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diff --git a/35640.txt b/35640.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc675d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/35640.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15539 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Plays by Granville-Barker, by +Harley Granville-Barker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Three Plays by Granville-Barker + The Marrying of Ann Leete; The Voysey Inheritance; Waste + +Author: Harley Granville-Barker + +Release Date: March 21, 2011 [EBook #35640] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE-BARKER *** + + + + +Produced by David T. Jones, James Wright and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from +images generously made available by The Internet +Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + + THREE PLAYS BY + GRANVILLE BARKER + + + + +_These plays may also be obtained separately: in cloth, 2s. net each; in +paper covers, 1s. 6d. net each._ + + + + +THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER: +THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE--THE +VOYSEY INHERITANCE--WASTE + + +LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. +3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI. MCMIX. + + + + + _Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A. + All rights reserved._ + + _First Impression, August 1909_ + _Second Impression, September 1909_ + _Third Impression, November 1909_ + + + + + To the memory of my fellow-worker, + St. John Hankin. + + + + + The Marrying of Ann Leete + + A COMEDY + + 1899 + + + + + THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE + + +_The first three acts of the comedy pass in the garden at Markswayde_, +MR. CARNABY LEETE'S _house near Reading, during a summer day towards the +close of the eighteenth century: the first act at four in the morning, +the second shortly after mid-day, the third near to sunset. The fourth +act takes place one day in the following winter; the first scene in the +hall at Markswayde, the second scene in a cottage some ten miles off._ + +_This part of the Markswayde garden looks to have been laid out during +the seventeenth century. In the middle a fountain; the centrepiece the +figure of a nymph, now somewhat cracked, and pouring nothing from the +amphora; the rim of the fountain is high enough and broad enough to be a +comfortable seat._ + +_The close turf around is in parts worn bare. This plot of ground is +surrounded by a terrace three feet higher. Three sides of it are seen. +From two corners broad steps lead down; stone urns stand at the bottom +and top of the stone balustrades. The other two corners are rounded +convexly into broad stone seats._ + +_Along the edges of the terrace are growing rose trees, close together; +behind these, paths; behind those, shrubs and trees. No landscape is to +be seen. A big copper beech overshadows the seat on the left. A silver +birch droops over the seat on the right. The trees far to the left +indicate an orchard, the few to the right are more of the garden sort. +It is the height of summer, and after a long drought the rose trees are +dilapidated._ + +_It is very dark in the garden. Though there may be by now a faint +morning light in the sky it has not penetrated yet among these trees. It +is very still, too. Now and then the leaves of a tree are stirred, as if +in its sleep; that is all. Suddenly a shrill, frightened, but not +tragical scream is heard. After a moment_ ANN LEETE _runs quickly down +the steps and on to the fountain, where she stops, panting_. LORD JOHN +CARP _follows her, but only to the top of the steps, evidently not +knowing his way_. ANN _is a girl of twenty; he an English gentleman, +nearer forty than thirty_. + + +LORD JOHN. I apologise. + +ANN. Why is it so dark? + +LORD JOHN. Can you hear what I'm saying? + +ANN. Yes. + +LORD JOHN. I apologise for having kissed you . . . almost +unintentionally. + +ANN. Thank you. Mind the steps down. + +LORD JOHN. I hope I'm sober, but the air . . . + +ANN. Shall we sit for a minute? There are several seats to sit on +somewhere. + +LORD JOHN. This is a very dark garden. + +_There is a slight pause._ + +ANN. You've won your bet. + +LORD JOHN. So you did scream! + +ANN. But it wasn't fair. + +LORD JOHN. Don't reproach me. + +ANN. Somebody's coming. + +LORD JOHN. How d'you know? + +ANN. I can hear somebody coming. + +LORD JOHN. We're not sitting down. + +ANN'S _brother_, GEORGE LEETE _comes to the top of the steps, and +afterwards down them. Rather an old young man._ + +GEORGE. Ann! + +ANN. Yes. + +GEORGE. My lord! + +LORD JOHN. Here. + +GEORGE. I can't see you. I'm sent to say we're all anxious to know what +ghost or other bird of night or beast has frightened Ann to screaming +point, and won you . . . the best in Tatton's stables--so he says now. +He's quite annoyed. + +LORD JOHN. The mare is a very good mare. + +ANN. He betted it because he wanted to bet it; I didn't want him to bet it. + +GEORGE. What frightened her? + +ANN. I had rather, my lord, that you did not tell my brother why I +screamed. + +LORD JOHN. I kissed her. + +GEORGE. Did you? + +ANN. I had rather, Lord John, that you had not told my brother why I +screamed. + +LORD JOHN. I misunderstood you. + +GEORGE. I've broke up the whist party. Ann, shall we return? + +LORD JOHN. She's not here. + +GEORGE. Ann. + +LADY COTTESHAM, ANN'S _sister and ten years older, and_ MR. DANIEL +TATTON, _a well-living, middle-aged country gentleman, arrive together_. +TATTON _carries a double candlestick. . . the lights out_. + +MR. TATTON. Three steps? + +SARAH. No . . . four. + +LORD JOHN. Miss Leete. + +TATTON _in the darkness finds himself close to_ GEORGE. + +MR. TATTON. I am in a rage with you, my lord. + +GEORGE. He lives next door. + +MR. TATTON. My mistake. [_He passes on._] Confess that she did it to +please you. + +LORD JOHN. Screamed! + +MR. TATTON. Lost my bet. We'll say . . . won your bet . . . to please +you. Was skeered at the dark . . . oh, fie! + +LORD JOHN. Miss Leete trod on a toad. + +MR. TATTON. I barred toads . . . here. + + +LORD JOHN. I don't think it. + +MR. TATTON. I barred toads. Did I forget to? Well . . . it's better to +be a sportsman. + +SARAH. And whereabout is she? + +ANN. [_From the corner she has slunk to._] Here I am, Sally. + +MR. TATTON. Miss Ann, I forgive you. I'm smiling, I assure you, I'm +smiling. + +SARAH. We all laughed when we heard you. + +MR. TATTON. Which reminds me, young George Leete, had you the ace? + +GEORGE. King . . . knave . . . here are the cards, but I can't see. + +MR. TATTON. I had the king. + +ANN. [_Quietly to her sister._] He kissed me. + +SARAH. A man would. + +GEORGE. What were trumps? + +MR. TATTON. What were we playing . . . cricket? + +ANN. [_As quietly again._] D'you think I'm blushing? + +SARAH. It's probable. + +ANN. I am by the feel of me. + +SARAH. George, we left Papa sitting quite still. + +LORD JOHN. Didn't he approve of the bet? + +MR. TATTON. He said nothing. + +SARAH. Why, who doesn't love sport! + +MR. TATTON. I'm the man to grumble. Back a woman's pluck again . . . +never. My lord . . . you weren't the one to go with her as umpire. + +GEORGE. No. . . to be sure. + +MR. TATTON. How was it I let that pass? Playing two games at once. +Haven't I cause of complaint? But a man must give and take. + +_The master of the house, father of_ GEORGE _and_ SARAH COTTESHAM _and_ +ANN, MR. CARNABY LEETE, _comes slowly down the steps, unnoticed by the +others. A man over fifty--a la Lord Chesterfield_. + +GEORGE. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Are you sure you're quite comfortable there? + +LORD JOHN. Whatever I'm sitting on hasn't given way yet. + +MR. TATTON. Don't forget that you're riding to Brighton with me. + +LORD JOHN. Tomorrow. + +GEORGE. To-day. Well . . . the hour before sunrise is no time at all. + +MR. TATTON. Sixty-five miles. + +LORD JOHN. What are we all sitting here for? + +MR. TATTON. I say people ought to be in bed and asleep. + +CARNABY. But the morning air is delightful. + +MR. TATTON. [_Jumping at the new voice._] Leete! Now, had you the ace? + +CARNABY. Of course. + +MR. TATTON. We should have lost that too, Lady Charlie. + +SARAH. Bear up, Mr. Tat. + +MR. TATTON. Come, a game of whist is a game of whist. + +CARNABY. And so I strolled out after you all. + +MR. TATTON. She trod on a toad. + +CARNABY. [_Carelessly._] Does she say so? + +MR. TATTON. [_With mock roguishness._] Ah! + +GEORGE _is on the terrace, looking to the left through the trees_. +TATTON _is sitting on the edge of the fountain_. + +GEORGE. Here's the sun . . . to show us ourselves. + +MR. TATTON. Leete, this pond is full of water! + +CARNABY. Ann, if you are there . . . + +ANN. Yes, Papa. + +CARNABY. Apologise profusely; it's your garden. + +ANN. Oh . . . + +CARNABY. Coat-tails, Tatton . . . or worse? + +MR. TATTON. [_Ruefully discovering damp spots about him._] Nothing +vastly to matter. + +LORD JOHN. Hardy, well-preserved, country gentleman! + +MR. TATTON. I bet I'm a younger man than you, my lord. + +ANN. [_Suddenly to the company generally._] I didn't tread upon any toad +. . . I was kissed. + +_There is a pause of some discomfort._ + +SARAH. Ann, come here to me. + +LORD JOHN. I apologised. + +GEORGE. [_From the terrace._] Are we to be insulted? + +CARNABY. My dear Carp, say no more. + +_There is another short pause. By this it is twilight, faces can be +plainly seen._ + +SARAH. Listen . . . the first bird. + +MR. TATTON. Oh, dear no, they begin to sing long before this. + +CARNABY. What is it now . . . a lark? + +MR. TATTON. I don't know. + +ANN. [_Quietly to_ SARAH.] That's a thrush. + +SARAH. [_Capping her._] A thrush. + +CARNABY. Charming! + +MR. TATTON. [__ LORD JOHN.] I don't see why you couldn't have told me +how it was that she screamed. + +CARNABY. Our dear Tatton! [_Sotto voce to his son._] Hold your tongue, +George. + +MR. TATTON. I did bar toads and you said I didn't, and anyway I had a +sort of right to know. + +LORD JOHN. You know now. + +SARAH. I wonder if this seat is dry. + +LORD JOHN. There's been no rain for weeks. + +SARAH. The roads will be dusty for you, Mr. Tat. + +MR. TATTON. Just one moment. You don't mind me, Miss Ann, do you? + +ANN. I don't mind much. + +MR. TATTON. We said distinctly . . . To the orchard end of the garden +and back and if frightened--that's the word--so much as to scream . . . ! +Now, what I want to know is. . . + +LORD JOHN. Consider the bet off. + +MR. TATTON. Certainly not. And we should have added. . . Alone. + +CARNABY. Tatton has persistence. + +SARAH. Mr. Tat, do you know where people go who take things seriously? + +MR. TATTON. Miss Leete, were you frightened when Lord John kissed you? + +GEORGE. Damnation! + +CARNABY. My excellent Tatton, much as I admire your searchings after +truth I must here parentally intervene, regretting, my dear Tatton, that +my own carelessness of duennahood has permitted this--this . . . to +occur. + +_After this, there is silence for a minute._ + +LORD JOHN. Can I borrow a horse of you, Mr. Leete? + +CARNABY. My entire stable; and your Ronald shall be physicked. + +SARAH. Spartans that you are to be riding! + +LORD JOHN. I prefer it to a jolting chaise. + +MR. TATTON. You will have my mare. + +LORD JOHN. [_Ignoring him._] This has been a most enjoyable three weeks. + +CARNABY. Four. + +LORD JOHN. Is it four? + +CARNABY. We bow to the compliment. Our duty to his grace. + +LORD JOHN. When I see him. + +GEORGE. To our dear cousin. + +MR. TATTON. [_To_ LADY COTTESHAM.] Sir Charles at Brighton? + +SARAH. [_Not answering._] To be sure . . . we did discover . . . our +mother was second cousin . . . once removed to you. + +CARNABY. If the prince will be there . . . he is in waiting. + +LORD JOHN. Any message, Lady Cottesham? . . . since we speak out of +session. + +SARAH. I won't trust you. + +CARNABY. Or trouble you while I still may frank a letter. But my +son-in-law is a wretched correspondent. Do you admire men of small +vices? They make admirable husbands though their wives will be +grumbling--Silence, Sarah--but that's a good sign. + +SARAH. Papa is a connoisseur of humanity. + +ANN. [_To the company as before._] No, Mr. Tatton, I wasn't frightened +when Lord John . . . kissed me. I screamed because I was surprised, and +I'm sorry I screamed. + +SARAH. [_Quietly to_ ANN.] My dear Ann, you're a fool. + +ANN. [_Quietly to_ SARAH.] I will speak sometimes. + +SARAH. Sit down again. + +_Again an uncomfortable silence, a ludicrous air about it this time._ + +MR. TATTON. Now, we'll say no more about that bet, but I was right. + +LORD JOHN. Do you know, Mr. Tatton, that I have a temper to lose? + +MR. TATTON. What the devil does that matter to me, sir . . . my lord? + +LORD JOHN. I owe you a saddle and bridle. + +MR. TATTON. You'll oblige me by taking the mare. + +LORD JOHN. We'll discuss it to-morrow. + +MR. TATTON. I've said all I have to say. + +GEORGE. The whole matter's ridiculous! + +MR. TATTON. I see the joke. Good-night, Lady Cottesham, and I kiss your +hand. + +SARAH. Good morning, Mr. Tat. + +MR. TATTON. Good morning, Miss Ann, I . . . + +SARAH. [_Shielding her sister._] Good morrow is appropriate. + +MR. TATTON. I'll go by the fields. [_To_ CARNABY.] Thank you for a +pleasant evening. Good morrow, George. Do we start at mid-day, my lord? + +LORD JOHN. Any time you please. + +MR. TATTON. Not at all. [_He hands the candlestick--of which he has +never before left go--to_ GEORGE.] I brought this for a link. Thank you. + +CARNABY. Mid-day will be midnight if you sleep at all now; make it two +or later. + +MR. TATTON. We put up at Guildford. I've done so before. I haven't my +hat. It's a day and a half's ride. + +TATTON _goes quickly up the other steps and away. It is now quite +light._ GEORGE _stands by the steps_, LORD JOHN _is on one of the +seats_, CARNABY _strolls round, now and then touching the rose trees_, +SARAH _and_ ANN _are on the other seat_. + +GEORGE. Morning! These candles still smell. + +SARAH. How lively one feels and isn't. + +CARNABY. The flowers are opening. + +ANN. [_In a whisper._] Couldn't we go in? + +SARAH. Never run away. + +ANN. Everything looks so odd. + +SARAH. What's o'clock . . . my lord? + +LORD JOHN. Half after four. + +ANN. [_To_ SARAH.] My eyes are hot behind. + +GEORGE. What ghosts we seem! + +SARAH. What has made us spend such a night? + +CARNABY. Ann incited me to it. [_He takes snuff._] + +SARAH. In a spirit of rebellion against good country habits. . . + +ANN. [_To her sister again._] Don't talk about me. + +SARAH. They can see that you're whispering. + +CARNABY. . . . Informing me now she was a woman and wanted excitement. + +GEORGE. There's a curse. + +CARNABY. How else d'ye conceive life for women? + +SARAH. George is naturally cruel. Excitement's our education. Please +vary it, though. + +CARNABY. I have always held that to colour in the world-picture is the +greatest privilege of the husband. Sarah. + +SARAH. [_Not leaving_ ANN'S _side_.] Yes, Papa. + +CARNABY. Sarah, when Sir Charles leaves Brighton. . . + +SARAH _rises but will not move further_. + +CARNABY. [_Sweetly threatening._] Shall I come to you? + +_But she goes to him now._ + +CARNABY. By a gossip letter from town . . . + +SARAH. [_Tensely._] What is it? + +CARNABY. You mentioned to me something of his visiting Naples. + +SARAH. Very well. I detest Italy. + +CARNABY. Let's have George's opinion. + +_He leads her towards_ GEORGE. + +GEORGE. Yes? + +CARNABY. Upon Naples. + +GEORGE. I remember Naples. + +CARNABY. Sarah, admire those roses. + +SARAH. [_Cynically echoing her father._] Let's have George's opinion. + +_Now_ CARNABY _has drawn them both away, upon the terrace, and, the +coast being clear_, LORD JOHN _walks towards_ ANN, _who looks at him +very scaredly_. + +CARNABY. Emblem of secrecy among the ancients. + +SARAH. Look at this heavy head, won't it snap off? + +_The three move out of sight._ + +LORD JOHN. I'm sober now. + +ANN. I'm not. + +LORD JOHN. Uncompromising young lady. + +ANN. And, excuse me, I don't want to . . . play. + +LORD JOHN. Don't you wish me to apologise quietly, to you? + +ANN. Good manners are all mockery, I'm sure. + +LORD JOHN. I'm very much afraid you're a cynic. + +ANN. I'm not trying to be clever. + +LORD JOHN. Do I tease you? + +ANN. Do I amuse you? + +LORD JOHN. How dare I say so! + +ANN. [_After a moment._] I was not frightened. + +LORD JOHN. You kissed me back. + +ANN. Not on purpose. What do two people mean by behaving so . . . in the +dark? + +LORD JOHN. I am exceedingly sorry that I hurt your feelings. + +ANN. Thank you, I like to feel. + +LORD JOHN. And you must forgive me. + +ANN. Tell me, why did you do it? + +LORD JOHN. Honestly I don't know. I should do it again. + +ANN. That's not quite true, is it? + +LORD JOHN. I think so. + +ANN. What does it matter at all! + +LORD JOHN. Nothing. + +GEORGE, SARAH _and then_ CARNABY _move into sight and along the +terrace_, LORD JOHN _turns to them_. + +LORD JOHN. Has this place been long in your family, Mr. Leete? + +CARNABY. Markswayde my wife brought us, through the Peters's . . . old +Chiltern people . . . connections of yours, of course. There is no +entail. + +LORD JOHN _walks back to_ ANN. + +SARAH. George, you assume this republicanism as you would--no, would +not--a coat of latest cut. + +CARNABY. Never argue with him . . . persist. + +SARAH. So does he. + +_The three pass along the terrace._ + +ANN. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Will you sit down? + +LORD JOHN. It's not worth while. Do you know I must be quite twice your +age? + +ANN. A doubled responsibility, my lord. + +LORD JOHN. I suppose it is. + +ANN. I don't say so. That's a phrase from a book . . . sounded well. + +LORD JOHN. My dear Miss Ann. . . [_He stops._] + +ANN. Go on being polite. + +LORD JOHN. If you'll keep your head turned away. + +ANN. Why must I? + +LORD JOHN. There's lightning in the glances of your eye. + +ANN. Do use vulgar words to me. + +LORD JOHN. [_With a sudden fatherly kindness._] Go to bed . . . you're +dead tired. And good-bye . . . I'll be gone before you wake. + +ANN. Good-bye. + +_She shakes hands with him, then walks towards her father who is coming +down the steps._ + +ANN. Papa, don't my roses want looking to? + +CARNABY. [_Pats her cheek._] These? + +ANN. Those. + +CARNABY. Abud is under your thumb, horticulturally speaking. + +ANN. Where's Sally? + +_She goes on to_ SARAH, _who is standing with_ GEORGE _at the top of the +steps_. CARNABY _looks_ LORD JOHN _up and down_. + +LORD JOHN. [_Dusting his shoulder._] This cursed powder! + +CARNABY. Do we respect innocence enough . . . any of us? + +GEORGE _comes down the steps and joins them_. + +GEORGE. Respectable politics will henceforth be useless to me. + +CARNABY. My lord, was his grace satisfied with the young man's work +abroad or was he not? + +LORD JOHN. My father used to curse everyone. + +CARNABY. That's a mere Downing Street custom. + +LORD JOHN. And I seem to remember that a letter of yours from . . . +where were you in those days? + +GEORGE. Paris . . . Naples . . . Vienna. + +LORD JOHN. One place . . . once lightened a fit of gout. + +CARNABY. George, you have in you the makings of a minister. + +GEORGE. No. + +CARNABY. Remember the Age tends to the disreputable. + +GEORGE _moves away_, SARAH _moves towards them_. + +CARNABY. George is something of a genius, stuffed with theories and +possessed of a curious conscience. But I am fortunate in my children. + +LORD JOHN. All the world knows it. + +CARNABY. [_To_ SARAH.] It's lucky that yours was a love match, too. I +admire you. Ann is 'to come,' so to speak. + +SARAH. