes her seat, turning it towards him, the passion of +salvation in her eyes.] + +Do you know, I'd like to do you some good! + +ROBERT. You, miss? + +MARY. Yes, wouldn't you like me to? + +ROBERT. You're the on'y person in the world I'd--I'd like to see +try, miss. + +MARY [glad in the consciousness of "being used"]. That's because +you know I'm interested in you, that I mean it, that I'm not trying +to think only of myself. + +ROBERT [a little stupidly]. Aren't you, miss? + +MARY. No: we must always remember that there are other people in +the world besides ourselves. + +[This coincides with his experience: he says so.] + +ROBERT. Yus, miss, there are. + +MARY. Very well: now I'll see what I can do to help you. + +ROBERT. Thank you, miss. + +MARY. Now, don't you think, if you were really _to wish_ very +hard, it would make things better for you? + +ROBERT. I don't know what you mean, miss. + +MARY. Well, it's like this: if you only wish very very hard, +everything comes true. + +ROBERT. Wot _I_ want, ain't no use wishing for! + +MARY. It doesn't matter what it is! Anything you like! It will +all happen! + +ROBERT. Blimey, wot's the good o' talkin'? + +MARY. Oh, wouldn't you like to help to spin the fairy-tale? + +ROBERT [roughly], I don't believe in no fairy-tales! + +MARY. I do! I don't believe there's anything else in the world, +if we only knew! And that's why I'm wishing! I'm wishing now! +I'm wishing hard! + +ROBERT [passionately]. So am I, Gawd 'elp me! But it's no use! + +MARY. It is! It is! What are you wishing for? + +ROBERT. Never you mind! Summat as impossible as--fairy-tales! + +MARY. So's mine! That's what it has to be! Mine's the most +impossible thing in the world! + +ROBERT. Not more than mine! + +MARY. What's yours? + +ROBERT. What's yours? + +MARY. _I want my father_! + +ROBERT. I WANT MY LITTLE KID! + +[There is a second's pause.] + +MARY. Your--what? . . . + +ROBERT [brokenly]. My--daughter. + +MARY. Oh! . . . + +[She goes towards him: they face each other.] + +[Softly.] Is she dead? + +[He stands looking at her.] + +Is she? + +[He turns away from her.] + +ROBERT. Fur as I am concerned--yus. + +MARY. What do you mean? _Isn't_ she dead? + +ROBERT. She's alive, right enough. + +MARY. Perhaps--perhaps she ran away? . . . + +ROBERT. She got took. + +MARY. How do you mean--gypsies? + +ROBERT. I _give_ 'er up. 'Ad to. + +MARY. Why? + +ROBERT. Look at me! . . . + +_That_--an' the drink, an' the low wages, an' my ole woman dyin'! +That's why I give 'er up. + +MARY. Where is she now? + +ROBERT. Never you mind. She's bein' looked arfter. + +MARY. By whom? + +ROBERT. By people as I've allus 'ated like poison! + +MARY. Why, aren't they kind to her? + +ROBERT. Yus: they've made 'er summat, as I couldn't 'a' done. + +MARY. Then why do you hate them ? + +ROBERT. I don't any longer. I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I +live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into! + +MARY. Your wife's dead, you say? + +ROBERT. Yus. + +MARY. What would she think about it all? + +ROBERT [hollowly, without variation]. I don't know: I don't know: +I don't know. + +[MARY sits down beside him.] + +MARY [thoughtfully]. Isn't it strange--both our wishes alike! You +want your little girl; and I, my father! + +ROBERT. What sort of a . . . + +MARY. Yes? + +ROBERT. What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss? + +MARY. I don't know. I have never seen him. + +ROBERT. Got no idea? Never--'eard _tell_ of 'im? + +MARY. Never. + +ROBERT. 'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose? Wasn't +particular worth while, eh? + +MARY. It's not that. I've been selfish. I never thought anything +about him until to-day. + +ROBERT. What made you think of 'im--to-day? + +MARY. I can't quite say. At least . . . + +ROBERT. Mebbe 'e wrote--sent a telingram or summat, eh?--t' say as +'e was comin'? + +MARY [quickly]. Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him. +That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it? + +ROBERT [after a moment]. Looks like it, don't it? + +MARY. But I don't think he can be really selfish, after all. + +ROBERT [with a ray of brightness]. Cos why? + +MARY. Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and Uncle +Joshua. + +[He looks at her curiously.] + +ROBERT. Like your . . . + +MARY. Yes--they're his brothers, you know. + +This is Uncle William's house. + +ROBERT. Yes, but what do you know about. . . + +MARY. About Uncle Joshua? Well, I happen to know a good deal more +than I can say. It's a secret. + +ROBERT. S'pose your _Uncle William_ spoke to you about 'im? + +MARY. Well, yes. Uncle William spoke about him, too. + +ROBERT. But never about your father? + +MARY. Oh no, never. + +ROBERT. Why, miss? + +MARY [slowly]. I--don't--know. + +ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e ain't--good enough--to be--to be the brother of +your Uncle William--and-- Uncle--Joshua--eh, miss? + +MARY. Oh, I can't think that! + +ROBERT. Why not, miss? Three good brothers in a family don't +scarcely seem possible--not as families go--do they, miss? + +MARY. You mustn't talk like that! A father must be much--much +better than anybody else! + +ROBERT. But s'pose, miss--s'pose 'e ain't . . . + +MARY. He is! I know it! Why, that's what I'm wishing! . . . + +ROBERT. P'r'aps it ain't altogether 'is fault, miss! . . . + +MARY. Oh, don't! Don't. . . + +ROBERT. Things may 'a' bin agin 'im, miss! . . . + +MARY. Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . . + +ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e's 'ad a 'ard life--a bitter 'ard life--same as +I 'av', miss . . . [He breaks down.] + +MARY. Ssh! Please! Please! . . . + +I can quite understand: indeed, indeed, I can! I'm sorry--oh, so +sorry for you. You are thinking of yourself and of your own little +girl--the little girl who doesn't know what you have been telling +me. Don't be miserable! I'm sure it will all turn out right in +the end--things always do; far better than you dream! Only . . . +don't take away _my_ little dream! + +[She turns away her face. ROBERT rises heavily.] + +ROBERT. All right, miss--I won't: swelp me Gawd, I won't. Don't +cry, miss. Don't, miss! Breaks my 'eart--after all you've done +for me. I ort never to 'a' bin born--mekin' you cry! Thank you +kindly, miss: thank you very kindly. I'll--I'll tek my 'ook. + +MARY. Oh, but I'm so sorry for _you_! + +ROBERT. Thank you, miss. + +MARY. I did so want to help you. + +ROBERT. You 'av', miss. + +MARY. Before you go, won't you tell me your name? Who are you? + +ROBERT. I . . . + +I got no name worth speakin' of, miss: I'm--just the bloke wot's +a-lookin' arter the drains. + +Good-bye, miss. + +[At the door, he turns.] + +Sorry I used bad words, miss. + +[She runs to him and offers her hand. He takes it.] + +MARY. Good-bye, + +ROBERT. Good-bye, miss. + +[He goes out.] + +[She shuts the door after him, and turns a wretched little face +towards the audience as the curtain falls.] + + + + +THE FOURTH ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. +After a moment, Mary comes down to the settee, left, and buries her +face in the cushions, weeping. Shortly, the handle of the +drawing-room door is turned, and from within there emerges a murmur +of voices, the Vicar's uppermost. + +VICAR [within]. Very well, then, after you have finished your +letters! . . . + +[The voices continue confusedly: MARY rises quickly and goes into +the garden.] + +[The VICAR enters and goes to the mantel-piece weariedly: a moment +later, AUNTIE.] + +BISHOP [within], I shall only be about twenty minutes. + +AUNTIE [entering]. All right, don't hurry, James: you have all the +morning. + +[She closes the door upon the BISHOP'S grunts, and comes, to the +middle of the room.] + +VICAR. Hm! When he has finished his letters! + +AUNTIE. Yes, things seem to be shaping better than we thought, +William. Perhaps we have a little misjudged him. + +[He looks at her curiously.] + +To think, my dear, that the rebuilding of the church is becoming +possible at last! All your hopes, all your enthusiasms, about to +be realised! Now, it only remains to gain your brother Joshua's +approval and help, and the scheme is complete! + +VICAR. Supposing he--doesn't approve of the scheme? + +AUNTIE. My dear, he must approve: he will see the advantages at +once. I think James made that perfectly clear! . . . + +And then, look at the opportunities it creates for _you_! Not only +the church, William, the beautiful big church of your dreams, with +the great spires and flashing crosses and glorious windows; but a +much larger sphere of usefulness than you ever dared to dream! +Think of your work, William, of your great gifts--even James had to +acknowledge them, didn't he?--Think of the influence for good you +will be able to wield! Ah! And then I shall see my beloved, +_himself_ again--No more worry, no more feverish nights and days, +none of the wretched frets and fancies that have been troubling him +all this morning; but the great Scholar and Saint again, the master +of men's souls, the priest in the congregation! + +VICAR. Suppose you try and forget me for a moment. Do you think +you can? + +AUNTIE. William, that's unkind! Of course I can't. + +VICAR. It might mean the salvation of my soul. + +AUNTIE. Oh, William! Now you're going to begin to worry again! + +VICAR. Oh no: I'm quite calm. Your brother's powers of reasoning +have left me philosophical. . . . + +Tell me, are you quite sure that you have grasped the full meaning +of his project? + +AUNTIE. Of course! You think no one can understand a simple +business dealing but men! Women are every bit as clever! + +VICAR. Well, then, this project: what was it? + +AUNTIE. James explained clearly enough: the affiliation of your +brother's scheme with that of the society he mentioned. + +VICAR. Yes--_what_ society? + +AUNTIE. _The Society for the Extension of Greater Usefulness among +the Clergy_. . . . It was an admirable suggestion--one that ought +to appeal particularly to you. Haven't you always said, yourself, +that if only you had enough money to . . . + +VICAR. Did you happen to realise his explanation as to the +constitution of the society? + +AUNTIE. To tell the truth, I wasn't listening just then: I was +thinking of you. + +VICAR. The _financial_ possibilities of the scheme--Did his +eloquence on that point escape you? + +AUNTIE. Figures always bore me, and James uses dreadfully long +words. + +VICAR. Did you hear nothing of _profits_? + +AUNTIE. I only heard him say that you were to . . . + +VICAR. Well, didn't it strike you that throughout the entire +discussion he spoke rather like a _tradesman_? + +AUNTIE. My dear, you can't expect everybody to be an idealist! +Remember, he's a practical man: he's a bishop. + +VICAR. Didn't it strike you that there are some things in this +world which are not to be bought at _any_ price? + +AUNTIE. My dear William, bricks and mortar require money: you +can't run a society without funds! + +VICAR. Yes, but what of flesh and blood? What of reputation? +What of a man's name? + +AUNTIE. Whatever do you mean now? + +VICAR. Didn't his proposal practically amount to this: that we +should turn my brother Joshua's name and reputation into a bogus +Building Society, of which the funds were to be scraped together +from all the naked bodies and the starving bellies of the world, +whilst _we_ and our thieving co-directors should collar all the +swag? + +AUNTIE. Now, that's exactly where I think you are so unjust! +Didn't you yourself refuse, before he spoke a word, to let him put +a penny of his own into the concern? I must say, you were +unnecessarily rude to him about that, William! + +VICAR. Yes, and didn't he jump at the suggestion! + +AUNTIE. He offers to give his patronage, his influence, his time. +All he asks of your brother is his bare name. + +VICAR. Yes, and all he asks of me is simply my eloquence, my gift +of words, my power of lying plausibly! + +AUNTIE. William, he is offering you the opportunity of your life! + +VICAR. Damnation take my life! + +AUNTIE. William, why are you so violent? + +VICAR. Because violence is the only way of coming to the truth +between you and me! + +AUNTIE [now thoroughly afraid]. What do you mean by the truth, +William? + +VICAR. I mean this: What is the building of this church to you? +Are you so mightily interested in architecture, in clerical +_usefulness_, in the furtherance of God's work? + +AUNTIE. I am interested in your work, William. Do you take me for +an atheist? + +VICAR. No: far worse--for an idolater! + +AUNTIE. William . . . + +VICAR. What else but idolatry is this precious husband-worship you +have set up in your heart--you and all the women of your kind? You +barter away your own souls in the service of it: you build up your +idols in the fashion of your own respectable desires: you struggle +silently amongst yourselves, one against another, to push your own +god foremost in the miserable little pantheon of prigs and +hypocrites you have created! + +AUNTIE [roused]. It is for your own good we do it! + +VICAR. Our own good! What have you made of me? You have plucked +me down from whatever native godhead I had by gift of heaven, and +hewed and hacked me into the semblance of your own idolatrous +imagination! By God, it shall go on no longer! If you have made +me less than a man, at least I will prove myself to be a priest! + +AUNTIE. Do you call it a priest's work to . . . + +VICAR. It is _my_ work to deliver you and me from the bondage of +lies! Can't you see, woman, that God and Mammon are about us, +fighting for our souls? + +AUNTIE [determinedly]. Listen to me, William, listen to me . . . + +VICAR. I have listened to you too long! + +AUNTIE. You would always take my counsel before . . . + +VICAR. All that is done with! I am resolved to be a free man from +this hour--free of lies, free of love if needs be, free even of +you, free of everything that clogs and hinders me in the work I +have to do! I will do my own deed, not yours! + +AUNTIE [with deadly quietness]. If I were not certain of one +thing, I could never forgive you for those cruel words: William, +this is some madness of sin that has seized you: it is the +temptation of the devil! + +VICAR. It is the call of God! + +AUNTIE [still calmly]. That's blasphemy, William! But I will save +you--yes, I will--in spite of yourself. I am stronger than you. + +[They look at each other steadily for a moment, neither yielding,] + +VICAR. Then I accept the challenge! It is God and I against you, +Martha! + +AUNTIE. God and I against _you_, William. + +VICAR. So now--for my work! + +AUNTIE [quietly]. Yes: what are you going to do? + +VICAR. Three things. + +AUNTIE. Yes--and they? . . . + +VICAR. Tell Mary everything: send for my brother, Robert: and +then--answer that monster in there. + +AUNTIE [fearfully]. William, you would never dare! . . . + +VICAR. Look! . . . + +[MARY re-enters from the garden.] + +MARY. Auntie! Uncle! I want to speak to you at once--both of you! + +VICAR. You are just in time: I wanted to speak to _you_ at once. + +MARY. Is it important, uncle? Mine's dreadfully important. + +VICAR. So is mine. + +AUNTIE [quickly]. Let the child speak, William. Perhaps . . . + +MARY. I hardly know how to begin. Perhaps it's only my cowardice. +Perhaps it isn't really dreadful, after all . . . + +AUNTIE [troubled]. Why, what are you thinking of, Mary? + +MARY. It's about something we have never spoken of before; +something I've never been told. + +VICAR [searchingly]. Yes? . . . + +AUNTIE [falteringly]. Yes? . . . + +MARY. I want to know about my father. + +[There is a short silence. The VICAR looks at AUNTIE.] + +VICAR. Now: is God with you or me, Martha? + +MARY. What do you mean by that? Is it very terrible, uncle? + +[He stands silent, troubled. MARY crosses him, going to AUNTIE.] + +Auntie . . . + +AUNTIE. Don't ask me, child: I have nothing to tell you about your +father. + +MARY. Why, isn't he . . . + +AUNTIE. I have nothing to tell you. + +VICAR. I have. + +AUNTIE. William! . . . + +VICAR. I have, I say! Come, sit here, Mary. + +[She sits to left of him, on the settee. AUNTIE is down stage on +the other side of him.] + +Now! What do you want to know about your father? + +MARY [passionately]. Everything there is to know! + +AUNTIE. William, this is brutal! . . . + +VICAR. It is _my work_, Martha!--God's work! Haven't I babbled in +the pulpit long enough about fatherhood and brotherhood, that I +should shirk His irony when He takes me at my word! + +Now: what put this thought into your head to-day? + +MARY. I don't know. I've been puzzling about something all the +morning; but there was nothing clear. It only came clear a few +minutes ago--just before I went into the garden. But I think it +must have begun quite early--before breakfast, when I was talking +to my--to Manson, + +AUNTIE. Manson! . . . + +MARY. And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the +fireplace, _it came_--all in a flash, you understand! I found +myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him: +despising myself that I had never thought of him before. + +VICAR. Well, what then? + +MARY. I tried to picture him to myself. I imagined all that he +must be. I thought of you. Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and +of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my +life; but still--that wasn't quite like a father, was it? I +thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in +the world! He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be +good! I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little +song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good! +[Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle? Isn't it? + +VICAR. A father ought to be all these things. + +MARY. And then . . . then . . . + +VICAR. Yes? . . . + +MARY. I met a man, a poor miserable man--it still seems like a +dream, the way I met him--and he said something dreadful to me, +something that hurt me terribly. He seemed to think that my +father--that perhaps my father--might be nothing of the sort! + +AUNTIE. Why, who was he--the man? + +MARY. He wouldn't tell me his name: I mistook him for a thief at +first; but afterwards I felt very, very sorry for him. You see, +his case was rather like my own. _He was wishing for his little +girl_. + +[There is a short silence.] + +VICAR. Where did you meet with him? + +MARY. Here, in this room. + +AUNTIE. When was this? + +MARY. A few minutes ago--just before you came in. + +AUNTIE. Where is he now? + +MARY. He said good-bye. He