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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: You Never Can Tell + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: May, 2000 [Etext #2175] +Last Updated: December 10, 2012 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOU NEVER CAN TELL *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteeer and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + YOU NEVER CAN TELL + </h1> + <h2> + By George Bernard Shaw + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ACT III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT IV </a> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + <p> + In a dentist's operating room on a fine August morning in 1896. Not the + usual tiny London den, but the best sitting room of a furnished lodging in + a terrace on the sea front at a fashionable watering place. The operating + chair, with a gas pump and cylinder beside it, is half way between the + centre of the room and one of the corners. If you look into the room + through the window which lights it, you will see the fireplace in the + middle of the wall opposite you, with the door beside it to your left; an + M.R.C.S. diploma in a frame hung on the chimneypiece; an easy chair + covered in black leather on the hearth; a neat stool and bench, with vice, + tools, and a mortar and pestle in the corner to the right. Near this bench + stands a slender machine like a whip provided with a stand, a pedal, and + an exaggerated winch. Recognising this as a dental drill, you shudder and + look away to your left, where you can see another window, underneath which + stands a writing table, with a blotter and a diary on it, and a chair. + Next the writing table, towards the door, is a leather covered sofa. The + opposite wall, close on your right, is occupied mostly by a bookcase. The + operating chair is under your nose, facing you, with the cabinet of + instruments handy to it on your left. You observe that the professional + furniture and apparatus are new, and that the wall paper, designed, with + the taste of an undertaker, in festoons and urns, the carpet with its + symmetrical plans of rich, cabbagy nosegays, the glass gasalier with + lustres; the ornamental gilt rimmed blue candlesticks on the ends of the + mantelshelf, also glass draped with lustres, and the ormolu clock under a + glass-cover in the middle between them, its uselessness emphasized by a + cheap American clock disrespectfully placed beside it and now indicating + 12 o'clock noon, all combine with the black marble which gives the + fireplace the air of a miniature family vault, to suggest early Victorian + commercial respectability, belief in money, Bible fetichism, fear of hell + always at war with fear of poverty, instinctive horror of the passionate + character of art, love and Roman Catholic religion, and all the first + fruits of plutocracy in the early generations of the industrial + revolution. + </p> + <p> + There is no shadow of this on the two persons who are occupying the room + just now. One of them, a very pretty woman in miniature, her tiny figure + dressed with the daintiest gaiety, is of a later generation, being hardly + eighteen yet. This darling little creature clearly does not belong to the + room, or even to the country; for her complexion, though very delicate, + has been burnt biscuit color by some warmer sun than England's; and yet + there is, for a very subtle observer, a link between them. For she has a + glass of water in her hand, and a rapidly clearing cloud of Spartan + obstinacy on her tiny firm set mouth and quaintly squared eyebrows. If the + least line of conscience could be traced between those eyebrows, an + Evangelical might cherish some faint hope of finding her a sheep in wolf's + clothing—for her frock is recklessly pretty—but as the cloud + vanishes it leaves her frontal sinus as smoothly free from conviction of + sin as a kitten's. + </p> + <p> + The dentist, contemplating her with the self-satisfaction of a successful + operator, is a young man of thirty or thereabouts. He does not give the + impression of being much of a workman: his professional manner evidently + strikes him as being a joke, and is underlain by a thoughtless pleasantry + which betrays the young gentleman still unsettled and in search of amusing + adventures, behind the newly set-up dentist in search of patients. He is + not without gravity of demeanor; but the strained nostrils stamp it as the + gravity of the humorist. His eyes are clear, alert, of sceptically + moderate size, and yet a little rash; his forehead is an excellent one, + with plenty of room behind it; his nose and chin cavalierly handsome. On + the whole, an attractive, noticeable beginner, of whose prospects a man of + business might form a tolerably favorable estimate. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (handing him the glass). Thank you. (In spite of the + biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent.) + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST (putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of instruments). + That was my first tooth. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (aghast). Your first! Do you mean to say that you began + practising on me? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Every dentist has to begin on somebody. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay. + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST (laughing). Oh, the hospital doesn't count. I only meant my + first tooth in private practice. Why didn't you let me give you gas? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Because you said it would be five shillings extra. + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST (shocked). Oh, don't say that. It makes me feel as if I had + hurt you for the sake of five shillings. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (with cool insolence). Well, so you have! (She gets up.) + Why shouldn't you? it's your business to hurt people. (It amuses him to be + treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds to clean and + replace his instruments. She shakes her dress into order; looks + inquisitively about her; and goes to the window.) You have a good view of + the sea from these rooms! Are they expensive? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Yes. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. You don't own the whole house, do you? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. No. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (taking the chair which stands at the writing-table and + looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg.) Your furniture + isn't quite the latest thing, is it? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. It's my landlord's. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Does he own that nice comfortable Bath chair? (pointing to + the operating chair.) + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. No: I have that on the hire-purchase system. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (disparagingly). I thought so. (Looking about her again in + search of further conclusions.) I suppose you haven't been here long? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Six weeks. Is there anything else you would like to know? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (the hint quite lost on her). Any family? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. I am not married. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Of course not: anybody can see that. I meant sisters and + mother and that sort of thing. + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Not on the premises. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Hm! If you've been here six weeks, and mine was your first + tooth, the practice can't be very large, can it? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Not as yet. (He shuts the cabinet, having tidied up + everything.) + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Well, good luck! (She takes our her purse.) Five + shillings, you said it would be? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Five shillings. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (producing a crown piece). Do you charge five shillings for + everything? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Yes. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Why? + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. It's my system. I'm what's called a five shilling dentist. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. How nice! Well, here! (holding up the crown piece) a nice + new five shilling piece! your first fee! Make a hole in it with the thing + you drill people's teeth with and wear it on your watch-chain. + </p> + <p> + THE DENTIST. Thank you. + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID (appearing at the door). The young lady's brother, sir. + </p> + <p> + A handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady's twin, comes in + eagerly. He wears a suit of terra-cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut frock + coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall hat and tan + gloves to match. He has his sister's delicate biscuit complexion, and is + built on the same small scale; but he is elastic and strong in muscle, + decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and trenchant in speech, and + with perfect manners and a finished personal style which might be envied + by a man twice his age. Suavity and self-possession are points of honor + with him; and though this, rightly considered, is only the modern mode of + boyish self-consciousness, its effect is none the less staggering to his + elders, and would be insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. He is + promptitude itself, and has a question ready the moment he enters. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Am I on time? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. No: it's all over. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Did you howl? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, something awful. Mr. Valentine: this is my brother + Phil. Phil: this is Mr. Valentine, our new dentist. (Valentine and Phil + bow to one another. She proceeds, all in one breath.) He's only been here + six weeks; and he's a bachelor. The house isn't his; and the furniture is + the landlord's; but the professional plant is hired. He got my tooth out + beautifully at the first go; and he and I are great friends. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Been asking a lot of questions? + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (as if incapable of doing such a thing). Oh, no. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Glad to hear it. (To Valentine.) So good of you not to mind us, + Mr. Valentine. The fact is, we've never been in England before; and our + mother tells us that the people here simply won't stand us. Come and lunch + with us. (Valentine, bewildered by the leaps and bounds with which their + acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps; but he has no opportunity of + speaking, as the conversation of the twins is swift and continuous.) + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, do, Mr. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. At the Marine Hotel—half past one. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY. We shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable + Englishman has promised to lunch with us. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Say no more, Mr. Valentine: you'll come. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Say no more! I haven't said anything. May I ask whom I have the + pleasure of entertaining? It's really quite impossible for me to lunch at + the Marine Hotel with two perfect strangers. + </p> + <p> + THE YOUNG LADY (flippantly). Ooooh! what bosh! One patient in six weeks! + What difference does it make to you? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (maturely). No, Dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms Mr. + Valentine's judgment. He is right. Let me introduce Miss Dorothy Clandon, + commonly called Dolly. (Valentine bows to Dolly. She nods to him.) I'm + Philip Clandon. We're from Madeira, but perfectly respectable, so far. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Clandon! Are you related to— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (unexpectedly crying out in despair). Yes, we are. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (astonished). I beg your pardon? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, we are, we are. It's all over, Phil: they know all about us in + England. (To Valentine.) Oh, you can't think how maddening it is to be + related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for our own + sakes. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. But excuse me: the gentleman I was thinking of is not + celebrated. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (staring at him). Gentleman! (Phil is also puzzled.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Yes. I was going to ask whether you were by any chance a + daughter of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (vacantly). No. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well come, Dolly: how do you know you're not? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (cheered). Oh, I forgot. Of course. Perhaps I am. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Don't you know? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Not in the least. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. It's a wise child— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (cutting her short). Sh! (Valentine starts nervously; for the sound + made by Philip, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet of silk in + two with a flash of lightning. It is the result of long practice in + checking Dolly's indiscretions.) The fact is, Mr. Valentine, we are the + children of the celebrated Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon, an authoress of great + repute—in Madeira. No household is complete without her works. We + came to England to get away from them. The are called the Twentieth + Century Treatises. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Twentieth Century Cooking. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Twentieth Century Creeds. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Twentieth Century Clothing. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Twentieth Century Conduct. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Twentieth Century Children. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Twentieth Century Parents. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Cloth limp, half a dollar. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. No family + should be without them. Read them, Mr. Valentine: they'll improve your + mind. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. But not till we've gone, please. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. Our own minds + are in that fresh and unspoiled condition. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (echoing him inquiringly). Hm? Phil: he prefers people whose minds + are improved. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. In that case we shall have to introduce him to the other member of + the family: the Woman of the Twentieth Century; our sister Gloria! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (dithyrambically). Nature's masterpiece! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Learning's daughter! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Madeira's pride! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Beauty's paragon! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (suddenly descending to prose). Bosh! No complexion. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (desperately). May I have a word? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (politely). Excuse us. Go ahead. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (very nicely). So sorry. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (attempting to take them paternally). I really must give a hint + to you young people— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (breaking out again). Oh, come: I like that. How old are you? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Over thirty. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. He's not. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (confidently). He is. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (emphatically). Twenty-seven. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (imperturbably). Thirty-three. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Stuff! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (to Valentine). I appeal to you, Mr. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (remonstrating). Well, really—(resigning himself.) + Thirty-one. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (to Dolly). You were wrong. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. So were you. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (suddenly conscientious). We're forgetting our manners, Dolly. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (remorseful). Yes, so we are. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (apologetic). We interrupted you, Mr. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. You were going to improve our minds, I think. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. The fact is, your— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (anticipating him). Our appearance? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Our manners? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (ad misericordiam). Oh, do let me speak. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. The old story. We talk too much. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. We do. Shut up, both. (He seats himself on the arm of the opposing + chair.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Mum! (She sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes her lips + tight with the tips of her fingers.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Thank you. (He brings the stool from the bench in the corner; + places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. They attend to + him with extreme gravity. He addresses himself first to Dolly.) Now may I + ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an English seaside resort + before? (She shakes her head slowly and solemnly. He turns to Phil, who + shakes his head quickly and expressively.) I thought so. Well, Mr. + Clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been voluble; and I + have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither of you capable of + conceiving what life in an English seaside resort is. Believe me, it's not + a question of manners and appearance. In those respects we enjoy a freedom + unknown in Madeira. (Dolly shakes her head vehemently.) Oh, yes, I assure + you. Lord de Cresci's sister bicycles in knickerbockers; and the rector's + wife advocates dress reform and wears hygienic boots. (Dolly furtively + looks at her own shoe: Valentine catches her in the act, and deftly adds) + No, that's not the sort of boot I mean. (Dolly's shoe vanishes.) We don't + bother much about dress and manners in England, because, as a nation we + don't dress well and we've no manners. But—and now will you excuse + my frankness? (They nod.) Thank you. Well, in a seaside resort there's one + thing you must have before anybody can afford to be seen going about with + you; and that's a father, alive or dead. (He looks at them alternately, + with emphasis. They meet his gaze like martyrs.) Am I to infer that you + have omitted that indispensable part of your social equipment? (They + confirm him by melancholy nods.) Them I'm sorry to say that if you are + going to stay here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me to + accept your kind invitation to lunch. (He rises with an air of finality, + and replaces the stool by the bench.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (rising with grave politeness). Come, Dolly. (He gives her his + arm.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Good morning. (They go together to the door with perfect dignity.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (overwhelmed with remorse). Oh, stop, stop. (They halt and turn, + arm in arm.) You make me feel a perfect beast. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. That's your conscience: not us. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional + manner). My conscience! My conscience has been my ruin. Listen to me. + Twice before I have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in + various parts of England. On both occasions I acted conscientiously, and + told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be told. + Result, ruin. Now I've set up as a dentist, a five shilling dentist; and + I've done with conscience forever. This is my last chance. I spent my last + sovereign on moving in; and I haven't paid a shilling of rent yet. I'm + eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as a Jew and as hard + as nails; and I've made five shillings in six weeks. If I swerve by a + hair's breadth from the straight line of the most rigid respectability, + I'm done for. Under such a circumstance, is it fair to ask me to lunch + with you when you don't know your own father? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. After all, our grandfather is a canon of Lincoln Cathedral. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon). What! + Have you a grandfather? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Only one. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. My dear, good young friends, why on earth didn't you tell me + that before? A cannon of Lincoln! That makes it all right, of course. Just + excuse me while I change my coat. (He reaches the door in a bound and + vanishes. Dolly and Phil stare after him, and then stare at one another. + Missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace at once.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (throwing away Dolly's arm and coming ill-humoredly towards the + operating chair). That wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a compliment + of allowing us to stand him a lunch—probably the first square meal + he has had for months. (He gives the chair a kick, as if it were + Valentine.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. It's too beastly. I won't stand it any longer, Phil. Here in + England everybody asks whether you have a father the very first thing. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I won't stand it either. Mamma must tell us who he was. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Or who he is. He may be alive. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I hope not. No man alive shall father me. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. He might have a lot of money, though. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I doubt it. My knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that + if he had a lot of money he wouldn't have got rid of his affectionate + family so easily. Anyhow, let's look at the bright side of things. Depend + on it, he's dead. (He goes to the hearth and stands with his back to the + fireplace, spreading himself. The parlor maid appears. The twins, under + observation, instantly shine out again with their former brilliancy.) + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID. Two ladies for you, miss. Your mother and sister, miss, I + think. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come in. Mrs. Clandon is between forty and fifty, + with a slight tendency to soft, sedentary fat, and a fair remainder of + good looks, none the worse preserved because she has evidently followed + the old tribal matronly fashion of making no pretension in that direction + after her marriage, and might almost be suspected of wearing a cap at + home. She carries herself artificially well, as women were taught to do as + a part of good manners by dancing masters and reclining boards before + these were superseded by the modern artistic cult of beauty and health. + Her hair, a flaxen hazel fading into white, is crimped, and parted in the + middle with the ends plaited and made into a knot, from which observant + people of a certain age infer that Mrs. Clandon had sufficient + individuality and good taste to stand out resolutely against the now + forgotten chignon in her girlhood. In short, she is distinctly old + fashioned for her age in dress and manners. But she belongs to the + forefront of her own period (say 1860-80) in a jealously assertive + attitude of character and intellect, and in being a woman of cultivated + interests rather than passionately developed personal affections. Her + voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane; and she lends herself + conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations of fondness by which her + children mark their esteem for her; but displays of personal sentiment + secretly embarrass her: passion in her is humanitarian rather than human: + she feels strongly about social questions and principles, not about + persons. Only, one observes that this reasonableness and intense personal + privacy, which leaves her relations with Gloria and Phil much as they + might be between her and the children of any other woman, breaks down in + the case of Dolly. Though almost every word she addresses to her is + necessarily in the nature of a remonstrance for some breach of decorum, + the tenderness in her voice is unmistakable; and it is not surprising that + years of such remonstrance have left Dolly hopelessly spoiled. + </p> + <p> + Gloria, who is hardly past twenty, is a much more formidable person than + her mother. She is the incarnation of haughty highmindedness, raging with + the impatience of an impetuous, dominative character paralyzed by the + impotence of her youth, and unwillingly disciplined by the constant danger + of ridicule from her lighter-handed juniors. Unlike her mother, she is all + passion; and the conflict of her passion with her obstinate pride and + intense fastidiousness results in a freezing coldness of manner. In an + ugly woman all this would be repulsive; but Gloria is an attractive woman. + Her deep chestnut hair, olive brown skin, long eyelashes, shaded grey eyes + that often flash like stars, delicately turned full lips, and compact and + supple, but muscularly plump figure appeal with disdainful frankness to + the senses and imagination. A very dangerous girl, one would say, if the + moral passions were not also marked, and even nobly marked, in a fine + brow. Her tailor-made skirt-and-jacket dress of saffron brown cloth, seems + conventional when her back is turned; but it displays in front a blouse of + sea-green silk which upsets its conventionality with one stroke, and sets + her apart as effectually as the twins from the ordinary run of fashionable + seaside humanity. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clandon comes a little way into the room, looking round to see who is + present. Gloria, who studiously avoids encouraging the twins by betraying + any interest in them, wanders to the window and looks out with her + thoughts far away. The parlor maid, instead of withdrawing, shuts the door + and waits at it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Well, children? How is the toothache, Dolly? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Cured, thank Heaven. I've had it out. (She sits down on the step of + the operating chair. Mrs. Clandon takes the writing-table chair.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (striking in gravely from the hearth). And the dentist, a + first-rate professional man of the highest standing, is coming to lunch + with us. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (looking round apprehensively at the servant). Phil! + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID. Beg pardon, ma'am. I'm waiting for Mr. Valentine. I have + a message for him. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Who from? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Dolly! (Dolly catches her lips with her finger + tips, suppressing a little splutter of mirth.) + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID. Only the landlord, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + Valentine, in a blue serge suit, with a straw hat in his hand, comes back + in high spirits, out of breath with the haste he has made. Gloria turns + from the window and studies him with freezing attention. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Let me introduce you, Mr. Valentine. My mother, Mrs. Lanfrey + Clandon. (Mrs. Clandon bows. Valentine bows, self-possessed and quite + equal to the occasion.) My sister Gloria. (Gloria bows with cold dignity + and sits down on the sofa. Valentine falls in love at first sight and is + miserably confused. He fingers his hat nervously, and makes her a sneaking + bow.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I understand that we are to have the pleasure of seeing you + at luncheon to-day, Mr. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Thank you—er—if you don't mind—I mean if you + will be so kind—(to the parlor maid testily) What is it? + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID. The landlord, sir, wishes to speak to you before you go + out. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, tell him I have four patients here. (The Clandons look + surprised, except Phil, who is imperturbable.) If he wouldn't mind waiting + just two minutes, I—I'll slip down and see him for a moment. + (Throwing himself confidentially on her sense of the position.) Say I'm + busy, but that I want to see him. + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID (reassuringly). Yes, sir. (She goes.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (on the point of rising). We are detaining you, I am afraid. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Not at all, not at all. Your presence here will be the greatest + help to me. The fact is, I owe six week's rent; and I've had no patients + until to-day. My interview with my landlord will be considerably smoothed + by the apparent boom in my business. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (vexed). Oh, how tiresome of you to let it all out! And we've just + been pretending that you were a respectable professional man in a + first-rate position. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (horrified). Oh, Dolly, Dolly! My dearest, how can you be so + rude? (To Valentine.) Will you excuse these barbarian children of mine, + Mr. Valentine? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Thank you, I'm used to them. Would it be too much to ask you to + wait five minutes while I get rid of my landlord downstairs? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Don't be long. We're hungry. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (again remonstrating). Dolly, dear! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (to Dolly). All right. (To Mrs. Clandon.) Thank you: I shan't be + long. (He steals a look at Gloria as he turns to go. She is looking + gravely at him. He falls into confusion.) I—er—er—yes—thank + you (he succeeds at last in blundering himself out of the room; but the + exhibition is a pitiful one). + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Did you observe? (Pointing to Gloria.) Love at first sight. You + can add his scalp to your collection, Gloria. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Sh—sh, pray, Phil. He may have heard you. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Not he. (Bracing himself for a scene.) And now look here, mamma. + (He takes the stool from the bench; and seats himself majestically in the + middle of the room, taking a leaf out of Valentine's book. Dolly, feeling + that her position on the step of the operating chair is unworthy of the + dignity of the occasion, rises, looking important and determined; crosses + to the window; and stands with her back to the end of the writing-table, + her hands behind her and on the table. Mrs. Clandon looks at them, + wondering what is coming. Gloria becomes attentive. Philip straightens his + back; places his knuckles symmetrically on his knees; and opens his case.) + Dolly and I have been talking over things a good deal lately; and I don't + think, judging from my knowledge of human nature—we don't think that + you (speaking very staccato, with the words detached) quite appreciate the + fact— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (seating herself on the end of the table with a spring). That we've + grown up. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Indeed? In what way have I given you any reason to complain? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Well, there are certain matters upon which we are beginning to + feel that you might take us a little more into your confidence. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly broken + up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike but + implacable—the manner of the Old Guard of the Women's Rights + movement—coming upon her). Phil: take care. Remember what I have + always taught you. There are two sorts of family life, Phil; and your + experience of human nature only extends, so far, to one of them. + (Rhetorically.) The sort you know is based on mutual respect, on + recognition of the right of every member of the household to independence + and privacy (her emphasis on "privacy" is intense) in their personal + concerns. And because you have always enjoyed that, it seems such a matter + of course to you that you don't value it. But (with biting acrimony) there + is another sort of family life: a life in which husbands open their wives' + letters, and call on them to account for every farthing of their + expenditure and every moment of their time; in which women do the same to + their children; in which no room is private and no hour sacred; in which + duty, obedience, affection, home, morality and religion are detestable + tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of punishments and lies, coercion + and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion, recrimination—Oh! I cannot + describe it to you: fortunately for you, you know nothing about it. (She + sits down, panting. Gloria has listened to her with flashing eyes, sharing + all her indignation.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (inaccessible to rhetoric). See Twentieth Century Parents, chapter + on Liberty, passim. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (touching her shoulder affectionately, soothed even by a gibe + from her). My dear Dolly: if you only knew how glad I am that it is + nothing but a joke to you, though it is such bitter earnest to me. (More + resolutely, turning to Philip.) Phil, I never ask you questions about your + private concerns. You are not going to question me, are you? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I think it due to ourselves to say that the question we wanted to + ask is as much our business as yours. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Besides, it can't be good to keep a lot of questions bottled up + inside you. You did it, mamma; but see how awfully it's broken out again + in me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I see you want to ask your question. Ask it. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY AND PHILIP (beginning simultaneously). Who— (They stop.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Now look here, Dolly: am I going to conduct this business or are + you? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. You. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Then hold your mouth. (Dolly does so literally.) The question is a + simple one. When the ivory snatcher— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Dentist is an ugly word. The man of ivory and gold asked us + whether we were the children of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall. In + pursuance of the precepts in your treatise on Twentieth Century Conduct, + and your repeated personal exhortations to us to curtail the number of + unnecessary lies we tell, we replied truthfully the we didn't know. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Neither did we. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! The result was that the gum architect made considerable + difficulties about accepting our invitation to lunch, although I doubt if + he has had anything but tea and bread and butter for a fortnight past. Now + my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that we had a father, and + that you probably know who he was. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (her agitation returning). Stop, Phil. Your father is nothing + to you, nor to me (vehemently). That is enough. (The twins are silenced, + but not satisfied. Their faces fall. But Gloria, who has been following + the altercation attentively, suddenly intervenes.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (advancing). Mother: we have a right to know. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (rising and facing her). Gloria! "We!" Who is "we"? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (steadfastly). We three. (Her tone is unmistakable: she is pitting + her strength against her mother for the first time. The twins instantly go + over to the enemy.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (wounded). In your mouth "we" used to mean you and I, Gloria. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (rising decisively and putting away the stool). We're hurting you: + let's drop it. We didn't think you'd mind. I don't want to know. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (coming off the table). I'm sure I don't. Oh, don't look like that, + mamma. (She looks angrily at Gloria.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (touching her eyes hastily with her handkerchief and sitting + down again). Thank you, my dear. Thanks, Phil. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (inexorably). We have a right to know, mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (indignantly). Ah! You insist. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Do you intend that we shall never know? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, Gloria, don't. It's barbarous. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with quiet scorn). What is the use of being weak? You see what has + happened with this gentleman here, mother. The same thing has happened to + me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON } (all { What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY } together). { Oh, tell us. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP } { What happened to you? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Oh, nothing of any consequence. (She turns away from them and goes + up to the easy chair at the fireplace, where she sits down, almost with + her back to them. As they wait expectantly, she adds, over her shoulder, + with studied indifference.) On board the steamer the first officer did me + the honor to propose to me. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. No, it was to me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. The first officer! Are you serious, Gloria? What did you say + to him? (correcting herself) Excuse me: I have no right to ask that. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. The answer is pretty obvious. A woman who does not know who her + father was cannot accept such an offer. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Surely you did not want to accept it? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (turning a little and raising her voice). No; but suppose I had + wanted to! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Did that difficulty strike you, Dolly? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. No, I accepted him. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA } (all crying { Accepted him! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON } out { Dolly! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP } together) { Oh, I say! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (naively). He did look such a fool! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. But why did you do such a thing, Dolly? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. For fun, I suppose. He had to measure my finger for a ring. You'd + have done the same thing yourself. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. No, Dolly, I would not. As a matter of fact the first + officer did propose to me; and I told him to keep that sort of thing for + women were young enough to be amused by it. He appears to have acted on my + advice. (She rises and goes to the hearth.) Gloria: I am sorry you think + me weak; but I cannot tell you what you want. You are all too young. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. This is rather a startling departure from Twentieth Century + principles. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (quoting). "Answer all your children's questions, and answer them + truthfully, as soon as they are old enough to ask them." See Twentieth + Century Motherhood— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Page one— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Chapter one— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sentence one. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. My dears: I did not say that you were too young to know. I + said you were too young to be taken into my confidence. You are very + bright children, all of you; but I am glad for your sakes that you are + still very inexperienced and consequently very unsympathetic. There are + some experiences of mine that I cannot bear to speak of except to those + who have gone through what I have gone through. I hope you will never be + qualified for such confidences. But I will take care that you shall learn + all you want to know. Will that satisfy you? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Another grievance, Dolly. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. We're not sympathetic. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (leaning forward in her chair and looking earnestly up at her + mother). Mother: I did not mean to be unsympathetic. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (affectionately). Of course not, dear. Do you think I don't + understand? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (rising). But, mother— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (drawing back a little). Yes? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (obstinately). It is nonsense to tell us that our father is nothing + to us. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (provoked to sudden resolution). Do you remember your father? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (meditatively, as if the recollection were a tender one). I am not + quite sure. I think so. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (grimly). You are not sure? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. No. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (with quiet force). Gloria: if I had ever struck you— + (Gloria recoils: Philip and Dolly are disagreeably shocked; all three + start at her, revolted as she continues)—struck you purposely, + deliberately, with the intention of hurting you, with a whip bought for + the purpose! Would you remember that, do you think? (Gloria utters an + exclamation of indignant repulsion.) That would have been your last + recollection of your father, Gloria, if I had not taken you away from him. + I have kept him out of your life: keep him now out of mine by never + mentioning him to me again. (Gloria, with a shudder, covers her face with + her hands, until, hearing someone at the door, she turns away and pretends + to occupy herself looking at the names of the books in the bookcase. Mrs. + Clandon sits down on the sofa. Valentine returns.). + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I hope I've not kept you waiting. That landlord of mine is + really an extraordinary old character. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (eagerly). Oh, tell us. How long has he given you to pay? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (distracted by her child's bad manners). Dolly, Dolly, Dolly + dear! You must not ask questions. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (demurely). So sorry. You'll tell us, won't you, Mr. Valentine? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. He doesn't want his rent at all. He's broken his tooth on a + Brazil nut; and he wants me to look at it and to lunch with him + afterwards. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Then have him up and pull his tooth out at once; and we'll bring + him to lunch, too. Tell the maid to fetch him along. (She runs to the bell + and rings it vigorously. Then, with a sudden doubt she turns to Valentine + and adds) I suppose he's respectable—really respectable. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Perfectly. Not like me. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Honest Injun? (Mrs. Clandon gasps faintly; but her powers of + remonstrance are exhausted.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Honest Injun! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Then off with you and bring him up. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (looking dubiously at Mrs. Clandon). I daresay he'd be delighted + if—er—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (rising and looking at her watch). I shall be happy to see + your friend at lunch, if you can persuade him to come; but I can't wait to + see him now: I have an appointment at the hotel at a quarter to one with + an old friend whom I have not seen since I left England eighteen years + ago. Will you excuse me? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Certainly, Mrs. Clandon. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Shall I come? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. No, dear. I want to be alone. (She goes out, evidently still + a good deal troubled. Valentine opens the door for her and follows her + out.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (significantly—to Dolly). Hmhm! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (significantly to Philip). Ahah! (The parlor maid answers the bell.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Show the old gentleman up. + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID (puzzled). Madam? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. The old gentleman with the toothache. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. The landlord. + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID. Mr. Crampton, Sir? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Is his name Crampton? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (to Philip). Sounds rheumaticky, doesn't it? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Chalkstones, probably. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (over her shoulder, to the parlor maid). Show Mr. Crampstones up. + (Goes R. to writing-table chair). + </p> + <p> + THE PARLOR MAID (correcting her). Mr. Crampton, miss. (She goes.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (repeating it to herself like a lesson). Crampton, Crampton, + Crampton, Crampton, Crampton. (She sits down studiously at the + writing-table.) I must get that name right, or Heaven knows what I shall + call him. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Phil: can you believe such a horrible thing as that about our + father—what mother said just now? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Oh, there are lots of people of that kind. Old Chalice used to + thrash his wife and daughters with a cartwhip. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (contemptuously). Yes, a Portuguese! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. When you come to men who are brutes, there is much in common + between the Portuguese and the English variety, Doll. Trust my knowledge + of human nature. (He resumes his position on the hearthrug with an elderly + and responsible air.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with angered remorse). I don't think we shall ever play again at + our old game of guessing what our father was to be like. Dolly: are you + sorry for your father—the father with lots of money? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, come! What about your father—the lonely old man with the + tender aching heart? He's pretty well burst up, I think. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. There can be no doubt that the governor is an exploded + superstition. (Valentine is heard talking to somebody outside the door.) + But hark: he comes. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (nervously). Who? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Chalkstones. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! Attention. (They put on their best manners. Philip adds in a + lower voice to Gloria) If he's good enough for the lunch, I'll nod to + Dolly; and if she nods to you, invite him straight away. + </p> + <p> + (Valentine comes back with his landlord. Mr. Fergus Crampton is a man of + about sixty, tall, hard and stringy, with an atrociously obstinate, ill + tempered, grasping mouth, and a querulously dogmatic voice. Withal he is + highly nervous and sensitive, judging by his thin transparent skin marked + with multitudinous lines, and his slender fingers. His consequent capacity + for suffering acutely from all the dislike that his temper and obstinacy + can bring upon him is proved by his wistful, wounded eyes, by a plaintive + note in his voice, a painful want of confidence in his welcome, and a + constant but indifferently successful effort to correct his natural + incivility of manner and proneness to take offence. By his keen brows and + forehead he is clearly a shrewd man; and there is no sign of straitened + means or commercial diffidence about him: he is well dressed, and would be + classed at a guess as a prosperous master manufacturer in a business + inherited from an old family in the aristocracy of trade. His navy blue + coat is not of the usual fashionable pattern. It is not exactly a pilot's + coat; but it is cut that way, double breasted, and with stout buttons and + broad lapels, a coat for a shipyard rather than a counting house. He has + taken a fancy to Valentine, who cares nothing for his crossness of grain + and treats him with a sort of disrespectful humanity, for which he is + secretly grateful.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. May I introduce—this is Mr. Crampton—Miss Dorothy + Clandon, Mr. Philip Clandon, Miss Clandon. (Crampton stands nervously + bowing. They all bow.) Sit down, Mr. Crampton. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (pointing to the operating chair). That is the most comfortable + chair, Mr. Ch—crampton. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Thank you; but won't this young lady—(indicating Gloria, + who is close to the chair)? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Thank you, Mr. Crampton: we are just going. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (bustling him across to the chair with good-humored + peremptoriness). Sit down, sit down. You're tired. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Well, perhaps as I am considerably the oldest person present, I— + (He finishes the sentence by sitting down a little rheumatically in the + operating chair. Meanwhile, Philip, having studied him critically during + his passage across the room, nods to Dolly; and Dolly nods to Gloria.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Mr. Crampton: we understand that we are preventing Mr. Valentine + from lunching with you by taking him away ourselves. My mother would be + very glad, indeed, if you would come too. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (gratefully, after looking at her earnestly for a moment). Thank + you. I will come with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA } (politely { Thank you very much—er— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY } murmuring).{ So glad—er— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP } { Delighted, I'm sure—er— + </p> + <p> + (The conversation drops. Gloria and Dolly look at one another; then at + Valentine and Philip. Valentine and Philip, unequal to the occasion, look + away from them at one another, and are instantly so disconcerted by + catching one another's eye, that they look back again and catch the eyes + of Gloria and Dolly. Thus, catching one another all round, they all look + at nothing and are quite at a loss. Crampton looks about him, waiting for + them to begin. The silence becomes unbearable.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (suddenly, to keep things going). How old are you, Mr. Crampton? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (hastily). I am afraid we must be going, Mr. Valentine. It is + understood, then, that we meet at half past one. (She makes for the door. + Philip goes with her. Valentine retreats to the bell.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Half past one. (He rings the bell.) Many thanks. (He follows + Gloria and Philip to the door, and goes out with them.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (who has meanwhile stolen across to Crampton). Make him give you + gas. It's five shillings extra: but it's worth it. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (amused). Very well. (Looking more earnestly at her.) So you want + to know my age, do you? I'm fifty-seven. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (with conviction). You look it. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (grimly). I dare say I do. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. What are you looking at me so hard for? Anything wrong? (She feels + whether her hat is right.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. You're like somebody. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Who? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Well, you have a curious look of my mother. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (incredulously). Your mother!!! Quite sure you don't mean your + daughter? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (suddenly blackening with hate). Yes: I'm quite sure I don't mean + my daughter. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (sympathetically). Tooth bad? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. No, no: nothing. A twinge of memory, Miss Clandon, not of + toothache. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Have it out. "Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow:" with gas, + five shillings extra. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (vindictively). No, not a sorrow. An injury that was done me + once: that's all. I don't forget injuries; and I don't want to forget + them. (His features settle into an implacable frown.) + </p> + <p> + (re-enter Philip: to look for Dolly. He comes down behind her unobserved.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (looking critically at Crampton's expression). I don't think we + shall like you when you are brooding over your sorrows. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (who has entered the room unobserved, and stolen behind her). My + sister means well, Mr. Crampton: but she is indiscreet. Now Dolly, + outside! (He takes her towards the door.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (in a perfectly audible undertone). He says he's only fifty-seven; + and he thinks me the image of his mother; and he hates his daughter; and— + (She is interrupted by the return of Valentine.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Miss Clandon has gone on. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Don't forget half past one. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Mind you leave Mr. Crampton with enough teeth to eat with. (They go + out. Valentine comes down to his cabinet, and opens it.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. That's a spoiled child, Mr. Valentine. That's one of your modern + products. When I was her age, I had many a good hiding fresh in my memory + to teach me manners. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (taking up his dental mirror and probe from the shelf in front + of the cabinet). What did you think of her sister? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. You liked her better, eh? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (rhapsodically). She struck me as being— (He checks + himself, and adds, prosaically) However, that's not business. (He places + himself behind Crampton's right shoulder and assumes his professional + tone.) Open, please. (Crampton opens his mouth. Valentine puts the mirror + in, and examines his teeth.) Hm! You have broken that one. What a pity to + spoil such a splendid set of teeth! Why do you crack nuts with them? (He + withdraws the mirror, and comes forward to converse with Crampton.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I've always cracked nuts with them: what else are they for? + (Dogmatically.) The proper way to keep teeth good is to give them plenty + of use on bones and nuts, and wash them every day with soap— plain + yellow soap. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Soap! Why soap? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I began using it as a boy because I was made to; and I've used + it ever since. And I never had toothache in my life. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Don't you find it rather nasty? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I found that most things that were good for me were nasty. But I + was taught to put up with them, and made to put up with them. I'm used to + it now: in fact, I like the taste when the soap is really good. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (making a wry face in spite of himself). You seem to have been + very carefully educated, Mr. Crampton. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (grimly). I wasn't spoiled, at all events. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (smiling a little to himself). Are you quite sure? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Well, your teeth are good, I admit. But I've seen just as good + in very self-indulgent mouths. (He goes to the ledge of cabinet and + changes the probe for another one.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. It's not the effect on the teeth: it's the effect on the + character. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (placably). Oh, the character, I see. (He recommences + operations.) A little wider, please. Hm! That one will have to come out: + it's past saving. (He withdraws the probe and again comes to the side of + the chair to converse.) Don't be alarmed: you shan't feel anything. I'll + give you gas. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Rubbish, man: I want none of your gas. Out with it. People were + taught to bear necessary pain in my day. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, if you like being hurt, all right. I'll hurt you as much as + you like, without any extra charge for the beneficial effect on your + character. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (rising and glaring at him). Young man: you owe me six weeks' + rent. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I do. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Can you pay me? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. No. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (satisfied with his advantage). I thought not. How soon d'y' + think you'll be able to pay me if you have no better manners than to make + game of your patients? (He sits down again.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. My good sir: my patients haven't all formed their characters on + kitchen soap. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (suddenly gripping him by the arm as he turns away again to the + cabinet). So much the worse for them. I tell you you don't understand my + character. If I could spare all my teeth, I'd make you pull them all out + one after another to shew you what a properly hardened man can go through + with when he's made up his mind to do it. (He nods at him to enforce the + effect of this declaration, and releases him.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (his careless pleasantry quite unruffled). And you want to be + more hardened, do you? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Yes. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (strolling away to the bell). Well, you're quite hard enough for + me already—as a landlord. (Crampton receives this with a growl of + grim humor. Valentine rings the bell, and remarks in a cheerful, casual + way, whilst waiting for it to be answered.) Why did you never get married, + Mr. Crampton? A wife and children would have taken some of the hardness + out of you. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (with unexpected ferocity). What the devil is that to you? (The + parlor maid appears at the door.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (politely). Some warm water, please. (She retires: and Valentine + comes back to the cabinet, not at all put out by Crampton's rudeness, and + carries on the conversation whilst he selects a forceps and places it + ready to his hand with a gag and a drinking glass.) You were asking me + what the devil that was to me. Well, I have an idea of getting married + myself. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (with grumbling irony). Naturally, sir, naturally. When a young + man has come to his last farthing, and is within twenty-four hours of + having his furniture distrained upon by his landlord, he marries. I've + noticed that before. Well, marry; and be miserable. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, come, what do you know about it? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I'm not a bachelor. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Then there is a Mrs. Crampton? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (wincing with a pang of resentment). Yes—damn her! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (unperturbed). Hm! A father, too, perhaps, as well as a husband, + Mr. Crampton? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Three children. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (politely). Damn them?—eh? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (jealously). No, sir: the children are as much mine as hers. (The + parlor maid brings in a jug of hot water.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Thank you. (He takes the jug from her, and brings it to the + cabinet, continuing in the same idle strain) I really should like to know + your family, Mr. Crampton. (The parlor maid goes out: and he pours some + hot water into the drinking glass.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Sorry I can't introduce you, sir. I'm happy to say that I don't + know where they are, and don't care, so long as they keep out of my way. + (Valentine, with a hitch of his eyebrows and shoulders, drops the forceps + with a clink into the glass of hot water.) You needn't warm that thing to + use on me. I'm not afraid of the cold steel. (Valentine stoops to arrange + the gas pump and cylinder beside the chair.) What's that heavy thing? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, never mind. Something to put my foot on, to get the + necessary purchase for a good pull. (Crampton looks alarmed in spite of + himself. Valentine stands upright and places the glass with the forceps in + it ready to his hand, chatting on with provoking indifference.) And so you + advise me not to get married, Mr. Crampton? (He stoops to fit the handle + on the apparatus by which the chair is raised and lowered.