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Were you discussing affairs? + +LORD JOHN. Not I. + +GEORGE. Ann. + +ANN. Yes, George. + +_She goes to him; they stroll together up the steps and along the +terrace._ + +SARAH. I'm desperately fagged. + +LORD JOHN. [_Politely._] A seat. + +SARAH. Also tired of sitting. + +CARNABY. Let's have the Brighton news, Carp. + +LORD JOHN. If there's any. + +CARNABY. Probably I still command abuse. Even my son-in-law must, by +courtesy, join in the cry . . . ah, poor duty-torn Sarah! You can spread +abroad that I am as a green bay tree. + +CARNABY _paces slowly away from them_. + +LORD JOHN. Your father's making a mistake. + +SARAH. D'you think so? + +LORD JOHN. He's played the game once. + +SARAH. I was not then in the knowledge of things when he left you. + +LORD JOHN. We remember it. + +SARAH. I should like to hear it. + +LORD JOHN. I have avoided this subject. + +SARAH. With him, yes. + +LORD JOHN. Oh! . . . why did I desert the army for politics? + +SARAH. Better fighting. + +LORD JOHN. It sat so nobly upon him . . . the leaving us for conscience +sake when we were strongly in power. Strange that six months later we +should be turned out. + +SARAH. Papa was lucky. + +LORD JOHN. But this second time . . . ? + +SARAH. Listen. This is very much a private quarrel with Mr. Pitt, who +hates Papa . . . gets rid of him. + +LORD JOHN. Shall I betray a confidence? + +SARAH. Better not. + +LORD JOHN. My father advised me to this visit. + +SARAH. Your useful visit. More than kind of his Grace. + +LORD JOHN. Yes . . . there's been a paragraph in the "Morning +Chronicle," 'The Whigs woo Mr. Carnaby Leete.' + +SARAH. We saw to it. + +LORD JOHN. My poor father seems anxious to discover whether the Leete +episode will repeat itself entirely. He is chronically unhappy in +opposition. Are your husband and his colleagues trembling in their +seats? + +SARAH. I can't say. + +LORD JOHN. Politics is a game for clever children, and women, and fools. +Will you take a word of warning from a soldier? Your father is past his +prime. + +CARNABY _paces back towards them_. + +CARNABY. I'm getting to be old for these all-night sittings. I must be +writing to your busy brother. + +LORD JOHN. Arthur? . . . is at his home. + +SARAH. Pleasantly sounding phrase. + +CARNABY. His grace deserted? + +SARAH. Quite secretaryless! + +LORD JOHN. Lady Arthur lately has been brought to bed. I heard +yesterday. + +SARAH. The seventh, is it not? Children require living up to. My +congratulations. + +LORD JOHN. Won't you write them? + +SARAH. We are not intimate. + +LORD JOHN. A good woman. + +SARAH. Evidently. Where's Ann? We'll go in. + +LORD JOHN. You're a mother to your sister. + +SARAH. Not I. + +CARNABY. My wife went her ways into the next world; Sarah hers into +this; and our little Ann was left with a most admirable governess. One +must never reproach circumstances. Man educates woman in his own good +time. + +LORD JOHN. I suppose she, or any young girl, is all heart. + +CARNABY. What is it that you call heart . . . sentimentally speaking? + +SARAH. Any bud in the morning. + +LORD JOHN. That man Tatton's jokes are in shocking taste. + +CARNABY. Tatton is honest. + +LORD JOHN. I'm much to blame for having won that bet. + +CARNABY. Say no more. + +LORD JOHN. What can Miss Ann think of me? + +SARAH. Don't ask her. + +CARNABY. Innocency's opinions are invariably entertaining. + +LORD JOHN. Am I the first . . . ? I really beg your pardon. + +GEORGE _and_ ANN _come down the steps together_. + +CARNABY. Ann, what do you think . . . that is to say--and answer me +truthfully . . . what at this moment is your inclination of mind towards +my lord here? + +ANN. I suppose I love him. + +LORD JOHN. I hope not. + +ANN. I suppose I love you. + +CARNABY. No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no. + +SARAH. Hush, dear. + +ANN. I'm afraid, papa, there's something very ill-bred in me. + +_Down the steps and into the midst of them comes_ JOHN ABUD, _carrying +his tools, among other things a twist of bass. A young gardener, honest, +clean and common._ + +ABUD. [_To_ CARNABY.] I ask pardon, sir. + +CARNABY. So early, Abud! . . . this is your territory. So late . . . Bed. + +ANN _starts away up the steps_, SARAH _is following her_. + +LORD JOHN. Good-bye, Lady Cottesham. + +_At this_ ANN _stops for a moment, but then goes straight on_. + +SARAH. A pleasant journey. + +SARAH _departs too_. + +GEORGE. [_Stretching himself._] I'm roused. + +CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD.] Leave your tools here for a few moments. + +ABUD. I will, sir. + +ABUD _leaves them, going along the terrace and out of sight_. + +CARNABY. My head is hot. Pardon me. + +CARNABY _is sitting on the fountain rim; he dips his handkerchief in the +water, and wrings it; then takes off his wig and binds the damp +handkerchief round his head_. + +CARNABY. Wigs are most comfortable and old fashioned . . . unless you +choose to be a cropped republican like my son. + +GEORGE. Nature! + +CARNABY. Nature grows a beard, sir. + +LORD JOHN. I've seen Turks. + +CARNABY. Horrible . . . horrible! Sit down, Carp. + +LORD JOHN _sits on the fountain rim_, GEORGE _begins to pace restlessly; +he has been nursing the candlestick ever since_ TATTON _handed it to +him_. + +CARNABY. George, you look damned ridiculous strutting arm-in-arm with +that candlestick. + +GEORGE. I am ridiculous. + +CARNABY. If you're cogitating over your wife and her expectations . . . + +GEORGE _paces up the steps and away. There is a pause._ + +CARNABY. D'ye tell stories . . . good ones? + +LORD JOHN. Sometimes. + +CARNABY. There'll be this. + +LORD JOHN. I shan't. + +CARNABY. Say no more. If I may so express myself, Carp, you have been +taking us for granted. + +LORD JOHN. How wide awake you are! I'm not. + +CARNABY. My head's cool. Shall I describe your conduct as an +unpremeditated insult? + +LORD JOHN. Don't think anything of the sort. + +CARNABY. There speaks your kind heart. + +LORD JOHN. Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me? + +CARNABY. As may be. + +LORD JOHN. Why? + +CARNABY. For the sake of appearances. + +LORD JOHN. Damn all appearances. + +CARNABY. Now I'll lose my temper. Sir, you have compromised my daughter. + +LORD JOHN. Nonsense! + +CARNABY. Villain! What's your next move? + +_For a moment_ LORD JOHN _sits with knit brows_. + +LORD JOHN. [_Brutally._] Mr. Leete, your name stinks. + +CARNABY. My point of dis-ad-vantage! + +LORD JOHN. [_Apologising._] Please say what you like. I might have put +my remark better. + +CARNABY. I think not; the homely Saxon phrase is our literary dagger. +Princelike, you ride away from Markswayde. Can I trust you not to stab a +socially sick man? Why it's a duty you owe to society . . . to weed out +. . . us. + +LORD JOHN. I'm not a coward. How? + +CARNABY. A little laughter . . . in your exuberance of health. + +LORD JOHN. You may trust me not to tell tales. + +CARNABY. Of what . . . of whom? + +LORD JOHN. Of here. + +CARNABY. And what is there to tell of here? + +LORD JOHN. Nothing. + +CARNABY. But how your promise betrays a capacity for good-natured +invention! + +LORD JOHN. If I lie call me out. + +CARNABY. I don't deal in sentiment. I can't afford to be talked about +otherwise than as I choose to be. Already the Aunt Sally of the hour; +having under pressure of circumstances resigned my office; dating my +letters from the borders of the Chiltern Hundreds . . . I am a poor +politician, sir, and I must live. + +LORD JOHN. I can't see that your family's infected . . . affected. + +CARNABY. With a penniless girl you really should have been more +circumspect. + +LORD JOHN. I might ask to marry her. + +CARNABY. My lord! + +_In the pause that ensues he takes up the twist of bass to play with._ + +LORD JOHN. What should you say to that? + +CARNABY. The silly child supposed she loved you. + +LORD JOHN. Yes. + +CARNABY. Is it a match? + +LORD JOHN. [_Full in the other's face._] What about the appearances of +black-mail? + +CARNABY. [_Compressing his thin lips._] Do you care for my daughter? + +LORD JOHN. I could . . . at a pinch. + +CARNABY. Now, my lord, you are insolent. + +LORD JOHN. Is this when we quarrel? + +CARNABY. I think I'll challenge you. + +LORD JOHN. That will look well. + +CARNABY. You'll value that kiss when you've paid for it. Kindly choose +Tatton as your second. I want his tongue to wag both ways. + +LORD JOHN. I was forgetting how it all began. + +CARNABY. George will serve me . . . protesting. His principles are vile, +but he has the education of a gentleman. Swords or . . . ? Swords. And +at noon shall we say? There's shade behind a certain barn, midway +between this and Tatton's. + +LORD JOHN. [_Not taking him seriously yet._] What if we both die +horridly? + +CARNABY. You are at liberty to make me a written apology. + +LORD JOHN. A joke's a joke. + +CARNABY _deliberately strikes him in the face with the twist of bass_. + +LORD JOHN. That's enough. + +CARNABY. [_In explanatory apology._] My friend, you are so obtuse. Abud! + +LORD JOHN. Mr. Leete, are you serious? + +CARNABY. Perfectly serious. Let's go to bed. Abud, you can get to your +work. + +_Wig in hand_, MR. LEETE _courteously conducts his guest towards the +house_. ABUD _returns to his tools and his morning's work_. + + + + + THE SECOND ACT + + +_Shortly after mid-day, while the sun beats strongly upon the terrace_, +ABUD _is working dexterously at the rose trees_. DR. REMNANT _comes down +the steps, hatted, and carrying a stick and a book. He is an elderly man +with a kind manner; type of the eighteenth century casuistical parson. +On his way he stops to say a word to the gardener._ + +DR. REMNANT. Will it rain before nightfall? + +ABUD. About then, sir, I should say. + +_Down the other steps comes_ MRS. OPIE, _a prim, decorous, but well bred +and unobjectionable woman. She is followed by_ ANN. + +MRS. OPIE. A good morning to you, Parson. + +DR. REMNANT. And to you, Mrs. Opie, and to Miss Ann. + +ANN. Good morning, Dr. Remnant. [_To_ ABUD.] Have you been here ever +since . . . ? + +ABUD. I've had dinner, Miss. + +ABUD'S _work takes him gradually out of sight_. + +MRS. OPIE. We are but just breakfasted. + +DR. REMNANT. I surmise dissipation. + +ANN. [_To_ MRS. OPIE.] Thank you for waiting five hours. + +MRS. OPIE. It is my rule to breakfast with you. + +DR. REMNANT. [_Exhibiting the book._] I am come to return, and to +borrow. + +ANN. Show me. + +DR. REMNANT. Ballads by Robert Burns. + +ANN. [_Taking it._] I'll put it back. + +MRS. OPIE. [_Taking it from her._] I've never heard of him. + +DR. REMNANT. Oh, ma'am, a very vulgar poet! + +GEORGE LEETE _comes quickly down the steps_. + +GEORGE. [_To_ REMNANT.] How are you? + +DR. REMNANT. Yours, sir. + +GEORGE. Ann. + +ANN. Good morning, George. + +GEORGE. Did you sleep well? + +ANN. I always do . . . but I dreamt. + +GEORGE. I must sit down for a minute. [_Nodding._] Mrs. Opie. + +MRS. OPIE. I wish you a good morning, sir. + +GEORGE. [_To_ ANN.] Don't look so solemn. + +LADY COTTESHAM _comes quickly to the top of the steps_. + +SARAH. Is Papa badly hurt? + +ANN. [_Jumping up._] Oh, what has happened? + +GEORGE. Not badly. + +SARAH. He won't see me. + +_His three children look at each other._ + +DR. REMNANT. [_Tactfully._] May I go my ways to the library? + +SARAH. Please do, Doctor Remnant. + +DR. REMNANT. I flatly contradicted all that was being said in the +village. + +SARAH. Thoughtful of you. + +DR. REMNANT. But tell me nothing. + +DR. REMNANT _bows formally and goes_. GEORGE _is about to speak when_ +SARAH _with a look at_ MRS. OPIE _says_. . . + +SARAH. George, hold your tongue. + +MRS. OPIE. [_With much hauteur._] I am in the way. + +_At this moment_ DIMMUCK, _an old but unbenevolent-looking butler, comes +to the top of the steps_. + +DIMMUCK. The master wants Mrs. Opie. + +MRS. OPIE. Thank you. + +GEORGE. Your triumph! + +MRS. OPIE _is departing radiant_. + +DIMMUCK. How was I to know you was in the garden? + +MRS. OPIE. I am sorry to have put you to the trouble of a search, Mr. +Dimmuck. + +DIMMUCK. He's in his room. + +_And he follows her towards the house._ + +GEORGE. Carp fought with him at twelve o'clock. + +_The other two cannot speak from amazement._ + +SARAH. No! + +GEORGE. Why, they didn't tell me and I didn't ask. Carp was laughing. +Tatton chuckled . . . afterwards. + +SARAH. What had he to do? + +GEORGE. Carp's second. + +SARAH. Unaccountable children! + +GEORGE. Feather parade . . . throw in . . . parry quarte: over the arm +. . . put by: feint . . . flanconade and through his arm . . . damned +easy. The father didn't wince or say a word. I bound it up . . . the +sight of blood makes me sick. + +_After a moment_, SARAH _turns to_ ANN. + +SARAH. Yes, and you've been a silly child. + +GEORGE. Ah, give me a woman's guess and the most unlikely reason to +account for anything! + +ANN. I hate that man. I'm glad Papa's not hurt. What about a surgeon? + +GEORGE. No, you shall kiss the place well, and there'll be poetic +justice done. + +SARAH. How did you all part? + +GEORGE. With bows and without a word. + +SARAH. Coming home with him? + +GEORGE. Not a word. + +SARAH. Papa's very clever; but I'm puzzled. + +GEORGE. Something will happen next, no doubt. + +ANN. Isn't this done with? + +SARAH. So it seems. + +ANN. I should like to be told just what the game has been. + +GEORGE. Bravo, Ann. + +ANN. Tell me the rules . . . for next time. + +SARAH. It would have been most advantageous for us to have formed an +alliance with Lord John Carp, who stood here for his father and his +father's party . . . now in opposition. + +GEORGE. Look upon yourself--not too seriously--Ann, as the instrument of +political destiny. + +ANN. I'm afraid I take in fresh ideas very slowly. Why has Papa given up +the Stamp Office? + +SARAH. His colleagues wouldn't support him. + +ANN. Why was that? + +SARAH. They disapproved of what he did. + +ANN. Did he do right . . . giving it up? + +SARAH. Yes. + +GEORGE. We hope so. Time will tell. An irreverent quipster once named +him Carnaby Leech. + +SARAH. I know. + +GEORGE. I wonder if his true enemies think him wise to have dropped off +the Stamp Office? + +ANN. Has he quarrelled with Sir Charles? + +SARAH. Politically. + +ANN. Isn't that awkward for you? + +SARAH. Not a bit. + +GEORGE. Hear a statement that includes our lives. Markswayde goes at his +death . . . see reversionary mortgage. The income's an annuity now. The +cash in the house will be ours. The debts are paid . . . at last. + +ANN. And there remains me. + +GEORGE. Bad grammar. Meanwhile our father is a tongue, which is worth +buying; but I don't think he ought to go over to the enemy . . . for the +second time. + +SARAH. One party is as good as another; each works for the same end, I +should hope. + +GEORGE. I won't argue about it. + +ANN. I suppose that a woman's profession is marriage. + +GEORGE. My lord has departed. + +ANN. There'll be others to come. I'm not afraid of being married. + +SARAH. What did Papa want Mrs. Opie for? + +ANN. There'll be a great many things I shall want to know about men now. + +GEORGE. Wisdom cometh with sorrow . . . oh, my sister. + +SARAH. I believe you two are both about as selfish as you can be. + +GEORGE. I am an egotist . . . with attachments. + +ANN. Make use of me. + +GEORGE. Ann, you marry--when you marry--to please yourself. + +ANN. There's much in life that I don't like, Sally. + +SARAH. There's much more that you will. + +GEORGE. I think we three have never talked together before. + +ABUD, _who has been in sight on the terrace for a few moments, now comes +down the steps_. + +ABUD. May I make so bold, sir, as to ask how is Mrs. George Leete? + +GEORGE. She was well when I last heard. + +ABUD. Thank you, sir. + +_And he returns to his work._ + +ANN. I wonder will it be a boy or a girl. + +GEORGE. Poor weak woman. + +SARAH. Be grateful to her. + +ANN. A baby is a wonderful thing. + +SARAH. Babyhood in the abstract . . . beautiful. + +ANN. Even kittens . . . + +_She stops, and then in rather childish embarrassment, moves away from +them._ + +SARAH. Don't shudder, George. + +GEORGE. I have no wish to be a father. Why? + +SARAH. It's a vulgar responsibility. + +GEORGE. My wayside flower! + +SARAH. Why pick it? + +GEORGE. Sarah, I love my wife. + +SARAH. That's easily said. + +GEORGE. She should be here. + +SARAH. George, you married to please yourself. + +GEORGE. By custom her rank is my own. + +SARAH. Does she still drop her aitches? + +GEORGE. Dolly . . . + +SARAH. Pretty name. + +GEORGE. Dolly aspires to be one of us. + +SARAH. Child-bearing makes these women blowzy. + +GEORGE. Oh heaven! + +ANN. [_Calling to_ ABUD _on the terrace_.] Finish to-day, Abud. If it +rains . . . + +_She stops, seeing_ MR. TETGEEN _standing at the top of the steps +leading from the house. This is an intensely respectable, +selfcontained-looking lawyer, but a man of the world too._ + +MR. TETGEEN. Lady Cottesham. + +SARAH. Sir? + +MR. TETGEEN. My name is Tetgeen. + +SARAH. Mr. Tetgeen. How do you do? + +MR. TETGEEN. The household appeared to be in some confusion and I took +the liberty to be my own messenger. I am anxious to speak with you. + +SARAH. Ann, dear, ask if Papa will see you now. + +DIMMUCK _appears_. + +DIMMUCK. The master wants you, Miss Ann. + +SARAH. Ask papa if he'll see me soon. + +ANN _goes towards the house_. + +SARAH. Dimmuck, Mr. Tetgeen has been left to find his own way here. + +DIMMUCK. I couldn't help it, my lady. + +_And he follows_ ANN. + +SARAH. Our father is confined to his room. + +GEORGE. By your leave. + +_Then_ GEORGE _takes himself off up the steps, and out of sight. The old +lawyer bows to_ LADY COTTESHAM, _who regards him steadily_. + +MR. TETGEEN. From Sir Charles . . . a talking machine. + +SARAH. Please sit. + +_He sits carefully upon the rim of the fountain, she upon the seat +opposite._ + +SARAH. [_Glancing over her shoulder._] Will you talk nonsense until the +gardener is out of hearing? He is on his way away. You have had a tiring +journey? + +MR. TETGEEN. Thank you, no . . . by the night coach to Reading and +thence I have walked. + +SARAH. The country is pretty, is it not? + +MR. TETGEEN. It compares favourably with other parts. + +SARAH. Do you travel much, Mr. Tetgeen? He has gone. + +MR. TETGEEN. [_Deliberately and sharpening his tone ever so little._] +Sir Charles does not wish to petition for a divorce. + +SARAH. [_Controlling even her sense of humour._] I have no desire to +jump over the moon. + +MR. TETGEEN. His scruples are religious. The case would be weak upon +some important points, and there has been no public scandal . . . at the +worst, very little. + +SARAH. My good manners are, I trust, irreproachable, and you may tell +Sir Charles that my conscience is my own. + +MR. TETGEEN. Your husband's in the matter of . . . + +SARAH. Please say the word. + +MR. TETGEEN. Pardon me . . . not upon mere suspicion. + +SARAH. Now, is it good policy to suspect what is incapable of proof? + +MR. TETGEEN. I advise Sir Charles, that, should you come to an open +fight, he can afford to lose. + +SARAH. And have I no right to suspicions? + +MR. TETGEEN. Certainly. Are they of use to you? + +SARAH. I have been a tolerant wife, expecting toleration. + +MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles is anxious to take into consideration any +complaints you may have to make against him. + +SARAH. I complain if he complains of me. + +MR. TETGEEN. For the first time, I think . . . formally. + +SARAH. Why not have come to me? + +MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles is busy. + +SARAH. [_Disguising a little spasm of pain._] Shall we get to business? + +MR. TETGEEN _now takes a moment to find his phrase_. + +MR. TETGEEN. I don't know the man's name. + +SARAH. This, surely, is how you might address a seduced housemaid. + +MR. TETGEEN. But Sir Charles and he, I understand, have talked the +matter over. + +_The shock of this brings_ SARAH _to her feet, white with anger_. + +SARAH. Divorce me. + +MR. TETGEEN. [_Sharply._] Is there ground for it? + +SARAH. [_With a magnificent recovery of self control._] I won't tell you +that. + +MR. TETGEEN. I have said we have no case . . . that is to say, we don't +want one; but any information is a weapon in store. + +SARAH. You did quite right to insult me. + +MR. TETGEEN. As a rule I despise such methods. + +SARAH. It's a lie that they met . . . those two men? + +MR. TETGEEN. It may be. + +SARAH. It must be. + +MR. TETGEEN. I have Sir Charles's word. + +_Now he takes from his pocket some notes, putting on his spectacles to +read them._ + +SARAH. What's this . . . a written lecture? + +MR. TETGEEN. We propose . . . first: that the present complete severance +of conjugal relations shall continue. Secondly: that Lady Cottesham +shall be at liberty to remove from South Audley Street and Ringham +Castle all personal and private effects, excepting those family jewels +which have merely been considered her property. Thirdly: Lady Cottesham +shall undertake, formally and in writing not to molest--a legal +term--Sir Charles Cottesham. [_Her handkerchief has dropped, here he +picks it up and restores it to her._] Allow me, my lady. + +SARAH. I thank you. + +MR. TETGEEN. [_Continuing._] Fourthly: Lady Cottesham shall undertake +. . . etc. . . . not to inhabit or frequent the city and towns of London, +Brighthelmstone, Bath, The Tunbridge Wells, and York. Fifthly: Sir +Charles Cottesham will, in acknowledgement of the maintenance of this +agreement, allow Lady C. the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds per +annum, which sum he considers sufficient for the upkeep of a small +genteel establishment; use of the house known as Pater House, situate +some seventeen miles from the Manor of Barton-le-Street, Yorkshire; +coals from the mine adjoining; and from the home farm, milk, butter and +eggs. [_Then he finds a further note._] Lady Cottesham is not to play +cards. + +SARAH. I am a little fond of play. + +MR. TETGEEN. There is no question of jointure. + +SARAH. None. Mr. Tetgeen . . . I love my husband. + +MR. TETGEEN. My lady . . . I will mention it. + +SARAH. Such a humorous answer to this. No . . . don't. What is +important? Bread and butter . . . and eggs. Do I take this? + +MR. TETGEEN. [_Handing her the paper._] Please. + +SARAH. [_With the ghost of a smile._] I take it badly. + +MR. TETGEEN. [_Courteously capping her jest._] I take my leave. + +SARAH. This doesn't call for serious notice? I've done nothing legal by +accepting it? + +MR. TETGEEN. There's no law in the matter; it's one of policy. + +SARAH. I might bargain for a bigger income. [MR. TETGEEN _bows_.] On the +whole I'd rather be divorced. + +MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles detests scandal. + +SARAH. Besides there's no case . . . is there? + +MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles congratulates himself. + +SARAH. Sir Charles had best not bully me so politely . . . tell him. + +MR. TETGEEN. My lady! + +SARAH. I will not discuss this impertinence. Did those two men meet and +talk . . . chat together? What d'you think of that? + +MR. TETGEEN. 