has gone away. + +AUNTIE. For good? + +MARY. Yes, I think so: I understood him to mean that. + +VICAR. Was he--a rough-looking man? + +MARY. Dreadfully; and he swore once--but afterwards he said he was +sorry for that. + +VICAR. Did he frighten you at all? + +MARY. No, not exactly frighten: you see, I felt sorry for him. + +VICAR [slowly]. _And he wouldn't tell you his name_? . . . + +MARY. No: I asked him, but he wouldn't. + +[The VICAR ponders this for a moment.] + +AUNTIE. Now, is it God with you or with me, William? + +[For a moment this unnerves him. Then setting his teeth together, +he faces his task stubbornly.] + +VICAR. Have you any idea about this man? + +MARY. How do you mean--any idea? + +VICAR. As to why he put this doubt into your head about your +father. + +MARY. He seemed to be thinking about himself, and how unworthy he +was of his own little girl. + +VICAR. Did he say--unworthy? + +MARY. That's what I think he meant. What he said was that perhaps +my father wasn't good enough to be your brother, uncle. That's not +true, is it? + +VICAR. No, by Heaven! That's not true! + +MARY [rapturously]. Oh, I knew it, I knew it! + +VICAR [in an agony]. Stop! You don't understand! + +MARY. I understand quite enough! That's all I wanted to know! + +VICAR. Listen, child! Listen! I mean that it is I who am not +worthy to be called his brother. + +AUNTIE. William, this is absurd! + +MARY [snuggling up to him]. Isn't he a dear? + +VICAR [freeing himself]. Listen to me, Mary: I have something +awful to tell you: try and bear it bravely. You will hate me for +it--never love me again! . . . No, listen! . . . + +Supposing your father were--not what you imagine him to be? . . . + +MARY. Uncle, didn't you just say . . . + +VICAR. Supposing that wretched man you spoke with just now were +right, after all! What would you say? + +MARY. Uncle! . . . + +VICAR. Supposing he were one upon whom a11 the curses of the world +had been most cruelly visited--his poor body scarred and graven out +of human semblance; his soul the prey of hate and bitterness; his +immortal spirit tortured and twisted away from every memory of God! +What would you say? + +MARY. Uncle, it would be terrible--terrible! + +VICAR. What will you say, then, to the man who has brought him to +such ruin? What will you say to that man being God's priest? What +word of loathing have you for the thief who has stolen the love of +another man's child, for the murderer who has slain his brother's +soul? + +MARY. Uncle, do you mean . . . do you mean . . . + +VICAR. I mean that I am the man! + +MARY. You! . . . + +AUNTIE [passionately]. It is not true! It is a lie! It's +entirely your father's own fault! + +MARY. I don't understand. Why should Uncle William lie to me? + +AUNTIE. He is overwrought: he is ill. It is like your uncle +William to take upon himself another man's wickedness! + +MARY. Then, _that_ is true, at least: my father is a wicked +man! . . . + +AUNTIE. I don't want to speak about your father! + +MARY. He is nothing that I have wished him to be: not _brave_ . . . + +VICAR. Yes--_that_ at least! + +MARY [turning towards him]. _Beautiful_? . . . + +VICAR. What do you mean by beautiful? + +MARY. You know what I mean: What you once said God was, when you +called _Him_ beautiful. + +VICAR. I have no right to judge your father. + +[She perceives the evasion.] + +MARY. Not even--_good_? . . . + +VICAR. He is what I have made him. I and no other! + +[She stands looking at him piteously.] + +AUNTIE. There is another--I! I kept them apart: I poisoned your +uncle against him: I took you away from him: It was I who kept you +in ignorance of your father! + +MARY. Why? . . . + +AUNTIE. Because he stands in the way of my husband's happiness! +Because, even, he is your father! Because I hate him! I could +almost _wish him dead_! + +VICAR. Martha! . . . + +[There is a long pause.] + +MARY. Then I have nobody, now. It's no use wishing any more. + +AUNTIE. Mary . . . + +MARY. No! . . . I want to be alone. + +[She goes out into the garden. They follow her out with their +eyes.] + +VICAR. So! God has revealed His partisanship!--He has beggared us +both! + +[AUNTIE considers this for a moment. Then, with sudden +determination, she rises.] + +AUNTIE. I am not going to be beggared without a struggle for it, +William! + +[She moves briskly across to the bell.] + +VICAR. What are you going to do, Martha? + +AUNTIE, [flashing round passionately, before she can ring the +bell]. Do you think I am going to stand by and see your life +wrecked--yours and that child's? + +VICAR. We are not the only persons concerned, Martha. + +AUNTIE. As far as I care, you are! + +VICAR. And what of Robert? . . . + +AUNTIE. Robert! That's what I'm going to see to now! + +[She rings the bell.] + +There's only one way of dealing with a brute like that! + +VICAR. What's that? + +AUNTIE. Pack him off to Australia, Africa--anywhere, so long as we +are never pestered with him again! + +VICAR, Do you think you'll get him to go? + +AUNTIE. Oh, I'll find the money! A drunkard like that will do +anything for money! Well, he shall have plenty: perhaps he'll +drink himself to . . . + +VICAR. By Heaven, but I say no! + +AUNTIE. By Heaven, but I say yes! It's about time I took things +in hand again! Do you think I'm going to risk that child learning +everything? She knows more than enough already! Providentially, +she does not know the worst! + +VICAR. And what knowledge do you consider Providence has so kindly +spared her? + +AUNTIE. The knowledge who that man was! She shall never know, if +I can have my way! [She rings the bell again, impatiently.] Why +doesn't he come? Why doesn't he come? + +VICAR. Who? + +AUNTIE. Manson. + +[Enter MANSON by the main door. There is a subtle change in the +manner of him, a look in his eye, as of the servant merging in the +master.] + +MANSON. You rang. + +AUNTIE. Yes, come in, Manson. I want to have a little +confidential talk with you--confidential, you understand. + +MANSON [eying her]. If you please. I expected this. + +[He has the air of a judge. She hurries on, unheeding.] + +AUNTIE. Manson, you saw everything. You were here when that +dreadful creature