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (irritably). I advise you to get my tooth out and have done + reminding me of my wife. Come along, man. (He grips the arms of the chair + and braces himself.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (pausing, with his hand on the lever, to look up at him and + say). What do you bet that I don't get that tooth out without your feeling + it? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Your six week's rent, young man. Don't you gammon me. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (jumping at the bet and winding him aloft vigorously). Done! Are + you ready? (Crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in his alarm at + its sudden ascent, folds his arms: sits stiffly upright: and prepares for + the worst. Valentine lets down the back of the chair to an obtuse angle.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (clutching at the arms of the chair as he falls back). Take care + man. I'm quite helpless in this po—- + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (deftly stopping him with the gag, and snatching up the + mouthpiece of the gas machine). You'll be more helpless presently. (He + presses the mouthpiece over Crampton's mouth and nose, leaning over his + chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair. + Crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to lay + hands on Valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. After a moment + his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. He is quite insensible. + Valentine, with an exclamation of somewhat preoccupied triumph, throws + aside the mouthpiece quickly: picks up the forceps adroitly from the + glass: and—the curtain falls.) + </p> + <p> + END OF ACT I. <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> + <p> + On the terrace at the Marine Hotel. It is a square flagged platform, with + a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone coping on + the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff. The head waiter + of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon table with his + back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his left, in the + corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to the beach. + </p> + <p> + When he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to his + left a solitary guest, a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair of iron + laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three wasps on + it, reading the Standard, with his umbrella up to defend him from the sun, + which, in August and at less than an hour after noon, is toasting his + protended insteps. Just opposite him, at the hotel side of the terrace, + there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern. Access to the + hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of its facade, reached + by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised pavement. Nearer the + parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by a little trellis + porch. The table at which the waiter is occupied is a long one, set across + the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at each side and one at + the end next the hotel. Against the parapet another table is prepared as a + buffet to serve from. + </p> + <p> + The waiter is a remarkable person in his way. A silky old man, + white-haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that in + his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and + imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of the + actual. He has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been + extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of the + vanity of success, are untouched by envy. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. He wears + his London frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table + beside the sugar bowl. The excellent condition and quality of these + garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading + the Standard, and the Times at his elbow overlaying the local paper, all + testify to his respectability. He is about fifty, clean shaven, and + close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as if + he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to let + them have their way. He has large expansive ears, cod colored eyes, and a + brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in his youth + to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never succeeded in + making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious. Still, he is by no + means to be laughed at. There is no sign of stupidity or infirmity of will + about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere at sight as a man of + more than average professional capacity and responsibility. Just at + present he is enjoying the weather and the sea too much to be out of + patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his papers and is at + present reduced to the advertisements, which are not sufficiently + succulent to induce him to persevere with them. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN (yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job). Waiter! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Sir? (coming down C.) + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. Are you quite sure Mrs. Clandon is coming back before + lunch? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Quite sure, sir. She expects you at a quarter to one, sir. (The + gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter's voice, looks at him with a lazy + smile. It is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives + sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with + the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing them, + nor committing any other vulgarism. He looks at his watch as he continues) + Not that yet, sir, is it? 12:43, sir. Only two minutes more to wait, sir. + Nice morning, sir? + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. Yes: very fresh after London. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. Very nice family, Mrs. + Clandon's, sir. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. You like them, do you? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. They have a free way with them that is very taking, sir, + very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and gentleman. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. Miss Dorothea and Mr. Philip, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. The young lady, in giving an order, or the like of that, + will say, "Remember, William, we came to this hotel on your account, + having heard what a perfect waiter you are." The young gentleman will tell + me that I remind him strongly of his father (the gentleman starts at this) + and that he expects me to act by him as such. (Soothing, sunny cadence.) + Oh, very pleasant, sir, very affable and pleasant indeed! + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. You like his father! (He laughs at the notion.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. Of course, + sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the resemblance, too, + sir. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. Did she? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. No, sir. She thought me like the bust of Shakespear in Stratford + Church, sir. That is why she calls me William, sir. My real name is + Walter, sir. (He turns to go back to the table, and sees Mrs. Clandon + coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps.) Here is Mrs. + Clandon, sir. (To Mrs. Clandon, in an unobtrusively confidential tone) + Gentleman for you, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. We shall have two more gentlemen at lunch, William. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Right, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. (He withdraws into the hotel. Mrs. + Clandon comes forward looking round for her visitor, but passes over the + gentleman without any sign of recognition.) + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN (peering at her quaintly from under the umbrella). Don't you + know me? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (incredulously, looking hard at him) Are you Finch McComas? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Can't you guess? (He shuts the umbrella; puts it aside; and + jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be inspected.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I believe you are. (She gives him her hand. The shake that + ensues is that of old friends after a long separation.) Where's your + beard? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (with humorous solemnity). Would you employ a solicitor with a + beard? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (pointing to the silk hat on the table). Is that your hat? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Would you employ a solicitor with a sombrero? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I have thought of you all these eighteen years with the + beard and the sombrero. (She sits down on the garden seat. McComas takes + his chair again.) Do you go to the meetings of the Dialectical Society + still? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (gravely). I do not frequent meetings now. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Finch: I see what has happened. You have become respectable. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Haven't you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Not a bit. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. You hold to your old opinions still? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. As firmly as ever. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Bless me! And you are still ready to make speeches in public, in + spite of your sex (Mrs. Clandon nods); to insist on a married woman's + right to her own separate property (she nods again); to champion Darwin's + view of the origin of species and John Stuart Mill's essay on Liberty + (nod); to read Huxley, Tyndall and George Eliot (three nods); and to + demand University degrees, the opening of the professions, and the + parliamentary franchise for women as well as men? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (resolutely). Yes: I have not gone back one inch; and I have + educated Gloria to take up my work where I left it. That is what has + brought me back to England: I felt that I had no right to bury her alive + in Madeira—my St. Helena, Finch. I suppose she will be howled at as + I was; but she is prepared for that. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Howled at! My dear good lady: there is nothing in any of those + views now-a-days to prevent her from marrying a bishop. You reproached me + just now for having become respectable. You were wrong: I hold to our old + opinions as strongly as ever. I don't go to church; and I don't pretend I + do. I call myself what I am: a Philosophic Radical, standing for liberty + and the rights of the individual, as I learnt to do from my master Herbert + Spencer. Am I howled at? No: I'm indulged as an old fogey. I'm out of + everything, because I've refused to bow the knee to Socialism. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Socialism. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Yes, Socialism. That's what Miss Gloria will be up to her ears in + before the end of the month if you let her loose here. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (emphatically). But I can prove to her that Socialism is a + fallacy. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (touchingly). It is by proving that, Mrs. Clandon, that I have + lost all my young disciples. Be careful what you do: let her go her own + way. (With some bitterness.) We're old-fashioned: the world thinks it has + left us behind. There is only one place in all England where your opinions + would still pass as advanced. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (scornfully unconvinced). The Church, perhaps? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. No, the theatre. And now to business! Why have you made me come + down here? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Well, partly because I wanted to see you— + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (with good-humored irony). Thanks. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. —and partly because I want you to explain everything + to the children. They know nothing; and now that we have come back to + England, it is impossible to leave them in ignorance any longer. + (Agitated.) Finch: I cannot bring myself to tell them. I— (She is + interrupted by the twins and Gloria. Dolly comes tearing up the steps, + racing Philip, who combines a terrific speed with unhurried propriety of + bearing which, however, costs him the race, as Dolly reaches her mother + first and almost upsets the garden seat by the precipitancy of her + arrival.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (breathless). It's all right, mamma. The dentist is coming; and he's + bringing his old man. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Dolly, dear: don't you see Mr. McComas? (Mr. McComas rises, + smilingly.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (her face falling with the most disparagingly obvious + disappointment). This! Where are the flowing locks? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (seconding her warmly). Where the beard?—the cloak?—the + poetic exterior? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, Mr. McComas, you've gone and spoiled yourself. Why didn't you + wait till we'd seen you? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (taken aback, but rallying his humor to meet the emergency). + Because eighteen years is too long for a solicitor to go without having + his hair cut. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (at the other side of McComas). How do you do, Mr. McComas? (He + turns; and she takes his hand and presses it, with a frank straight look + into his eyes.) We are glad to meet you at last. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Miss Gloria, I presume? (Gloria smiles assent, and releases his + hand after a final pressure. She then retires behind the garden seat, + leaning over the back beside Mrs. Clandon.) And this young gentleman? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I was christened in a comparatively prosaic mood. My name is— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (completing his sentence for him declamatorily). "Norval. On the + Grampian hills"— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (declaiming gravely). "My father feeds his flock, a frugal swain"— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dear, dear children: don't be silly. + Everything is so new to them here, Finch, that they are in the wildest + spirits. They think every Englishman they meet is a joke. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Well, so he is: it's not our fault. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. My knowledge of human nature is fairly extensive, Mr. McComas; but + I find it impossible to take the inhabitants of this island seriously. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I presume, sir, you are Master Philip (offering his hand)? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (taking McComas's hand and looking solemnly at him). I was Master + Philip—was so for many years; just as you were once Master Finch. + (He gives his hand a single shake and drops it; then turns away, + exclaiming meditatively) How strange it is to look back on our boyhood! + (McComas stares after him, not at all pleased.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (to Mrs. Clandon). Has Finch had a drink? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dearest: Mr. McComas will lunch with us. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Have you ordered for seven? Don't forget the old gentleman. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I have not forgotten him, dear. What is his name? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Chalkstones. He'll be here at half past one. (To McComas.) Are we + like what you expected? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (changing her tone to a more earnest one). Dolly: Mr. McComas + has something more serious than that to tell you. Children: I have asked + my old friend to answer the question you asked this morning. He is your + father's friend as well as mine: and he will tell you the story more + fairly than I could. (Turning her head from them to Gloria.) Gloria: are + you satisfied? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (gravely attentive). Mr. McComas is very kind. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (nervously). Not at all, my dear young lady: not at all. At the + same time, this is rather sudden. I was hardly prepared—er— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (suspiciously). Oh, we don't want anything prepared. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (exhorting him). Tell us the truth. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (emphatically). Bald headed. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (nettled). I hope you intend to take what I have to say seriously. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (with profound mock gravity). I hope it will deserve it, Mr. + McComas. My knowledge of human nature teaches me not to expect too much. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Yes, mother, all right. I beg your pardon, Mr. McComas: don't mind + us. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (in conciliation). We mean well. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Shut up, both. + </p> + <p> + (Dolly holds her lips. McComas takes a chair from the luncheon table; + places it between the little table and the garden seat with Dolly on his + right and Philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the air of a + man about to begin a long communication. The Clandons match him + expectantly.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Ahem! Your father— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (interrupting). How old is he? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (softly). Dear Dolly: don't let us interrupt Mr. McComas. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (emphatically). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Thank you. (To Dolly.) + Your father is fifty-seven. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (with a bound, startled and excited). Fifty-seven! Where does he + live? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dolly, Dolly! + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (stopping her). Let me answer that, Mrs. Clandon. The answer will + surprise you considerably. He lives in this town. (Mrs. Clandon rises. She + and Gloria look at one another in the greatest consternation.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (with conviction). I knew it! Phil: Chalkstones is our father. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Chalkstones! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, Crampstones, or whatever it is. He said I was like his mother. + I knew he must mean his daughter. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (very seriously). Mr. McComas: I desire to consider your feelings + in every possible way: but I warn you that if you stretch the long arm of + coincidence to the length of telling me that Mr. Crampton of this town is + my father, I shall decline to entertain the information for a moment. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. And pray why? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Because I have seen the gentleman; and he is entirely unfit to be + my father, or Dolly's father, or Gloria's father, or my mother's husband. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Oh, indeed! Well, sir, let me tell you that whether you like it + or not, he is your father, and your sister' father, and Mrs. Clandon's + husband. Now! What have you to say to that! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (whimpering). You needn't be so cross. Crampton isn't your father. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Mr. McComas: your conduct is heartless. Here you find a family + enjoying the unspeakable peace and freedom of being orphans. We have never + seen the face of a relative—never known a claim except the claim of + freely chosen friendship. And now you wish to thrust into the most + intimate relationship with us a man whom we don't know— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (vehemently). An awful old man! (reproachfully) And you began as if + you had quite a nice father for us. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (angrily). How do you know that he is not nice? And what right + have you to choose your own father? (raising his voice.) Let me tell you, + Miss Clandon, that you are too young to— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (interrupting him suddenly and eagerly). Stop, I forgot! Has he any + money? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. He has a great deal of money. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (delighted). Oh, what did I always say, Phil? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Dolly: we have perhaps been condemning the old man too hastily. + Proceed, Mr. McComas. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I shall not proceed, sir. I am too hurt, too shocked, to proceed. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (urgently). Finch: do you realize what is happening? Do you + understand that my children have invited that man to lunch, and that he + will be here in a few moments? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (completely upset). What! do you mean—am I to understand—is + it— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (impressively). Steady, Finch. Think it out slowly and carefully. + He's coming—coming to lunch. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Which of us is to tell him the truth? Have you thought of that? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Finch: you must tell him. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY Oh, Finch is no good at telling things. Look at the mess he has made + of telling us. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I have not been allowed to speak. I protest against this. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (taking his arm coaxingly). Dear Finch: don't be cross. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Gloria: let us go in. He may arrive at any moment. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (proudly). Do not stir, mother. I shall not stir. We must not run + away. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (delicately rebuking her). My dear: we cannot sit down to + lunch just as we are. We shall come back again. We must have no bravado. + (Gloria winces, and goes into the hotel without a word.) Come, Dolly. (As + she goes into the hotel door, the waiter comes out with plates, etc., for + two additional covers on a tray.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Gentlemen come yet, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Two more to come yet, thank you. They will be here, + immediately. (She goes into the hotel. The waiter takes his tray to the + service table.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I have an idea. Mr. McComas: this communication should be made, + should it not, by a man of infinite tact? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. It will require tact, certainly. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP Good! Dolly: whose tact were you noticing only this morning? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (seizing the idea with rapture). Oh, yes, I declare! William! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. The very man! (Calling) William! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Coming, sir. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (horrified). The waiter! Stop, stop! I will not permit this. I— + </p> + <p> + WAITER (presenting himself between Philip and McComas). Yes, sir. + (McComas's complexion fades into stone grey; and all movement and + expression desert his eyes. He sits down stupefied.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. William: you remember my request to you to regard me as your son? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (with respectful indulgence). Yes, sir. Anything you please, sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. William: at the very outset of your career as my father, a rival + has appeared on the scene. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Your real father, sir? Well, that was to be expected, sooner or + later, sir, wasn't it? (Turning with a happy smile to McComas.) Is it you, + sir? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (renerved by indignation). Certainly not. My children know how to + behave themselves. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. No, William: this gentleman was very nearly my father: he wooed my + mother, but wooed her in vain. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (outraged). Well, of all the— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! Consequently, he is only our solicitor. Do you know one + Crampton, of this town? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Cock-eyed Crampton, sir, of the Crooked Billet, is it? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I don't know. Finch: does he keep a public house? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (rising scandalized). No, no, no. Your father, sir, is a + well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (impressed). Oh, beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. A son of Mr. + Crampton's! Dear me! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Mr. Crampton is coming to lunch with us. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (puzzled). Yes, sir. (Diplomatically.) Don't usually lunch with his + family, perhaps, sir? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (impressively). William: he does not know that we are his family. + He has not seen us for eighteen years. He won't know us. (To emphasize the + communication he seats himself on the iron table with a spring, and looks + at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs swinging.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. We want you to break the news to him, William. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. But I should think he'd guess when he sees your mother, miss. + (Philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. He contemplates the + waiter raptly.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (dazzled). I never thought of that. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Nor I. (Coming off the table and turning reproachfully on + McComas.) Nor you. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. And you a solicitor! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Finch: Your professional incompetence is appalling. William: your + sagacity puts us all to shame. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY You really are like Shakespear, William. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Not at all, sir. Don't mention it, miss. Most happy, I'm sure, + sir. (Goes back modestly to the luncheon table and lays the two additional + covers, one at the end next the steps, and the other so as to make a third + on the side furthest from the balustrade.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (abruptly). Finch: come and wash your hands. (Seizes his arm and + leads him toward the hotel.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I am thoroughly vexed and hurt, Mr. Clandon— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (interrupting him). You will get used to us. Come, Dolly. (McComas + shakes him off and marches into the hotel. Philip follows with unruffled + composure.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (turning for a moment on the steps as she follows them). Keep your + wits about you, William. There will be fire-works. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Right, miss. You may depend on me, miss. (She goes into the + hotel.) + </p> + <p> + (Valentine comes lightly up the steps from the beach, followed doggedly by + Crampton. Valentine carries a walking stick. Crampton, either because he + is old and chilly, or with some idea of extenuating the unfashionableness + of his reefer jacket, wears a light overcoat. He stops at the chair left + by McComas in the middle of the terrace, and steadies himself for a moment + by placing his hand on the back of it.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Those steps make me giddy. (He passes his hand over his + forehead.) I have not got over that infernal gas yet. + </p> + <p> + (He goes to the iron chair, so that he can lean his elbows on the little + table to prop his head as he sits. He soon recovers, and begins to + unbutton his overcoat. Meanwhile Valentine interviews the waiter.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Waiter! + </p> + <p> + WAITER (coming forward between them). Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (with a sweet smile of welcome). Yes, sir. We're expecting you, + sir. That is your table, sir. Mrs. Clandon will be down presently, sir. + The young lady and young gentleman were just talking about your friend, + sir. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Indeed! + </p> + <p> + WAITER (smoothly melodious). Yes, sire. Great flow of spirits, sir. A vein + of pleasantry, as you might say, sir. (Quickly, to Crampton, who has risen + to get the overcoat off.) Beg pardon, sir, but if you'll allow me (helping + him to get the overcoat off and taking it from him). Thank you, sir. + (Crampton sits down again; and the waiter resumes the broken melody.) The + young gentleman's latest is that you're his father, sir. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. What! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. Yesterday, I was to be his + father. To-day, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he tried to put + it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father—not seen + you for eighteen years, he said. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (startled). Eighteen years! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. (With gentle archness.) But I was up to his tricks, sir. + I saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there, thinking what new + joke he'd have with me. Yes, sir: that's the sort he is: very pleasant, ve—ry + off hand and affable indeed, sir. (Again changing his tempo to say to + Valentine, who is putting his stick down against the corner of the garden + seat) If you'll allow me, sir? (Taking Valentine's stick.) Thank you, sir. + (Valentine strolls up to the luncheon table and looks at the menu. The + waiter turns to Crampton and resumes his lay.) Even the solicitor took up + the joke, although he was in a manner of speaking in my confidence about + the young gentleman, sir. Yes, sir, I assure you, sir. You would never + imagine what respectable professional gentlemen from London will do on an + outing, when the sea air takes them, sir. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Oh, there's a solicitor with them, is there? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. The family solicitor, sir—yes, sir. Name of McComas, sir. + (He goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious + of the bomblike effect the name has produced on Crampton.