'Twas very practical. I know that the woman is somehow the +outcast. + +SARAH. A bad woman . . . an idle woman! But I've tried to do so much +that lay to my hands without ever questioning . . . ! Thank you, I don't +want this retailed to my husband. You'll take a glass of wine before you +go? + +MR. TETGEEN. Port is grateful. + +_She takes from her dress two sealed letters._ + +SARAH. Will you give that to Sir Charles . . . a letter he wrote me +which I did not open. This, my answer, which I did not send. + +_He takes the one letter courteously, the other she puts back._ + +SARAH. I'm such a coward, Mr. Tetgeen. + +MR. TETGEEN. May I say how sorry . . . ? + +SARAH. Thank you. + +MR. TETGEEN. And let me apologise for having expressed one opinion of my +own. + +SARAH. He wants to get rid of me. He's a bit afraid of me, you know, +because I fight . . . and my weapons are all my own. This'll blow over. + +MR. TETGEEN. [_With a shake of the head._] You are to take this offer as +final. + +SARAH. Beyond this? + +MR. TETGEEN. As I hinted, I am prepared to advise legal measures. + +SARAH. I could blow it over . . . but I won't perhaps. I must smile at +my husband's consideration in suppressing even to you . . . the man's +name. Butter and eggs . . . and milk. I should grow fat. + +ANN _appears suddenly_. + +ANN. We go to Brighton to-morrow! [_And she comes excitedly to her +sister._] + +SARAH. Was that duel a stroke of genius? + +ANN. All sorts of things are to happen. + +SARAH. [_Turning from her to_ MR. TETGEEN.] And you'll walk as far as +Reading? + +MR. TETGEEN. Dear me, yes. + +SARAH. [_To_ ANN.] I'll come back. + +SARAH _takes_ MR. TETGEEN _towards the house_. ANN _seats herself. After +a moment_ LORD JOHN CARP, _his clothes dusty with some riding appears +from the other quarter. She looks up to find him gazing at her._ + +LORD JOHN. Ann, I've ridden back to see you. + +ANN. [_After a moment._] We're coming to Brighton tomorrow. + +LORD JOHN. Good. + +ANN. Papa's not dead. + +LORD JOHN. [_With equal cheerfulness._] That's good. + +ANN. And he said we should be seeing more of you. + +LORD JOHN. Here I am. I love you, Ann. [_He goes on his knees._] + +ANN. D'you want to marry me? + +LORD JOHN. Yes. + +ANN. Thank you very much; it'll be very convenient for us all. Won't you +get up? + +LORD JOHN. At your feet. + +ANN. I like it. + +LORD JOHN. Give me your hand. + +ANN. No. + +LORD JOHN. You're beautiful. + +ANN. I don't think so. You don't think so. + +LORD JOHN. I do think so. + +ANN. I should like to say I don't love you. + +LORD JOHN. Last night you kissed me. + +ANN. Do get up, please. + +LORD JOHN. As you wish. + +_Now he sits by her._ + +ANN. Last night you were nobody in particular . . . to me. + +LORD JOHN. I love you. + +ANN. Please don't; I can't think clearly. + +LORD JOHN. Look at me. + +ANN. I'm sure I don't love you because you're making me feel very +uncomfortable and that wouldn't be so. + +LORD JOHN. Then we'll think. + +ANN. Papa . . . perhaps you'd rather not talk about Papa. + +LORD JOHN. Give yourself to me. + +ANN. [_Drawing away from him._] Four words! There ought to be more in +such a sentence . . . it's ridiculous. I want a year to think about its +meaning. Don't speak. + +LORD JOHN. Papa joins our party. + +ANN. That's what we're after . . . thank you. + +LORD JOHN. I loathe politics. + +ANN. Tell me something against them. + +LORD JOHN. In my opinion your father's not a much bigger blackguard--I +beg your pardon--than the rest of us. + +ANN. . . . Miserable sinners. + +LORD JOHN. Your father turns his coat. Well . . . ? + +ANN. I see nothing at all in that. + +LORD JOHN. What's right and what's wrong? + +ANN. Papa's right . . . for the present. When shall we be married? + +LORD JOHN. Tomorrow? + +ANN. [_Startled._] If you knew that it isn't easy for me to be practical +you wouldn't make fun. + +LORD JOHN. Why not tomorrow? + +ANN. Papa-- + +LORD JOHN. Papa says yes . . suppose. + +ANN. I'm very young . . not to speak of clothes. I must have lots of new +dresses. + +LORD JOHN. Ask me for them. + +ANN. Why do you want to marry me? + +LORD JOHN. I love you. + +ANN. It suddenly occurs to me that sounds unpleasant. + +LORD JOHN. I love you. + +ANN. Out of place. + +LORD JOHN. I love you. + +ANN. What if Papa were to die? + +LORD JOHN. I want you. + +ANN. I'm nothing . . I'm nobody . . I'm part of my family. + +LORD JOHN. I want you. + +ANN. Won't you please forget last night? + +LORD JOHN. I want you. Look straight at me. + +_She looks, and stays fascinated._ + +LORD JOHN. If I say now that I love you-- + +ANN. I know it. + +LORD JOHN. And love me? + +ANN. I suppose so. + +LORD JOHN. Make sure. + +ANN. But I hate you too . . I know that. + +LORD JOHN. Shall I kiss you? + +ANN. [_Helplessly._] Yes. + +_He kisses her full on the lips._ + +ANN. I can't hate you enough. + +LORD JOHN. [_Triumphantly._] Speak the truth now. + +ANN. I feel very degraded. + +LORD JOHN. Nonsense. + +ANN. [_Wretchedly._] This is one of the things which don't matter. + +LORD JOHN. Ain't you to be mine? + +ANN. You want the right to behave like that as well as the power. + +LORD JOHN. You shall command me. + +ANN. [_With a poor laugh._] I rather like this in a way. + +LORD JOHN. Little coquette! + +ANN. It does tickle my vanity. + +_For a moment he sits looking at her, then shakes himself to his feet._ + +LORD JOHN. Now I must go. + +ANN. Yes . . I want to think. + +LORD JOHN. For Heaven's sake . . no! + +ANN. I came this morning straight to where we were last night. + +LORD JOHN. As I hung about the garden my heart was beating. + +ANN. I shall like you better when you're not here. + +LORD JOHN. We're to meet in Brighton? + +ANN. I'm afraid so. + +LORD JOHN. Good-bye. + +ANN. There's just a silly sort of attraction between certain people, I +believe. + +LORD JOHN. Can you look me in the eyes and say you don't love me? + +ANN. If I looked you in the eyes you'd frighten me again. I can say +anything. + +LORD JOHN. You're a deep child. + +GEORGE LEETE _appears on the terrace_. + +GEORGE. My lord! + +LORD JOHN. [_Cordially._] My dear Leete. + +GEORGE. No . . I am not surprised to see you. + +ANN. George, things are happening. + +LORD JOHN. Shake hands. + +GEORGE. I will not. + +ANN. Lord John asks me to be married to him. Shake hands. + +GEORGE. Why did you fight? + +ANN. Why did you fight? + +LORD JOHN. [_Shrugging._] Your father struck me. + +ANN. Now you've hurt him . . that's fair. + +_Then the two men do shake hands, not heartily._ + +GEORGE. We've trapped you, my lord. + +LORD JOHN. I know what I want. I love your sister. + +ANN. I don't like you . . but if you're good and I'm good we shall get +on. + +GEORGE. Why shouldn't one marry politically? + +LORD JOHN. [_In_ ANN'S _ear_.] I love you. + +ANN. No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . [_Discovering in this an echo of +her father, she stops short._] + +GEORGE. We're a cold-blooded family. + +LORD JOHN. I don't think so. + +GEORGE. I married for love. + +LORD JOHN. Who doesn't? But, of course there should be other reasons. + +GEORGE. You won't receive my wife. + +LORD JOHN. Here's your sister. + +LADY COTTESHAM _comes from the direction of the house_. + +SARAH. Back again? + +LORD JOHN. You see. + +_From the other side appears_ MR. TATTON. + +MR. TATTON. As you all seem to be here I don't mind interrupting. + +GEORGE. [_Hailing him._] Well . . neighbour? + +MR. TATTON. Come . . come . . what's a little fighting more or less! + +GEORGE. Bravo, English sentiment . . relieves a deal of awkwardness. + +_The two shake hands._ + +SARAH. [_Who by this has reached_ LORD JOHN.] . . And back so soon? + +ANN. Lord John asks to marry me. + +LORD JOHN. Yes. + +MR. TATTON. I guessed so . . give me a bit of romance! + +SARAH. [_Suavely._] This is perhaps a little sudden, my dear Lord John. +Papa may naturally be a little shocked. + +GEORGE. Not at all, Sarah. + +MR. TATTON. How's the wound? + +GEORGE. Not serious . . nothing's serious. + +SARAH. You are very masterful, wooing sword in hand. + +ANN. George and I have explained to Lord John that we are all most +anxious to marry me to him and he doesn't mind-- + +LORD JOHN. Being made a fool of. I love-- + +ANN. I will like you. + +GEORGE. Charming cynicism, my dear Sarah. + +MR. TATTON. Oh, Lord! + +ANN. [_To her affianced._] Good-bye now. + +LORD JOHN. When do I see you? + +ANN. Papa says soon. + +LORD JOHN. Very soon, please. Tatton, my friend, Brighton's no nearer. + +MR. TATTON. Lady Cottesham . . Miss Leete . . I kiss your hands. + +LORD JOHN. [_Ebulliently clapping_ GEORGE _on the back_.] Look more +pleased. [_Then he bends over_ LADY COTTESHAM'S _hand_.] Lady Charlie . . +my service to you . . all. Ann. [_And he takes_ ANN'S _hand to kiss_.] + +ANN. If I can think better of all this, I shall. Good-bye. + +_She turns away from him. He stands for a moment considering her, but +follows_ TATTON _away through the orchard_. GEORGE _and_ SARAH _are +watching their sister, who then comments on her little affair with +life_. + +ANN. I'm growing up. [_Then with a sudden tremor._] Sally, don't let me +be forced to marry. + +GEORGE. Force of circumstances, my dear Ann. + +ANN. Outside things. Why couldn't I run away from this garden and over +the hills? . . I suppose there's something on the other side of the +hills. + +SARAH. You'd find yourself there . . and circumstances. + +ANN. So I'm trapped as well as that Lord John. + +SARAH. What's the injury? + +ANN. I'm taken by surprise and I know I'm ignorant and I think I'm +learning things backwards. + +GEORGE. You must cheer up and say: John's not a bad sort. + +SARAH. A man of his age is a young man. + +ANN. I wish you wouldn't recommend him to me. + +SARAH. Let's think of Brighton. What about your gowns? + +ANN. I've nothing to wear. + +SARAH. We'll talk to Papa. + +GEORGE. The war-purse is always a long one. + +SARAH. George . . be one of us for a minute. + +GEORGE. But I want to look on too, and laugh. + +SARAH. [_Caustically._] Yes . . that's your privilege . . except +occasionally. [_Then to her sister._] I wish you all the happiness of +courtship days. + +GEORGE. Arcadian expression! + +ANN. I believe it means being kissed . . often. + +SARAH. Have you not a touch of romance in you, little girl? + +ANN. Am I not like Mr. Dan Tatton? He kisses dairy-maids and servants +and all the farmer's daughters . . I beg your pardon, George. + +GEORGE. [_Nettled._] I'll say to you, Ann, that--in all essentials--one +woman is as good as another. + +SARAH. That is not so in the polite world. + +GEORGE. When you consider it no one lives in the polite world. + +ANN. Do they come outside for air sooner or later? + +SARAH. [_Briskly._] Three best dresses you must have and something very +gay if you're to go near the Pavilion. + +ANN. You're coming to Brighton, Sally? + +SARAH. No. + +ANN. Why not? + +SARAH. I don't wish to meet my husband. + +GEORGE. That man was his lawyer. + +ANN. The political difference, Sally? + +SARAH. Just that. [_Then with a deft turn of the subject._] I don't say +that yours is a pretty face, but I should think you would have charm. + +GEORGE. For fashion's sake cultivate sweetness. + +SARAH. You dance as well as they know how in Reading. + +ANN. Yes . . I can twiddle my feet. + +SARAH. Do you like dancing? + +ANN. I'd sooner walk. + +GEORGE. What . . and get somewhere! + +ANN. Here's George laughing. + +SARAH. He's out of it. + +ANN. Are you happy, George? + +GEORGE. Alas . . Dolly's disgraceful ignorance of etiquette damns us +both from the beautiful drawing-room. + +SARAH. That laugh is forced. But how can you. . . look on? + +_There is a slight pause in their talk. Then . . ._ + +ANN. He'll bully me with love. + +SARAH. Your husband will give you just what you ask for. + +ANN. I hate myself too. I want to take people mentally. + +GEORGE. You want a new world . . you new woman. + +ANN. And I'm a good bit frightened of myself. + +SARAH. We have our places to fill in this. My dear child, leave futile +questions alone. + +GEORGE. Neither have I any good advice to give you. + +ANN. I think happiness is a thing one talks too much about. + +DIMMUCK _appears. And by now_ ABUD'S _work has brought him back to the +terrace_. + +DIMMUCK. The master would like to see your Ladyship now. + +SARAH. I'll say we've had a visitor . . Guess. + +GEORGE. And you've had a visitor, Sarah. + +ANN. Papa will know. + +SARAH. Is he in a questioning mood? + +ANN. I always tell everything. + +SARAH. It saves time. + +_She departs towards the house._ + +DIMMUCK. Mr. George. + +GEORGE. What is it? + +DIMMUCK. He said No to a doctor when I haven't even mentioned the +matter. Had I better send . . ? + +GEORGE. Do . . if you care to waste the doctor's time. + +DIMMUCK _gives an offended sniff and follows_ LADY COTTESHAM. + +ANN. I could sit here for days. George, I don't think I quite believe in +anything I've been told yet. + +GEORGE. What's that man's name? + +ANN. John--John is a common name--John Abud. + +GEORGE. Abud! + +ABUD. Sir? + +GEORGE. Come here. + +ABUD _obediently walks towards his young master and stands before him_. + +GEORGE. Why did you ask after the health of Mrs. George Leete? + +ABUD. We courted once. + +GEORGE. [_After a moment._] Listen, Ann. Do you hate me, John Abud? + +ABUD. No, sir. + +GEORGE. You're a fine looking fellow. How old are you? + +ABUD. Twenty-seven, sir. + +GEORGE. Is Once long ago? + +ABUD. Two years gone. + +GEORGE. Did Mrs. Leete quarrel with you? + +ABUD. No, sir. + +GEORGE. Pray tell me more. + +ABUD. I was beneath her. + +GEORGE. But you're a fine-looking fellow. + +ABUD. Farmer Crowe wouldn't risk his daughter being unhappy. + +GEORGE. But she was beneath me. + +ABUD. That was another matter, sir. + +GEORGE. I don't think you intend to be sarcastic. + +ABUD. And . . being near her time for the first time, sir . . I wanted +to know if she is in danger of dying yet. + +GEORGE. Every precaution has been taken. . a nurse. . there is a +physician near. I need not tell you . . but I do tell you. + +ABUD. Thank you, sir. + +GEORGE. I take great interest in my wife. + +ABUD. We all do, sir. + +GEORGE. Was it ambition that you courted her? + +ABUD. I thought to start housekeeping. + +GEORGE. Did you aspire to rise socially? + +ABUD. I wanted a wife to keep house, sir. + +GEORGE. Are you content? + +ABUD. I think so, sir. + +GEORGE. With your humble position? + +ABUD. I'm a gardener, and there'll always be gardens. + +GEORGE. Frustrated affections . . I beg your pardon. . . To have been +crossed in love should make you bitter and ambitious. + +ABUD. My father was a gardener and my son will be a gardener if he's no +worse a man than I and no better. + +GEORGE. Are you married? + +ABUD. No, sir. + +GEORGE. Are you going to be married? + +ABUD. Not especially, sir. + +GEORGE. Yes . . you must marry . . some decent woman; we want gardeners. + +ABUD. Do you want me any more now, sir? + +GEORGE. You have interested me. You can go back to your work. + +ABUD _obeys_. + +GEORGE. [_Almost to himself._] I am hardly human. + +_He slowly moves away and out of sight._ + +ANN. John Abud. + +_He comes back and stands before her too._ + +ANN. I am very sorry for you. + +ABUD. I am very much obligated to you, Miss. + +ANN. Both those sayings are quite meaningless. Say something true about +yourself. + +ABUD. I'm not sorry for myself. + +ANN. I won't tell. It's very clear you ought to be in a despairing +state. Don't stand in the sun with your hat off. + +ABUD. [_Putting on his hat._] Thank you, Miss. + +ANN. Have you nearly finished the rose-trees? + +ABUD. I must work till late this evening. + +ANN. Weren't you ambitious for Dolly's sake? + +ABUD. She thought me good enough. + +ANN. I'd have married her. + +ABUD. She was ambitious for me. + +ANN. And are you frightened of the big world? + +ABUD. Fine things dazzle me sometimes. + +ANN. But gardening is all that you're fit for? + +ABUD. I'm afraid so, Miss. + +ANN. But it's great to be a gardener . . to sow seeds and to watch +flowers grow and to cut away dead things. + +ABUD. Yes, Miss. + +ANN. And you're in the fresh air all day. + +ABUD. That's very healthy. + +ANN. Are you very poor? + +ABUD. I get my meals in the house. + +ANN. Rough clothes last a long time. + +ABUD. I've saved money. + +ANN. Where do you sleep? + +ABUD. At Mrs. Hart's . . at a cottage . . it's a mile off. + +ANN. And you want no more than food and clothes and a bed and you earn +all that with your hands. + +ABUD. The less a man wants, Miss, the better. + +ANN. But you mean to marry? + +ABUD. Yes . . I've saved money. + +ANN. Whom will you marry? Would you rather not say? Perhaps you don't +know yet? + +ABUD. It's all luck what sort of a maid a man gets fond of. It won't be +a widow. + +ANN. Be careful, John Abud. + +ABUD. No . . I shan't be careful. + +ANN. You'll do very wrong to be made a fool of. + +ABUD. I'm safe, Miss; I've no eye for a pretty face. + +DIMMUCK _arrives asthmatically at the top of the steps_. + +DIMMUCK. Where's Mr. George? Here's a messenger come post. + +ANN. Find him, Abud. + +ABUD. [_To_ DIMMUCK.] From Dolly? + +DIMMUCK. Speak respectful. + +ABUD. Is it from his wife? + +DIMMUCK. Go find him. + +ANN. [_As_ ABUD _is immovable_.] Dimmuck . . . tell me about Mrs. +George. + +DIMMUCK. She's doing well, Miss. + +ABUD. [_Shouting joyfully now._] Mr. George! Mr. George! + +ANN. A boy or a girl, Dimmuck? + +DIMMUCK. Yes, Miss. + +ABUD. Mr. George! Mr. George! + +DIMMUCK. Ecod . . is he somewhere else? + +DIMMUCK, _somewhat excited himself, returns to the house_. + +ANN. George! + +ABUD. Mr. George! Mr. George! + +GEORGE _comes slowly along the terrace, in his hand an open book, which +some people might suppose he was reading. He speaks with studied calm._ + +GEORGE. You are very excited, my good man. + +ABUD. She's brought you a child, sir. + +ANN. Your child! + +GEORGE. Certainly. + +ABUD. Thank God, Sir! + +GEORGE. I will if I please. + +ANN. And she's doing well. + +ABUD. There's a messenger come post. + +GEORGE. To be sure . . it might have been bad news. + +_And slowly he crosses the garden towards the house._ + +ABUD. [_Suddenly, beyond all patience._] Run . . damn you! + +GEORGE _makes one supreme effort to maintain his dignity, but fails +utterly. He gasps out . . ._ + +GEORGE. Yes, I will. [_And runs off as hard as he can._] + +ABUD. [_In an ecstasy._] This is good. Oh, Dolly and God . . this is +good! + +ANN. [_Round eyed._] I wonder that you can be pleased. + +ABUD. [_Apologising . . without apology._] It's life. + +ANN. [_Struck._] Yes, it is. + +_And she goes towards the house, thinking this over._ + + + + + THE THIRD ACT + + +_It is near to sunset. The garden is shadier than before._ + +ABUD _is still working_. CARNABY LEETE _comes from the house followed +by_ DR. REMNANT. _He wears his right arm in a sling. His face is +flushed, his speech rapid._ + +CARNABY. Parson, you didn't drink enough wine . . . damme, the wine was +good. + +DR. REMNANT. I am very grateful for an excellent dinner. + +CARNABY. A good dinner, sir, is the crown to a good day's work. + +DR. REMNANT. It may also be a comfort in affliction. Our philosophy does +ill, Mr. Leete, when it despises the more simple means of contentment. + +CARNABY. And which will be the better lover of a woman, a hungry or a +well-fed man? + +DR. REMNANT. A good meal digests love with it; for what is love but a +food to live by . . but a hungry love will ofttimes devour its owner. + +CARNABY. Admirable! Give me a man in love to deal with. Vous l'avez vu? + +DR. REMNANT. Speak Latin, Greek or Hebrew to me, Mr. Leete. + +CARNABY. French is the language of little things. My poor France! Ours +is a little world, Parson . . . a man may hold it here. [_His open +hand._] Lord John Carp's a fine fellow. + +DR. REMNANT. Son of a Duke. + +CARNABY. And I commend to you the originality of his return. At twelve +we fight . . . at one-thirty he proposes marriage to my daughter. D'ye +see him humbly on his knees? Will there be rain, I wonder? + +DR. REMNANT. We need rain . . Abud? + +ABUD. Badly, sir. + +CARNABY. Do we want a wet journey tomorrow! Where's Sarah? + +DR. REMNANT. Lady Cottesham's taking tea. + +CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD _with a sudden start_.] And why the devil didn't you +marry my daughter-in-law . . my own gardener? + +GEORGE _appears dressed for riding_. + +GEORGE. Good-bye, sir, for the present. + +CARNABY. Boots and breeches! + +GEORGE. You shouldn't be about in the evening air with a green wound in +your arm. You drank wine at dinner. Be careful, sir. + +CARNABY. Off to your wife and the expected? + +GEORGE. Yes, sir. + +CARNABY. Riding to Watford? + +GEORGE. From there alongside the North Coach, if I'm in time. + +CARNABY. Don't founder my horse. Will ye leave the glorious news with +your grandfather at Wycombe? + +GEORGE. I won't fail to. [_Then to_ ABUD.] We've been speaking of you. + +ABUD. It was never any secret, sir. + +GEORGE. Don't apologise. + +_Soon after this_ ABUD _passes out of