arrived. + +MANSON. Which? + +AUNTIE. Why, my husband's brother, Robert. Didn't you tell me, +William, that Manson heard everything he said? + +VICAR. Yes. + +AUNTIE. Then you will know the wretched plight we are in. Manson, +it's terrible. I want your help. By-the-way, you have not spoken +about it to the other servants? + +MANSON. I am always most discreet. + +AUNTIE [touched]. Thank you, Manson, thank you: I felt that I +could trust you. It's to prove my trust that I've sent for you +now. Perhaps I'd better begin by explaining everything quite +clearly, so that you . . . + +MANSON. There is no need. I know everything already. + +AUNTIE, Everything! How? . . . + +MANSON. A certain gift of divination--mine by birth. And, +besides, you forget that I had a long conversation with your +brother-in-law after master left the room. + +AUNTIE. What! Whilst my brother was here? + +MANSON. Yes: we all three had breakfast together. + +AUNTIE. Breakfast together! Then James has heard all! + +MANSON. Not quite all. You may have observed that your brother is +a little deaf. + +AUNTIE. But surely-- What did he think? + +MANSON. He mistook him for your husband. + +AUNTIE. My husband! + +MANSON. Your brother is also a little blind, remember. + +AUNTIE [delighted]. Then James never found out? . . . + +MANSON. Oh yes: I took care to undeceive him on the point. + +AUNTIE. Good gracious! How did he take it? + +MANSON. At first, a little angrily; but, after a while, some few +poor words of my own chanced to move him to more--_profitable_ +meditation. + +AUNTIE. Manson, you're perfectly wonderful! I respect you very, +very much! + +MANSON. It is not enough. I shall require more. + +AUNTIE [embarrassed]. Oh, of course, I shall be glad to do +anything that . . . + +Why, what do you mean? . . . + +MANSON. I mean that service such as mine demands a greater +recompense! + +AUNTIE. You may be sure that anything in reason . . . + +MANSON. It must go beyond that! + +AUNTIE. Well, what do you ask? + +MANSON. The uttermost obedience, loyalty, and love! + +AUNTIE. Manson, how dare you! By what right . . . + +MANSON. By my own right! + +AUNTIE. This is insolence! What right do you mean? + +MANSON. The right of understanding, the right of purpose, and the +right of will! + +AUNTIE. You force me to speak angrily to you! Do you forget that +you are my servant? + +MANSON. No! And, therefore, it is my office to command you now! + +Sit down, and hear me speak! + +VICAR. He has been sent to help us! Martha, this is God! + +MANSON. Over here, please. [He points to the settee.] + +AUNTIE. I . . . I . . . + +[MANSON still points. She wavers as in a dream, and at length +moves mechanically across the room, obeying him.] + +MANSON. Now, let me tell you exactly why you have sent for me +here. There is a strange and wretched turmoil in your soul: you +have done wrong, and you know it--but you don't know all! You +would keep what miserable little right you have by bolstering it up +with further wrong. And you have sent for me to help you in that +wrong! + +AUNTIE. How dare you say that? + +MANSON. Haven't you sent for me to help you in your plans about +his brother, Robert? + +AUNTIE [faintly]. What plans? . . . + +MANSON. The plan of banishing him further from your lives than +ever! The plan of _providing_ for him! The plan of patching up +his bitter wrongs with gold! + +AUNTIE. How did you know that? + +MANSON. I know _you_! What, do you think that God's eyes are like +your brother's--blind? Or do you think these things can be done in +darkness without crying aloud to Heaven for light? + +AUNTIE. I am here to work my will, not yours! + +MANSON. What gain do you hope to bring yourself by that? + +AUNTIE. I am not thinking of myself! I am thinking only of my +husband's happiness! + +MANSON. Behold the happiness you have already brought him! + +AUNTIE. There is the child! It would break her heart! + +MANSON. What is her heart but broken now--by you? + +AUNTIE, Robert himself would be the first to repudiate any other +plan. + +MANSON. Have you tried him? + +AUNTIE. Of course not; but he must see the impossibility. + +MANSON. What impossibility? + +AUNTIE. The impossibility of having him here: the impossibility of +letting him see the child: the impossibility of him and his brother +ever meeting again! + +MANSON. Is that your only difficulty? + +AUNTIE. Only difficulty! What, would you have me welcome him with +open arms? + +MANSON. Yes, and heart, too! + +AUNTIE. Have him here, entertain him, treat him as a guest? + +MANSON. As an honoured guest! + +AUNTIE. In this house? + +MANSON. This house. + +AUNTIE. Good Heavens! what else? + +MANSON. Sweep and garnish it throughout, seek out and cleanse its +hidden corners, make it fair and ready to lodge him royally as a +brother! + +AUNTIE [desperately]. I won't do it! I can't! I can't! + +MANSON. With my assistance, you can! + +VICAR. Manson, how can we bring it about? + +AUNTIE, I daren't! I daren't! + +VICAR. I dare! I will! + +AUNTIE. In God's name, how is it possible? + +MANSON. _Make me the lord and master of this house for one little +hour_! + +VICAR. By Heaven, yes! + +MANSON. And you? You? . . . + +[She falters a few moments: then, utterly broken down, she +whispers, feebly.] + +AUNTIE. Yes. + +MANSON. Then first TO CLEANSE IT OF ITS ABOMINATIONS! + +[The BISHOP enters from the drawing-room. He carries a letter in +his hand.] + +BISHOP. Well, here is the letter I have written to the secretary +of our Society: I have explained everything quite nicely; and have +warned him, of course, against doing anything definite in the +matter until we have consulted your dear brother. Now . . . Eh, +what? Oh! . . . + +[MANSON has tapped his ear, peremptorily: he fixes his ear-trumpet.] + +MANSON. I bear you a message from the master of this house. Leave +it. + +BISHOP. Really, I . . . . . . . Most extraordinary! Hm! + +[He blows down the ear-trumpet, and afterwards wipes it very +carefully with his handkerchief. MANSON stands, as though carven +in marble, waiting for him to fix it again.] + +Now: again, please. + +MANSON. You are no longer necessary. Leave this house. + +BISHOP. You scoundrel! You impudent scoundrel! You . . . +You . . . + +Give me back my five-pound note! + +MANSON [pointing to the fire]. It is invested for you. + +BISHOP. I will have it back at once! + +MANSON. Hereafter, was the arrangement. + +BISHOP. Mr. Smythe! Where are you? Do you hear what this +blackguard says? + +VICAR. I endorse it, every word. + +BISHOP. Martha! . . . + +[She turns away from him as from some horror of sin. The BISHOP +stands dumfounded for a moment or two: then he boils over.] + +Now I see it all! I've been trapped, I've been tricked! Martha, +this is all your doing! Brought me here on a trumped-up story of +relationship with the Bishop of Benares, to insult me! Oh, what +would that godly man say if he heard of it!