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (rising in angry alarm). McComas! (Calls to Valentine.) + Valentine! (Again, fiercely.) Valentine!! (Valentine turns.) This is a + plant, a conspiracy. This is my family—my children—my infernal + wife. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (coolly). On, indeed! Interesting meeting! (He resumes his study + of the menu.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Meeting! Not for me. Let me out of this. (Calling to the + waiter.) Give me that coat. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. (He comes back, puts Valentine's stick carefully down + against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and holds + it for Crampton to put on.) I seem to have done the young gentleman an + injustice, sir, haven't I, sir. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Rrrh! (He stops on the point of putting his arms into the + sleeves, and turns to Valentine with sudden suspicion.) Valentine: you are + in this. You made this plot. You— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (decisively). Bosh! (He throws the menu down and goes round the + table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (angrily). What d'ye— (McComas, followed by Philip and + Dolly, comes out. He vacillates for a moment on seeing Crampton.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (softly—interrupting Crampton). Steady, sir. Here they come, + sir. (He takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the coat + across his arm. McComas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely down and + crosses to Crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands behind him. + McComas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in the majesty of a + spotless conscience.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (aside, as he passes Philip on his way out). I've broke it to him, + sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Invaluable William! (He passes on to the table.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (aside to the waiter). How did he take it? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (aside to her). Startled at first, miss; but resigned—very + resigned, indeed, miss. (He takes the stick and coat into the hotel.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (having stared Crampton out of countenance). So here you are, Mr. + Crampton. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Yes, here—caught in a trap—a mean trap. Are those my + children? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (with deadly politeness). Is this our father, Mr. McComas? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Yes—er— (He loses countenance himself and stops.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (conventionally). Pleased to meet you again. (She wanders idly round + the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with Valentine on the + way.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your wine. + (He takes the wine list from the table. His polite attention, and Dolly's + unconcerned indifference, leave Crampton on the footing of the casual + acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist's. The consciousness of + it goes through the father with so keen a pang that he trembles all over; + his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at his son, who, just conscious + enough of his own callousness to intensely enjoy the humor and adroitness + of it, proceeds pleasantly.) Finch: some crusted old port for you, as a + respectable family solicitor, eh? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (firmly). Apollinaris only. I prefer to take nothing heating. (He + walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting temptation + behind him.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Valentine—? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Would Lager be considered vulgar? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Probably. We'll order some. Dolly takes it. (Turning to Crampton + with cheerful politeness.) And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we do for you? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. What d'ye mean, boy? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Boy! (Very solemnly.) Whose fault is it that I am a boy? + </p> + <p> + (Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely pretends + to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (looking over Crampton's right shoulder). The whisky's on the last + page but one. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Let me alone, child. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Child! No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you mustn't + call me child. (She slips her arm through Philip's; and the two stand + looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even by + their playing with him). McComas: we are—ha!—going to have a + pleasant meal. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (pusillanimously). There is no reason why it should not be + pleasant. (He looks abjectly gloomy.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Finch's face is a feast in itself. (Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come + from the hotel. Mrs. Clandon advances with courageous self-possession and + marked dignity of manner. She stops at the foot of the steps to address + Valentine, who is in her path. Gloria also stops, looking at Crampton with + a certain repulsion.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Glad to see you again, Mr. Valentine. (He smiles. She passes + on and confronts Crampton, intending to address him with perfect + composure; but his aspect shakes her. She stops suddenly and says + anxiously, with a touch of remorse.) Fergus: you are greatly changed. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (grimly). I daresay. A man does change in eighteen years. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (troubled). I—I did not mean that. I hope your health + is good. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Thank you. No: it's not my health. It's my happiness: that's the + change you meant, I think. (Breaking out suddenly.) Look at her, McComas! + Look at her; and look at me! (He utters a half laugh, half sob.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! (Pointing to the hotel entrance, where the waiter has just + appeared.) Order before William! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (touching Crampton's arm warningly with her finger). Ahem! (The + waiter goes to the service table and beckons to the kitchen entrance, + whence issue a young waiter with soup plates, and a cook, in white apron + and cap, with the soup tureen. The young waiter remains and serves: the + cook goes out, and reappears from time to time bringing in the courses. He + carves, but does not serve. The waiter comes to the end of the luncheon + table next the steps.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (as they all assemble about the table). I think you have all + met one another already to-day. Oh, no, excuse me. (Introducing) Mr. + Valentine: Mr. McComas. (She goes to the end of the table nearest the + hotel.) Fergus: will you take the head of the table, please. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Ha! (Bitterly.) The head of the table! + </p> + <p> + WAITER (holding the chair for him with inoffensive encouragement). This + end, sir. (Crampton submits, and takes his seat.) Thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Valentine: will you take that side (indicating the side + nearest the parapet) with Gloria? (Valentine and Gloria take their places, + Gloria next Crampton and Valentine next Mrs. Clandon.) Finch: I must put + you on this side, between Dolly and Phil. You must protect yourself as + best you can. (The three take the remaining side of the table, Dolly next + her mother, Phil next his father, and McComas between them. Soup is + served.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (to Crampton). Thick or clear, sir? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (to Mrs. Clandon). Does nobody ask a blessing in this household? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (interposing smartly). Let us first settle what we are about to + receive. William! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. (He glides swiftly round the table to Phil's left elbow. + On his way he whispers to the young waiter) Thick. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Two small Lagers for the children as usual, William; and one large + for this gentleman (indicating Valentine). Large Apollinaris for Mr. + McComas. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Have a six of Irish in it, Finch? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (scandalized). No—no, thank you. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Number 413 for my mother and Miss Gloria as before; and— + (turning enquiringly to Crampton) Eh? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (scowling and about to reply offensively). I— + </p> + <p> + WAITER (striking in mellifluously). All right, sir. We know what Mr. + Crampton likes here, sir. (He goes into the hotel.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (looking gravely at his father). You frequent bars. Bad habit! (The + cook, accompanied by a waiter with a supply of hot plates, brings in the + fish from the kitchen to the service table, and begins slicing it.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. You have learnt your lesson from your mother, I see. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Phil: will you please remember that your jokes are apt to + irritate people who are not accustomed to us, and that your father is our + guest to-day. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (bitterly). Yes, a guest at the head of my own table. (The soup + plates are removed.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (sympathetically). Yes: it's embarrassing, isn't it? It's just as + bad for us, you know. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! Dolly: we are both wanting in tact. (To Crampton.) We mean + well, Mr. Crampton; but we are not yet strong in the filial line. (The + waiter returns from the hotel with the drinks.) William: come and restore + good feeling. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (cheerfully). Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Small Lager for you, sir. + (To Crampton.) Seltzer and Irish, sir. (To McComas.) Apollinaris, sir. (To + Dolly.) Small Lager, miss. (To Mrs. Clandon, pouring out wine.) 413, + madam. (To Valentine.) Large Lager for you, sir. (To Gloria.) 413, miss. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (drinking). To the family! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. (drinking). Hearth and Home! (Fish is served.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (with an obviously forced attempt at cheerful domesticity). We are + getting on very nicely after all. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (critically). After all! After all what, Finch? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (sarcastically). He means that you are getting on very nicely in + spite of the presence of your father. Do I take your point rightly, Mr. + McComas? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (disconcerted). No, no. I only said "after all" to round off the + sentence. I—er—er—er—- + </p> + <p> + WAITER (tactfully). Turbot, sir? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (intensely grateful for the interruption). Thank you, waiter: + thank you. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (sotto voce). Don't mention it, sir. (He returns to the service + table.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (to Phil). Have you thought of choosing a profession yet? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. I am keeping my mind open on that subject. William! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. How long do you think it would take me to learn to be a really + smart waiter? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Can't be learnt, sir. It's in the character, sir. (Confidentially + to Valentine, who is looking about for something.) Bread for the lady, + sir? yes, sir. (He serves bread to Gloria, and resumes at his former + pitch.) Very few are born to it, sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. You don't happen to have such a thing as a son, yourself, have + you? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir: oh, yes, sir. (To Gloria, again dropping his voice.) A + little more fish, miss? you won't care for the joint in the middle of the + day. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. No, thank you. (The fish plates are removed.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Is your son a waiter, too, William? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (serving Gloria with fowl). Oh, no, miss, he's too impetuous. He's + at the Bar. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (patronizingly). A potman, eh? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment + softened by time). No, sir: the other bar—your profession, sir. A + Q.C., sir. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (embarrassed). I'm sure I beg your pardon. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Not at all, sir. Very natural mistake, I'm sure, sir. I've often + wished he was a potman, sir. Would have been off my hands ever so much + sooner, sir. (Aside to Valentine, who is again in difficulties.) Salt at + your elbow, sir. (Resuming.) Yes, sir: had to support him until he was + thirty-seven, sir. But doing well now, sir: very satisfactory indeed, sir. + Nothing less than fifty guineas, sir. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Democracy, Crampton!—modern democracy! + </p> + <p> + WAITER (calmly). No, sir, not democracy: only education, sir. + Scholarships, sir. Cambridge Local, sir. Sidney Sussex College, sir. + (Dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) Stone ginger, + miss? Right, miss. (To McComas.) Very good thing for him, sir: he never + had any turn for real work, sir. (He goes into the hotel, leaving the + company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Which of us dare give that man an order again! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. I hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (doggedly). While he's a waiter it's his business to wait. If you + had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held his + tongue. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. What a loss that would have been! Perhaps he'll give us an + introduction to his son and get us into London society. (The waiter + reappears with the ginger-beer.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (growling contemptuously). London society! London society!! + You're not fit for any society, child. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (losing her temper). Now look here, Mr. Crampton. If you think— + </p> + <p> + WAITER (softly, at her elbow). Stone ginger, miss. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (taken aback, recovers her good humor after a long breath and says + sweetly). Thank you, dear William. You were just in time. (She drinks.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (making a fresh effort to lead the conversation into dispassionate + regions). If I may be allowed to change the subject, Miss Clandon, what is + the established religion in Madeira? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I suppose the Portuguese religion. I never inquired. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. The servants come in Lent and kneel down before you and confess all + the things they've done: and you have to pretend to forgive them. Do they + do that in England, William? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Not usually, miss. They may in some parts: but it has not come + under my notice, miss. (Catching Mrs. Clandon's eye as the young waiter + offers her the salad bowl.) You like it without dressing, ma'am: yes, + ma'am, I have some for you. (To his young colleague, motioning him to + serve Gloria.) This side, Jo. (He takes a special portion of salad from + the service table and puts it beside Mrs. Clandon's plate. In doing so he + observes that Dolly is making a wry face.) Only a bit of watercress, miss, + got in by mistake. (He takes her salad away.) Thank you, miss. (To the + young waiter, admonishing him to serve Dolly afresh.) Jo. (Resuming.) + Mostly members of the Church of England, miss. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Members of the Church of England! What's the subscription? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (rising violently amid general consternation). You see how my + children have been brought up, McComas. You see it; you hear it. I call + all of you to witness— (He becomes inarticulate, and is about to + strike his fist recklessly on the table when the waiter considerately + takes away his plate.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (firmly). Sit down, Fergus. There is no occasion at all for + this outburst. You must remember that Dolly is just like a foreigner here. + Pray sit down. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (subsiding unwillingly). I doubt whether I ought to sit here and + countenance all this. I doubt it. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Cheese, sir; or would you like a cold sweet? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (take aback). What? Oh!—cheese, cheese. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Bring a box of cigarettes, William. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. All ready, miss. (He takes a box of cigarettes from the service + table and places them before Dolly, who selects one and prepares to smoke. + He then returns to his table for a box of vestas.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (staring aghast at Dolly). Does she smoke? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (out of patience). Really, Mr. Crampton, I'm afraid I'm spoiling + your lunch. I'll go and have my cigarette on the beach. (She leaves the + table with petulant suddenness and goes down the steps. The waiter + attempts to give her the matches; but she is gone before he can reach + her.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (furiously). Margaret: call that girl back. Call her back, I say. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (trying to make peace). Come, Crampton: never mind. She's her + father's daughter: that's all. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (with deep resentment). I hope not, Finch. (She rises: they + all rise a little.) Mr. Valentine: will you excuse me: I am afraid Dolly + is hurt and put out by what has passed. I must go to her. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. To take her part against me, you mean. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (ignoring him). Gloria: will you take my place whilst I am + away, dear. (She crosses to the steps. Crampton's eyes follow her with + bitter hatred. The rest watch her in embarrassed silence, feeling the + incident to be a very painful one.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (intercepting her at the top of the steps and offering her a box of + vestas). Young lady forgot the matches, ma'am. If you would be so good, + ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (surprised into grateful politeness by the witchery of his + sweet and cheerful tones). Thank you very much. (She takes the matches and + goes down to the beach. The waiter shepherds his assistant along with him + into the hotel by the kitchen entrance, leaving the luncheon party to + themselves.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (throwing himself back in his chair). There's a mother for you, + McComas! There's a mother for you! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (steadfastly). Yes: a good mother. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. And a bad father? That's what you mean, eh? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (rising indignantly and addressing Gloria). Miss Clandon: I— + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (turning on him). That girl's name is Crampton, Mr. Valentine, + not Clandon. Do you wish to join them in insulting me? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (ignoring him). I'm overwhelmed, Miss Clandon. It's all my + fault: I brought him here: I'm responsible for him. And I'm ashamed of + him. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (rising coldly). No harm has been done, Mr. Valentine. We have all + been a little childish, I am afraid. Our party has been a failure: let us + break it up and have done with it. (She puts her chair aside and turns to + the steps, adding, with slighting composure, as she passes Crampton.) + Good-bye, father. + </p> + <p> + (She descends the steps with cold, disgusted indifference. They all look + after her, and so do not notice the return of the waiter from the hotel, + laden with Crampton's coat, Valentine's stick, a couple of shawls and + parasols, a white canvas umbrella, and some camp stools.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (to himself, staring after Gloria with a ghastly expression). + Father! Father!! (He strikes his fist violently on the table.) Now— + </p> + <p> + WAITER (offering the coat). This is yours, sir, I think, sir. (Crampton + glares at him; then snatches it rudely and comes down the terrace towards + the garden seat, struggling with the coat in his angry efforts to put it + on. McComas rises and goes to his assistance; then takes his hat and + umbrella from the little iron table, and turns towards the steps. + Meanwhile the waiter, after thanking Crampton with unruffled sweetness for + taking the coat, offers some of his burden to Phil.) The ladies' + sunshades, sir. Nasty glare off the sea to-day, sir: very trying to the + complexion, sir. I shall carry down the camp stools myself, sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. You are old, Father William; but you are the most considerate of + men. No: keep the sunshades and give me the camp stools (taking them). + </p> + <p> + WAITER (with flattering gratitude). Thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Finch: share with me (giving him a couple). Come along. (They go + down the steps together.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (to the waiter). Leave me something to bring down—one of + these. (Offering to take a sunshade.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (discreetly). That's the younger lady's, sir. (Valentine lets it + go.) Thank you, sir. If you'll allow me, sir, I think you had better have + this. (He puts down the sunshades on Crampton's chair, and produces from + the tail pocket of his dress coat, a book with a lady's handkerchief + between the leaves, marking the page.) The eldest young lady is reading it + at present. (Valentine takes it eagerly.) Thank you, sir. Schopenhauer, + sir, you see. (He takes up the sunshades again.) Very interesting author, + sir: especially on the subject of ladies, sir. (He goes down the steps. + Valentine, about to follow him, recollects Crampton and changes his mind.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (coming rather excitedly to Crampton). Now look here, Crampton: + are you at all ashamed of yourself? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (pugnaciously). Ashamed of myself! What for? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. For behaving like a bear. What will your daughter think of me + for having brought you here? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I was not thinking of what my daughter was thinking of you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. No, you were thinking of yourself. You're a perfect maniac. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (heartrent). She told you what I am—a father—a father + robbed of his children. What are the hearts of this generation like? Am I + to come here after all these years—to see what my children are for + the first time! to hear their voices!—and carry it all off like a + fashionable visitor; drop in to lunch; be Mr. Crampton—M i s t e r + Crampton! What right have they to talk to me like that? I'm their father: + do they deny that? I'm a man, with the feelings of our common humanity: + have I no rights, no claims? In all these years who have I had round me? + Servants, clerks, business acquaintances. I've had respect from them—aye, + kindness. Would one of them have spoken to me as that girl spoke?—would + one of them have laughed at me as that boy was laughing at me all the + time? (Frantically.) My own children! M i s t e r Crampton! My— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Come, come: they're only children. The only one of them that's + worth anything called you father. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (wildly). Yes: "good-bye, father." Oh, yes: she got at my + feelings—with a stab! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (taking this in very bad part). Now look here, Crampton: you + just let her alone: she's treated you very well. I had a much worse time + of it at lunch than you. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. You! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (with growing impetuosity). Yes: I. I sat next to her; and I + never said a single thing to her the whole time—couldn't think of a + blessed word. And not a word did she say to me. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Well? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Well? Well??? (Tackling him very seriously and talking faster + and faster.) Crampton: do you know what's been the matter with me to-day? + You don't suppose, do you, that I'm in the habit of playing such tricks on + my patients as I played on you? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I hope not. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. The explanation is that I'm stark mad, or rather that I've + never been in my real senses before. I'm capable of anything: I've grown + up at last: I'm a Man; and it's your daughter that's made a man of me. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (incredulously). Are you in love with my daughter? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (his words now coming in a perfect torrent). Love! Nonsense: + it's something far above and beyond that. It's life, it's faith, it's + strength, certainty, paradise— + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (interrupting him with acrid contempt). Rubbish, man! What have + you to keep a wife on? You can't marry her. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Who wants to marry her? I'll kiss her hands; I'll kneel at her + feet; I'll live for her; I'll die for her; and that'll be enough for me. + Look at her book! See! (He kisses the handkerchief.) If you offered me all + your money for this excuse for going down to the beach and speaking to her + again, I'd only laugh at you. (He rushes buoyantly off to the steps, where + he bounces right into the arms of the waiter, who is coming up form the + beach. The two save themselves from falling by clutching one another + tightly round the waist and whirling one another around.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (delicately). Steady, sir, steady. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (shocked at his own violence). I beg your pardon. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Not at all, sir, not at all. Very natural, sir, I'm sure, sir, at + your age. The lady has sent me for her book, sir. Might I take the liberty + of asking you to let her have it at once, sir? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. With pleasure. And if you will allow me to present you with a + professional man's earnings for six weeks— (offering him Dolly's + crown piece.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (as if the sum were beyond his utmost expectations). Thank you, + sir: much obliged. (Valentine dashes down the steps.) Very high-spirited + young gentleman, sir: very manly and straight set up. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (in grumbling disparagement). And making his fortune in a hurry, + no doubt. I know what his six weeks' earnings come to. (He crosses the + terrace to the iron table, and sits down.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (philosophically). Well, sir, you never can tell. That's a + principle in life with me, sir, if you'll excuse my having such a thing, + sir. (Delicately sinking the philosopher in the waiter for a moment.) + Perhaps you haven't noticed that you hadn't touched that seltzer and + Irish, sir, when the party broke up. (He takes the tumbler from the + luncheon table, and sets if before Crampton.) Yes, sir, you never can + tell. There was my son, sir! who ever thought that he would rise to wear a + silk gown, sir? And yet to-day, sir, nothing less than fifty guineas, sir. + What a lesson, sir! + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Well, I hope he is grateful to you, and recognizes what he owes + you. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. We get on together very well, very well indeed, sir, considering + the difference in our stations. (With another of his irresistible + transitions.) A small lump of sugar, sir, will take the flatness out of + the seltzer without noticeably sweetening the drink, sir. Allow me, sir. + (He drops a lump of sugar into the tumbler.) But as I say to him, where's + the difference after all? If I must put on a dress coat to show what I am, + sir, he must put on a wig and gown to show what he is. If my income is + mostly tips, and there's a pretence that I don't get them, why, his income + is mostly fees, sir; and I understand there's a pretence that he don't get + them! If he likes society, and his profession brings him into contact with + all ranks, so does mine, too, sir. If it's a little against a barrister to + have a waiter for his father, sir, it's a little against a waiter to have + a barrister for a son: many people consider it a great liberty, sir, I + assure you, sir. Can I get you anything else, sir? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. No, thank you. (With bitter humility.) I suppose that's no + objection to my sitting here for a while: I can't disturb the party on the + beach here. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (with emotion). Very kind of you, sir, to put it as if it was not a + compliment and an honour to us, Mr. Crampton, very kind indeed. The more + you are at home here, sir, the better for us. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (in poignant irony). Home! + </p> + <p> + WAITER (reflectively). Well, yes, sir: that's a way of looking at it, too, + sir. I have always said that the great advantage of a hotel is that it's a + refuge from home life, sir. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I missed that advantage to-day, I think. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. You did, sir, you did. Dear me! It's the unexpected that always + happens, isn't it? (Shaking his head.) You never can tell, sir: you never + can tell. (He goes into the hotel.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (his eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable face on + his hands). Home! Home!! (He drops his arms on the table and bows his head + on them, but presently hears someone approaching and hastily sits bolt + upright. It is Gloria, who has come up the steps alone, with her sunshade + and her book in her hands. He looks defiantly at her, with the brutal + obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of his eyes contradicting each + other pathetically. She comes to the corner of the garden seat and stands + with her back to it, leaning against the end of it, and looking down at + him as if wondering at his weakness: too curious about him to be cold, but + supremely indifferent to their kinship.) Well? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I want to speak with you for a moment. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (looking steadily at her). Indeed? That's surprising. You meet + your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to him + for a moment! That's touching: isn't it? (He rests his head on his hands, + and looks down and away from her, in gloomy reflection.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. All that is what seems to me so nonsensical, so uncalled for. What + do you expect us to feel for you—to do for you? What is it you want? + Why are you less civil to us than other people are? You are evidently not + very fond of us—why should you be? But surely we can meet without + quarrelling. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (a dreadful grey shade passing over his face). Do you realize + that I am your father? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Perfectly. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Do you know what is due to me as your father? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. For instance—-? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (rising as if to combat a monster). For instance! For instance!! + For instance, duty, affection, respect, obedience— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (quitting her careless leaning attitude and confronting him + promptly and proudly). I obey nothing but my sense of what is right. I + respect nothing that is not noble. That is my duty. (She adds, less + firmly) As to affection, it is not within my control. I am not sure that I + quite know what affection means. (She turns away with an evident distaste + for that part of the subject, and goes to the luncheon table for a + comfortable chair, putting down her book and sunshade.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (following her with his eyes). Do you really mean what you are + saying? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (turning on him quickly and severely). Excuse me: that is an + uncivil question. I am speaking seriously to you; and I expect you to take + me seriously. (She takes one of the luncheon chairs; turns it away from + the table; and sits down a little wearily, saying) Can you not discuss + this matter coolly and rationally? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Coolly and rationally! No, I can't. Do you understand that? I + can't. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (emphatically). No. That I c a n n o t understand. I have no + sympathy with— + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (shrinking nervously). Stop! Don't say anything more yet; you + don't know what you're doing. Do you want to drive me mad? (She frowns, + finding such petulance intolerable. He adds hastily) No: I'm not angry: + indeed I'm not. Wait, wait: give me a little time to think. (He stands for + a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in his perplexity; + then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and sits down beside her, + saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and patient) Now, I think I + have it. At least I'll try. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (firmly). You see! Everything comes right if we only think it + resolutely out. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (in sudden dread). No: don't think. I want you to feel: that's + the only thing that can help us. Listen! Do you—but first—I + forgot. What's your name? I mean you pet name. They can't very well call + you Sophronia. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with astonished disgust). Sophronia! My name is Gloria. I am + always called by it. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (his temper rising again). Your name is Sophronia, girl: you were + called after your aunt Sophronia, my sister: she gave you your first Bible + with your name written in it. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Then my mother gave me a new name. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (angrily). She had no right to do it. I will not allow this. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. You had no right to give me your sister's name. I don't know her. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. You're talking nonsense. There are bounds to what I will put up + with. I will not have it. Do you hear that? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (rising warningly). Are you resolved to quarrel? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (terrified, pleading). No, no: sit down. Sit down, won't you? + (She looks at him, keeping him in suspense. He forces himself to utter the + obnoxious name.) Gloria. (She marks her satisfaction with a slight + tightening of the lips, and sits down.) There! You see I only want to shew + you that I am your father, my—my dear child. (The endearment is so + plaintively inept that she smiles in spite of herself, and resigns herself + to indulge him a little.) Listen now. What I want to ask you is this. + Don't you remember me at all? You were only a tiny child when you were + taken away from me; but you took plenty of notice of things. Can't you + remember someone whom you loved, or (shyly) at least liked in a childish + way? Come! someone who let you stay in his study and look at his toy + boats, as you thought them? (He looks anxiously into her face for some + response, and continues less hopefully and more urgently) Someone who let + you do as you liked there and never said a word to you except to tell you + that you must sit still and not speak? Someone who was something that no + one else was to you—who was your father. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (unmoved). If you describe things to me, no doubt I shall presently + imagine that I remember them. But I really remember nothing. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (wistfully). Has your mother never told you anything about me? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. She has never mentioned your name to me. (He groans involuntarily. + She looks at him rather contemptuously and continues) Except once; and + then she did remind me of something I had forgotten. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (looking up hopefully). What was that? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (mercilessly). The whip you bought to beat me with. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (gnashing his teeth). Oh! To bring that up against me! To turn + from me! When you need never have known. (Under a grinding, agonized + breath.) Curse her! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (springing up). You wretch! (With intense emphasis.) You wretch!! + You dare curse my mother! + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Stop; or you'll be sorry afterwards. I'm your father. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. How I hate the name! How I love the name of mother! You had better + go. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I—I'm choking. You want to kill me. Some—I— + (His voice stifles: he is almost in a fit.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (going up to the balustrade with cool, quick resourcefulness, and + calling over to the beach). Mr. Valentine! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (answering from below). Yes. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Come here a moment, please. Mr. Crampton wants you. (She returns + to the table and pours out a glass of water.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (recovering his speech). No: let me alone. I don't want him. I'm + all right, I tell you. I need neither his help nor yours. (He rises and + pulls himself together.) As you say, I had better go. (He puts on his + hat.) Is that your last word? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I hope so. (He looks stubbornly at her for a moment; nods grimly, + as if he agreed to that; and goes into the hotel. She looks at him with + equal steadiness until he disappears, when she makes a gesture of relief, + and turns to speak to Valentine, who comes running up the steps.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (panting). What's the matter? (Looking round.) Where's Crampton? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Gone. (Valentine's face lights up with sudden joy, dread, and + mischief. He has just realized that he is alone with Gloria. She continues + indifferently) I thought he was ill; but he recovered himself. He wouldn't + wait for you. I am sorry. (She goes for her book and parasol.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. So much the better. He gets on my nerves after a while. + (Pretending to forget himself.) How could that man have so beautiful a + daughter! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (taken aback for a moment; then answering him with polite but + intentional contempt). That seems to be an attempt at what is called a + pretty speech. Let me say at once, Mr. Valentine, that pretty speeches + make very sickly conversation. Pray let us be friends, if we are to be + friends, in a sensible and wholesome way. I have no intention of getting + married; and unless you are content to accept that state of things, we had + much better not cultivate each other's acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (cautiously). I see. May I ask just this one question? Is your + objection an objection to marriage as an institution, or merely an + objection to marrying me personally? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I do not know you well enough, Mr. Valentine, to have any opinion + on the subject of your personal merits. (She turns away from him with + infinite indifference, and sits down with her book on the garden seat.) I + do not think the conditions of marriage at present are such as any + self-respecting woman can accept. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (instantly changing his tone for one of cordial sincerity, as if + he frankly accepted her terms and was delighted and reassured by her + principles). Oh, then that's a point of sympathy between us already. I + quite agree with you: the conditions are most unfair. (He takes off his + hat and throws it gaily on the iron table.) No: what I want is to get rid + of all that nonsense. (He sits down beside her, so naturally that she does + not think of objecting, and proceeds, with enthusiasm) Don't you think it + a horrible thing that a man and a woman can hardly know one another + without being supposed to have designs of that kind? As if there were no + other interests—no other subjects of conversation—as if women + were capable of nothing better! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (interested). Ah, now you are beginning to talk humanly and + sensibly, Mr. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (with a gleam in his eye at the success of his hunter's guile). + Of course!—two intelligent people like us. Isn't it pleasant, in + this stupid, convention-ridden world, to meet with someone on the same + plane—someone with an unprejudiced, enlightened mind? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (earnestly). I hope to meet many such people in England. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm! There are a good many people here— nearly + forty millions. They're not all consumptive members of the highly educated + classes like the people in Madeira. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (now full of her subject). Oh, everybody is stupid and prejudiced + in Madeira—weak, sentimental creatures! I hate weakness; and I hate + sentiment. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. That's what makes you so inspiring. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with a slight laugh). Am I inspiring? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE Yes. Strength's infectious. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Weakness is, I know. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (with conviction). Y o u're strong. Do you know that you changed + the world for me this morning? I was in the dumps, thinking of my unpaid + rent, frightened about the future. When you came in, I was dazzled. (Her + brow clouds a little. He goes on quickly.) That was silly, of course; but + really and truly something happened to me. Explain it how you will, my + blood got— (he hesitates, trying to think of a sufficiently + unimpassioned word) —oxygenated: my muscles braced; my mind cleared; + my courage rose. That's odd, isn't it? considering that I am not at all a + sentimental man. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (uneasily, rising). Let us go back to the beach. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (darkly—looking up at her). What! you feel it, too? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Feel what? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Dread. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Dread! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. As if something were going to happen. It came over me suddenly + just before you proposed that we should run away to the others. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (amazed). That's strange—very strange! I had the same + presentiment. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. How extraordinary! (Rising.) Well: shall we run away? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Run away! Oh, no: that would be childish. (She sits down again. He + resumes his seat beside her, and watches her with a gravely sympathetic + air. She is thoughtful and a little troubled as she adds) I wonder what is + the scientific explanation of those fancies that cross us occasionally! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Ah, I wonder! It's a curiously helpless sensation: isn't it? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (rebelling against the word). Helpless? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Yes. As if Nature, after allowing us to belong to ourselves and + do what we judged right and reasonable for all these years, were suddenly + lifting her great hand to take us—her two little children—by + the scruff's of our little necks, and use us, in spite of ourselves, for + her own purposes, in her own way. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Isn't that rather fanciful? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (with a new and startling transition to a tone of utter + recklessness). I don't know. I don't care. (Bursting out reproachfully.) + Oh, Miss Clandon, Miss Clandon: how could you? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. What have I done? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Thrown this enchantment on me. I'm honestly trying to be + sensible—scientific—everything that you wish me to be. But—but— + oh, don't you see what you have set to work in my imagination? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with indignant, scornful sternness). I hope you are not going to + be so foolish—so vulgar—as to say love. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (with ironical haste to disclaim such a weakness). No, no, no. + Not love: we know better than that. Let's call it chemistry. You can't + deny that there is such a thing as chemical action, chemical affinity, + chemical combination—the most irresistible of all natural forces. + Well, you're attracting me irresistibly—chemically. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (contemptuously). Nonsense! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Of course it's nonsense, you stupid girl. (Gloria recoils in + outraged surprise.) Yes, stupid girl: t h a t's a scientific fact, anyhow. + You're a prig—a feminine prig: that's what you are. (Rising.) Now I + suppose you've done with me for ever. (He goes to the iron table and takes + up his hat.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with elaborate calm, sitting up like a High-school-mistress posing + to be photographed). That shows how very little you understand my real + character. I am not in the least offended. (He pauses and puts his hat + down again.) I am always willing to be told of my own defects, Mr. + Valentine, by my friends, even when they are as absurdly mistaken about me + as you are. I have many faults—very serious faults—of + character and temper; but if there is one thing that I am not, it is what + you call a prig. (She closes her lips trimly and looks steadily and + challengingly at him as she sits more collectedly than ever.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her more + emphatically). Oh, yes, you are. My reason tells me so: my knowledge tells + me so: my experience tells me so. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge and + your experience are not infallible. At least I hope not. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I must believe them. Unless you wish me to believe my eyes, my + heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me the most + monstrous lies about you. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (the collectedness beginning to relax). Lies! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (obstinately). Yes, lies. (He sits down again beside her.) Do + you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman in the + world? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. That is ridiculous, and rather personal. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Of course it's ridiculous. Well, that's what my eyes tell me. + (Gloria makes a movement of contemptuous protest.) No: I'm not flattering. + I tell you I don't believe it. (She is ashamed to find that this does not + quite please her either.) Do you think that if you were to turn away in + disgust from my weakness, I should sit down here and cry like a child? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly to + keep her voice steady). Why should you, pray? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (with a stir of feeling beginning to agitate his voice). Of + course not: I'm not such an idiot. And yet my heart tells me I should—my + fool of a heart. But I'll argue with my heart and bring it to reason. If I + loved you a thousand times, I'll force myself to look the truth steadily + in the face. After all, it's easy to be sensible: the facts are the facts. + What's this place? it's not heaven: it's the Marine Hotel. What's the + time? it's not eternity: it's about half past one in the afternoon. What + am I? a dentist—a five shilling dentist! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. And I am a feminine prig. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. (passionately). No, no: I can't face that: I must have one + illusion left—the illusion about you. I love you. (He turns towards + her as if the impulse to touch her were ungovernable: she rises and stands + on her guard wrathfully. He springs up impatiently and retreats a step.) + Oh, what a fool I am!—an idiot! You don't understand: I might as + well talk to the stones on the beach. (He turns away, discouraged.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (reassured by his withdrawal, and a little remorseful). I am sorry. + I do not mean to be unsympathetic, Mr. Valentine; but what can I say? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (returning to her with all his recklessness of manner replaced + by an engaging and chivalrous respect). You can say nothing, Miss Clandon. + I beg your pardon: it was my own fault, or rather my own bad luck. You + see, it all depended on your naturally liking me. (She is about to speak: + he stops her deprecatingly.) Oh, I know you mustn't tell me whether you + like me or not; but— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (her principles up in arms at once). Must not! Why not? I am a free + woman: why should I not tell you? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (pleading in terror, and retreating). Don't. I'm afraid to hear. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (no longer scornful). You need not be afraid. I think you are + sentimental, and a little foolish; but I like you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (dropping into the iron chair as if crushed). Then it's all + over. (He becomes the picture of despair.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (puzzled, approaching him). But why? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Because liking is not enough. Now that I think down into it + seriously, I don't know whether I like you or not. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (looking down at him with wondering concern). I'm sorry. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (in an agony of restrained passion). Oh, don't pity me. Your + voice is tearing my heart to pieces. Let me alone, Gloria. You go down + into the very depths of me, troubling and stirring me—I can't + struggle with it—I can't tell you— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (breaking down suddenly). Oh, stop telling me what you feel: I + can't bear it. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (springing up triumphantly, the agonized voice now solid, + ringing, and jubilant). Ah, it's come at last—my moment of courage. + (He seizes her hands: she looks at him in terror.) Our moment of courage! + (He draws her to him; kisses her with impetuous strength; and laughs + boyishly.) Now you've done it, Gloria. It's all over: we're in love with + one another. (She can only gasp at him.) But what a dragon you were! And + how hideously afraid I was! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP'S VOICE (calling from the beach). Valentine! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY'S VOICE. Mr. Valentine! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Good-bye. Forgive me. (He rapidly kisses her hands, and runs + away to the steps, where he meets Mrs. Clandon, ascending. Gloria, quite + lost, can only start after him.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. The children want you, Mr. Valentine. (She looks anxiously + around.) Is he gone? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (puzzled). He? (Recollecting.) Oh, Crampton. Gone this long + time, Mrs. Clandon. (He runs off buoyantly down the steps.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (sinking upon the seat). Mother! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (hurrying to her in alarm). What is it, dear? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with heartfelt, appealing reproach). Why didn't you educate me + properly? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (amazed). My child: I did my best. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Oh, you taught me nothing—nothing. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. What is the matter with you? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with the most intense expression). Only shame—shame— + shame. (Blushing unendurably, she covers her face with her hands and turns + away from her mother.) + </p> + <p> + END OF ACT II. <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + The Clandon's sitting room in the hotel. An expensive apartment on the + ground floor, with a French window leading to the gardens. In the centre + of the room is a substantial table, surrounded by chairs, and draped with + a maroon cloth on which opulently bound hotel and railway guides are + displayed. A visitor entering through the window and coming down to this + central table would have the fireplace on his left, and a writing table + against the wall on his right, next the door, which is further down. He + would, if his taste lay that way, admire the wall decoration of Lincrusta + Walton in plum color and bronze lacquer, with dado and cornice; the ormolu + consoles in the corners; the vases on pillar pedestals of veined marble + with bases of polished black wood, one on each side of the window; the + ornamental cabinet next the vase on the side nearest the fireplace, its + centre compartment closed by an inlaid door, and its corners rounded off + with curved panes of glass protecting shelves of cheap blue and white + pottery; the bamboo tea table, with folding shelves, in the corresponding + space on the other side of the window; the pictures of ocean steamers and + Landseer's dogs; the saddlebag ottoman in line with the door but on the + other side of the room; the two comfortable seats of the same pattern on + the hearthrug; and finally, on turning round and looking up, the massive + brass pole above the window, sustaining a pair of maroon rep curtains with + decorated borders of staid green. Altogether, a room well arranged to + flatter the occupant's sense of importance, and reconcile him to a charge + of a pound a day for its use. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clandon sits at the writing table, correcting proofs. Gloria is + standing at the window, looking out in a tormented revery. + </p> + <p> + The clock on the mantelpiece strikes five with a sickly clink, the bell + being unable to bear up against the black marble cenotaph in which it is + immured. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Five! I don't think we need wait any longer for the + children. The are sure to get tea somewhere. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (wearily). Shall I ring? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Do, my dear. (Gloria goes to the hearth and rings.) I have + finished these proofs at last, thank goodness! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (strolling listlessly across the room and coming behind her + mother's chair). What proofs? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON The new edition of Twentieth Century Women. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with a bitter smile). There's a chapter missing. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (beginning to hunt among her proofs). Is there? Surely not. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I mean an unwritten one. Perhaps I shall write it for you—when + I know the end of it. (She goes back to the window.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Gloria! More enigmas! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Oh, no. The same enigma. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (puzzled and rather troubled; after watching her for a + moment). My dear. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (returning). Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. You know I never ask questions. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (kneeling beside her chair). I know, I know. (She suddenly throws + her arms about her mother and embraces her almost passionately.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. (gently, smiling but embarrassed). My dear: you are getting + quite sentimental. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (recoiling). Ah, no, no. Oh, don't say that. Oh! (She rises and + turns away with a gesture as if tearing herself.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (mildly). My dear: what is the matter? What— (The + waiter enters with the tea tray.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (balmily). This was what you rang for, ma'am, I hope? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Thank you, yes. (She turns her chair away from the writing + table, and sits down again. Gloria crosses to the hearth and sits + crouching there with her face averted.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (placing the tray temporarily on the centre table). I thought so, + ma'am. Curious how the nerves seem to give out in the afternoon without a + cup of tea. (He fetches the tea table and places it in front of Mrs. + Cladon, conversing meanwhile.) the young lady and gentleman have just come + back, ma'am: they have been out in a boat, ma'am. Very pleasant on a fine + afternoon like this—very pleasant and invigorating indeed. (He takes + the tray from the centre table and puts it on the tea table.) Mr. McComas + will not come to tea, ma'am: he has gone to call upon Mr. Crampton. (He + takes a couple of chairs and sets one at each end of the tea table.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (looking round with an impulse of terror). And the other gentleman? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (reassuringly, as he unconsciously drops for a moment into the + measure of "I've been roaming," which he sang as a boy.) Oh, he's coming, + miss, he's coming. He has been rowing the boat, miss, and has just run + down the road to the chemist's for something to put on the blisters. But + he will be here directly, miss—directly. (Gloria, in ungovernable + apprehension, rises and hurries towards the door.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. (half rising). Glo— (Gloria goes out. Mrs. Clandon + looks perplexedly at the waiter, whose composure is unruffled.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (cheerfully). Anything more, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Nothing, thank you. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Thank you, ma'am. (As he withdraws, Phil and Dolly, in the highest + spirits, come tearing in. He holds the door open for them; then goes out + and closes it.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (ravenously). Oh, give me some tea. (Mrs. Clandon pours out a cup + for her.) We've been out in a boat. Valentine will be here presently. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. He is unaccustomed to navigation. Where's Gloria? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (anxiously, as she pours out his tea). Phil: there is + something the matter with Gloria. Has anything happened? (Phil and Dolly + look at one another and stifle a laugh.) What is it? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (sitting down on her left). Romeo— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (sitting down on her right). —and Juliet. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (taking his cup of tea from Mrs. Clandon). Yes, my dear mother: the + old, old story. Dolly: don't take all the milk. (He deftly takes the jug + from her.) Yes: in the spring— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. —a young man's fancy— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. —lightly turns to—thank you (to Mrs. Clandon, who has + passed the biscuits) —thoughts of love. It also occurs in the + autumn. The young man in this case is— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. And his fancy has turned to Gloria to the extent of— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. —kissing her— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. —on the terrace— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (correcting him). —on the lips, before everybody. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (incredulously). Phil! Dolly! Are you joking? (They shake + their heads.) Did she allow it? + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. We waited to see him struck to earth by the lightning of her + scorn;— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. —but he wasn't. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. She appeared to like it. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. As far as we could judge. (Stopping Phil, who is about to pour out + another cup.) No: you've sworn off two cups. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (much troubled). Children: you must not be here when Mr. + Valentine comes. I must speak very seriously to him about this. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. To ask him his intentions? What a violation of Twentieth Century + principles! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Quite right, mamma: bring him to book. Make the most of the + nineteenth century while it lasts. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! Here he is. (Valentine comes in.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE Very sorry to be late for tea, Mrs. Clandon. (She takes up the + tea-pot.) No, thank you: I never take any. No doubt Miss Dolly and Phil + have explained what happened to me. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (momentously rising). Yes, Valentine: we have explained. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (significantly, also rising). We have explained very thoroughly. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. It was our duty. (Very seriously.) Come, Dolly. (He offers Dolly + his arm, which she takes. They look sadly at him, and go out gravely, arm + in arm. Valentine stares after them, puzzled; then looks at Mrs. Clandon + for an explanation.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (rising and leaving the tea table). Will you sit down, Mr. + Valentine. I want to speak to you a little, if you will allow me. + (Valentine sits down slowly on the ottoman, his conscience presaging a bad + quarter of an hour. Mrs. Clandon takes Phil's chair, and seats herself + deliberately at a convenient distance from him.) I must begin by throwing + myself somewhat at your consideration. I am going to speak of a subject of + which I know very little—perhaps nothing. I mean love. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Love! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Yes, love. Oh, you need not look so alarmed as that, Mr. + Valentine: I am not in love with you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (overwhelmed). Oh, really, Mrs.— (Recovering himself.) I + should be only too proud if you were. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Thank you, Mr. Valentine. But I am too old to begin. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Begin! Have you never—? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Never. My case is a very common one, Mr. Valentine. I + married before I was old enough to know what I was doing. As you have seen + for yourself, the result was a bitter disappointment for both my husband + and myself. So you see, though I am a married woman, I have never been in + love; I have never had a love affair; and to be quite frank with you, Mr. + Valentine, what I have seen of the love affairs of other people has not + led me to regret that deficiency in my experience. (Valentine, looking + very glum, glances sceptically at her, and says nothing. Her color rises a + little; and she adds, with restrained anger) You do not believe me? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (confused at having his thought read). Oh, why not? Why not? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Let me tell you, Mr. Valentine, that a life devoted to the + Cause of Humanity has enthusiasms and passions to offer which far + transcend the selfish personal infatuations and sentimentalities of + romance. Those are not your enthusiasms and passions, I take it? + (Valentine, quite aware that she despises him for it, answers in the + negative with a melancholy shake of the head.) I thought not. Well, I am + equally at a disadvantage in discussing those so-called affairs of the + heart in which you appear to be an expert. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (restlessly). What are you driving at, Mrs. Clandon? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I think you know. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Gloria? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Yes. Gloria. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (surrendering). Well, yes: I'm in love with Gloria. (Interposing + as she is about to speak.) I know what you're going to say: I've no money. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I care very little about money, Mr. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Then you're very different to all the other mothers who have + interviewed me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Ah, now we are coming to it, Mr. Valentine. You are an old + hand at this. (He opens his mouth to protest: she cuts him short with some + indignation.) Oh, do you think, little as I understand these matters, that + I have not common sense enough to know that a man who could make as much + way in one interview with such a woman as my daughter, can hardly be a + novice! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I assure you— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (stopping him). I am not blaming you, Mr. Valentine. It is + Gloria's business to take care of herself; and you have a right to amuse + yourself as you please. But— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (protesting). Amuse myself! Oh, Mrs. Clandon! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (relentlessly). On your honor, Mr. Valentine, are you in + earnest? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (desperately). On my honor I am in earnest. (She looks + searchingly at him. His sense of humor gets the better of him; and he adds + quaintly) Only, I always have been in earnest; and yet—here I am, + you see! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. This is just what I suspected. (Severely.) Mr. Valentine: + you are one of those men who play with women's affections. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Well, why not, if the Cause of Humanity is the only thing worth + being serious about? However, I understand. (Rising and taking his hat + with formal politeness.) You wish me to discontinue my visits. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. No: I am sensible enough to be well aware that Gloria's best + chance of escape from you now is to become better acquainted with you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (unaffectedly alarmed). Oh, don't say that, Mrs. Clandon. You + don't think that, do you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I have great faith, Mr. Valentine, in the sound training + Gloria's mind has had since she was a child. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (amazingly relieved). O-oh! Oh, that's all right. (He sits down + again and throws his hat flippantly aside with the air of a man who has no + longer anything to fear.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (indignant at his assurance). What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (turning confidentially to her). Come: shall I teach you + something, Mrs. Clandon? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (stiffly). I am always willing to learn. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Have you ever studied the subject of gunnery—artillery—cannons + and war-ships and so on? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Has gunnery anything to do with Gloria? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. A great deal—by way of illustration. During this whole + century, my dear Mrs. Clandon, the progress of artillery has been a duel + between the maker of cannons and the maker of armor plates to keep the + cannon balls out. You build a ship proof against the best gun known: + somebody makes a better gun and sinks your ship. You build a heavier ship, + proof against that gun: somebody makes a heavier gun and sinks you again. + And so on. Well, the duel of sex is just like that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. The duel of sex! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Yes: you've heard of the duel of sex, haven't you? Oh, I + forgot: you've been in Madeira: the expression has come up since your + time. Need I explain it? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (contemptuously). No. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Of course not. Now what happens in the duel of sex? The old + fashioned mother received an old fashioned education to protect her + against the wiles of man. Well, you know the result: the old fashioned man + got round her. The old fashioned woman resolved to protect her daughter + more effectually—to find some armor too strong for the old fashioned + man. So she gave her daughter a scientific education—your plan. That + was a corker for the old fashioned man: he said it wasn't fair—unwomanly + and all the rest of it. But that didn't do him any good. So he had to give + up his old fashioned plan of attack—you know—going down on his + knees and swearing to love, honor and obey, and so on. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Excuse me: that was what the woman swore. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Was it? Ah, perhaps you're right—yes: of course it was. + Well, what did the man do? Just what the artillery man does— went + one better than the woman—educated himself scientifically and beat + her at that game just as he had beaten her at the old game. I learnt how + to circumvent the Women's Rights woman before I was twenty- three: it's + all been found out long ago. You see, my methods are thoroughly modern. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (with quiet disgust). No doubt. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. But for that very reason there's one sort of girl against whom + they are of no use. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Pray which sort? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. The thoroughly old fashioned girl. If you had brought up Gloria + in the old way, it would have taken me eighteen months to get to the point + I got to this afternoon in eighteen minutes. Yes, Mrs. Clandon: the Higher + Education of Women delivered Gloria into my hands; and it was you who + taught her to believe in the Higher Education of Women. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (rising). Mr. Valentine: you are very clever. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (rising also). Oh, Mrs. Clandon! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON And you have taught me n o t h i n g. Good-bye. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (horrified). Good-bye! Oh, mayn't I see her before I go? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I am afraid she will not return until you have gone Mr. + Valentine. She left the room expressly to avoid you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (thoughtfully). That's a good sign. Good-bye. (He bows and makes + for the door, apparently well satisfied.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (alarmed). Why do you think it a good sign? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (turning near the door). Because I am mortally afraid of her; + and it looks as if she were mortally afraid of me. (He turns to go and + finds himself face to face with Gloria, who has just entered. She looks + steadfastly at him. He stares helplessly at her; then round at Mrs. + Clandon; then at Gloria again, completely at a loss.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (white, and controlling herself with difficulty). Mother: is what + Dolly told me true? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. What did she tell you, dear? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. That you have been speaking about me to this gentleman. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (murmuring). This gentleman! Oh! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (sharply). Mr. Valentine: can you hold your tongue for a + moment? (He looks piteously at them; then, with a despairing shrug, goes + back to the ottoman and throws his hat on it.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (confronting her mother, with deep reproach). Mother: what right + had you to do it? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I don't think I have said anything I have no right to say, + Gloria. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (confirming her officiously). Nothing. Nothing whatever. (Gloria + looks at him with unspeakable indignation.) I beg your pardon. (He sits + down ignominiously on the ottoman.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I cannot believe that any one has any right even to think about + things that concern me only. (She turns away from them to conceal a + painful struggle with her emotion.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. My dear, if I have wounded your pride— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (turning on them for a moment). My p r i d e! My pride!! Oh, it's + gone: I have learnt now that I have no strength to be proud of. (Turning + away again.) But if a woman cannot protect herself, no one can protect + her. No one has any right to try—not even her mother. I know I have + lost your confidence, just as I have lost this man's respect;— (She + stops to master a sob.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (under his breath). This man! (Murmuring again.) Oh! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (in an undertone). Pray be silent, sir. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (continuing). —but I have at least the right to be left alone + in my disgrace. I am one of those weak creatures born to be mastered by + the first man whose eye is caught by them; and I must fulfill my destiny, + I suppose. At least spare me the humiliation of trying to save me. (She + sits down, with her handkerchief to her eyes, at the farther end of the + table.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (jumping up). Look here— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Va— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (recklessly). No: I will speak: I've been silent for nearly + thirty seconds. (He goes up to Gloria.) Miss Clandon— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (bitterly). Oh, not Miss Clandon: you have found that it is quite + safe to call me Gloria. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. No, I won't: you'll throw it in my teeth afterwards and accuse + me of disrespect. I say it's a heartbreaking falsehood that I don't + respect you. It's true that I didn't respect your old pride: why should I? + It was nothing but cowardice. I didn't respect your intellect: I've a + better one myself: it's a masculine specialty. But when the depths + stirred!—when my moment came!—when you made me brave!—ah, + then, then, t h e n! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Then you respected me, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. No, I didn't: I adored you. (She rises quickly and turns her + back on him.) And you can never take that moment away from me. So now I + don't care what happens. (He comes down the room addressing a cheerful + explanation to nobody in particular.) I'm perfectly aware that I'm talking + nonsense. I can't help it. (To Mrs. Clandon.) I love Gloria; and there's + an end of it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (emphatically). Mr. Valentine: you are a most dangerous man. + Gloria: come here. (Gloria, wondering a little at the command, obeys, and + stands, with drooping head, on her mother's right hand, Valentine being on + the opposite side. Mrs. Clandon then begins, with intense scorn.) Ask this + man whom you have inspired and made brave, how many women have inspired + him before (Gloria looks up suddenly with a flash of jealous anger and + amazement); how many times he has laid the trap in which he has caught + you; how often he has baited it with the same speeches; how much practice + it has taken to make him perfect in his chosen part in life as the + Duellist of Sex. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. This isn't fair. You're abusing my confidence, Mrs. Clandon. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Ask him, Gloria. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (in a flush of rage, going over to him with her fists clenched). Is + that true? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Don't be angry— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (interrupting him implacably). Is it true? Did you ever say that + before? Did you ever feel that before—for another woman? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (bluntly). Yes. (Gloria raises her clenched hands.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (horrified, springing to her side and catching her uplifted + arm). Gloria!! My dear! You're forgetting yourself. (Gloria, with a deep + expiration, slowly relaxes her threatening attitude.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Remember: a man's power of love and admiration is like any + other of his powers: he has to throw it away many times before he learns + what is really worthy of it. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Another of the old speeches, Gloria. Take care. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (remonstrating). Oh! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (to Mrs. Clandon, with contemptuous self-possession). Do you think + I need to be warned now? (To Valentine.) You have tried to make me love + you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I have. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Well, you have succeeded in making me hate you— + passionately. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (philosophically). It's surprising how little difference there + is between the two. (Gloria turns indignantly away from him. He continues, + to Mrs. Clandon) I know men whose wives love them; and they go on exactly + like that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Excuse me, Mr. Valentine; but had you not better go? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. You need not send him away on my account, mother. He is nothing to + me now; and he will amuse Dolly and Phil. (She sits down with slighting + indifference, at the end of the table nearest the window.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (gaily). Of course: that's the sensible way of looking at it. + Come, Mrs. Clandon: you can't quarrel with a mere butterfly like me. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I very greatly mistrust you, Mr. Valentine. But I do not + like to think that your unfortunate levity of disposition is mere + shamelessness and worthlessness;— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (to herself, but aloud). It is shameless; and it is worthless. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. —so perhaps we had better send for Phil and Dolly and + allow you to end your visit in the ordinary way. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (as if she had paid him the highest compliment). You overwhelm + me, Mrs. Clandon. Thank you. (The waiter enters.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Mr. McComas, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Oh, certainly. Bring him in. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. He wishes to see you in the reception-room, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Why not here? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Well, if you will excuse my mentioning it, ma'am, I think Mr. + McComas feels that he would get fairer play if he could speak to you away + from the younger members of your family, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Tell him they are not here. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. They are within sight of the door, ma'am; and very watchful, for + some reason or other. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (going). Oh, very well: I'll go to him. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (holding the door open for her). Thank you, ma'am. (She goes out. + He comes back into the room, and meets the eye of Valentine, who wants him + to go.) All right, sir. Only the tea-things, sir. (Taking the tray.) + Excuse me, sir. Thank you sir. (He goes out.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (to Gloria). Look here. You will forgive me, sooner or later. + Forgive me now. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (rising to level the declaration more intensely at him). Never! + While grass grows or water runs, never, never, never!!! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (unabashed). Well, I don't care. I can't be unhappy about + anything. I shall never be unhappy again, never, never, never, while grass + grows or water runs. The thought of you will always make me wild with joy. + (Some quick taunt is on her lips: he interposes swiftly.) No: I never said + that before: that's new. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. It will not be new when you say it to the next woman. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, don't, Gloria, don't. (He kneels at her feet.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Get up. Get up! How dare you? (Phil and Dolly, racing, as usual, + for first place, burst into the room. They check themselves on seeing what + is passing. Valentine springs up.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (discreetly). I beg your pardon. Come, Dolly. (He turns to go.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (annoyed). Mother will be back in a moment, Phil. (Severely.) + Please wait here for her. (She turns away to the window, where she stands + looking out with her back to them.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (significantly). Oh, indeed. Hmhm! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Ahah! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. You seem in excellent spirits, Valentine. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I am. (Comes between them.) Now look here. You both know what's + going on, don't you? (Gloria turns quickly, as if anticipating some fresh + outrage.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Perfectly. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Well, it's all over. I've been refused—scorned. I'm only + here on sufferance. You understand: it's all over. Your sister is in no + sense entertaining my addresses, or condescending to interest herself in + me in any way. (Gloria, satisfied, turns back contemptuously to the + window.) Is that clear? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Serve you right. You were in too great a hurry. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (patting him on the shoulder). Never mind: you'd never have been + able to call your soul your own if she'd married you. You can now begin a + new chapter in your life. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Chapter seventeen or thereabouts, I should imagine. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (much put out by this pleasantry). No: don't say things like + that. That's just the sort of thoughtless remark that makes a lot of + mischief. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, indeed. Hmhm! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Ahah! (He goes to the hearth and plants himself there in his best + head-of-the-family attitude.) + </p> + <p> + McComas, looking very serious, comes in quickly with Mrs. Clandon, whose + first anxiety is about Gloria. She looks round to see where she is, and is + going to join her at the window when Gloria comes down to meet her with a + marked air of trust and affection. Finally, Mrs. Clandon takes her former + seat, and Gloria posts herself behind it. McComas, on his way to the + ottoman, is hailed by Dolly. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. What cheer, Finch? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (sternly). Very serious news from your father, Miss Clandon. Very + serious news indeed. (He crosses to the ottoman, and sits down. Dolly, + looking deeply impressed, follows him and sits beside him on his right.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Perhaps I had better go. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. By no means, Mr. Valentine. You are deeply concerned in this. + (Valentine takes a chair from the table and sits astride of it, leaning + over the back, near the ottoman.) Mrs. Clandon: your husband demands the + custody of his two younger children, who are not of age. (Mrs. Clandon, in + quick alarm, looks instinctively to see if Dolly is safe.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (touched). Oh, how nice of him! He likes us, mamma. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I am sorry to have to disabuse you of any such idea, Miss + Dorothea. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (cooing ecstatically). Dorothee-ee-ee-a! (Nestling against his + shoulder, quite overcome.) Oh, Finch! + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (nervously, moving away). No, no, no, no! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). D e a r e s t Dolly! (To McComas.) The deed + of separation gives me the custody of the children. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. It also contains a covenant that you are not to approach or + molest him in any way. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Well, have I done so? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Whether the behavior of your younger children amounts to legal + molestation is a question on which it may be necessary to take counsel's + opinion. At all events, Mr. Crampton not only claims to have been + molested; but he believes that he was brought here by a plot in which Mr. + Valentine acted as your agent. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. What's that? Eh? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. He alleges that you drugged him, Mr. Valentine. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. So I did. (They are astonished.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. But what did you do that for? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Five shillings extra. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (to Dolly, short-temperedly). I must really ask you, Miss Clandon, + not to interrupt this very serious conversation with irrelevant + interjections. (Vehemently.) I insist on having earnest matters earnestly + and reverently discussed. (This outburst produces an apologetic silence, + and puts McComas himself out of countenance. He coughs, and starts afresh, + addressing himself to Gloria.) Miss Clandon: it is my duty to tell you + that your father has also persuaded himself that Mr. Valentine wishes to + marry you— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (interposing adroitly). I do. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (offended). In that case, sir, you must not be surprised to find + yourself regarded by the young lady's father as a fortune hunter. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. So I am. Do you expect my wife to live on what I earn? + ten-pence a week! + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (revolted). I have nothing more to say, sir. I shall return and + tell Mr. Crampton that this family is no place for a father. (He makes for + the door.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (with quiet authority). Finch! (He halts.) If Mr. Valentine + cannot be serious, you can. Sit down. (McComas, after a brief struggle + between his dignity and his friendship, succumbs, seating himself this + time midway between Dolly and Mrs. Clandon.) You know that all this is a + made up case—that Fergus does not believe in it any more than you + do. Now give me your real advice—your sincere, friendly advice: you + know I have always trusted your judgment. I promise you the children will + be quiet. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (resigning himself). Well, well! What I want to say is this. In + the old arrangement with your husband, Mrs. Clandon, you had him at a + terrible disadvantage. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. How so, pray? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Well, you were an advanced woman, accustomed to defy public + opinion, and with no regard for what the world might say of you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (proud of it). Yes: that is true. (Gloria, behind the chair, + stoops and kisses her mother's hair, a demonstration which disconcerts her + extremely.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. On the other hand, Mrs. Clandon, your husband had a great horror + of anything getting into the papers. There was his business to be + considered, as well as the prejudices of an old-fashioned family. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Not to mention his own prejudices. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Now no doubt he behaved badly, Mrs. Clandon— + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (scornfully). No doubt. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. But was it altogether his fault? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Was it mine? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (hastily). No. Of course not. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (observing him attentively). You do not mean that, Mr. McComas. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. My dear young lady, you pick me up very sharply. But let me just + put this to you. When a man makes an unsuitable marriage (nobody's fault, + you know, but purely accidental incompatibility of tastes); when he is + deprived by that misfortune of the domestic sympathy which, I take it, is + what a man marries for; when in short, his wife is rather worse than no + wife at all (through no fault of his own, of course), is it to be wondered + at if he makes matters worse at first by blaming her, and even, in his + desperation, by occasionally drinking himself into a violent condition or + seeking sympathy elsewhere? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I did not blame him: I simply rescued myself and the + children from him. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Yes: but you made hard terms, Mrs. Clandon. You had him at your + mercy: you brought him to his knees when you threatened to make the matter + public by applying to the Courts for a judicial separation. Suppose he had + had that power over you, and used it to take your children away from you + and bring them up in ignorance of your very name, how would you feel? what + would you do? Well, won't you make some allowance for his feelings?—in + common humanity. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I never discovered his feelings. I discovered his temper, + and his— (she shivers) the rest of his common humanity. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (wistfully). Women can be very hard, Mrs. Clandon. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. That's true. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (angrily). Be silent. (He subsides.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (rallying all his forces). Let me make one last appeal. Mrs. + Clandon: believe me, there are men who have a good deal of feeling, and + kind feeling, too, which they are not able to express. What you miss in + Crampton is that mere veneer of civilization, the art of shewing worthless + attentions and paying insincere compliments in a kindly, charming way. If + you lived in London, where the whole system is one of false + good-fellowship, and you may know a man for twenty years without finding + out that he hates you like poison, you would soon have your eyes opened. + There we do unkind things in a kind way: we say bitter things in a sweet + voice: we always give our friends chloroform when we tear them to pieces. + But think of the other side of it! Think of the people who do kind things + in an unkind way—people whose touch hurts, whose voices jar, whose + tempers play them false, who wound and worry the people they love in the + very act of trying to conciliate them, and yet who need affection as much + as the rest of us. Crampton has an abominable temper, I admit. He has no + manners, no tact, no grace. He'll never be able to gain anyone's affection + unless they will take his desire for it on trust. Is he to have none—not + even pity—from his own flesh and blood? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (quite melted). Oh, how beautiful, Finch! How nice of you! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (with conviction). Finch: this is eloquence—positive + eloquence. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, mamma, let us give him another chance. Let us have him to + dinner. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (unmoved). No, Dolly: I hardly got any lunch. My dear Finch: + there is not the least use in talking to me about Fergus. You have never + been married to him: I have. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (to Gloria). Miss Clandon: I have hitherto refrained from + appealing to you, because, if what Mr. Crampton told me to be true, you + have been more merciless even than your mother. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (defiantly). You appeal from her strength to my weakness! + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Not your weakness, Miss Clandon. I appeal from her intellect to + your heart. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I have learnt to mistrust my heart. (With an angry glance at + Valentine.) I would tear my heart and throw it away if I could. My answer + to you is my mother's answer. (She goes to Mrs. Clandon, and stands with + her arm about her; but Mrs. Clandon, unable to endure this sort of + demonstrativeness, disengages herself as soon as she can without hurting + Gloria's feelings.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (defeated). Well, I am very sorry—very sorry. I have done my + best. (He rises and prepares to go, deeply dissatisfied.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. But what did you expect, Finch? What do you want us to do? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. The first step for both you and Crampton is to obtain counsel's + opinion as to whether he is bound by the deed of separation or not. Now + why not obtain this opinion at once, and have a friendly meeting (her face + hardens)—or shall we say a neutral meeting?—to settle the + difficulty—here—in this hotel—to-night? What do you say? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. But where is the counsel's opinion to come from? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. It has dropped down on us out of the clouds. On my way back here + from Crampton's I met a most eminent Q.C., a man whom I briefed in the + case that made his name for him. He has come down here from Saturday to + Monday for the sea air, and to visit a relative of his who lives here. He + has been good enough to say that if I can arrange a meeting of the parties + he will come and help us with his opinion. Now do let us seize this chance + of a quiet friendly family adjustment. Let me bring my friend here and try + to persuade Crampton to come, too. Come: consent. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (rather ominously, after a moment's consideration). Finch: I + don't want counsel's opinion, because I intend to be guided by my own + opinion. I don't want to meet Fergus again, because I don't like him, and + don't believe the meeting will do any good. However (rising), you have + persuaded the children that he is not quite hopeless. Do as you please. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (taking her hand and shaking it). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Will + nine o'clock suit you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Perfectly. Phil: will you ring, please. (Phil rings the + bell.) But if I am to be accused of conspiring with Mr. Valentine, I think + he had better be present. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (rising). I quite agree with you. I think it's most important. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. There can be no objection to that, I think. I have the greatest + hopes of a happy settlement. Good-bye for the present. (He goes out, + meeting the waiter; who holds the door for him to pass through.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. We expect some visitors at nine, William. Can we have dinner + at seven instead of half-past? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (at the door). Seven, ma'am? Certainly, ma'am. It will be a + convenience to us this busy evening, ma'am. There will be the band and the + arranging of the fairy lights and one thing or another, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. The fairy lights! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. The band! William: what mean you? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. The fancy ball, miss— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY and PHILIP (simultaneously rushing to him). Fancy ball! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Oh, yes, sir. Given by the regatta committee for the benefit of + the Life-boat, sir. (To Mrs. Clandon.) We often have them, ma'am: Chinese + lanterns in the garden, ma'am: very bright and pleasant, very gay and + innocent indeed. (To Phil.) Tickets downstairs at the office, sir, five + shillings: ladies half price if accompanied by a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (seizing his arm to drag him off). To the office, William! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (breathlessly, seizing his other arm). Quick, before they're all + sold. (They rush him out of the room between them.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. What on earth are they going to do? (Going out.) I really + must go and stop this— (She follows them, speaking as she + disappears. Gloria stares coolly at Valentine, and then deliberately looks + at her watch.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I understand. I've stayed too long. I'm going. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (with disdainful punctiliousness). I owe you some apology, Mr. + Valentine. I am conscious of having spoken somewhat sharply— perhaps + rudely—to you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Not at all. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. My only excuse is that it is very difficult to give consideration + and respect when there is no dignity of character on the other side to + command it. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (prosaically). How is a man to look dignified when he's + infatuated? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (effectually unstilted). Don't say those things to me. I forbid + you. They are insults. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. No: they're only follies. I can't help them. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. If you were really in love, it would not make you foolish: it + would give you dignity—earnestness—even beauty. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Do you really think it would make me beautiful? (She turns her + back on him with the coldest contempt.) Ah, you see you're not in earnest. + Love can't give any man new gifts. It can only heighten the gifts he was + born with. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (sweeping round at him again). What gifts were you born with, pray? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Lightness of heart. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. And lightness of head, and lightness of faith, and lightness of + everything that makes a man. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Yes, the whole world is like a feather dancing in the light + now; and Gloria is the sun. (She rears her head angrily.) I beg your + pardon: I'm off. Back at nine. Good-bye. (He runs off gaily, leaving her + standing in the middle of the room staring after him.) + </p> + <p> + END OF ACT III <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT IV + </h2> + <p> + The same room. Nine o'clock. Nobody present. The lamps are lighted; but + the curtains are not drawn. The window stands wide open; and strings of + Chinese lanterns are glowing among the trees outside, with the starry sky + beyond. The band is playing dance-music in the garden, drowning the sound + of the sea. + </p> + <p> + The waiter enters, shewing in Crampton and McComas. Crampton looks cowed + and anxious. He sits down wearily and timidly on the ottoman. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. The ladies have gone for a turn through the grounds to see the + fancy dresses, sir. If you will be so good as to take seats, gentlemen, I + shall tell them. (He is about to go into the garden through the window + when McComas stops him.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. One moment. If another gentleman comes, shew him in without any + delay: we are expecting him. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Right, sir. What name, sir? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Boon. Mr. Boon. He is a stranger to Mrs. Clandon; so he may give + you a card. If so, the name is spelt B.O.H.U.N. You will not forget. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (smiling). You may depend on me for that, sir. My own name is Boon, + sir, though I am best known down here as Balmy Walters, sir. By rights I + should spell it with the aitch you, sir; but I think it best not to take + that liberty, sir. There is Norman blood in it, sir; and Norman blood is + not a recommendation to a waiter. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Well, well: "True hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith + than Norman blood." + </p> + <p> + WAITER. That depends a good deal on one's station in life, sir. If you + were a waiter, sir, you'd find that simple faith would leave you just as + short as Norman blood. I find it best to spell myself B. double-O.N., and + to keep my wits pretty sharp about me. But I'm taking up your time, sir. + You'll excuse me, sir: your own fault for being so affable, sir. I'll tell + the ladies you're here, sir. (He goes out into the garden through the + window.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Crampton: I can depend on you, can't I? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Yes, yes. I'll be quiet. I'll be patient. I'll do my best. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Remember: I've not given you away. I've told them it was all + their fault. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. You told me that it was all my fault. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I told you the truth. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (plaintively). If they will only be fair to me! + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. My dear Crampton, they won't be fair to you: it's not to be + expected from them at their age. If you're going to make impossible + conditions of this kind, we may as well go back home at once. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. But surely I have a right— + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (intolerantly). You won't get your rights. Now, once for all, + Crampton, did your promises of good behavior only mean that you won't + complain if there's nothing to complain of? Because, if so— (He + moves as if to go.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (miserably). No, no: let me alone, can't you? I've been bullied + enough: I've been tormented enough. I tell you I'll do my best. But if + that girl begins to talk to me like that and to look at me like— (He + breaks off and buries his head in his hands.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (relenting). There, there: it'll be all right, if you will only + bear and forbear. Come, pull yourself together: there's someone coming. + (Crampton, too dejected to care much, hardly changes his attitude. Gloria + enters from the garden; McComas goes to meet her at the window; so that he + can speak to her without being heard by Crampton.) There he is, Miss + Clandon. Be kind to him. I'll leave you with him for a moment. (He goes + into the garden. Gloria comes in and strolls coolly down the middle of the + room.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (looking round in alarm). Where's McComas? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (listlessly, but not unsympathetically). Gone out—to leave us + together. Delicacy on his part, I suppose. (She stops beside him and looks + quaintly down at him.) Well, father? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (a quaint jocosity breaking through his forlornness). Well, + daughter? (They look at one another for a moment, with a melancholy sense + of humor.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Shake hands. (They shake hands.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (holding her hand). My dear: I'm afraid I spoke very improperly + of your mother this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Oh, don't apologize. I was very high and mighty myself; but I've + come down since: oh, yes: I've been brought down. (She sits on the floor + beside his chair.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. What has happened to you, my child? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Oh, never mind. I was playing the part of my mother's daughter + then; but I'm not: I'm my father's daughter. (Looking at him funnily.) + That's a come down, isn't it? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (angry). What! (Her odd expression does not alter. He + surrenders.) Well, yes, my dear: I suppose it is, I suppose it is. (She + nods sympathetically.) I'm afraid I'm sometimes a little irritable; but I + know what's right and reasonable all the time, even when I don't act on + it. Can you believe that? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Believe it! Why, that's myself—myself all over. I know + what's right and dignified and strong and noble, just as well as she does; + but oh, the things I do! the things I do! the things I let other people + do!! + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (a little grudgingly in spite of himself). As well as she does? + You mean your mother? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (quickly). Yes, mother. (She turns to him on her knees and seizes + his hands.) Now listen. No treason to her: no word, no thought against + her. She is our superior—yours and mine—high heavens above us. + Is that agreed? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Yes, yes. Just as you please, my dear. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (not satisfied, letting go his hands and drawing back from him). + You don't like her? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. My child: you haven't been married to her. I have. (She raises + herself slowly to her feet, looking at him with growing coldness.) She did + me a great wrong in marrying me without really caring for me. But after + that, the wrong was all on my side, I dare say. (He offers her his hand + again.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (taking it firmly and warningly). Take care. That's a dangerous + subject. My feelings—my miserable, cowardly, womanly feelings—may + be on your side; but my conscience is on hers. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I'm very well content with that division, my dear. Thank you. + (Valentine arrives. Gloria immediately becomes deliberately haughty.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Excuse me; but it's impossible to find a servant to announce + one: even the never failing William seems to be at the ball. I should have + gone myself; only I haven't five shillings to buy a ticket. How are you + getting on, Crampton? Better, eh? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I am myself again, Mr. Valentine, no thanks to you. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Look at this ungrateful parent of yours, Miss Clandon! I saved + him from an excruciating pang; and he reviles me! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (coldly). I am sorry my mother is not here to receive you, Mr. + Valentine. It is not quite nine o'clock; and the gentleman of whom Mr. + McComas spoke, the lawyer, is not yet come. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, yes, he is. I've met him and talked to him. (With gay + malice.) You'll like him, Miss Clandon: he's the very incarnation of + intellect. You can hear his mind working. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (ignoring the jibe). Where is he? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Bought a false nose and gone into the fancy ball. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (crustily, looking at his watch). It seems that everybody has + gone to this fancy ball instead of keeping to our appointment here. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, he'll come all right enough: that was half an hour ago. I + didn't like to borrow five shillings from him and go in with him; so I + joined the mob and looked through the railings until Miss Clandon + disappeared into the hotel through the window. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. So it has come to this, that you follow me about in public to + stare at me. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Yes: somebody ought to chain me up. + </p> + <p> + Gloria turns her back on him and goes to the fireplace. He takes the snub + very philosophically, and goes to the opposite side of the room. The + waiter appears at the window, ushering in Mrs. Clandon and McComas. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (hurrying in). I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. + </p> + <p> + A grotesquely majestic stranger, in a domino and false nose, with goggles, + appears at the window. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (to the stranger). Beg pardon, sir; but this is a private + apartment, sir. If you will allow me, sir, I will shew you to the American + bar and supper rooms, sir. This way, sir. + </p> + <p> + He goes into the gardens, leading the way under the impression that the + stranger is following him. The majestic one, however, comes straight into + the room to the end of the table, where, with impressive deliberation, he + takes off the false nose and then the domino, rolling up the nose into the + domino and throwing the bundle on the table like a champion throwing down + his glove. He is now seen to be a stout, tall man between forty and fifty, + clean shaven, with a midnight oil pallor emphasized by stiff black hair, + cropped short and oiled, and eyebrows like early Victorian horsehair + upholstery. Physically and spiritually, a coarsened man: in cunning and + logic, a ruthlessly sharpened one. His bearing as he enters is + sufficiently imposing and disquieting; but when he speaks, his powerful, + menacing voice, impressively articulated speech, strong inexorable manner, + and a terrifying power of intensely critical listening raise the + impression produced by him to absolute tremendousness. + </p> + <p> + THE STRANGER. My name is Bohun. (General awe.) Have I the honor of + addressing Mrs. Clandon? (Mrs. Clandon bows. Bohun bows.) Miss Clandon? + (Gloria bows. Bohun bows.) Mr. Clandon? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (insisting on his rightful name as angrily as he dares). My name + is Crampton, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Oh, indeed. (Passing him over without further notice and turning to + Valentine.) Are you Mr. Clandon? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (making it a point of honor not to be impressed by him). Do I + look like it? My name is Valentine. I did the drugging. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Ah, quite so. Then Mr. Clandon has not yet arrived? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (entering anxiously through the window). Beg pardon, ma'am; but can + you tell me what became of that— (He recognizes Bohun, and loses all + his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. + After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently + to address Bohun weakly but coherently.) Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure, sir. + Was—was it you, sir? + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (ruthlessly). It was I. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (brokenly). Yes, sir. (Unable to restrain his tears.) You in a + false nose, Walter! (He sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) I beg + pardon, ma'am, I'm sure. A little giddiness— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (commandingly). You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I inform you + that he is my father. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (heartbroken). Oh, no, no, Walter. A waiter for your father on the + top of a false nose! What will they think of you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (going to the waiter's chair in her kindest manner). I am + delighted to hear it, Mr. Bohun. Your father has been an excellent friend + to us since we came here. (Bohun bows gravely.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (shaking his head). Oh, no, ma'am. It's very kind of you— + very ladylike and affable indeed, ma'am; but I should feel at a great + disadvantage off my own proper footing. Never mind my being the + gentleman's father, ma'am: it is only the accident of birth after all, + ma'am. (He gets up feebly.) You'll all excuse me, I'm sure, having + interrupted your business. (He begins to make his way along the table, + supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door.) + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. One moment. (The waiter stops, with a sinking heart.) My father was + a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, Mrs. Clandon? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Yes, most of it, I think. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. In that case we shall want him. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (pleading). I hope it may not be necessary, sir. Busy evening for + me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (inexorably). We shall want you. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (politely). Sit down, won't you? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (earnestly). Oh, if you please, ma'am, I really must draw the line + at sitting down. I couldn't let myself be seen doing such a thing, ma'am: + thank you, I am sure, all the same. (He looks round from face to face + wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Don't let us waste time. William only wants to go on taking care + of us. I should like a cup of coffee. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (brightening perceptibly). Coffee, miss? (He gives a little gasp of + hope.) Certainly, miss. Thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very + thoughtful and considerate indeed. (To Mrs. Clandon, timidly but + expectantly.) Anything for you, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON Er—oh, yes: it's so hot, I think we might have a jug of + claret cup. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (beaming). Claret cup, ma'am! Certainly, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA Oh, well I'll have a claret cup instead of coffee. Put some + cucumber in it. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (delighted). Cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (To Bohun.) Anything + special for you, sir? You don't like cucumber, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. If Mrs. Clandon will allow me—syphon—Scotch. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Right, sir. (To Crampton.) Irish for you, sir, I think, sir? + (Crampton assents with a grunt. The waiter looks enquiringly at + Valentine.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I like the cucumber. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Right, sir. (Summing up.) Claret cup, syphon, one Scotch and one + Irish? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. I think that's right. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (perfectly happy). Right, ma'am. Directly, ma'am. Thank you. (He + ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human + happiness, from the bottom to the top, in a little over two minutes.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. We can begin now, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. We had better wait until Mrs. Clandon's husband arrives. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean? I'm her husband. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (instantly pouncing on the inconsistency between this and his + previous statement). You said just now your name was Crampton. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. So it is. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON } (all four { I— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA } speaking { My— + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS } simul- { Mrs.— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE } taneously). { You— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (drowning them in two thunderous words). One moment. (Dead silence.) + Pray allow me. Sit down everybody. (They obey humbly. Gloria takes the + saddle-bag chair on the hearth. Valentine slips around to her side of the + room and sits on the ottoman facing the window, so that he can look at + her. Crampton sits on the ottoman with his back to Valentine's. Mrs. + Clandon, who has all along kept at the opposite side of the room in order + to avoid Crampton as much as possible, sits near the door, with McComas + beside her on her left. Bohun places himself magisterially in the centre + of the group, near the corner of the table on Mrs. Clandon's side. When + they are settled, he fixes Crampton with his eye, and begins.) In this + family, it appears, the husband's name is Crampton: the wife's Clandon. + Thus we have on the very threshold of the case an element of confusion. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (getting up and speaking across to him with one knee on the + ottoman). But it's perfectly simple. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (annihilating him with a vocal thunderbolt). It is. Mrs. Clandon has + adopted another name. That is the obvious explanation which you feared I + could not find out for myself. You mistrust my intelligence, Mr. Valentine— + (Stopping him as he is about to protest.) No: I don't want you to answer + that: I want you to think over it when you feel your next impulse to + interrupt me. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (dazed). This is simply breaking a butterfly on a wheel. What + does it matter? (He sits down again.) + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. I will tell you what it matters, sir. It matters that if this + family difference is to be smoothed over as we all hope it may be, Mrs. + Clandon, as a matter of social convenience and decency, will have to + resume her husband's name. (Mrs. Clandon assumes an expression of the most + determined obstinacy.) Or else Mr. Crampton will have to call himself Mr. + Clandon. (Crampton looks indomitably resolved to do nothing of the sort.) + No doubt you think that an easy matter, Mr. Valentine. (He looks pointedly + at Mrs. Clandon, then at Crampton.) I differ from you. (He throws himself + back in his chair, frowning heavily.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (timidly). I think, Bohun, we had perhaps better dispose of the + important questions first. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. McComas: there will be no difficulty about the important questions. + There never is. It is the trifles that will wreck you at the harbor mouth. + (McComas looks as if he considered this a paradox.) You don't agree with + me, eh? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (flatteringly). If I did— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (interrupting him). If you did, you would be me, instead of being + what you are. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (fawning on him). Of course, Bohun, your specialty— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (again interrupting him). My specialty is being right when other + people are wrong. If you agreed with me I should be of no use here. (He + nods at him to drive the point home; then turns suddenly and forcibly on + Crampton.) Now you, Mr. Crampton: what point in this business have you + most at heart? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (beginning slowly). I wish to put all considerations of self + aside in this matter— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (interrupting him). So do we all, Mr. Crampton. (To Mrs. Clandon.) Y + o u wish to put self aside, Mrs. Clandon? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Yes: I am not consulting my own feelings in being here. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. So do you, Miss Clandon? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Yes. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. I thought so. We all do. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Except me. My aims are selfish. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. That's because you think an impression of sincerity will produce a + better effect on Miss Clandon than an impression of disinterestedness. + (Valentine, utterly dismantled and destroyed by this just remark, takes + refuge in a feeble, speechless smile. Bohun, satisfied at having now + effectually crushed all rebellion, throws himself back in his chair, with + an air of being prepared to listen tolerantly to their grievances.) Now, + Mr. Crampton, go on. It's understood that self is put aside. Human nature + always begins by saying that. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. But I mean it, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Quite so. Now for your point. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Every reasonable person will admit that it's an unselfish one—the + children. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Well? What about the children? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (with emotion). They have— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (pouncing forward again). Stop. You're going to tell me about your + feelings, Mr. Crampton. Don't: I sympathize with them; but they're not my + business. Tell us exactly what you want: that's what we have to get at. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (uneasily). It's a very difficult question to answer, Mr. Bohun. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Come: I'll help you out. What do you object to in the present + circumstances of the children? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I object to the way they have been brought up. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. How do you propose to alter that now? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I think they ought to dress more quietly. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Nonsense. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (instantly flinging himself back in his chair, outraged by the + interruption). When you are done, Mr. Valentine—when you are quite + done. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. What's wrong with Miss Clandon's dress? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (hotly to Valentine). My opinion is as good as yours. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (warningly). Father! + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (subsiding piteously). I didn't mean you, my dear. (Pleading + earnestly to Bohun.) But the two younger ones! you have not seen them, Mr. + Bohun; and indeed I think you would agree with me that there is something + very noticeable, something almost gay and frivolous in their style of + dressing. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (impatiently). Do you suppose I choose their clothes for + them? Really this is childish. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (furious, rising). Childish! (Mrs. Clandon rises indignantly.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS } (all ris- } Crampton, you promised— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE } ing and } Ridiculous. They dress + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + } speaking } charmingly. +</pre> + <p> + GLORIA } together). } Pray let us behave reasonably. + </p> + <p> + Tumult. Suddenly they hear a chime of glasses in the room behind them. + They turn in silent surprise and find that the waiter has just come back + from the bar in the garden, and is jingling his tray warningly as he comes + softly to the table with it. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (to Crampton, setting a tumbler apart on the table). Irish for you, + sir. (Crampton sits down a little shamefacedly. The waiter sets another + tumbler and a syphon apart, saying to Bohun) Scotch and syphon for you, + sir. (Bohun waves his hand impatiently. The waiter places a large glass + jug in the middle.) And claret cup. (All subside into their seats. Peace + reigns.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (humbly to Bohun). I am afraid we interrupted you, Mr. Bohun. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (calmly). You did. (To the waiter, who is going out.) Just wait a + bit. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. (He takes his stand behind Bohun's + chair.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (to the waiter). You don't mind our detaining you, I hope. + Mr. Bohun wishes it. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (now quite at his ease). Oh, no, ma'am, not at all, ma'am. It is a + pleasure to me to watch the working of his trained and powerful mind—very + stimulating, very entertaining and instructive indeed, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (resuming command of the proceedings). Now, Mr. Crampton: we are + waiting for you. Do you give up your objection to the dressing, or do you + stick to it? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (pleading). Mr. Bohun: consider my position for a moment. I + haven't got myself alone to consider: there's my sister Sophronia and my + brother-in-law and all their circle. They have a great horror of anything + that is at all—at all—well— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Out with it. Fast? Loud? Gay? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Not in any unprincipled sense of course; but—but— + (blurting it out desperately) those two children would shock them. They're + not fit to mix with their own people. That's what I complain of. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (with suppressed impatience). Mr. Valentine: do you think + there is anything fast or loud about Phil and Dolly? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Certainly not. It's utter bosh. Nothing can be in better taste. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Oh, yes: of course you say so. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. William: you see a great deal of good English society. Are + my children overdressed? + </p> + <p> + WAITER (reassuringly). Oh, dear, no, ma'am. (Persuasively.) Oh, no, sir, + not at all. A little pretty and tasty no doubt; but very choice and classy—very + genteel and high toned indeed. Might be the son and daughter of a Dean, + sir, I assure you, sir. You have only to look at them, sir, to— (At + this moment a harlequin and columbine, dancing to the music of the band in + the garden, which has just reached the coda of a waltz, whirl one another + into the room. The harlequin's dress is made of lozenges, an inch square, + of turquoise blue silk and gold alternately. His hat is gilt and his mask + turned up. The columbine's petticoats are the epitome of a harvest field, + golden orange and poppy crimson, with a tiny velvet jacket for the poppy + stamens. They pass, an exquisite and dazzling apparition, between McComas + and Bohun, and then back in a circle to the end of the table, where, as + the final chord of the waltz is struck, they make a tableau in the middle + of the company, the harlequin down on his left knee, and the columbine + standing on his right knee, with her arms curved over her head. Unlike + their dancing, which is charmingly graceful, their attitudinizing is + hardly a success, and threatens to end in a catastrophe.) + </p> + <p> + THE COLUMBINE (screaming). Lift me down, somebody: I'm going to fall. + Papa: lift me down. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (anxiously running to her and taking her hands). My child! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (jumping down with his help). Thanks: so nice of you. (Phil, putting + his hat into his belt, sits on the side of the table and pours out some + claret cup. Crampton returns to his place on the ottoman in great + perplexity.) Oh, what fun! Oh, dear. (She seats herself with a vault on + the front edge of the table, panting.) Oh, claret cup! (She drinks.) + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (in powerful tones). This is the younger lady, is it? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (slipping down off the table in alarm at his formidable voice and + manner). Yes, sir. Please, who are you? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. This is Mr. Bohun, Dolly, who has very kindly come to help + us this evening. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Oh, then he comes as a boon and a blessing— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Mr. Bohun—McComas: I appeal to you. Is this right? Would + you blame my sister's family for objecting to this? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (flushing ominously). Have you begun again? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (propitiating her). No, no. It's perhaps natural at your age. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (obstinately). Never mind my age. Is it pretty? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Yes, dear, yes. (He sits down in token of submission.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (following him insistently). Do you like it? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. My child: how can you expect me to like it or to approve of it? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (determined not to let him off). How can you think it pretty and not + like it? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (rising, angry and scandalized). Really I must say— (Bohun, + who has listened to Dolly with the highest approval, is down on him + instantly.) + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. No: don't interrupt, McComas. The young lady's method is right. (To + Dolly, with tremendous emphasis.) Press your questions, Miss Clandon: + press your questions. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (rising). Oh, dear, you are a regular overwhelmer! Do you always go + on like this? + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (rising). Yes. Don't you try to put me out of countenance, young + lady: you're too young to do it. (He takes McComas's chair from beside + Mrs. Clandon's and sets it beside his own.) Sit down. (Dolly, fascinated, + obeys; and Bohun sits down again. McComas, robbed of his seat, takes a + chair on the other side between the table and the ottoman.) Now, Mr. + Crampton, the facts are before you—both of them. You think you'd + like to have your two youngest children to live with you. Well, you + wouldn't— (Crampton tries to protest; but Bohun will not have it on + any terms.) No, you wouldn't: you think you would; but I know better than + you. You'd want this young lady here to give up dressing like a stage + columbine in the evening and like a fashionable columbine in the morning. + Well, she won't—never. She thinks she will; but— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (interrupting him). No I don't. (Resolutely.) I'll n e v e r give up + dressing prettily. Never. As Gloria said to that man in Madeira, never, + never, never while grass grows or water runs. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (rising in the wildest agitation). What! What! (Beginning to + speak very fast.) When did she say that? Who did she say that to? + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (throwing himself back with massive, pitying remonstrance). Mr. + Valentine— + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (pepperily). Don't you interrupt me, sir: this is something + really serious. I i n s i s t on knowing who Miss Clandon said that to. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Perhaps Phil remembers. Which was it, Phil? number three or number + five? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Number five!!! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Courage, Valentine. It wasn't number five: it was only a tame + naval lieutenant that was always on hand—the most patient and + harmless of mortals. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (coldly). What are we discussing now, pray? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (very red). Excuse me: I am sorry I interrupted. I shall intrude + no further, Mrs. Clandon. (He bows to Mrs. Clandon and marches away into + the garden, boiling with suppressed rage.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Hmhm! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Ahah! + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Please go on, Mr. Bohun. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (striking in as Bohun, frowning formidably, collects himself for a + fresh grapple with the case). You're going to bully us, Mr. Bohun. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. I— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (interrupting him). Oh, yes, you are: you think you're not; but you + are. I know by your eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (capitulating). Mrs. Clandon: these are clever children— clear + headed, well brought up children. I make that admission deliberately. Can + you, in return, point out to me any way of inducting them to hold their + tongues? + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Dolly, dearest—! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Our old failing, Dolly. Silence! (Dolly holds her mouth.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Now, Mr. Bohun, before they begin again— + </p> + <p> + WAITER (softer). Be quick, sir: be quick. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (beaming at him). Dear William! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (unexpectedly beginning by hurling a question straight at Dolly). + Have you any intention of getting married? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. I! Well, Finch calls me by my Christian name. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I will not have this. Mr. Bohun: I use the young lady's Christian + name naturally as an old friend of her mother's. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Yes, you call me Dolly as an old friend of my mother's. But what + about Dorothee-ee-a? (McComas rises indignantly.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (anxiously, rising to restrain him). Keep your temper, McComas. + Don't let us quarrel. Be patient. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I will not be patient. You are shewing the most wretched weakness + of character, Crampton. I say this is monstrous. + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Mr. Bohun: please bully Finch for us. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. I will. McComas: you're making yourself ridiculous. Sit down. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. I— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (waving him down imperiously). No: sit down, sit down. (McComas sits + down sulkily; and Crampton, much relieved, follows his example.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (to Bohun, meekly). Thank you. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Now, listen to me, all of you. I give no opinion, McComas, as to + how far you may or may not have committed yourself in the direction + indicated by this young lady. (McComas is about to protest.) No: don't + interrupt me: if she doesn't marry you she will marry somebody else. That + is the solution of the difficulty as to her not bearing her father's name. + The other lady intends to get married. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (flushing). Mr. Bohun! + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Oh, yes, you do: you don't know it; but you do. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (rising). Stop. I warn you, Mr. Bohun, not to answer for my + intentions. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (rising). It's no use, Miss Clandon: you can't put me down. I tell + you your name will soon be neither Clandon nor Crampton; and I could tell + you what it will be if I chose. (He goes to the other end of the table, + where he unrolls his domino, and puts the false nose on the table. When he + moves they all rise; and Phil goes to the window. Bohun, with a gesture, + summons the waiter to help him in robing.) Mr. Crampton: your notion of + going to law is all nonsense: your children will be of age before you + could get the point decided. (Allowing the waiter to put the domino on his + shoulders.) You can do nothing but make a friendly arrangement. If you + want your family more than they want you, you'll get the worse of the + arrangement: if they want you more than you want them, you'll get the + better of it. (He shakes the domino into becoming folds and takes up the + false nose. Dolly gazes admiringly at him.) The strength of their position + lies in their being very agreeable people personally. The strength of your + position lies in your income. (He claps on the false nose, and is again + grotesquely transfigured.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (running to him). Oh, now you look quite like a human being. Mayn't + I have just one dance with you? C a n you dance? (Phil, resuming his part + of harlequin, waves his hat as if casting a spell on them.) + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (thunderously). Yes: you think I can't; but I can. Come along. (He + seizes her and dances off with her through the window in a most powerful + manner, but with studied propriety and grace. The waiter is meanwhile busy + putting the chairs back in their customary places.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. "On with the dance: let joy be unconfined." William! + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Can you procure a couple of dominos and false noses for my father + and Mr. McComas? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Most certainly not. I protest— + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. No, no. What harm will it do, just for once, McComas? Don't let + us be spoil-sports. + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS. Crampton: you are not the man I took you for. (Pointedly.) + Bullies are always cowards. (He goes disgustedly towards the window.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (following him). Well, never mind. We must indulge them a little. + Can you get us something to wear, waiter? + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Certainly, sir. (He precedes them to the window, and stands aside + there to let them pass out before him.) This way, sir. Dominos and noses, + sir? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (angrily, on his way out). I shall wear my own nose. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (suavely). Oh, dear, yes, sir: the false one will fit over it quite + easily, sir: plenty of room, sir, plenty of room. (He goes out after + McComas.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (turning at the window to Phil with an attempt at genial + fatherliness). Come along, my boy, come along. (He goes.) + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (cheerily, following him). Coming, dad, coming. (On the window + threshold, he stops; looking after Crampton; then turns fantastically with + his bat bent into a halo round his head, and says with a lowered voice to + Mrs. Clandon and Gloria) Did you feel the pathos of that? (He vanishes.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (left alone with Gloria). Why did Mr. Valentine go away so + suddenly, I wonder? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (petulantly). I don't know. Yes, I d o know. Let us go and see the + dancing. (They go towards the window, and are met by Valentine, who comes + in from the garden walking quickly, with his face set and sulky.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (stiffly). Excuse me. I thought the party had quite broken up. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (nagging). Then why did you come back? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I came back because I am penniless. I can't get out that way + without a five shilling ticket. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Has anything annoyed you, Mr. Valentine? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Never mind him, mother. This is a fresh insult to me: that is all. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (hardly able to realize that Gloria is deliberately provoking + an altercation). Gloria! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Mrs. Clandon: have I said anything insulting? Have I done + anything insulting? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. you have implied that my past has been like yours. That is the + worst of insults. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I imply nothing of the sort. I declare that my past has been + blameless in comparison with yours. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (most indignantly). Mr. Valentine! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Well, what am I to think when I learn that Miss Clandon has + made exactly the same speeches to other men that she has made to me—when + I hear of at least five former lovers, with a tame naval lieutenant thrown + in? Oh, it's too bad. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. But you surely do not believe that these affairs— mere + jokes of the children's—were serious, Mr. Valentine? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Not to you—not to her, perhaps. But I know what the men + felt. (With ludicrously genuine earnestness.) Have you ever thought of the + wrecked lives, the marriages contracted in the recklessness of despair, + the suicides, the—the—the— + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (interrupting him contemptuously). Mother: this man is a + sentimental idiot. (She sweeps away to the fireplace.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Oh, my d e a r e s t Gloria, Mr. Valentine will + think that rude. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. I am not a sentimental idiot. I am cured of sentiment for ever. + (He sits down in dudgeon.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Valentine: you must excuse us all. Women have to unlearn + the false good manners of their slavery before they acquire the genuine + good manners of their freedom. Don't think Gloria vulgar (Gloria turns, + astonished): she is not really so. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Mother! You apologize for me to h i m! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON. My dear: you have some of the faults of youth as well as its + qualities; and Mr. Valentine seems rather too old fashioned in his ideas + about his own sex to like being called an idiot. And now had we not better + go and see what Dolly is doing? (She goes towards the window. Valentine + rises.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Do you go, mother. I wish to speak to Mr. Valentine alone. + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (startled into a remonstrance). My dear! (Recollecting + herself.) I beg your pardon, Gloria. Certainly, if you wish. (She bows to + Valentine and goes out.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Oh, if your mother were only a widow! She's worth six of you. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. That is the first thing I have heard you say that does you honor. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Stuff! Come: say what you want to say and let me go. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. I have only this to say. You dragged me down to your level for a + moment this afternoon. Do you think, if that had ever happened before, + that I should not have been on my guard—that I should not have known + what was coming, and known my own miserable weakness? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (scolding at her passionately). Don't talk of it in that way. + What do I care for anything in you but your weakness, as you call it? You + thought yourself very safe, didn't you, behind your advanced ideas! I + amused myself by upsetting t h e m pretty easily. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (insolently, feeling that now she can do as she likes with him). + Indeed! + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. But why did I do it? Because I was being tempted to awaken your + heart—to stir the depths in you. Why was I tempted? Because Nature + was in deadly earnest with me when I was in jest with her. When the great + moment came, who was awakened? who was stirred? in whom did the depths + break up? In myself—m y s e l f: I was transported: you were only + offended—shocked. You were only an ordinary young lady, too ordinary + to allow tame lieutenants to go as far as I went. That's all. I shall not + trouble you with conventional apologies. Good-bye. (He makes resolutely + for the door.) + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Stop. (He hesitates.) Oh, will you understand, if I tell you the + truth, that I am not making an advance to you? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Pooh! I know what you're going to say. You think you're not + ordinary—that I was right—that you really have those depths in + your nature. It flatters you to believe it. (She recoils.) Well, I grant + that you are not ordinary in some ways: you are a clever girl (Gloria + stifles an exclamation of rage, and takes a threatening step towards him); + but you've not been awakened yet. You didn't care: you don't care. It was + my tragedy, not yours. Good-bye. (He turns to the door. She watches him, + appalled to see him slipping from her grasp. As he turns the handle, he + pauses; then turns again to her, offering his hand.) Let us part kindly. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (enormously relieved, and immediately turning her back on him + deliberately.) Good-bye. I trust you will soon recover from the wound. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (brightening up as it flashes on him that he is master of the + situation after all). I shall recover: such wounds heal more than they + harm. After all, I still have my own Gloria. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (facing him quickly). What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. The Gloria of my imagination. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (proudly). Keep your own Gloria—the Gloria of your + imagination. (Her emotion begins to break through her pride.) The real + Gloria—the Gloria who was shocked, offended, horrified—oh, + yes, quite truly—who was driven almost mad with shame by the feeling + that all her power over herself had been broken down at her first real + encounter with—with— (The color rushes over her face again. + She covers it with her left hand, and puts her right on his left arm to + support herself.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. Take care. I'm losing my senses again. (Summoning all her + courage, she takes away her hand from her face and puts it on his right + shoulder, turning him towards her and looking him straight in the eyes. He + begins to protest agitatedly.) Gloria: be sensible: it's no use: I haven't + a penny in the world. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. Can't you earn one? Other people do. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (half delighted, half frightened). I never could—you'd be + unhappy— My dearest love: I should be the merest fortune-hunting + adventurer if— (Her grip on his arms tightens; and she kisses him.) + Oh, Lord! (Breathless.) Oh, I— (He gasps.) I don't know anything + about women: twelve years' experience is not enough. (In a gust of + jealousy she throws him away from her; and he reels her back into the + chair like a leaf before the wind, as Dolly dances in, waltzing with the + waiter, followed by Mrs. Clandon and Finch, also waltzing, and Phil + pirouetting by himself.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (sinking on the chair at the writing-table). Oh, I'm out of breath. + How beautifully you waltz, William! + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (sinking on the saddlebag seat on the hearth). Oh, how could + you make me do such a silly thing, Finch! I haven't danced since the + soiree at South Place twenty years ago. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (peremptorily at Valentine). Get up. (Valentine gets up abjectly.) + Now let us have no false delicacy. Tell my mother that we have agreed to + marry one another. (A silence of stupefaction ensues. Valentine, dumb with + panic, looks at them with an obvious impulse to run away.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (breaking the silence). Number Six! + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Sh! + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (tumultuously). Oh, my feelings! I want to kiss somebody; and we bar + it in the family. Where's Finch? + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (starting violently). No, positively— (Crampton appears in + the window.) + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (running to Crampton). Oh, you're just in time. (She kisses him.) + Now (leading him forward) bless them. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA. No. I will have no such thing, even in jest. When I need a + blessing, I shall ask my mother's. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (to Gloria, with deep disappointment). Am I to understand that + you have engaged yourself to this young gentleman? + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (resolutely). Yes. Do you intend to be our friend or— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY (interposing). —or our father? + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. I should like to be both, my child. But surely—! Mr. + Valentine: I appeal to your sense of honor. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. You're quite right. It's perfect madness. If we go out to dance + together I shall have to borrow five shillings from her for a ticket. + Gloria: don't be rash: you're throwing yourself away. I'd much better + clear straight out of this, and never see any of you again. I shan't + commit suicide: I shan't even be unhappy. It'll be a relief to me: I—I'm + frightened, I'm positively frightened; and that's the plain truth. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (determinedly). You shall not go. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (quailing). No, dearest: of course not. But—oh, will + somebody only talk sense for a moment and bring us all to reason! I can't. + Where's Bohun? Bohun's the man. Phil: go and summon Bohun— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. From the vastly deep. I go. (He makes his bat quiver in the air + and darts away through the window.) + </p> + <p> + WAITER (harmoniously to Valentine). If you will excuse my putting in a + word, sir, do not let a matter of five shillings stand between you and + your happiness, sir. We shall be only too pleased to put the ticket down + to you: and you can settle at your convenience. Very glad to meet you in + any way, very happy and pleased indeed, sir. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (re-appearing). He comes. (He waves his bat over the window. Bohun + comes in, taking off his false nose and throwing it on the table in + passing as he comes between Gloria and Valentine.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. The point is, Mr. Bohun— + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (interrupting from the hearthrug). Excuse me, sir: the point must + be put to him by a solicitor. The question is one of an engagement between + these two young people. The lady has some property, and (looking at + Crampton) will probably have a good deal more. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON. Possibly. I hope so. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. And the gentleman hasn't a rap. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (nailing Valentine to the point instantly). Then insist on a + settlement. That shocks your delicacy: most sensible precautions do. But + you ask my advice; and I give it to you. Have a settlement. + </p> + <p> + GLORIA (proudly). He shall have a settlement. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE. My good sir, I don't want advice for myself. Give h e r some + advice. + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. She won't take it. When you're married, she won't take yours either— + (turning suddenly on Gloria) oh, no, you won't: you think you will; but + you won't. He'll set to work and earn his living— (turning suddenly + to Valentine) oh, yes, you will: you think you won't; but you will. She'll + make you. + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (only half persuaded). Then, Mr. Bohun, you don't think this + match an unwise one? + </p> + <p> + BOHUN. Yes, I do: all matches are unwise. It's unwise to be born; it's + unwise to be married; it's unwise to live; and it's unwise to die. + </p> + <p> + WAITER (insinuating himself between Crampton and Valentine). Then, if I + may respectfully put in a word in, sir, so much the worse for wisdom! (To + Valentine, benignly.) Cheer up, sir, cheer up: every man is frightened of + marriage when it comes to the point; but it often turns out very + comfortable, very enjoyable and happy indeed, sir—from time to time. + I never was master in my own house, sir: my wife was like your young lady: + she was of a commanding and masterful disposition, which my son has + inherited. But if I had my life to live twice over, I'd do it again, I'd + do it again, I assure you. You never can tell, sir: you never can tell. + </p> + <p> + PHILIP. Allow me to remark that if Gloria has made up her mind— + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. The matter's settled and Valentine's done for. And we're missing + all the dances. + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (to Gloria, gallantly making the best of it). May I have a dance— + </p> + <p> + BOHUN (interposing in his grandest diapason). Excuse me: I claim that + privilege as counsel's fee. May I have the honor—thank you. (He + dances away with Gloria and disappears among the lanterns, leaving + Valentine gasping.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (recovering his breath). Dolly: may I— (offering himself + as her partner)? + </p> + <p> + DOLLY. Nonsense! (Eluding him and running round the table to the + fireplace.) Finch—my Finch! (She pounces on McComas and makes him + dance.) + </p> + <p> + McCOMAS (protesting). Pray restrain—really—(He is borne off + dancing through the window.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (making a last effort). Mrs. Clandon: may I— + </p> + <p> + PHILIP (forestalling him). Come, mother. (He seizes his mother and whirls + her away.) + </p> + <p> + MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil, Phil— (She shares McComas's + fate.) + </p> + <p> + CRAMPTON (following them with senile glee). Ho! ho! He! he! he! (He goes + into the garden chuckling at the fun.) + </p> + <p> + VALENTINE (collapsing on the ottoman and staring at the waiter). I might + as well be a married man already. (The waiter contemplates the captured + Duellist of Sex with affectionate commiseration, shaking his head slowly.) + </p> + <p> + CURTAIN. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's You Never Can Tell, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOU NEVER CAN TELL *** + +***** This file should be named 2175-h.htm or 2175-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/7/2175/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteeer and David Widger + +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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