sight_. + +CARNABY. Nature's an encumbrance to us, Parson. + +DR. REMNANT. One disapproves of flesh uninspired. + +CARNABY. She allows you no amusing hobbies . . always takes you +seriously. + +GEORGE. Good-bye, Parson. + +DR. REMNANT. [_As he bows._] Your most obedient. + +CARNABY. And you trifle with damnable democracy, with pretty theories of +the respect due to womanhood and now the result . . . hark to it +squalling. + +DR. REMNANT. Being fifty miles off might not one say: The cry of the +new-born? + +CARNABY. Ill-bred babies squall. There's no poetic glamour in the world +will beautify an undesired infant . . George says so. + +GEORGE. I did say so. + +CARNABY. I feel the whole matter deeply. + +GEORGE _half laughs_. + +CARNABY. George, after days of irritability, brought to bed of a smile. +That's a home thrust of a metaphor. + +GEORGE _laughs again_. + +CARNABY. Twins! + +GEORGE. Yes, a boy and a girl . . . I'm the father of a boy and a girl. + +CARNABY. [_In dignified, indignant horror._] No one of you dared tell me +that much! + +SARAH _and_ ANN _come from the house_. + +GEORGE. You could have asked me for news of your grandchildren. + +CARNABY. Twins is an insult. + +SARAH. But you look very cheerful, George. + +GEORGE. I am content. + +SARAH. I'm surprised. + +GEORGE. I am surprised. + +SARAH. Now what names for them? + +CARNABY. No family names, please. + +GEORGE. We'll wait for a dozen years or so and let them choose their +own. + +DR. REMNANT. But, sir, christening will demand-- + +CARNABY. Your son should have had my name, sir. + +GEORGE. I know the rule . . as I have my grandfather's which I take no +pride in. + +SARAH. George! + +GEORGE. Not to say that it sounds his, not mine. + +CARNABY. Our hopes of you were high once. + +GEORGE. Sarah, may I kiss you? [_He kisses her cheek._] Let me hear what +you decide to do. + +CARNABY. The begetting you, sir, was a waste of time. + +GEORGE. [_Quite pleasantly._] Don't say that. + +_At the top of the steps_ ANN _is waiting for him_. + +ANN. I'll see you into the saddle. + +GEORGE. Thank you, sister Ann. + +ANN. Why didn't you leave us weeks ago? + +GEORGE. Why! + +_They pace away, arm-in-arm._ + +CARNABY. [_Bitterly._] Glad to go! Brighton, Sarah. + +SARAH. No, I shall not come, Papa. + +CARNABY. Coward. [_Then to_ REMNANT.] Good-night. + +DR. REMNANT. [_Covering the insolent dismissal._] With your kind +permission I will take my leave. [_Then he bows to_ SARAH.] Lady +Cottesham. + +SARAH. [_Curtseying._] Doctor Remnant, I am yours. + +CARNABY. [_Sitting by the fountain, stamping his foot._] Oh, this +cracked earth! Will it rain . . will it rain? + +DR. REMNANT. I doubt now. That cloud has passed. + +CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! There's a good word and I'm not at all +sure what it means. + +DR. REMNANT. Per . . lucere . . . letting light through. + +REMNANT _leaves them_. + +CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! . . thank you. Brighton, Sarah. + +SARAH. Ann needs new clothes. + +CARNABY. See to it. + +SARAH. I shall not be there. + +_She turns from him._ + +CARNABY. Pretty climax to a quarrel! + +SARAH. Not a quarrel. + +CARNABY. A political difference. + +SARAH. Don't look so ferocious. + +CARNABY. My arm is in great pain and the wine's in my head. + +SARAH. Won't you go to bed? + +CARNABY. I'm well enough . . to travel. This marriage makes us safe, +Sarah . . an anchor in each camp . . There's a mixed metaphor. + +SARAH. If you'll have my advice, Papa, you'll keep those plans clear +from Ann's mind. + +CARNABY. John Carp is so much clay . . a man of forty ignorant of +himself. + +SARAH. But if the Duke will not . . + +CARNABY. The Duke hates a scandal. + +SARAH. Does he detest scandal! + +CARNABY. The girl is well-bred and harmless . . why publicly quarrel +with John and incense her old brute of a father? There's the Duke in a +score of words. He'll take a little time to think it out so. + +SARAH. And I say: Do you get on the right side of the Duke once +again,--that's what we've worked for--and leave these two alone. + +CARNABY. Am I to lose my daughter? + +SARAH. Papa . . your food's intrigue. + +CARNABY. Scold at Society . . and what's the use? + +SARAH. We're over-civilized. + +ANN _rejoins them now. The twilight is gathering._ + +CARNABY. My mother's very old . . . your grandfather's younger and +seventy-nine . . he swears I'll never come into the title. There's +little else. + +SARAH. You're feverish . . why are you saying this? + +CARNABY. Ann . . George . . George via Wycombe . . Wycombe Court . . Sir +George Leete baronet, Justice of the Peace, Deputy Lieutenant . . the +thought's tumbled. Ann, I first saw your mother in this garden . . +there. + +ANN. Was she like me? + +SARAH. My age when she married. + +CARNABY. She was not beautiful . . then she died. + +ANN. Mr. Tatton thinks it a romantic garden. + +CARNABY. [_Pause._] D'ye hear the wind sighing through that tree? + +ANN. The air's quite still. + +CARNABY. I hear myself sighing . . when I first saw your mother in this +garden . . . that's how it was done. + +SARAH. For a woman must marry. + +CARNABY. [_Rises._] You all take to it as ducks to water . . but apple +sauce is quite correct . . I must not mix metaphors. + +MRS. OPIE _comes from the house_. + +SARAH. Your supper done, Mrs. Opie? + +MRS. OPIE. I eat little in the evening. + +SARAH. I believe that saves digestion. + +MRS. OPIE. Ann, do you need me more to-night? + +ANN. Not any more. + +MRS. OPIE. Ann, there is gossip among the servants about a wager . . . + +ANN. Mrs. Opie, that was . . . yesterday. + +MRS. OPIE. Ann, I should be glad to be able to contradict a reported . . +embrace. + +ANN. I was kissed. + +MRS. OPIE. I am shocked. + +CARNABY. Mrs. Opie, is it possible that all these years I have been +nourishing a prude in my . . back drawing-room? + +MRS. OPIE. I presume I am discharged of Ann's education; but as the +salaried mistress of your household, Mr. Leete, I am grieved not to be +able to deny such a rumour to your servants. + +_She sails back, righteously indignant._ + +CARNABY. Call out that you're marrying the wicked man . . comfort her. + +SARAH. Mrs. Opie! + +CARNABY. Consider that existence. An old maid . . so far as we know. +Brevet rank . . missis. Not pleasant. + +ANN. She wants nothing better . . at her age. + +SARAH. How forgetful! + +CARNABY. [_The force of the phrase growing._] Brighton, Sarah. + +SARAH. Now you've both read the love-letter which Tetgeen brought me. + +CARNABY. Come to Brighton. + +ANN. Come to Brighton, Sally. + +SARAH. No. I have been thinking. I think I will accept the income, the +house, coals, butter and eggs. + +CARNABY. I give you a fortnight to bring your husband to his knees . . +to your feet. + +SARAH. I'm not sure that I could. My marriage has come naturally to an +end. + +CARNABY. Sarah, don't annoy me. + +SARAH. Papa, you joined my bridegroom's political party . . now you see +fit to leave it. + +_She glances at_ ANN, _who gives no sign, however_. + +CARNABY. What have you been doing in ten years? + +SARAH. Waiting for this to happen . . now I come to think. + +CARNABY. Have ye the impudence to tell me that ye've never cared for +your husband? + +SARAH. I was caught by the first few kisses; but he . . . + +CARNABY. Has he ever been unkind to you? + +SARAH. Never. He's a gentleman through and through . . . quite charming +to live with. + +CARNABY. I see what more you expect. And he neither drinks nor . . nor +. . no one even could suppose your leaving him. + +SARAH. No. I'm disgraced. + +CARNABY. Fight for your honour. + +SARAH. You surprise me sometimes by breaking out into cant phrases. + +CARNABY. What is more useful in the world than honour? + +SARAH. I think we never had any . . we! + +CARNABY. Give me more details. Tell me, who is this man? + +SARAH. I'm innocent . . if that were all. + +ANN. Sally, what do they say you've done? + +SARAH. I cry out like any poor girl. + +CARNABY. There must be no doubt that you're innocent. Why not go for to +force Charles into court? + +SARAH. My innocence is not of the sort which shows up well. + +CARNABY. Hold publicity in reserve. No fear of the two men arranging to +meet, is there? + +SARAH. They've met . . and they chatted about me. + +CARNABY. [_After a moment._] There's sound humour in that. + +SARAH. I shall feel able to laugh at them both from Yorkshire. + +CARNABY. God forbid! Come to Brighton . . we'll rally Charles no end. + +SARAH. Papa, I know there's nothing to be done. + +CARNABY. Coward! + +SARAH. Besides I don't think I want to go back to my happiness. + +_They are silent for a little._ + +CARNABY. How still! Look . . leaves falling already. Can that man hear +what we're saying? + +SARAH. [_To_ ANN.] Can Abud overhear? + +ANN. I've never talked secrets in the garden before to-day. [_Raising +her voice but a very little._] Can you hear me, Abud? + +_No reply comes._ + +CARNABY. Evidently not. There's brains shown in a trifle. + +SARAH. Does your arm pain you so much? + +ANN. Sarah, this man that you're fond of and that's not your husband is +not by any chance Lord John Carp? + +SARAH. No. + +ANN. Nothing would surprise me. + +SARAH. You are witty . . but a little young to be so hard. + +CARNABY. Keep to your innocent thoughts. + +ANN. I must study politics. + +SARAH. We'll stop talking of this. + +ANN. No . . let me listen . . quite quietly. + +CARNABY. Let her listen . . she's going to be married. + +SARAH. Good luck, Ann. + +CARNABY. I have great hopes of Ann. + +SARAH. I hope she may be heartless. To be heartless is to be quite safe. + +CARNABY. Now we detect a taste of sour grapes in your mouth. + +SARAH. Butter and eggs. + +CARNABY. We must all start early in the morning. Sarah will take you, +Ann, round the Brighton shops . . fine shops. You shall have the +money. . . + +SARAH. I will not come with you. + +CARNABY. [_Vexedly._] How absurd . . how ridiculous . . to persist in +your silly sentiment. + +SARAH. [_Her voice rising._] I'm tired of that world . . which goes on +and on, and there's no dying . . . one grows into a ghost . . visible . . +then invisible. I'm glad paint has gone out of fashion. . . the +painted ghosts were very ill to see. + +CARNABY. D'ye scoff at civilisation? + +SARAH. Look ahead for me. + +CARNABY. Banished to a hole in the damned provinces! But you're young +yet, you're charming . . you're the wife . . and the honest wife of one +of the country's best men. My head aches. D'ye despise good fortune's +gifts? Keep as straight in your place in the world as you can. A monthly +packet of books to Yorkshire . . no . . you never were fond of reading. +Ye'd play patience . . cultivate chess problems . . kill yourself! + +SARAH. When one world fails take another. + +CARNABY. You have no more right to commit suicide than to desert the +society you were born into. My head aches. + +SARAH. George is happy. + +CARNABY. D'ye dare to think so? + +SARAH. No. . it's a horrible marriage. + +CARNABY. He's losing refinement . . mark me . . he no longer polishes +his nails. + +SARAH. But there are the children now. + +CARNABY. You never have wanted children. + +SARAH. I don't want a little child. + +CARNABY. She to be Lady Leete . . someday . . soon! What has he done for +his family? + +SARAH. I'll come with you. You are clever, Papa. And I know just what to +say to Charles. + +CARNABY. [_With a curious change of tone._] If you study anatomy you'll +find that the brain, as it works, pressing forward the eyes . . thought +is painful. Never be defeated. Chapter the latest . . the tickling of +the Carp. And my throat is dry . . shall I drink that water? + +SARAH. No, I wouldn't. + +CARNABY. Not out of my hand? + +ANN. [_Speaking in a strange quiet voice, after her long silence._] I +will not come to Brighton with you. + +CARNABY. Very dry! + +ANN. You must go back, Sally. + +CARNABY. [_As he looks at her, standing stiffly._] Now what is Ann's +height . . five feet . . ? + +ANN. Sally must go back, for she belongs to it . . but I'll stay here +where I belong. + +CARNABY. You've spoken three times and the words are jumbling in at my +ears meaninglessly. I certainly took too much wine at dinner . . or +else. . . Yes . . Sally goes back. . and you'll go forward. Who stays +here? Don't burlesque your sister. What's in the air . . what disease is +this? + +ANN. I mean to disobey you . . to stay here . . never to be unhappy. + +CARNABY. So pleased! + +ANN. I want to be an ordinary woman . . not clever . . not fortunate. + +CARNABY. I can't hear. + +ANN. Not clever. I don't believe in you, Papa. + +CARNABY. I exist . . I'm very sorry. + +ANN. I won't be married to any man. I refuse to be tempted . . I won't +see him again. + +CARNABY. Yes. It's raining. + +SARAH. Raining! + +CARNABY. Don't you stop it raining. + +ANN. [_In the same level tones, to her sister now, who otherwise would +turn, alarmed, to their father._] And I curse you . . because, we being +sisters, I suppose I am much what you were, about to be married; and I +think, Sally, you'd have cursed your present self. I could become all +that you are and more . . but I don't choose. + +SARAH. Ann, what is to become of you? + +CARNABY. Big drops . . big drops! + +_At this moment_ ABUD _is passing towards the house, his work finished_. + +ANN. John Abud . . you mean to marry. When you marry . . will you marry +me? + +_A blank silence, into which breaks_ CARNABY'S _sick voice_. + +CARNABY. Take me indoors. I heard you ask the gardener to marry you. + +ANN. I asked him. + +CARNABY. I heard you say that you asked him. Take me in . . but not out +of the rain. + +ANN. Look . . he's straight-limbed and clear eyed . . and I'm a woman. + +SARAH. Ann, are you mad? + +ANN. If we two were alone here in this garden and everyone else in the +world were dead . . what would you answer? + +ABUD. [_Still amazed._] Why . . yes. + +CARNABY. Then that's settled . . pellucid. + +_He attempts to rise, but staggers backwards and forwards._ SARAH _goes +to him alarmed_. + +SARAH. Papa! . . there's no rain yet. + +CARNABY. Hush, I'm dead. + +ANN. [_Her nerves failing her._] Oh . . oh . . oh . . ! + +SARAH. Abud, don't ever speak of this. + +ABUD. No, my lady. + +ANN. [_With a final effort._] I mean it all. Wait three months. + +CARNABY. Help me up steps . . son-in-law. + +CARNABY _has started to grope his way indoors. But he reels and falls +helpless._ + +ABUD. I'll carry him. + +_Throwing down his tools_ ABUD _lifts the frail sick man and carries him +towards the house_. SARAH _follows_. + +ANN. [_Sobbing a little, and weary._] Such a long day it has been . . +now ending. + +_She follows too._ + + + + + THE FOURTH ACT + + +_The hall at Markswayde is square; in decoration strictly eighteenth +century. The floor polished. Then comes six feet of soberly painted +wainscot and above the greenish blue and yellowish green wall painted +into panels. At intervals are low relief pilasters; the capitals of +these are gilded. The ceiling is white and in the centre of it there is +a frosted glass dome through which a dull light struggles. Two sides +only of the hall are seen._ + +_In the corner is a hat stand and on it are many cloaks and hats and +beneath it several pairs of very muddy boots._ + +_In the middle of the left hand wall are the double doors of the +dining-room led up to by three or four stairs with balusters, and on +either side standing against the wall long, formal, straight backed +sofas._ + +_In the middle of the right hand wall is the front door; glass double +doors can be seen and there is evidently a porch beyond. On the left of +the front door a small window. On the right a large fireplace, in which +a large fire is roaring. Over the front door, a clock (the hands +pointing to half-past one.) Over the fireplace a family portrait (temp. +Queen Anne) below this a blunderbuss and several horse-pistols. Above +the sofa full-length family portraits (temp. George I.) Before the front +door a wooden screen, of lighter wood than the wainscot, and in the +middle of it a small glass panel. Before this a heavy square table on +which are whips and sticks, a hat or two and brushes; by the table a +wooden chair. On either side the fire stand tall closed-in armchairs, +and between the fireplace and the door a smaller red-baize screen._ + +_When the dining-room doors are thrown open another wooden screen is to +be seen._ + +_There are a few rugs on the floor, formally arranged._ + +MRS. OPIE _stands in the middle of the hall, holding out a woman's brown +cloak: she drops one side to fetch out her handkerchief and apply it to +her eye_. DIMMUCK _comes in by the front door, which he carefully closes +behind him. He is wrapped in a hooded cloak and carries a pair of boots +and a newspaper. The boots he arranges to warm before the fire. Then he +spreads the Chronicle newspaper upon the arm of a chair, then takes off +his cloak and hangs it upon a peg close to the door._ + +DIMMUCK. Mrs. Opie . . will you look to its not scorching? + +MRS. OPIE _still mops her eyes_. DIMMUCK _goes towards the dining-room +door, but turns_. + +DIMMUCK. Will you kindly see that the _Chronicle_ newspaper does not +burn? + +MRS. OPIE. I was crying. + +DIMMUCK. I leave this tomorrow sennight . . thankful, ma'am, to have +given notice in a dignified manner. + +MRS. OPIE. I understand . . Those persons at table . . + +DIMMUCK. You give notice. + +MRS. OPIE. Mr. Dimmuck, this is my home. + +LORD ARTHUR CARP _comes out of the dining-room. He is a thinner and more +earnest-looking edition of his brother_. MRS. OPIE _turns a chair and +hangs the cloak to warm before the fire, and then goes into the +dining-room_. + +LORD ARTHUR. My chaise round? + +DIMMUCK. I've but just ordered it, my lord. Your lordship's man has give +me your boots. + +LORD ARTHUR. Does it snow? + +DIMMUCK. Rather rain than snow. + +LORD ARTHUR _takes up the newspaper_. + +DIMMUCK. Yesterday's, my lord. + +LORD ARTHUR. I've seen it. The mails don't hurry hereabouts. Can I be in +London by the morning? + +DIMMUCK. I should say you might be, my lord. + +LORD ARTHUR _sits by the fire, while_ DIMMUCK _takes off his pumps and +starts to put on his boots_. + +LORD ARTHUR. Is this a horse called "Ronald?" + +DIMMUCK. Which horse, my lord? + +LORD ARTHUR. Which I'm to take back with me . . my brother left here. I +brought the mare he borrowed. + +DIMMUCK. I remember, my lord. I'll enquire. + +LORD ARTHUR. Tell Parker . . + +DIMMUCK. Your lordship's man? + +LORD ARTHUR. . . he'd better ride the beast. + +SARAH _comes out of the dining-room. He stands up; one boot, one shoe._ + +SARAH. Please put on the other. + +LORD ARTHUR. Thank you . . I am in haste. + +SARAH. To depart before the bride's departure. + +LORD ARTHUR. Does the bride go with the bridegroom? + +SARAH. She goes away. + +LORD ARTHUR. I shall never see such a thing again. + +SARAH. I think this entertainment is unique. + +LORD ARTHUR. Any commissions in town? + +SARAH. Why can't you stay to travel with us tomorrow and talk business +to Papa by the way? + +DIMMUCK _carrying the pumps and after putting on his cloak goes out +through the front door. When it is closed, her voice changes._ + +SARAH. Why . . Arthur? + +_He does not answer. Then_ MRS. OPIE _comes out of the dining-room to +fetch the cloak. The two, with an effort, reconstruct their casual +disjointed conversation._ + +SARAH. . . Before the bride's departure? + +LORD ARTHUR. Does the bride go away with the bridegroom? + +SARAH. She goes. + +LORD ARTHUR. I shall never see such an entertainment again. + +SARAH. We are quite unique. + +LORD ARTHUR. Any commissions in town? + +SARAH. Is she to go soon too, Mrs. Opie? + +MRS. OPIE. It is arranged they are to walk . . in this weather . . ten +miles . . to the house. + +SARAH. Cottage. + +MRS. OPIE. Hut. + +MRS. OPIE _takes the cloak into the dining-room. Then_ SARAH _comes a +little towards_ LORD ARTHUR, _but waits for him to speak_. + +LORD ARTHUR. [_A little awkwardly._] You are not looking well. + +SARAH. To our memory . . and beyond your little chat with my husband +about me . . I want to speak an epitaph. + +LORD ARTHUR. Charlie Cottesham behaved most honourably. + +SARAH. And I think you did. Why have you not let me tell you so in your +ear till now, to-day? + +LORD ARTHUR. Sarah . . we had a narrow escape from. . . + +SARAH. How's your wife? + +LORD ARTHUR. Well . . thank you. + +SARAH. Nervous, surely, at your travelling in winter? + +LORD ARTHUR. I was so glad to receive a casual invitation from you and +to come . . casually. + +SARAH. Fifty miles. + +LORD ARTHUR. Your father has been ill? + +SARAH. Very ill through the autumn. + +LORD ARTHUR. Do you think he suspects us? + +SARAH. I shouldn't care to peep into Papa's innermost mind. You are to +be very useful to him. + +LORD ARTHUR. No. + +SARAH. Then he'll go back to the government. + +LORD ARTHUR. If he pleases . . if they please . . if you please. + +SARAH. I am not going back to my husband. Arthur . . be useful to him. + +LORD ARTHUR. No . . you are not coming to me. Always your father! +[_After a moment._] It was my little home in the country somehow said +aloud you didn't care for me. + +SARAH. I fooled you to small purpose. + +LORD ARTHUR. I wish you had once made friends with my wife. + +SARAH. If we . . this house