--And he shall hear of +it, believe me! Your infamy shall be spread abroad! So this is +your revenge, sir--[he turns to the VICAR]--your revenge for the +contumely with which I have very properly treated you, sir! Now I +understand why I was made to sit down and eat sausages with a +butler--yes, sir, with a butler and a common working-man! Oh! I +could die with shame! You have bereft me of all words! You . . . +You . . . You are no scholar, sir! And your Greek is +contemptible! . . . + +[He crosses to AUNTIE.] Martha! You are no sister of mine +henceforward! [Going, he returns to her.] Anathema maranatha! + +[He bounces up to the door, but turns back again for a last word +with MANSON.] + +And I have one word for you, sir! You are a scoundrel, sir--a +cheat, an impostor! And if I could have my way with you, I would +have you publicly whipped: I would visit you with the utmost rigour +of the law: I would nail you up, sir, for an example! + +MANSON. I have encountered similar hostility before, my lord--from +gentlemen very like your lordship. Allow me . . . + +[He opens the door, his eyes flashing.] + +BISHOP. Don't trouble, sir. I can get my hat and my stick and my +portmanteau for myself! I can do very well without your +assistance--thank God! + +[He stumps out. MANSON closes the door after him, barring it, as +it were, with his great left arm. He lifts the other arm slowly, +as commanding silence. After a moment the front door is heard +slamming noisily.] + +[AUNTIE sinks, weeping, upon the settee. The VICAR goes over to +comfort her. The uplifted hand of MANSON assumes the BISHOP'S sign +of blessing as the curtain slowly falls.] + + + + +THE FIFTH ACT + +As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. + +[There is heard a Ring of the Bell. All three turn their heads, +alert.] + +VICAR. If it's my brother . . . + +MANSON. Which? + +VICAR. I meant--the Bishop of Benares; but . . . + +AUNTIE [hand on his arm, apprehensively]. William . . . + +MANSON. It wants ten minutes of the time you said you expected +him. [Goes to door: turns.] Only ten minutes. + +[He goes out, closing the door softly.] + +VICAR. Ten minutes! . . . + +AUNTIE. We shall never be able to do it, William! How can we +possibly undo the work of all these years in ten minutes? It wants +a miracle. + +VICAR. We must make the attempt, somehow. + +AUNTIE. Yes--yes: how? Oh, I have been blind--blind! [She walks +across the room in agitation.] Where has he gone, I wonder? We +don't even know that--where he is! + +VICAR [making a movement]. Perhaps Manson . . . + +AUNTIE. No, no, no: it must be ourselves . . . + +Ten minutest--And no assistance on _his_ side: we can't expect it, +after our treatment of him. He will hate me most of all: there's +the chief difficulty! . . . + +VICAR. You would say me, if you had seen his face and heard his +voice this morning! + +AUNTIE. God help us. God pity us! + +VICAR. Amen . . . + +Then, there's the child, too! That difficulty must be faced. + +AUNTIE. Yes--no escape! We shall have to pay the whole debt, +William: I see that. + +VICAR. Who knows! Perhaps the child will have to pay most, when +all is done. + +AUNTIE. The innocent for the guilty--yes . . . Oh, William, +William, can you ever forgive me? + +VICAR. There is much to forgive, both sides, Martha. My sin has +been greater than yours. You have only loved unworthily in +blindness: I have seen clearly and been a coward. + +[Enter MARY from the garden.] + +Mary! . . . + +MARY. Let me speak, uncle. I have been thinking, out there in the +garden--thinking very hard: I've been trying to put things together +again and make them straight; but it's still very difficult. Only +there's one thing--I'm sorry I was unkind just now: I didn't mean +it: you are everything I have--everything I have ever had; and as +for what uncle said--about himself, I mean--I can't believe it. +No, I'm sure there's a mistake somewhere; and mistakes can always +be put right, if we only help one another and mean it. Shall we +try, uncle? Shall we, auntie? + +AUNTIE. If it's not too late! . . . + +MARY. It can't be too late, auntie dear, if we all wish very hard. +I was a coward to give up wishing. That was _my_ sin, too! + +AUNTIE. God knows, I wish, Mary! . . . + +VICAR. And I! . . . + +MARY. And, indeed, I do! . . . + +Now, I've been thinking: I've been trying to look the worst in the +face. Supposing my father is the wicked man you say--the very, +very wickedest man that ever lived, don't you think if we tried to +love him very much it might make a difference? + +VICAR. What made you think of that, Mary? . . . + +MARY [simply]. It's what you taught me, uncle, in your sermons. + +VICAR. _I_ taught you? . . . + +MARY. Yes: and, besides, there's another reason. . . I've been +thinking of the poor man I met this morning. + +AUNTIE. ) Yes . . . +VICAR. ) What of him? . . . + +MARY. _He_ said he was a wicked man, and at first he looked so +dreadfully wicked, I believed him; but when I began to look at him +closely, and heard him talk about his little girl, everything +seemed different! I could no more believe him, than I can believe +you, uncle, when you say such awful things about yourself! I +believe he was a much better man than he ever dreamed! And so I +think we might find my father just the same, if he was properly +loved and looked after! + +VICAR [with determination]. Then listen to me, Mary: I have +something to tell you: that very man you spoke to . . . + +[ROGERS enters, his face betraying signs of his morning's +affliction.] + +ROGERS. Beg your pardon, sir; but . . . + +VICAR. Yes, Rogers: what is it? + +ROGERS. Mr. Manson sent me, sir; it ain't my fault! . . . + +VICAR. Do explain yourself, Rogers! + +ROGERS. Well, sir, it's a bit orkard: it's . . . I really don't +know what you'll say, sir, I don't really . . . + +VICAR [impatiently]. Come, come, come, what is it? + +ROGERS. _It's a man, sir_! + +VICAR. Well, there's nothing very extraordinary in that. Wants to +see me, eh? + +ROGERS. Yes, sir; and what's more, Mr. Manson told me to _bring +'im in_! + +VICAR. Well, why don't you? + +ROGERS. 