I'm speaking of . . had made friends where +we've only made tools and fools we shouldn't now be cursed as we are . . +all. George, who is a cork, trying to sink socially. Ann is mad . . and +a runaway. + +LORD ARTHUR. Sarah, I've been devilish fond of you. + +SARAH. Be useful to Papa. [_He shakes his head, obstinately._] Praise me +a little. Haven't I worked my best for my family? + +LORD ARTHUR. Suppose I could be useful to him now, would you, in spite +of all, come to me . . no half measures? + +SARAH. Arthur . . [_He makes a little passionate movement towards her, +but she is cold._] It's time for me to vanish from this world, because +I've nothing left to sell. + +LORD ARTHUR. I can't help him. I don't want you. + +_He turns away._ + +SARAH. I feel I've done my best. + +LORD ARTHUR. Keep your father quiet. + +SARAH. I mean to leave him. + +LORD ARTHUR. What does he say to that? + +SARAH. I've not yet told him. + +LORD ARTHUR. What happens? + +SARAH. To sell my jewels . . spoils of a ten years' war. Three thousand +pound . . how much a year? + +LORD ARTHUR. I'll buy them. + +SARAH. And return them? You have almost the right to make such a +suggestion. + +LORD ARTHUR. Stick to your father. He'll care for you? + +SARAH. No . . we all pride ourselves on our lack of sentiment. + +LORD ARTHUR. You must take money from your husband. + +SARAH. I have earned that and spent it. + +LORD ARTHUR. [_Yielding once again to temptation._] I'm devilish fond of +you . . . + +_At that moment_ ABUD _comes out of the dining-room. He is dressed in +his best._ SARAH _responds readily to the interruption_. + +SARAH. And you must give my kindest compliments to Lady Arthur and my . . +affectionately . . to the children and I'll let Papa know that you're +going. + +LORD ARTHUR. Letters under cover to your father? + +SARAH. Papa will stay in town through the session of course . . but they +all tell me that seventy-five pounds a year is a comfortable income in . . +Timbuctoo. + +_She goes into the dining-room._ ABUD _has selected his boots from the +corner and now stands with them in his hand looking rather helpless. +After a moment_-- + +LORD ARTHUR. I congratulate you, Mr. Abud. + +ABUD. My lord . . I can't speak of myself. + +CARNABY _comes out of the dining-room. He is evidently by no means +recovered from his illness. He stands for a moment with an ironical eye +on_ JOHN ABUD. + +CARNABY. Son-in-law. + +ABUD. I'm told to get on my boots, sir. + +CARNABY. Allow me to assist you? + +ABUD. I couldn't, sir. + +CARNABY. Desole! + +_Then he passes on._ ABUD _sits on the sofa, furtively puts on his boots +and afterwards puts his shoes in his pockets_. + +LORD ARTHUR. You were so busy drinking health to the two fat farmers +that I wouldn't interrupt you. + +CARNABY. Good-bye. Describe all this to your brother John. + +LORD ARTHUR. So confirmed a bachelor! + +CARNABY. Please say that we missed him. + +LORD ARTHUR _hands him the newspaper_. + +LORD ARTHUR. I've out-raced your _Chronicle_ from London by some hours. +There's a paragraph . . second column . . near the bottom. + +CARNABY. [_Looking at it blindly._] They print villainously now-a-days. + +LORD ARTHUR. Inspired. + +CARNABY. I trust his grace is well? + +LORD ARTHUR. Gouty. + +CARNABY. Now doesn't the social aspect of this case interest you? + +LORD ARTHUR. I object to feeding with the lower classes. + +CARNABY. There's pride! How useful to note their simple manners! From +the meeting of extremes new ideas spring . . new life. + +LORD ARTHUR. Take that for a new social-political creed, Mr. Leete. + +CARNABY. Do I lack one? + +LORD ARTHUR. Please make my adieux to the bride. + +CARNABY. Appropriate . . . 'a Dieu' . . she enters Nature's cloister. My +epigram. + +LORD ARTHUR. But . . good heavens . . are we to choose to be toiling +animals? + +CARNABY. To be such is my daughter's ambition. + +LORD ARTHUR. You have not read that. + +CARNABY. [_Giving back the paper, vexedly._] I can't see. + +LORD ARTHUR. "The Right Honourable Carnaby Leete is, we are glad to +hear, completely recovered and will return to town for the opening of +Session." + +CARNABY. I mentioned it. + +LORD ARTHUR. "We understand that although there has been no +reconciliation with the Government it is quite untrue that this +gentleman will in any way resume his connection with the Opposition." + +CARNABY. Inspired? + +LORD ARTHUR. I am here from my father to answer any questions. + +CARNABY. [_With some dignity and the touch of a threat._] Not now, my +lord. + +DIMMUCK _comes in at the front door_. + +DIMMUCK. The chaise, my lord. + +CARNABY. I will conduct you. + +LORD ARTHUR. Please don't risk exposure. + +CARNABY. Nay, I insist. + +LORD ARTHUR. Health and happiness to you both, Mr. Abud. + +LORD ARTHUR _goes out, followed by_ CARNABY, _followed by_ DIMMUCK. _At +that moment_ MR. SMALLPEICE _skips excitedly out of the dining-room. A +ferret-like little lawyer_. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. Oh . . where is Mr. Leete? + +_Not seeing him_ MR. SMALLPEICE _skips as excitedly back into the +dining-room_. DIMMUCK _returns and hangs up his cloak then goes towards_ +ABUD, _whom he surveys_. + +DIMMUCK. Sir! + +_With which insult he starts for the dining-room reaching the door just +in time to hold it open for_ SIR GEORGE LEETE _who comes out. He +surveys_ ABUD _for a moment, then explodes_. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. Damn you . . stand in the presence of your +grandfather-in-law. + +ABUD _stands up_. CARNABY _returns coughing, and_ SIR GEORGE _looks him +up and down_. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. I shall attend your funeral. + +CARNABY. My daughter Sarah still needs me. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. I wonder at you, my son. + +CARNABY. Have you any money to spare? + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. No. + +CARNABY. For Sarah, my housekeeper; I foresee a busy session. + +ABUD _is now gingerly walking up the stairs_. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. Carnaby . . look at that. + +CARNABY. Sound in wind and limb. Tread boldly, son-in-law. + +ABUD _turns, stands awkwardly for a moment and then goes into the +dining-room_. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Relapsing into a pinch of snuff._] I'm calm. + +CARNABY. Regard this marriage with a wise eye . . as an amusing little +episode. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. Do you? + +CARNABY. And forget its oddity. Now that the humiliation is irrevocable, +is it a personal grievance to you? + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. Give me a dinner a day for the rest of my life and +I'll be content. + +CARNABY. Lately, one by one, opinions and desires have been failing me . . +a flicker and then extinction. I shall shortly attain to being a most +able critic upon life. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. Shall I tell you again? You came into this world +without a conscience. That explains you and it's all that does. That +such a damnable coupling as this should be permitted by God Almighty . . +or that the law shouldn't interfere! I've said my say. + +MR. SMALLPEICE _again comes out of the dining-room_. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. Leete. + +CARNABY. [_Ironically polite._] Mr. Smallpeice. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. Crowe is proposing your health. + +MR. CROWE _comes out_. _A crop-headed beefy-looking farmer of sixty._ + +MR. CROWE. Was. + +CARNABY. There's a good enemy! + +MR. CROWE. Get out of my road . . lawyer Smallpeice. + +CARNABY. Leave enough of him living to attend to my business. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. [_wriggling a bow at_ CARNABY.] Oh . . dear sir! + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Disgustedly to_ MR. SMALLPEICE.] You! + +MR. SMALLPEICE. Employed in a small matter . . as yet. + +CARNABY. [_To_ CROWE.] I hope you spoke your mind of me. + +MR. CROWE. Not behind your back, sir. + +MRS. GEORGE LEETE _leads_ LADY LEETE _from the dining-room_. LADY LEETE +_is a very old, blind and decrepit woman_. DOLLY _is a buxom young +mother; whose attire borders on the gaudy_. + +CARNABY. [_With some tenderness._] Well . . Mother . . dear? + +MR. CROWE. [_Bumptiously to_ SIR GEORGE LEETE.] Did my speech offend +you, my lord? + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Sulkily._] I'm a baronet. + +LADY LEETE. Who's this here? + +CARNABY. Carnaby. + +DOLLY. Step down . . grandmother. + +LADY LEETE. Who did ye say you were? + +DOLLY. Mrs. George Leete. + +LADY LEETE. Take me to the fire-side. + +_So_ CARNABY _and_ DOLLY _lead her slowly to a chair by the fire where +they carefully bestow her_. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. [_To_ FARMER CROWE.] He's leaving Markswayde, you know . . +and me agent. + +LADY LEETE. [_Suddenly bethinking her._] Grace was not said. Fetch my +chaplain . . at once. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. I will run. + +_He runs into the dining-room._ + +DOLLY. [_Calling after with her country accent._] Not parson Remnant . . +t'other one. + +LADY LEETE. [_Demanding._] Snuff. + +CARNABY. [_To his father._] Sir . . my hand is a little unsteady. + +SIR GEORGE _and_ CARNABY _between them give_ LADY LEETE _her snuff_. + +MR. CROWE. Dolly . . ought those children to be left so long? + +DOLLY. All right, father . . I have a maid. + +LADY LEETE _sneezes_. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. She'll do that once too often altogether. + +LADY LEETE. I'm cold. + +DOLLY. I'm cold . . I lack my shawl. + +CROWE. Call out to your man for it. + +DOLLY. [_Going to the dining-room door._] Will a gentleman please ask +Mr. George Leete for my Cache-y-mire shawl? + +MR. CROWE. [_To_ CARNABY.] And I drank to the health of our grandson. + +CARNABY. Now suppose George were to assume your name, Mr. Crowe? + +MR. TOZER _comes out of the dining-room. Of the worst type of eighteenth +century parson, for which one may see Hogarth's 'Harlot's Progress.' He +is very drunk._ + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_In his wife's ear._] Tozer! + +LADY LEETE. When . . why! + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. To say grace. + +LADY LEETE _folds her withered hands_. + +MR. TOZER. [_through his hiccoughs._] Damn you all. + +LADY LEETE. [_Reverently, thinking it is said._] Amen. + +MR. TOZER. Only my joke. + +CARNABY. [_Rising to the height of the occasion._] Mr. Tozer, I am +indeed glad to see you, upon this occasion so delightfully drunk. + +MR. TOZER. Always a gen'elman . . by nature. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. Lie down . . you dog. + +GEORGE _comes out carrying the cashmere shawl_. + +GEORGE. [_To his father._] Dolly wants her father to rent Markswayde, +sir. + +MR. CROWE. Not me, my son. You're to be a farmer-baronet. + +SIR GEORGE. Curse your impudence! + +CARNABY. My one regret in dying would be to miss seeing him so. + +GEORGE _goes back into the dining-room_. + +MR. CROWE. I am tickled to think that the man marrying your daughter +wasn't good enough for mine. + +CARNABY. And yet at fisticuffs, I'd back John Abud against our son +George. + +DR. REMNANT _has come out of the dining-room_. TOZER _has stumbled +towards him and is wagging an argumentative finger_. + +MR. TOZER. . . Marriage means enjoyment! + +DR. REMNANT. [_Controlling his indignation._] I repeat that I have found +in my own copy of the prayer book no insistence upon a romantic passion. + +MR. TOZER. My 'terpretation of God's word is 'bove criticism. + +MR. TOZER _reaches the door and falls into the dining-room_. + +CARNABY. [_Weakly to_ DR. REMNANT.] Give me your arm for a moment. + +DR. REMNANT. I think Lady Cottesham has Mrs. John Abud prepared to +start, sir. + +CARNABY. I trust Ann will take no chill walking through the mud. + +DR. REMNANT. Won't you sit down, sir? + +CARNABY. No. + +_For some moments_ CROWE _has been staring indignantly at_ SIR GEORGE. +_Now he breaks out._ + +MR. CROWE. The front door of this mansion is opened to a common gardener +and only then to me and mine! + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Virulently._] Damn you and yours and damn them . . +and damn you again for the worse disgrace. + +MR. CROWE. Damn _you_, sir . . have you paid him to marry the girl? + +_He turns away, purple faced and_ SIR GEORGE _chokes impotently_. ABUD +_and_ MR. PRESTIGE _come out talking. He is younger and less assertive +than_ FARMER CROWE. + +MR. PRESTIGE. [_Pathetically._] All our family always has got drunk at +weddings. + +ABUD. [_In remonstrance._] Please, uncle. + +CARNABY. Mr. Crowe . . I have been much to blame for not seeking you +sooner. + +MR. CROWE. [_Mollified._] Shake hands. + +CARNABY. [_Offering his with some difficulty._] My arm is stiff . . +from an accident. This is a maid's marriage, I assure you. + +MR. PRESTIGE. [_Open mouthed to_ DR. REMNANT.] One =could= hang bacon +here! + +DOLLY. [_Very high and mighty._] The family don't. + +CARNABY. [_To his father._] And won't you apologise for your remarks to +Mr. Crowe, sir? + +LADY LEETE. [_Demanding._] Snuff! + +CARNABY. And your box to my mother, sir. + +SIR GEORGE _attends to his wife_. + +DOLLY. [_Anxiously to_ DR. REMNANT.] Can a gentleman change his name? + +MR. CROWE. Parson . . once noble always noble, I take it. + +DR. REMNANT. Certainly . . but I hope you have money to leave them, Mr. +Crowe. + +DOLLY. [_To_ ABUD.] John. + +ABUD. Dorothy. + +DOLLY. You've not seen my babies yet. + +LADY LEETE _sneezes_. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. Carnaby . . d'ye intend to murder that Crowe fellow . . +or must I? + +MR. SMALLPEICE _skips from the dining-room_. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. John Abud . . + +MR. CROWE. [_To_ DR. REMNANT _as he nods towards_ CARNABY.] Don't tell +me he's got over that fever yet. + +MR. SMALLPEICE. . . The ladies say . . are you ready or are you not? + +MR. PRESTIGE. I'll get thy cloak, John. + +MR. PRESTIGE _goes for the cloak_. CARNABY _has taken a pistol from the +mantel-piece and now points it at_ ABUD. + +CARNABY. He's fit for heaven! + +GEORGE LEETE _comes from the dining-room and noticing his father's +action says sharply_ . . + +GEORGE. I suppose you know that pistol's loaded. + +_Which calls everyone's attention._ DOLLY _shrieks_. + +CARNABY. What if there had been an accident! + +_And he puts back the pistol._ ABUD _takes his cloak from_ PRESTIGE. + +ABUD. Thank you, uncle. + +MR. PRESTIGE. I'm a proud man. Mr. Crowe . . + +CARNABY. Pride! + +GEORGE. [_Has a sudden inspiration and strides up to_ ABUD.] Here ends +the joke, my good fellow. Be off without your wife. + +ABUD _stares, as do the others. Only_ CARNABY _suddenly catches_ +REMNANT'S _arm_. + +MR. PRESTIGE. [_Solemnly._] But it's illegal to separate them. + +GEORGE. [_Giving up._] Mr. Prestige . . you are the backbone of England. + +CARNABY. [_To_ REMNANT.] Where are your miracles? + +MRS. PRESTIGE _comes out. A motherly farmer's wife, a mountain of a +woman._ + +MRS. PRESTIGE. John . . kiss your aunt. + +ABUD _goes to her, and she obliterates him in an embrace_. + +GEORGE. [_To his father._] Sense of humour . . Sense of humour! + +LADY LEETE. Snuff. + +_But no one heeds her this time._ + +CARNABY. It doesn't matter. + +GEORGE. Smile. Let's be helpless gracefully. + +CARNABY. There are moments when I'm not sure. + +GEORGE. It's her own life. + +TOZER _staggers from the dining-room drunker than ever. He falls against +the baluster and waves his arms._ + +MR. TOZER. Silence there for the corpse! + +MR. CROWE. You beast! + +MR. TOZER. Respect my cloth . . Mr. Prestige. + +MR. CROWE. That's not my name. + +MR. TOZER. I'll have you to know that I'm Sir George Leete's baronet's +most boon companion and her la'ship never goes nowhere without me. [_He +subsides into a chair._] + +LADY LEETE. [_Tearfully._] Snuff. + +_From the dining-room comes_ ANN; _her head bent. She is crossing the +hall when_ SARAH _follows, calling her_. + +SARAH. Ann! + +ANN _turns back to kiss her. The rest of the company stand gazing._ SIR +GEORGE _gives snuff to_ LADY LEETE. + +ANN. Good-bye, Sally. + +SARAH. [_In a whisper._] Forget us. + +GEORGE. [_Relieving his feelings._] Good-bye, everybody . . good-bye, +everything. + +ABUD _goes to the front door and opening it stands waiting for her. She +goes coldly, but timidly to her father, to whom she puts her face up to +be kissed._ + +ANN. Good-bye, Papa. + +CARNABY. [_Quietly, as he kisses her cheek._] I can do without you. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Raging at the draught._] Shut that door. + +ANN. I'm gone. + +_She goes with her husband._ MRS. OPIE _comes hurriedly out of the +dining-room, too late_. + +MRS. OPIE. Oh! + +DR. REMNANT. Run . . Mrs. Opie. + +CARNABY. There has started the new century! + +MRS. OPIE _opens the front door to look after them_. + +SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_With double energy._] Shut that door. + +LADY LEETE _sneezes and then chokes. There is much commotion in her +neighbourhood._ + +SIR GEORGE. Now she's hurt again. + +DOLLY. Water! + +MR. CROWE. Brandy! + +SARAH. [_Going._] I'll fetch both. + +GEORGE. We must all die . . some day. + +MR. TOZER. [_Who has struggled up to see what is the matter._] And go +to-- + +DR. REMNANT. Hell. You do believe in that, Mr. Toper. + +MRS. OPIE. [_Fanning the poor old lady._] She's better. + +CARNABY. [_To his guests._] Gentlemen . . punch. + +PRESTIGE _and_ SMALLPEICE; MRS. PRESTIGE, GEORGE _and_ DOLLY _move +towards the dining-room_. + +MR. PRESTIGE. [_To_ SMALLPEICE.] You owe all this to me. + +MR. CROWE. Dolly . . I'm going. + +MRS. PRESTIGE. [_To her husband as she nods towards_ CARNABY.] Nathaniel +. . look at 'im. + +GEORGE. [_To his father-in-law._] Must we come too? + +MRS. PRESTIGE. [_As before._] I can't help it . . a sneerin' carpin' +cavillin' devil! + +MRS. OPIE. Markswayde is to let . . as I hear . . Mr. Leete? + +CARNABY. Markswayde is to let. + +_He goes on his way to the dining-room meeting_ SARAH _who comes out +carrying a glass of water and a decanter of brandy_. SIR GEORGE LEETE +_is comfortably warming himself at the fire_. + + * * * * * + +_The living room of_ JOHN ABUD'S _new cottage has bare plaster walls and +its ceilings and floor are of red brick; all fresh looking but not new. +In the middle of the middle wall there is a latticed window, dimity +curtained; upon the plain shelf in front are several flower-pots._ + +_To the right of this, a door, cross beamed and with a large lock to it +besides the latch._ + +_Against the right hand wall, is a dresser, furnished with dishes and +plates: below it is a common looking grandfather clock; below this a +small door which when opened shows winding stairs leading to the +room above. In the left hand wall there is a door which is almost hidden +by the fireplace which juts out below it. In the fireplace a wood fire +is laid but not lit. At right angles to this stands a heavy oak settle +opposite a plain deal table; just beyond which is a little bench. On +either side of the window is a Windsor armchair. Between the window and +the door hangs a framed sampler._ + +_In the darkness the sound of the unlocking of a door and of_ ABUD +_entering is heard. He walks to the table, strikes a light upon a +tinder-box and lights a candle which he finds there._ ANN _is standing +in the doorway_. ABUD _is in stocking feet_. + +ABUD. Don't come further. Here are your slippers. + +_He places one of the Windsor chairs for her on which she sits while he +takes off her wet shoes and puts on her slippers which he found on the +table. Then he takes her wet shoes to the fireplace. She sits still. +Then he goes to the door and brings in his own boots from the little +porch and puts them in the fireplace too. Then he locks the door and +hangs up the key beside it. Then he stands looking at her; but she does +not speak, so he takes the candle, lifts it above his head and walks to +the dresser._ + +ABUD. [_Encouragingly._] Our dresser . . Thomas Jupp made that. Plates +and dishes. Here's Uncle Prestige's clock. + +ANN. Past seven. + +ABUD. That's upstairs. Table and bench, deal. Oak settle . . solid. + +ANN. Charming. + +ABUD. Windsor chairs . . Mother's sampler. + +ANN. Home. + +ABUD. Is it as you wish? I have been glad at your not seeing it until +to-night. + +ANN. I'm sinking into the strangeness of the place. + +ABUD. Very weary? It's been a long nine miles. + +_She does not answer. He goes and considers the flower-pots in the +window._ + +ANN. I still have on my cloak. + +ABUD. Hang it behind the door there . . no matter if the wet drips. + +ANN. . . I can wipe up the puddle. + +_She hangs up her cloak. He selects a flower-pot and brings it to her._ + +ABUD. Hyacinth bulbs for the spring. + +ANN. [_After a glance._] I don't want to hold them. + +_He puts back the pot, a little disappointed._ + +ABUD. Out there's the scullery. + +ANN. It's very cold. + +ABUD. If we light the fire now that means more trouble in the morning. + +_She sits on the settle._ + +ANN. Yes, I am very weary. + +ABUD. Go to bed. + +ANN. Not yet. [_After a moment._] How much light one candle gives! Sit +where I may see you. + +_He sits on the bench. She