'E's mucked up to the eyes, sir! Bin down the drains! +_It's the same chap as come an' made so free 'ere this mornin'_! + +[There is a general rapturous excitement.] + +VICAR. Praise God! Shew him in at once! + +ROGERS [flabbergasted]. What! In '_ere_, sir? . . . + +VICAR. Come, come, come! + +[ROGERS'S cosmos is fast slipping away: he crawls abjectly to the +door: his hand on the knob, he turns once more a face of bewildered +inquiry upon the VICAR, who snaps his fingers impatiently.] + +ROGERS [with a sickly smile]. 'E's just outside, sir. + +[Opening the door, he whines.] + +Oh, do come in. + +[ROBERT enters, amply fulfilling the lad's description. The latter +lags out, nauseated with the world.] + +[ROBERT stands up stage, in the middle: AUNTIE and VICAR, down +stage, one on either side. MARY with her aunt.] + +ROBERT. Can I be 'eard civil in this 'ouse, if I speak a few words? + +[They make a movement as towards him.] + +'Old back! Don't you come near me! Don't you so much as speak +till I've done! . . . + +[To Auntie and Vicar respectively]. You don't know me: you don't +know me . . . Understand? + +There's no one 'ere as knows oo I am, excep' one little gel--'er +over there. Now, keep quiet! 'Ere! . . . + +[MARY goes up to him.] + +Tell 'em oo I am. + +MARY. Why, it's my friend--the man I was telling you about! The +man who looks after the drains! + +ROBERT. That's about it: I'm the drain-man, _see_? Thought you +might be mistakin' me for--summat else, if you wasn't told. Now +you know. + +[MARY'S face, as she returns, bears the first dawn of an idea. The +VICAR lifts a hand of warning to AUNTIE.] + +VICAR. Go on. + +ROBERT. That's what I come 'ere to talk abaht--my job. P'r'aps +you'll think as it ain't a tasty subjic, before a lot o' nice, +clean, respectable people as never 'ad anythin' worse on their +fingers than a bit of lawn-dirt, playin' crokey; but _some one_ 'as +to see to the drains, _some one_ 'as to clear up the muck of the +world! I'm the one. + +An' I'm 'ere to tell you about it. + +AUNTIE [involuntarily]. Oh! . . . + +ROBERT. You don't like that, ma'am? 'Urts your feelin's, eh? + +AUNTIE. Yes; but not in the way you mean, + +MARY. But you know, you really are a little unpleasant! + +ROBERT. I'm not 'ere to be pleasant, young leddy: I'm 'ere to +edicate you. + +VICAR. Yes, I think I see! + +AUNTIE [breathlessly]. Go on: go on! + +ROBERT. Well, I come to this 'ouse this mornin', I don't mind +ownin' it, in a rotten bad frame of mind: I 'ad a little job on +'and--a job a bit above my 'ead, an' it got me dahn an' worried me: +yus it did--worried me. That young leddy 'll tell you wot I was +like when _she_ fust saw me: I looked that bad, she thought I come +to steal summat! Well, p'r'aps I did, arter al!--summat as I 'ad +no right to, summat as don't properly belong to a streaky swine +like me. That was when _she_ fust saw me; but I was wuss before +that, I tell you strite! + +MARY [self-consciously]. What changed you? + +ROBERT. A bloke I met, miss, as knowed me better than I knowed +myself. 'E changed me. + +AUNTIE. ) Manson! . . . +VICAR. ) Manson! . . . +MARY. ) Oh, I thought, perhaps . . . + +ROBERT. Don't know 'is name; 'e was a fair knock-aht-- Got togs +on 'im like an Earl's Court Exhibition . . . '_E_ changed me: 'e +taught me my own mind; 'e brought me back to my own job--_drains_. + +AUNTIE. Yes . . . + +ROBERT. Funny thing, ma'am, peopled born different: some's born +without noses in their 'eads, worth speakin' of. I wasn't--I can +smell out a stink anywhere. + +AUNTIE [fascinated]. I am sure you can. This is most interesting! + +ROBERT [warming]. Moment I stuck my 'ead in this 'ouse, I knowed +as summat was wrong in my line, and I ses to myself: _Wot oh, 'e +ain't such an awl-mighty liar, arter all--that's drains_! An' +drains it was, strike me dead--arskin' your pawdon! + +MARY, Now, didn't I always say . . . + +ROBERT. Yus, miss, you're one o' the nosey uns, I can see! Well, +soon as ole Togs got done with 'is talk, I got my smeller dahn, +follered up the scent, an' afore I knowed where I was, I was in it, +up to my eyes!--Out there in the room with the blood-red 'eap o' +books! Blimey, you never did see! Muck, ma'am!--Just look at my +'ands! Ain't that pretty? + +'Owever, I got there, right enough, I don't fink! Fancy I put that +little bit strite afore I done! + +AUNTIE. Oh, this is too beautiful of you! . . . + +ROBERT [burning with enthusiasm, and manifestly affected by her +appreciation]. Wait a bit: I got more yet! Talk abaht +bee-utiful!--That bit was on'y an ash-pan! Look 'ere, ma'am, I got +the loveliest little job on as ever yer soiled yer 'ands in! . . . + +MARY. Oh, do tell us! . . . + +AUNTIE. ) Yes, do! . . . +VICAR. ) Yes, yes! . . . + +[A splendid rapture infects them all.] + +ROBERT. I followed up that drain--_I_ wasn't goin' to stick till +kingdom come inside your little mouse-'ole out there: No, I said, +_Where's this leadin to? What's the 'ell-an-glory use o' flushin' +out this blarsted bit of a sink, with devil-know-wot stinkin' +cess-pool at the end of it_! That's wot I said, ma'am! . . . + +AUNTIE. Very rightly! I see! I see! . . . + +ROBERT. So up I go through the sludge, puffin' an' blowin' like a +bally ole cart-'orse--strooth, it seemed miles! Talk abaht +bee-utiful, ma'am, it ud 'a' done your 'eart good, it would really! +_Rats_!--'Undreds on em, ma'am: I'm bitten clean through in places! +'Owever, I pushed my way through, somehow, 'oldin' my nose an +fightin' for my breath, till at last I got to the end--_and then I +soon saw wot was the matter_! . . . + +It's under the church--that's where it is! I know it's the church, +cos I 'eard "The Church's One Foundation" on the orgin, rumblin' up +over my 'ead! Well, I . . . + +ALL. Yes . . . yes . . . + +AUNTIE. Why don't you go on? . . . + +ROBERT. You'd never guess wot I saw there, not if you was to try +from now till glory 'allelooyer! . . . + +The biggest back-'ander, I ever did 'av', swelp me! . . . + +[They hang on his words expectantly.] + +IT AIN'T NO DRAIN AT ALL! + +ALL [breathlessly]. Why, what is it, then? . . . + +ROBERT. IT'S A GRIVE! + +ALL. A grave! . . . + +ROBERT. Yus, one o' them whoppin' great beer-vaults as you shove +big bugses' corpses inter! What d'yer think o' that now? + +MARY. ) Oh! . . . +AUNTIE. ) Horrible! . . . + +VICAR. I seem to remember some tradition . . . + +ROBERT, You'd 'a' said so if you'd seen wot I seen! Talk abaht +corfins an' shrouds an' bones an' dead men gone to rot, they wasn't +in it, wot I saw dahn there! Madame Twosoes is a flea-bite to it! +Lord!--I never thought there could be such a lot o' muck an' dead +things all in one place before! It was a fair treat, it was, I tek +my oath! . . . + +[Rapturously]. Why--why, it may cost a man 'is LIFE to deal with +that little job! + +VICAR. My God! The thing's impossible! + +ROBERT. Impossible! Means a bit of work, that's all! + +VICAR. Why, no one would ever dare . . . + +ROBERT. Dare! Why, wot d'you think I come 'ere for? . . . + +VICAR. _You_! . . . + +ROBERT. Yus--makin' myself unpleasant . . . + +VICAR. Do you mean . . . Do I understand . . . + +ROBERT. I mean as I've found _my place_, or I don't know a good +thing when I see it! + +AUNTIE. What! To go into that dreadful vault, and . . . + +ROBERT. Why not: ain't it my job? + +AUNTIE. But you said--perhaps--_death_ . . . + +ROBERT. It's worth it, it's a lovely bit of work! + +VICAR. No, ten thousand times, no! The sacrifice is too much! + +ROBERT. You call that sacrifice?--It's fun: not 'arf! + +VICAR. I had rather see the church itself . . . + +ROBERT. What, you call yourself a clergyman! + +VICAR. I call myself nothing: I _am_ nothing--less than nothing in +all this living world! + +ROBERT. By God, but I call myself summat--I'M THE _DRAIN-MAN_, +THAT'S WOT I AM! + +VICAR [feverishly]. You shall not go! . . . + +ROBERT. Why, wot is there to fear? Ain't it worth while, to move +away that load o' muck! + +VICAR. The stench--the horror--the darkness . . . + +ROBERT. What's it matter, if the comrides up above 'av' light an' +joy an' a breath of 'olesome air to sing by? . . . + +VICAR. Hour by hour--dying--alone . . . + +ROBERT. The comrides up in the spans an arches, joinin' 'ands . . . + +VICAR. Fainter and fainter, below there, and at last--an endless +silence! . . . + +ROBERT. 'Igh in the dome, the 'ammerin's of the comrides as 'av' +climbed aloft! + +AUNTIE. William, there is yet one other way! . . . + +VICAR. Yes, yes, I see: I see! . . . [To ROBERT]. Then--you mean +to go? + +ROBERT. By 'Eaven, yus! + +VICAR. Then, by God and all the powers of grace, you shall not go +alone! Off with these lies and make-believes! Off with these +prisoner's shackles! They cramp, they stifle me! Freedom! +Freedom! This is no priest's work--it calls for a man! . . . + +[He tears off his parson's coat and collar, casting them furiously +aside. He rolls up his sleeves.] + +Now, if you're ready, Comrade: you and I together! + +AUNTIE. God's might go with you, William! Accept him, Christ! + +[There is a silence. Then ROBERT speaks with slow consideration.] + +ROBERT. I--don't--know. It's dangerous, you understand! + +VICAR. I go with you. + +ROBERT. This ain't psalms an 'ymns an' ole maids' tea-parties, +mind you! It may mean typhoid! + +VICAR. I understand. + +ROBERT. Rats. + +VICAR. Yes. + +ROBERT. They don't leave you alone: they got teeth, +remember--poison in 'em! + +VICAR. I will go with you. + +[A slight pause. Then ROBERT, dropping into a quite ordinary tone, +says.] + +ROBERT. Then let's 'av' summat so eat, an' get along. There's +nuthin' more to say. + +MARY [inspired]. Yes, there is! + +ROBERT. What do you mean, miss? + +MARY. I mean that I understand: that I know who you are. + +ROBERT. Me? . . . + +MARY [simply]. Yes, you are my father. + +ROBERT. 'Ow the everlastin' did you know that? + +MARY [going up to him]. Because you are my wish come true: because +you are brave, because you are very beautiful, because you are good! + +ROBERT. My little kid! My little kid! + +[They embrace each other.] + +VICAR. Robert! [Taking his left hand]. + +AUNTIE. Brother! [Taking his other hand.] + +[They form a kind of cross.] + +[MANSON and ROGERS re-enter with table-cloth, etc., for lunch.] + +MANSON. Come along, Rogers. Take that end. + +[They lay the cloth, as it were with ceremonial gravity, MANSON +being at the upper end of the table. They pay no heed to the +others, who watch them interestedly.] + +ROBERT. I could just do with a good, square feed. My work meks me +'ungry. + +MANSON. Flowers, Rogers. + +[ROGERS brings vase from side-board and places it on the VICAR'S +side of the table. MANSON removes it to a more communal position. +Presently looking up, he sees the group to his left watching him.] + +Oh, beg pardon, sir: perhaps you'd like to know--the Bishop of +Benares is here. + +VICAR. What, already! Let's have him in at once! + +[MANSON deliberates with the flowers before he speaks.] + +MANSON. He is here. + +[The VICAR crosses towards him.] + +VICAR. What do you mean? Where is he? + +[MANSON looks at him over the flowers.] + +MANSON. Here. + +[The VICAR steps back, gazing at him. After a moment he gasps.] + +VICAR. In God's name, who are you? + +MANSON. In God's Name--your brother. + +[He holds out his hand. The VICAR takes it, sinking to his knees +and sobbing as one broken yet healed.] + +[The curtain descends slowly.] + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Servant in the House, by Charles Rann Kennedy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE *** + +***** This file should be named 11999.txt or 11999.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/9/9/11999/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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