studies him curiously._ + +ANN. Well . . this is an experiment. + +ABUD. [_With reverence._] God help us both. + +ANN. Amen. Some people are so careful of their lives. If we fail +miserably we'll hold our tongues . . won't we? + +ABUD. I don't know . . I can't speak of this. + +ANN. These impossible things which are done mustn't be talked of . . +that spoils them. We don't want to boast of this, do we? + +ABUD. I fancy nobody quite believes that we are married. + +ANN. Here's my ring . . real gold. + +ABUD. [_With a sudden fierce throw up of his head._] Never you remind me +of the difference between us. + +ANN. Don't speak to me so. + +ABUD. Now I'm your better. + +ANN. My master . . The door's locked. + +ABUD. [_Nodding._] I know that I must be . . or be a fool. + +ANN. [_After a moment._] Be kind to me. + +ABUD. [_With remorse._] Always I will. + +ANN. You are master here. + +ABUD. And I've angered you? + +ANN. And if I fail . . I'll never tell you . . to make a fool of you. +And you're trembling. [_She sees his hand, which is on the table, +shake._] + +ABUD. Look at that now. + +ANN. [_Lifting her own._] My white hands must redden. No more dainty +appetite . . no more pretty books. + +ABUD. Have you learned to scrub? + +ANN. Not this floor. + +ABUD. Mother always did bricks with a mop. Tomorrow I go to work. +You'll be left for all day. + +ANN. I must make friends with the other women around. + +ABUD. My friends are very curious about you. + +ANN. I'll wait to begin till I'm seasoned. + +ABUD. Four o'clock's the hour for getting up. + +ANN. Early rising always was a vice of mine. + +ABUD. Breakfast quickly . . . and I take my dinner with me. + +ANN. In a handkerchief. + +ABUD. Hot supper, please. + +ANN. It shall be ready for you. + +_There is silence between them for a little. Then he says timidly._ + +ABUD. May I come near to you? + +ANN. [_In a low voice._] Come. + +_He sits beside her, gazing._ + +ABUD. Wife . . I never have kissed you. + +ANN. Shut your eyes. + +ABUD. Are you afraid of me? + +ANN. We're not to play such games at love. + +ABUD. I can't help wanting to feel very tender towards you. + +ANN. Think of me . . not as a wife . . but as a mother of your children +. . if it's to be so. Treat me so. + +ABUD. You are a part of me. + +ANN. We must try and understand it . . as a simple thing. + +ABUD. But shall I kiss you? + +ANN. [_Lowering her head._] Kiss me. + +_But when he puts his arms round her she shrinks._ + +ANN. No. + +ABUD. But I will. It's my right. + +_Almost by force he kisses her. Afterwards she clenches her hands and +seems to suffer._ + +ABUD. Have I hurt you? + +_She gives him her hand with a strange little smile._ + +ANN. I forgive you. + +ABUD. [_Encouraged._] Ann . . we're beginning life together. + +ANN. Remember . . work's enough . . no stopping to talk. + +ABUD. I'll work for you. + +ANN. I'll do my part . . something will come of it. + +_For a moment they sit together hand in hand. Then she leaves him and +paces across the room. There is a slight pause._ + +ANN. Papa . . I said . . we've all been in too great a hurry getting +civilised. False dawn. I mean to go back. + +ABUD. He laughed. + +ANN. So he saw I was of no use to him and he's penniless and he let me +go. When my father dies what will he take with him? . . . for you do +take your works with you into Heaven or Hell, I believe. Much wit. Sally +is afraid to die. Don't you aspire like George's wife. I was afraid to +live . . and now . . I am content. + +_She walks slowly to the window and from there to the door against which +she places her ear. Then she looks round at her husband._ + +ANN. I can hear them chattering. + +_Then she goes to the little door and opens it._ ABUD _takes up the +candle_. + +ABUD. I'll hold the light . . the stairs are steep. + +_He lights her up the stairs._ + + + + + + The Voysey Inheritance + + 1903-5 + + + + + THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE + + +_The Office of Voysey and Son is in the best part of Lincoln's Inn. Its +panelled rooms give out a sense of grand-motherly comfort and security, +very grateful at first to the hesitating investor, the dubious litigant. +Mr. Voysey's own room into which he walks about twenty past ten of a +morning radiates enterprise besides. There is polish on everything; on +the windows, on the mahogany of the tidily packed writing table that +stands between them, on the brasswork of the fireplace in the other +wall, on the glass of the fire-screen which preserves only the +pleasantness of a sparkling fire, even on Mr. Voysey's hat as he takes +it off to place it on the little red curtained shelf behind the door. +Mr. Voysey is sixty or more and masterful; would obviously be master +anywhere from his own home outwards, or wreck the situation in his +attempt. Indeed there is a buccaneering air sometimes in the twist of +his glance, not altogether suitable to a family solicitor. On this +bright October morning, Peacey, the head clerk, follows just too late to +help him off with his coat, but in time to take it and hang it up with a +quite unnecessary subservience. Mr. Voysey is evidently not capable +enough to like capable men about him. Peacey, not quite removed from +Nature, has made some attempts to acquire protective colouring. A very +drunken client might mistake him for his master. His voice very easily +became a toneless echo of Mr. Voysey's; later his features caught a line +or two from that mirror of all the necessary virtues into which he was +so constantly gazing; but how his clothes even when new contrive to look +like old ones of Mr. Voysey's is a mystery, and to his tailor a most +annoying one. And Peacey is just a respectful number of years his +master's junior. Relieved of his coat, Mr. Voysey carries to his table +the bunch of beautiful roses he is accustomed to bring to the office +three times a week and places them for a moment only near the bowl of +water there ready to receive them while he takes up his letters. These +lie ready too, opened mostly, one or two private ones left closed and +discreetly separate. By this time the usual salutations have passed, +Peacey's "Good morning, sir;" Mr. Voysey's "Morning, Peacey." Then as he +gets to his letters Mr. Voysey starts his day's work._ + +MR. VOYSEY. Any news for me? + +PEACEY. I hear bad accounts of Alguazils preferred, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . from whom? + +PEACEY. Merrit and James's head clerk in the train this morning. + +MR. VOYSEY. They looked all right on . . Give me the Times. [PEACEY +_goes to the fireplace for the Times; it is warming there_. MR. VOYSEY +_waves a letter, then places it on the table_.] Here, that's for you . . +Gerrard Cross business. Anything else? + +PEACEY. [_as he turns the Times to its Finance page._] I've made the +usual notes. + +MR. VOYSEY. Thank'ee. + +PEACEY. Young Benham isn't back yet. + +MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward must do as he thinks fit about that. Alguazils, +Alg--oh, yes. + +_He is running his eye down the columns._ PEACEY _leans over the +letters_. + +PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it? + +MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson. . Yes. Alguazils. Mr. Edward's here, I +suppose. + +PEACEY. No, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_his eye twisting with some sharpness._] What! + +PEACEY. [_almost alarmed._] I beg pardon, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward. + +PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I thought you said +Headley; he's not due back till Thursday. + +MR. VOYSEY _discards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come. + +PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else? + +MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't it? + +PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chislehurst. + +PEACEY. So early! + +MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call through about +the rest of the letters. + +PEACEY _goes, having secured a letter or two, and_ MR. VOYSEY _having +sorted the rest (a proportion into the waste paper basket) takes up the +forgotten roses and starts setting them into a bowl with an artistic +hand. Then his son_ EDWARD _comes in_. MR. VOYSEY _gives him one glance +and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily_. . + +MR. VOYSEY. Good morning, my dear boy. + +EDWARD _has little of his father in him and that little is undermost. It +is a refined face but self-consciousness takes the place in it of +imagination and in suppressing traits of brutality in his character it +looks as if the young man had suppressed his sense of humour too. But +whether or no, that would not be much in evidence now, for_ EDWARD _is +obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is +no better word). He looks not to have slept for a night or two, and his +standing there, clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he +carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly but half accusingly +too, his whole being altogether so unstrung and desperate, makes_ MR. +VOYSEY'S _uninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated +indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken._ + +EDWARD. Father . . + +MR. VOYSEY. Well? + +EDWARD. I'm glad to see you. + +_This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that the commonplace +phrase sounds ridiculous at such a moment._ + +MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there. + +EDWARD. Yes. + +MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them? + +EDWARD. As you wished me . . + +MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD _doesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems +to overwhelm him with shame._ MR. VOYSEY _goes on with cheerful +impatience_.] Come, come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this. +You're puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come down to +me on Saturday night? I expected you . . I told you to come. Then your +mother was wondering, of course, why you weren't with us for dinner +yesterday. + +EDWARD. I went through all the papers twice. I wanted to make quite +sure. + +MR. VOYSEY. Sure of what? I told you to come to me. + +EDWARD. [_he is very near crying._] Oh, father. + +MR. VOYSEY. Now look here, Edward, I'm going to ring and dispose of +these letters. Please pull yourself together. [_He pushes the little +button on his table._] + +EDWARD. I didn't leave my rooms all day yesterday. + +MR. VOYSEY. A pleasant Sunday! You must learn whatever the business may +be to leave it behind you at the Office. Why, life's not worth living +else. + +PEACEY _comes in to find_ MR. VOYSEY _before the fire ostentatiously +warming and rubbing his hands_. + +Oh, there isn't much else, Peacey. Tell Simmons that if he satisfies you +about the details of this lease it'll be all right. Make a note for me +of Mr. Grainger's address at Mentone. I shall have several letters to +dictate to Atkinson. I'll whistle for him. + +PEACEY. Mr. Burnett . . Burnett v Marks had just come in, Mr. Edward. + +EDWARD. [_without turning._] It's only fresh instructions. Will you take +them? + +PEACEY. All right. + +PEACEY _goes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness of_ EDWARD'S _manner. +This_ MR. VOYSEY _sees, returning to his table with a little scowl_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Now sit down. I've given you a bad forty-eight hours, it +seems. Well, I've been anxious about you. Never mind, we'll thresh the +thing out now. Go through the two accounts. Mrs. Murberry's first . . +how do you find it stands? + +EDWARD. [_his feelings choking him._] I hoped you were playing some +trick on me. + +MR. VOYSEY. Come now. + +EDWARD _separates the papers precisely and starts to detail them; his +voice quite toneless. Now and then his father's sharp comments ring out +in contrast._ + +EDWARD. We've got the lease of her present house, several agreements . . +and here's her will. Here's also a sometime expired power of attorney +over her securities and her property generally . . it was for six +months. + +MR. VOYSEY. She was in South Africa. + +EDWARD. Here's the Sheffield mortgage and the Henry Smith mortgage with +Banker's receipts . . hers to us for the interest up to date . . four +and a half and five per cent. Then . . Fretworthy Bonds. There's a +memorandum in your writing that they are at the Bank; but you didn't say +what Bank. + +MR. VOYSEY. My own . . Stukeley's. + +EDWARD. [_just dwelling on the words._] Your own. I marked that with a +query. There's eight thousand five hundred in three and a half India +stock. And there are her Banker's receipts for cheques on account of +those dividends. I presume for those dividends. + +MR. VOYSEY. Why not? + +EDWARD. [_gravely._] Because then, Father, there are Banker's half +yearly receipts for sums amounting to an average of four hundred and +twenty pounds a year. But I find no record of any capital to produce +this. + +MR. VOYSEY. Go on. What =do= you find? + +EDWARD. Till about three years back there seems to have been eleven +thousand in Queenslands which would produce--did produce exactly the +same sum. But after January of that year I find no record of this. + +MR. VOYSEY. In fact the Queenslands are missing? + +EDWARD. [_hardly uttering the word._] Yes. + +MR. VOYSEY. From which you conclude? + +EDWARD. I concluded at first that you had not handed me all the papers +connected with---- + +MR. VOYSEY. Since Mrs. Murberry evidently gets another four twenty a +year somehow; lucky woman. + +EDWARD. [_in agony._] Oh! + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, we'll return to the good lady later. Now let's take +the other. + +EDWARD. The Hatherley Trust. + +MR. VOYSEY. Quite so. + +EDWARD. [_with one accusing glance._] Trust. + +MR. VOYSEY. Go on. + +EDWARD. Oh, father . . + +_His grief comes uppermost again and_ MR. VOYSEY _meets it kindly_. + +MR. VOYSEY. I know, my dear boy. I shall have lots to say to you. But +let's get quietly through with these details first. + +EDWARD. [_bitterly now._] Oh, this is simple enough. We're young +Hatherley's only trustees till his coming of age in about five years' +time. The property was eighteen thousand invested in Consols. Certain +sums were to be allowed for his education; these have been and are still +being paid. There is no record as to the rest of the capital. + +MR. VOYSEY. None? + +EDWARD. Yes . . I beg your pardon, sir. There's a memorandum to refer to +the Bletchley Land Scheme. + +MR. VOYSEY. That must be ten years ago. But he's credited with the +interest on his capital? + +EDWARD. On paper, sir. The balance was to be reinvested. There's a +partial account in your hand writing. He's credited with the Consol +interest. + +MR. VOYSEY. Quite so. + +EDWARD. I think I've heard you say that the Bletchley scheme paid seven +and a half. + +MR. VOYSEY. At one time. Have you taken the trouble to calculate what +will be due from us to the lad? + +EDWARD. Capital and compound interest . . . about twenty six thousand +pounds. + +MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's a large sum. In five years' time? + +EDWARD. When he comes of age. + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, that gives us, say four years and six months in which +to think about it. + +EDWARD _waits, hopelessly, for his father to speak again; then says_ . . + +EDWARD. Thank you for showing me these, sir. Shall I put them back in +your safe now? + +MR. VOYSEY. Yes, you'd better. There's the key. [EDWARD _reaches for the +bunch, his face hidden_.] Put them down. Your hand shakes . . why, you +might have been drinking . . I'll put them away later. It's no use +having hysterics, Edward. Look the trouble in the face. + +EDWARD'S _only answer is to go to the fire, as far from his father as +the room allows. And there he leans on the mantelpiece, his shoulders +heaving._ + +MR. VOYSEY. I'm sorry, my dear boy. I wouldn't tell you if I could help +it. + +EDWARD. I can't believe it. And that you should be telling it me. + +MR. VOYSEY. Let your feelings go and get that part of the business over. +It isn't pleasant, I know. It isn't pleasant to inflict it on you. + +EDWARD. How I got through that outer office this morning, I don't know. +I came early but some of them were here. Peacey came into my room, he +must have seen there was something up. + +MR. VOYSEY. That's no matter. + +EDWARD. [_able to turn to his father again; won round by the kind +voice._] How long has it been going on? Why didn't you tell me before? +Oh, I know you thought you'd pull through; but I'm your partner . . I'm +responsible too. Oh, I don't want to shirk that . . don't think I mean +to shirk that, father. Perhaps I ought to have discovered, but those +affairs were always in your hands. I trusted . . I beg your pardon. Oh, +it's us . . not you. Everyone has trusted us. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_calmly and kindly still._] You don't seem to notice that +I'm not breaking my heart like this. + +EDWARD. What's the extent of the mischief? When did it begin? Father, +what made you begin it? + +MR. VOYSEY. I didn't begin it. + +EDWARD. You didn't. Who then? + +MR. VOYSEY. My father before me. [EDWARD _stares_.] That calms you a +little. + +EDWARD. I'm glad . . my dear father! [_and he puts out his hand. Then +just a doubt enters his mind._] But I . . it's amazing. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_shaking his head._] My inheritance, Edward. + +EDWARD. My dear father! + +MR. VOYSEY. I had hoped it wasn't to be yours. + +EDWARD. D'you mean to tell me that this sort of thing has been going on +for years? For more than thirty years! + +MR. VOYSEY. Yes. + +EDWARD. That's a little difficult to understand just at first, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_sententiously._] We do what we must in this world, Edward; +I have done what I had to do. + +EDWARD. [_his emotion well cooled by now._] Perhaps I'd better just +listen quietly while you explain. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_concentrating._] You know that I'm heavily into Northern +Electrics. + +EDWARD. Yes. + +MR. VOYSEY. But you don't know how heavily. When I discovered the +Municipalities were organising the purchase, I thought of course the +stock'd be up a hundred and forty--a hundred and fifty in no time. Now +Leeds won't make up her quarrel with the other place . . there'll be no +bill brought in for ten years. I bought at ninety five. What are they +now? + +EDWARD. Eighty eight. + +MR. VOYSEY. Eighty seven and a half. In ten years I may be . . ! That's +why you've had to be told. + +EDWARD. With whose money are you so heavily into Northern Electrics? + +MR. VOYSEY. The firm's money. + +EDWARD. Clients' money? + +MR. VOYSEY. Yes. + +EDWARD. [_coldly._] Well . . I'm waiting for your explanation, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. You seem to have recovered yourself pretty much. + +EDWARD. No, sir, I'm trying to understand, that's all. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with a shrug._] Children always think the worst of their +parents. I did of mine. It's a pity. + +EDWARD. Go on, sir, go on. Let me know the worst. + +MR. VOYSEY. There's no immediate danger. I should think anyone could see +that from the state of these accounts. There's no actual danger at all. + +EDWARD. Is that the worst? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_his anger rising._] Have you studied these two accounts or +have you not? + +EDWARD. Yes, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, where's the deficiency in Mrs. Murberry's income . . +has she ever gone without a shilling? What has young Hatherley lost? + +EDWARD. He stands to lose-- + +MR. VOYSEY. He stands to lose nothing if I'm spared for a little, and +you will only bring a little common sense to bear and try to understand +the difficulties of my position. + +EDWARD. Father, I'm not thinking ill of you . . that is, I'm trying not +to. But won't you explain how you're justified--? + +MR. VOYSEY. In putting our affairs in order. + +EDWARD. Are you doing that? + +MR. VOYSEY. What else? + +EDWARD. [_starting patiently to examine the matter._] How bad were +things when you first came to control them? + +MR. VOYSEY. Oh, I forget. + +EDWARD. You can't forget. + +MR. VOYSEY. Well . . pretty bad. + +EDWARD. Do you know how it was my grandfather began to-- + +MR. VOYSEY. Muddlement, muddlement! Then the money went and what was he +to do. He'd no capital, no credit, and was in terror of his life. My +dear Edward, if I hadn't found it out, he'd have confessed to the first +man who came and asked for a balance sheet. + +EDWARD. Well, what exact sum was he to the bad then? + +MR. VOYSEY. I forget. Several thousands. + +EDWARD. But surely it has not taken all these years to pay off-- + +MR. VOYSEY. Oh, hasn't it! + +EDWARD. [_making his point._] But how does it happen, sir, that such a +comparatively recent trust as young Hatherley's had been broken into? + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, what could be safer than to use that money? There's a +Consol investment and not a sight wanted of either capital or interest +for five years. + +EDWARD. [_utterly beaten._] Father, are you mad? + +MR. VOYSEY. Certainly not. My practice is to reinvest my clients' money +when it is entirely under my control. The difference between the income +this money has to bring to them and the income it is actually bringing +to me I utilise in my endeavour to fill up the deficit in the firm's +accounts . . in fact to try and put things straight. Doesn't it follow +that the more low interest bearing capital I can use the better . . the +less risky things I have to put it into. Most of young Hatherley's +Consol capital is out on mortgage at four and a half and five . . safe +as safe can be. + +EDWARD. But he should have the benefit. + +MR. VOYSEY. He has the amount of his consol interest. + +EDWARD. Are the mortgages in his name? + +MR. VOYSEY. Some of them . . some of them. That's a technical matter. +With regard to Mrs. Murberry . . those Fretworthy Bonds at my bank . . +I've raised five thousand on them. I can release her Bonds to-morrow if +she wants them. + +EDWARD. Where's the five thousand? + +MR. VOYSEY. I don't know . . it was paid into my private account. Yes, I +do remember. Some of it went to complete a purchase . . that and two +thousand more out of the Skipworth fund. + +EDWARD. But, my dear father-- + +MR. VOYSEY. Well? + +EDWARD. [_summing it all up very simply._] It's not right. + +MR. VOYSEY _considers his son for a moment with a pitying shake of the +head_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . why is it so hard for a man to see clearly beyond the +letter of the law! Will you consider a moment, Edward, the position in +which I found myself? Was I to see my father ruined and disgraced +without lifting a finger to help him? . . not to mention the interest of +the clients. I paid back to the man who would have lost most by my +father's mistakes every penny of his money. He never knew the danger +he'd been in . . never passed an uneasy moment about it. It was I who +lay awake. I have now somewhere a letter from that man to my father +thanking him effusively for the way in which he'd conducted some matter. +It comforted my poor father. Well, Edward, I stepped outside the letter +of the law to do that. Was that right or wrong? + +EDWARD. In its result, sir, right. + +MR. VOYSEY. Judge me by the result. I took the risk of failure . . I +should have suffered. I could have kept clear of the danger if I'd +liked. + +EDWARD. But that's all past. The thing that concerns me is what you are +doing now. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_gently reproachful now._] My boy, you must trust me a +little. It's all very well for you to come in at the end of the day and +criticise. But I who have done the day's work know how that work had to +be done. And here's our firm, prosperous, respected and without a stain +on its honour. That's the main point, isn't it? And I think that +achievement should earn me the right to be trusted a little . . +shouldn't it? + +EDWARD. [_quite irresponsive to this pathetic appeal._] Look here, sir, +I'm dismissing from my mind all prejudice about speaking the truth . . +acting upon one's instructions, behaving as any honest firm of +solicitors must behave . . + +MR. VOYSEY. You need not, I tell no unnecessary lies. If a man of any +business ability gives me definite instructions about his property, I +follow them. + +EDWARD. Father, no unnecessary lies! + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, my friend, go and tell Mrs. Murberry that four hundred +and twenty pounds of her income hasn't for the last eight years come +from the place she thinks it's come from and see how happy you'll make +her. + +EDWARD. But is that four hundred and twenty a year as safe to come to +her as it was before you meddled with the capital? + +MR. VOYSEY. I see no reason why-- + +EDWARD. What's the security? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_putting his coping stone on the argument._] My financial +ability. + +EDWARD. [_really not knowing whether to laugh or cry._] Why, it seems as +if you were satisfied with this state of things. + +MR. VOYSEY. Edward, you really are most unsympathetic and unreasonable. +I give all I have to the firm's work . . my brain . . my energies . . my +whole life. I can't turn my abilities into hard cash at par . . I wish I +could. Do you suppose that if I could establish every one of these +people with a separate and consistent bank balance to-morrow that I +shouldn't do it? Do you suppose that it's a pleasure . . that it's +relaxation to have these matters continually on one's mind? Do you +suppose--? + +EDWARD. [_thankfully able to meet anger with anger._] I find it +impossible to believe that you couldn't somehow have put things right by +now. + +MR. VOYSEY. Oh, do you? Somehow! + +EDWARD. In thirty years the whole system must either have come +hopelessly to grief . . or during that time there must have been +opportunities-- + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, if you're so sure, I hope that when I'm under ground, +you may find them. + +EDWARD. I! + +MR. VOYSEY. And put everything right with a stroke of the pen, if it's +so easy! + +EDWARD. I! + +MR. VOYSEY. You're my partner and my son, and you'll inherit the +business. + +EDWARD. [_realizing at last that he has been led to the edge of this +abyss._] Oh no, father. + +MR. VOYSEY. Why else have I had to tell you all this? + +EDWARD. [_very simply._] Father, I can't. I can't possibly. I don't +think you've any right to ask me. + +MR. VOYSEY. Why not, pray? + +EDWARD. It's perpetuating the dishonesty. + +MR. VOYSEY _hardens at the unpleasant word_. + +MR. VOYSEY. You don't believe that I've told you the truth. + +EDWARD. I wish to believe it. + +MR. VOYSEY. It's no proof . . that I've earned these twenty or thirty +people their incomes for the last--how many years? + +EDWARD. Whether what you have done and are doing is wrong or right . . I +can't meddle in it. + +_For the moment_ MR. VOYSEY _looks a little dangerous_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Very well. Forget all I've said. Go back to your room. Get +back to your own mean drudgery. My life's work--my splendid life's +work--ruined! What does that matter? + +EDWARD. Whatever did you expect of me? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_making a feint at his papers._] Oh, nothing, nothing. +[_Then he slams them down with great effect._] Here's a great edifice +built up by years of labour and devotion and self sacrifice . . a great +arch you may call it . . a bridge which is to carry our firm to safety +with honour. [_This variation of Disraeli passes unnoticed._] My work! +And now, as I near the end of my life, it still lacks the key-stone. +Perhaps I am to die with my work just incomplete. Then is there nothing +that a son might do? Do you think I shouldn't be proud of you, Edward . . +that I shouldn't bless you from--wherever I may be, when you completed +my life's work . . with perhaps just one kindly thought of your father? + +_In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually impressing_ +EDWARD. + +EDWARD. What will happen if I . . if I desert you? + +MR. VOYSEY. I'll protect you as best I can. + +EDWARD. I wasn't thinking of myself, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with great nonchalance_.] Well, I shan't mind the +exposure, you know. It won't make me blush in my coffin . . and you're +not so foolish I hope as to be thinking of the feelings of your brothers +and sisters. Considering how simple it would have been for me to go to +my grave in peace and quiet and let you discover the whole thing +afterwards, the fact that I didn't, that I have taken some thought for +the future of all of you might perhaps have convinced you that I . . ! +But there . . consult your own safety. + +EDWARD _has begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him_. + +EDWARD. This is a queer thing to have to make up one's mind about, isn't +it, father? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_watching him closely and modulating his voice._] My dear +boy, I understand the shock to your feelings that this disclosure must +have been. + +EDWARD. Yes, I thought this morning that next week would see us in the +dock together. + +MR. VOYSEY. And I suppose if I'd broken down and begged your pardon for +my folly, you'd have done anything for me, gone to prison smiling, eh? + +EDWARD. I suppose so. + +MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry I can't go in +sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. [_Now he begins to rally his son; +easy in his strength._] My dear Edward, you've lived a quiet humdrum +life up to now, with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism +and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, these are +the sort of garden oats which young men seem to sow now-a-days! . . and +you've never before been brought face to face with any really vital +question. Now don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience. +Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the consideration of +this very serious matter. I'm not angry at what you've said to me. I'm +quite willing to forget it. And it's for your own sake and not for mine, +Edward, that I do beg you to--to--to be a man and try and take a +practical common sense view of the position you find yourself in. It's +not a pleasant position I know, but it's unavoidable. + +EDWARD. You should have told me before you took me into partnership. +[_Oddly enough it is this last flicker of rebellion which breaks down_ +MR. VOYSEY'S _caution. Now he lets fly with a vengeance._] + +MR. VOYSEY. Should I be telling you at all if I could possibly help it? +Don't I know that you're about as fit for this job as a babe unborn? +Haven't I been worrying over that for these last three years? But I'm in +a corner . . and I won't see all this work of mine come to smash simply +because of your scruples. If you're a son of mine you'll do as I tell +you. Hadn't I the same choice to make? . . and this is a safer game for +you than it was for me then. D'you suppose I didn't have scruples? If +you run away from this, Edward, you're a coward. My father was a coward +and he suffered for it to the end of his days. I was sick-nurse to him +here more than partner. Good lord! . . of course it's pleasant and +comfortable to keep within the law . . then the law will look after you. +Otherwise you have to look pretty sharp after yourself. You have to +cultivate your own sense of right and wrong; deal your own justice. But +that makes a bigger man of you, let me tell you. How easily . . how +easily could I have walked out of my father's office and left him to his +fate; no one would have blamed me! But I didn't. I thought it my better +duty to stay and . . yes, I say it with all reverence . . to take up my +cross. Well, I've carried that cross pretty successfully. And what's +more, it's made a happy man of me . . a better, stronger man than +skulking about in shame and in fear of his life ever made of my poor +dear father. [_Relieved at having let out the truth, but doubtful of his +wisdom in doing so, he changes his tone._] I don't want what I've been +saying to influence you, Edward. You are a free agent . . and you must +decide upon your own course of action. Now don't let's discuss the +matter any more for the moment. + +EDWARD _looks at his father with clear eyes_. + +EDWARD. Don't forget to put these papers away. + +_He restores them to their bundles and hands them back: it is his only +comment._ MR. VOYSEY _takes them and his meaning in silence_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Are you coming down to Chislehurst soon? We've got Hugh and +his wife, and Booth and Emily, and Christopher for two or three days, +till he goes back to school. + +EDWARD. How is Chris? + +MR. VOYSEY. All right again now . . grows more like his father. Booth's +very proud of him. So am I. + +EDWARD. I think I can't face them all just at present. + +MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense. + +EDWARD. [_a little wave of emotion going through him._] I feel as if +this thing were written on my face. How I shall get through business I +don't know! + +MR. VOYSEY. You're weaker than I thought, Edward. + +EDWARD. [_a little ironically._] A disappointment to you, father? + +MR. VOYSEY. No, no. + +EDWARD. You should have brought one of the others into the firm . . +Trenchard or Booth. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_hardening._] Trenchard! [_he dismisses that._] Well, +you're a better man than Booth. Edward, you mustn't imagine that the +whole world is standing on its head merely because you've had an +unpleasant piece of news. You come down to Chislehurst to-night . . +well, say to-morrow night. It'll be good for you . . stop your brooding +. . that's your worst vice, Edward. You'll find the household as if +nothing had happened. Then you'll remember that nothing really has +happened. And presently you'll get to see that nothing need happen, if +you keep your head. I remember times, when things have seemed at their +worst, what a relief it's been to me . . my romp with you all in the +nursery just before your bed time. Do you remember? + +EDWARD. Yes. I cut your head open once with that gun. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_in a full glow of fine feeling._] And, my dear boy, if I +knew that you were going to inform the next client you met of what I've +just told you . . + +EDWARD. [_with a shudder._] Oh, father! + +MR. VOYSEY. . . And that I should find myself in prison to-morrow, I +wouldn't wish a single thing I've ever done undone. I have never +wilfully harmed man or woman. My life's been a happy one. Your dear +mother has been spared to me. You're most of you good children and a +credit to what I've done for you. + +EDWARD. [_the deadly humour of this too much for him._] Father! + +MR. VOYSEY. Run along now, run along. I must finish my letters and get +into the City. + +_He might be scolding a schoolboy for some trifling fault._ EDWARD +_turns to have a look at the keen unembarrassed face_. MR. VOYSEY +_smiles at him and proceeds to select from the bowl a rose for his +buttonhole_. + +EDWARD. I'll think it over, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. Of course, you will. And don't brood, Edward, don't brood. + +_So_ EDWARD _leaves him; and having fixed the rose to his satisfaction, +he rings his table telephone and calls through it to the listening +clerk_. + +Send Atkinson to me, please. [_Then he gets up, keys in hand to lock +away Mrs. Murberry's and the Hatherley trust papers._] + + + + + THE SECOND ACT + + +_The_ VOYSEY _dining-room at Chislehurst, when children and +grandchildren are visiting, is dining table and very little else. And at +this moment in the evening when five or six men are sprawling back in +their chairs, and the air is clouded with smoke, it is a very typical +specimen of the middle-class English domestic temple; the daily +sacrifice consummated, the acolytes dismissed, the women safely in the +drawing room, and the chief priests of it taking their surfeited ease +round the dessert-piled altar. It has the usual red-papered walls, (like +a refection, they are, of the underdone beef so much consumed within +them) the usual varnished woodwork which is known as grained oak; there +is the usual, hot, mahogany furniture; and, commanding point of the +whole room, there is the usual black-marble sarcophagus of a fireplace. +Above this hangs one of the two or three oil paintings, which are all +that break the red pattern of the walls, the portrait painted in 1880 of +an undistinguished looking gentleman aged sixty; he is shown sitting in +a more graceful attitude than it could ever have been comfortable for +him to assume._ MR. VOYSEY'S _father it is, and the brass plate at the +bottom of the frame tells us that the portrait was a presentation one. +On the mantelpiece stands, of course, a clock; at either end a china +vase filled with paper spills. And in front of the fire,--since that is +the post of vantage, stands at this moment_ MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. _He is +the second son, of the age that it is necessary for a Major to be, and +of an appearance that many ordinary Majors in ordinary regiments are. He +went into the army because he thought it would be like a schoolboy's +idea of it; and, being there, he does his little all to keep it so. He +stands astride, hands in pockets, coat-tails through his arms, cigar in +mouth, moustache bristling. On either side of him sits at the table an +old gentleman; the one is_ MR. EVAN COLPUS, _the vicar of their parish, +the other_ MR. GEORGE BOOTH, _a friend of long standing, and the Major's +godfather. Mr. Colpus is a harmless enough anachronism, except for the +waste of L400 a year in which his stipend involves the community. +Leaving most of his parochial work to an energetic curate, he devotes +his serious attention to the composition of two sermons a week. They +deal with the difficulties of living the christian life as experienced +by people who have nothing else to do. Published in series from time to +time, these form suitable presents for bedridden parishioners._ MR. +GEORGE BOOTH, _on the contrary, is as gay an old gentleman as can be +found in Chislehurst. An only son; his father left him at the age of +twenty-five a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds (a plum, as he called +it). At the same time he had the good sense to dispose of his father's +business, into which he had been most unwillingly introduced five years +earlier, for a like sum before he was able to depreciate its value. It +was_ MR. VOYSEY'S _invaluable assistance in this transaction which first +bound the two together in great friendship. Since that time Mr. Booth +has been bent on nothing but enjoying himself. He has even remained a +bachelor with that object. Money has given him all he wants, therefore +he loves and reverences money; while his imagination may be estimated +by the fact that he has now reached the age of sixty-five, still +possessing more of it than he knows what to do with. At the head of the +table, meditatively cracking walnuts, sits_ MR. VOYSEY. _He has his back +there to the conservatory door--you know it is the conservatory door +because there is a curtain to pull over it, and because half of it is +frosted glass with a purple key pattern round the edge. On_ MR. VOYSEY'S +_left is_ DENIS TREGONING, _a nice enough young man. And at the other +end of the table sits_ EDWARD, _not smoking, not talking, hardly +listening, very depressed. Behind him is the ordinary door of the room, +which leads out into the dismal draughty hall. The Major's voice is like +the sound of a cannon through the tobacco smoke._ + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course I'm hot and strong for conscription . . + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear boy, the country'd never stand it. No +Englishman-- + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_dropping the phrase heavily upon the poor old +gentleman._] I beg your pardon. If we . . the Army . . say to the +country . . Upon our honour conscription is necessary for your safety . . +what answer has the country? What? [_he pauses defiantly._] There you +are . . none! + +TREGONING. Booth will imagine because one doesn't argue that one has +nothing to say. You ask the country. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Perhaps I will. Perhaps I'll chuck the Service and +go into the House. [_then falling into the sing song of a favourite +phrase._] I'm not a conceited man . . but I believe that if I speak out +upon a subject I understand and only upon that subject the House will +listen . . and if others followed my example we should be a far more +business-like and go-ahead community. + +_He pauses for breath and_ MR. BOOTH _seizes the opportunity_. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If you think the gentlemen of England will allow +themselves to be herded with a lot of low fellers and made to carry +guns--! + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_obliterating him once more._] Just one moment. +Have you thought of the physical improvement which conscription would +bring about in the manhood of the country? What England wants is Chest! +[_he generously inflates his own._] Chest and Discipline. I don't care +how it's obtained. Why, we suffer from a lack of it in our homes-- + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with the crack of a nut._] Your godson talks a deal, don't +he? You know, when Booth gets into a club, he gets on the committee . . +gets on any committee to enquire into anything . . and then goes on at +'em just like this. Don't you, Booth? + +BOOTH _knuckles under easily enough to his father's sarcasm_. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Well, sir, people tell me I'm a useful man on +committees. + +MR. VOYSEY. I don't doubt it . . your voice must drown all discussion. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. You can't say I don't listen to you, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. I don't . . and I'm not blaming you. But I must say I often +think what a devil of a time the family will have with you when I'm +gone. Fortunately for your poor mother, she's deaf. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. And wouldn't you wish me, sir, as eldest son . . . +Trenchard not counting . . . + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with the crack of another nut._] Trenchard not counting. +By all means, bully them. Get up your subjects a bit better, and then +bully them. I don't manage things that way myself, but I think it's your +best chance . . if there weren't other people present I'd say your only +chance, Booth. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_with some discomfort._] Ha! If I were a conceited +man, sir, I could trust you to take it out of me. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_as he taps_ MR. BOOTH _with the nut crackers_.] Help +yourself, George, and drink to your godson's health. Long may he keep +his chest notes! Never heard him on parade, have you? + +TREGONING. I notice military men must display themselves . . that's why +Booth acts as a firescreen. I believe that after mess that position is +positively rushed. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_cheering to find an opponent he can tackle._] If +you want a bit of fire, say so, you sucking Lord Chancellor. Because I +mean to allow you to be my brother-in-law, you think you can be +impertinent. + +_So_ TREGONING _moves to the fire and that changes the conversation_. + +MR. VOYSEY. By the bye, Vicar, you were at Lady Mary's yesterday. Is she +giving us anything towards that window? + +MR. COLPUS. Five pounds more; she has promised me five pounds. + +MR. VOYSEY. Then how will the debt stand? + +MR. COLPUS. Thirty-three . . no, thirty-two pounds. + +MR. VOYSEY. We're a long time clearing it off. + +MR. COLPUS. [_gently querulous._] Yes, now that the window is up, people +don't seem so ready to contribute as they were. + +TREGONING. We must mention that to Hugh! + +MR. COLPUS. [_tactful at once._] Not that the work is not universally +admired. I have heard Hugh's design praised by quite competent judges. +But certainly I feel now it might have been wiser to have delayed the +unveiling until the money was forthcoming. + +TREGONING. Never deliver goods to the Church on credit. + +MR. COLPUS. Eh? [TREGONING _knows he is a little hard of hearing_.] + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, as it was my wish that my son should do the design, I +suppose in the end I shall have to send you a cheque. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Anonymously. + +MR. COLPUS. Oh, that would be-- + +MR. VOYSEY. No, why should I? Here, George Booth, you shall halve it +with me. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'm damned if I do. + +MR. COLPUS. [_proceeding, conveniently deaf._] You remember that at the +meeting we had of the parents and friends to decide on the positions of +the names of the poor fellows and the regiments and coats of arms and so +on . . when Hugh said so violently that he disapproved of the war and +made all those remarks about land-lords and Bibles and said he thought +of putting in a figure of Britannia blushing for shame or something . . +I'm beginning to fear that may have created a bad impression. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why should they mind . . what on earth does Hugh +know about war? He couldn't tell a battery horse from a bandsman. I +don't pretend to criticise art. I think the window'd be very pretty if +it wasn't so broken up into bits. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_fortified by his "damned" and his last glass of +port._] These young men are so ready with their disapproval. Criticism +starts in the cradle nowadays. When I was young, people weren't always +questioning this and questioning that. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Lack of discipline. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_hurrying on._] The way a man now even stops to think +what he's eating and drinking. And in religious matters . . Vicar, I put +it to you . . there's no uniformity at all. + +MR. COLPUS. Ah . . I try to keep myself free from the disturbing +influences of modern thought. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Young men must be forming their own opinions about +this and their opinions about that. You know, Edward, you're worse even +than Hugh is. + +EDWARD. [_glancing up mildly at this sudden attack._] What have I done, +Mr. Booth? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_not the readiest of men._] Well . . aren't you one +of those young men who go about the world making difficulties? + +EDWARD. What sort of difficulties? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_triumphantly._] Just so . . I never can make out. +Surely when you're young you can ask the advice of your elders and when +you grow up you find Laws . . lots of laws divine and human laid down +for our guidance. [_Well in possession of the conversation he spreads +his little self._] I look back over a fairly long life and . . perhaps I +should say by Heaven's help . . I find nothing that I can honestly +reproach myself with. And yet I don't think I ever took more than five +minutes to come to a decision upon any important point. One's private +life is, I think, one's own affair . . I should allow no one to pry into +that. But as to worldly things . . well, I have come into several sums +of money and my capital is still intact . . ask your father. [MR. VOYSEY +_nods gravely_.] I've never robbed any man. I've never lied over +anything that mattered. As a citizen I pay my taxes without grumbling +very much. Yes, and I sent conscience money too upon one occasion. I +consider that any man who takes the trouble can live the life of a +gentleman. [_and he finds that his cigar is out._] + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_not to be outdone by this display of virtue._] +Well, I'm not a conceited man, but-- + +TREGONING. Are you sure, Booth? + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Shut up. I was going to say when my young cub of a +brother-in-law-to-be interrupted me, that =Training=, for which we +all have to be thankful to you, Sir, has much to do with it. [_suddenly +he pulls his trousers against his legs._] I say, I'm scorching! D'you +want another cigar, Denis? + +TREGONING. No, thank you. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I do. + +_And he glances round, but_ TREGONING _sees a box on the table and +reaches it. The Vicar gets up._ + +MR. COLPUS. M-m-m-must be taking my departure. + +MR. VOYSEY. Already! + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_frowning upon the cigar box._] No, not those. +Where are the Ramon Allones? What on earth has Honor done with them? + +MR. VOYSEY. Spare time for a chat with Mrs. Voysey before you go. She +has ideas about a children's tea fight. + +MR. COLPUS. Certainly I will. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_scowling helplessly around._] My goodness! . . one +can never find anything in this house. + +MR. COLPUS. I won't say good-bye then. + +_He is sliding through the half opened door when_ ETHEL _meets him +flinging it wide. She is the younger daughter, the baby of the family, +but twenty-three now._ + +MR. VOYSEY. I say, it's cold again to-night! An ass of an architect who +built this place . . such a draught between these two doors. + +_He gets up to draw the curtain. When he turns_ COLPUS _has disappeared, +while_ ETHEL _has been followed into the room by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who +shuts the door after her_. MISS ALICE MAITLAND _is a young lady of any +age to thirty. Nor need her appearance alter for the next fifteen years; +since her nature is healthy and well-balanced. She possesses indeed the +sort of athletic chastity which is a characteristic charm of Northern +spinsterhood. It mayn't be a pretty face, but it has alertness and +humour; and the resolute eyes and eyebrows are a more innocent edition +of_ MR. VOYSEY'S, _who is her uncle_. ETHEL _goes straight to her +father_ [_though her glance is on_ DENIS _and his on her_] _and chirps, +birdlike, in her spoiled-child way_. + +ETHEL. We think you've stayed in here quite long enough. + +MR. VOYSEY. That's to say, Ethel thinks Denis has been kept out of her +pocket much too long. + +ETHEL. Ethel wants billiards . . not proper billiards . . snooker or +something. Oh, Papa, what a dessert you've eaten. Greedy pig! + +ALICE _is standing behind_ EDWARD, _considering his hair-parting +apparently_. + +ALICE. Crack me a filbert, please, Edward . . I had none. + +EDWARD. [_jumping up, rather formally, well-mannered._] I beg your +pardon, Alice. Won't you sit down? + +ALICE. No. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_taking_ ETHEL _on his knee_.] Come here, puss. Have you +made up your mind yet what you want for a wedding present? + +ETHEL. [_rectifying a stray hair in his beard._] After mature +consideration, I decide on a cheque. + +MR. VOYSEY. Do you! + +ETHEL. Yes, I think that a cheque will give most scope to your +generosity. Of course, if you desire to add any trimmings in the shape +of a piano or a Turkey carpet you may . . and Denis and I will be very +grateful. But I think I'd let yourself go over a cheque. + +MR. VOYSEY. You're a minx. + +ETHEL. What is the use of having money if you don't spend it on me? + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_giving up the cigar search._] Here, who's going to +play? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_pathetically as he gets up._] Well, if my wrist will +hold out . . + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_To_ TREGONING.] No, don't you bother to look for +them. [_He strides from the room, his voice echoing through the hall._] +Honor, where are those Ramon Allones? + +ALICE. [_calling after._] She's in the drawing-room with Auntie and Mr. +Colpus. + +MR. VOYSEY. Now I should suggest that you and Denis go and take off the +billiard table cover. You'll find folding it up is a very excellent +amusement. + +_He illustrates his meaning with his table napkin and by putting +together the tips of his forefingers, roguishly._ + +ETHEL. I am not going to blush. I do kiss Denis . . occasionally . . +when he asks me. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_teasing her._] You are blushing. + +ETHEL. I am not. If you think we're ashamed of being in love, we're not, +we're very proud of it. We will go and take off the billiard table cover +and fold it up . . and then you can come in and play. Denis, my dear, +come along solemnly and if you flinch I'll never forgive you. [_she +marches off and reaches the door before her defiant dignity breaks down; +then suddenly_--] Denis, I'll race you. + +_And she flashes out._ DENIS, _loyal, but with no histrionic instincts, +follows her rather sheepishly_. + +DENIS. Ethel, I can't after dinner. + +MR. VOYSEY. Women play that game better than men. A man shuffles through +courtship with one eye on her relations. + +_The Major comes stalking back, followed in a fearful flurry by his +elder sister_, HONOR. _Poor_ HONOR [_her female friends are apt to refer +to her as Poor_ HONOR] _is a phenomenon common to most large families. +From her earliest years she has been bottle washer to her brothers. +While they were expensively educated she was grudged schooling; her +highest accomplishment was meant to be mending their clothes. Her fate +is a curious survival of the intolerance of parents towards her sex +until the vanity of their hunger for sons had been satisfied. In a less +humane society she would have been exposed at birth. But if a very +general though patronising affection, accompanied by no consideration at +all, can bestow happiness_, HONOR _is not unhappy in her survival. At this +moment, however, her life is a burden._ + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Honor, they are not in the dining-room. + +HONOR. But they must be!--Where else can they be? + +_She has a habit of accentuating one word in each sentence and often the +wrong one._ + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. That's what you ought to know. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_as he moves towards the door._] Well . . will you have a +game? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'll play you fifty up, not more. I'm getting old. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_stopping at a dessert dish._] Yes, these are good apples +of Bearman's. I think six of my trees are spoilt this year. + +HONOR. Here you are, Booth. + +_She triumphantly discovers the discarded box, at which the Major +becomes pathetic with indignation._ + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Oh, Honor, don't be such a fool. These are what +we've been smoking. I want the Ramon Allones. + +HONOR. I don't know the difference. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. No, you don't, but you might learn. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_in a voice like the crack of a very fine whip._] Booth. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_subduedly._] What is it, sir? + +MR. VOYSEY. Look for your cigars yourself. Honor, go back to your +reading and your sewing or whatever you were fiddling at, and fiddle in +peace. + +MR. VOYSEY _departs, leaving the room rather hushed_. MR. BOOTH _has not +waited for this parental display. Then_ ALICE _insinuates a remark very +softly_. + +ALICE. Have you looked in the Library? + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_relapsing to an injured mutter._] Where's Emily? + +HONOR. Upstairs with little Henry, he woke up and cried. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Letting her wear herself to rags over the child . . ! + +HONOR. Well, she won't let me go. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why don't you stop looking for those cigars? + +HONOR. If you don't mind, I want a reel of blue silk now I'm here. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I daresay they are in the Library. What a house! + +_He departs._ + +HONOR. Booth is so trying. + +ALICE. Honor, why do you put up with it? + +HONOR. Someone has to. + +ALICE. [_discreetly nibbling a nut, which_ EDWARD _has cracked for +her_.] I'm afraid I think Master Major Booth ought to have been taken in +hand early . . with a cane. + +HONOR. [_as she vaguely burrows into corners._] Papa did. But it's never +prevented him booming at us . . oh, ever since he was a baby. Now he's +flustered me so I simply can't think where this blue silk is. + +ALICE. All the Pettifers desired to be remembered to you, Edward. + +HONOR. I must do without it. [_but she goes on looking._] I think, +Alice, that we're a very difficult family . . except perhaps Edward. + +EDWARD. Why except me? + +HONOR. [_Who has only excepted out of politeness to present company._] +Well, you may be difficult . . to yourself. [_Then she starts to go, +threading her way through the disarranged chairs._] Mr. Colpus will +shout so loud at Mother and she hates people to think she's so very +deaf. I thought Mary Pettifer looking old . . [_and she talks herself +out of the room._] + +ALICE. [_after her._] She's getting old. + +_Now_ ALICE _does sit down; as if she'd be glad of her tete-a-tete_. + +ALICE. I was glad not to spend August abroad for once. We drove into +Cheltenham to a dance . . carpet. I golfed a lot. + +EDWARD. How long were you with them? + +ALICE. Not a fortnight. It doesn't seem three months since I was here, +does it? + +EDWARD. I'm down so very little. + +ALICE. I'm here a disgraceful deal. + +EDWARD. You know they're always pleased. + +ALICE. Well, being a homeless person! But what a cart-load to descend +all at once . . yesterday and to-day. The Major and Emily . . Emily's +not at all well. Hugh and Mrs. Hugh. And me. Are you staying? + +EDWARD. No. I must get a word with my father . . + +ALICE. A business life is not healthy for you, Edward. You look more +like half-baked pie-crust than usual. + +EDWARD. [_a little enviously._] You're very well. + +ALICE. I'm always well and nearly always happy. + +MAJOR BOOTH _returns. He has the right sort of cigar in his mouth and is +considerably mollified._ + +ALICE. You found them? + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course, they were there. Thank you very much, +Alice. Now I want a knife. + +ALICE. I must present you with a cigar-cutter, Booth. + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I hate 'em. [_he eyes the dessert disparagingly._] +Nothing but silver ones. + +EDWARD _hands him a carefully opened pocket knife_. + +Thank you, Edward. And I must take one of the candles. Something's gone +wrong with the library ventilator and you never can see a thing in that +room. + +ALICE. Is Mrs. Hugh there? + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Writing letters. Things are neglected, Edward, +unless one is constantly on the look out. The Pater only cares for his +garden. I must speak seriously to Honor. + +_He has returned the knife, still open, and now having lit his cigar at +the candle he carries this off._ + +ALICE. Honor has the patience of a . . of an old maid. + +EDWARD. Her mission in life isn't a pleasant one. [_He gives her a nut, +about the fifteenth._] Here; 'scuse fingers. + +ALICE. Thank you. [_looking at him, with her head on one side and her +face more humorous than ever._] Edward, why have you given up proposing +to me? + +_He starts, flushes; then won't be outdone in humour._ + +EDWARD. One can't go on proposing for ever. + +ALICE. [_reasonably._] Why not? Have you seen anyone you like better? + +EDWARD. No. + +ALICE. Well . . I miss it. + +EDWARD. What satisfaction did you find in refusing me? + +ALICE. [_as she weighs the matter._] I find satisfaction in feeling that +I'm wanted. + +EDWARD. Without any intention of giving yourself . . throwing yourself +away. + +ALICE. [_teasing his sudden earnestness._] Ah, now you come from mere +vanity to serious questions. + +EDWARD. Mine were always serious questions to you. + +ALICE. That's a fault I find in you, Edward; all questions are serious +to you. I call you a perfect little pocket-guide to life . . all +questions and answers; what to eat, drink and avoid, what to believe and +what to say . . all in the same type, the same importance attached to +each. + +EDWARD. [_sententiously._] Well . . everything matters. + +ALICE. [_making a face._] D'you plan out every detail of your life . . +every step you take . . every mouthful? + +EDWARD. That would be waste of thought. One must lay down principles. + +ALICE. I prefer my plan, I always do what I know I want to do. Crack me +another nut. + +EDWARD. Haven't you had enough? + +ALICE. I =know= I want one more. + +_He cracks another, with a sigh which sounds ridiculous in that +connection._ + +EDWARD. Well, if you've never had to decide anything very serious . . + +ALICE. [_With great gravity._] Everything's serious. + +EDWARD. Everything isn't vital. + +ALICE. [_skilfully manoeuvring the subject._] I've answered vital +questions. I knew that I didn't want to marry you . . each time. + +EDWARD. Oh, then you didn't just make a rule of saying no. + +ALICE. As you proposed . . on principle? No, I always gave you a fair +chance. I'll give you one now if you like. + +_He rouses himself to play up to this outrageous piece of flirting._ + +EDWARD. I'm not to be caught. + +ALICE. Edward, how rude you are. [_She eats her nut contentedly._] + +EDWARD. Do other men propose to you? + +ALICE. Such a thing may have happened . . when I was young. Perhaps it +might even now if I were to allow it. + +EDWARD. You encourage me shamelessly. + +ALICE. It isn't everyone who proposes on principle. As a rule a man does +it because he can't help himself. And then to be said no to . . hurts. + +_They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of_ MRS. HUGH VOYSEY, _a +brisk, bright little woman, in an evening gown, which she has bullied a +cheap dressmaker into making look exceedingly smart_. BEATRICE _is as +hard as nails and as clever as paint. But if she keeps her feelings +buried pretty deep it is because they are precious to her; and if she is +impatient with fools it is because her own brains have had to win her +everything in the world, so perhaps she does overvalue them a little. +She speaks always with great decision and little effort._ + +BEATRICE. I believe I could write important business letters upon an +island in the middle of Fleet Street. But while Booth is poking at a +ventilator with a billiard cue . . no, I can't. + +_She goes to the fireplace, waving her half finished letter._ + +ALICE. [_soothingly._] Didn't you expect Hugh back to dinner? + +BEATRICE. Not specially. . He went to rout out some things from his +studio. He'll come back in a filthy mess. + +ALICE. Now if you listen . . Booth doesn't enjoy making a fuss by +himself . . you'll hear him rout out Honor. + +_They listen. But what happens is that_ BOOTH _appears at the door, +billiard cue in hand, and says solemnly_ . . + +MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Edward, I wish you'd come and have a look at this +ventilator, like a good fellow. + +_Then he turns and goes again, obviously with the weight of an important +matter on his shoulders. With the ghost of a smile_ EDWARD _gets up and +follows him_. + +ALICE. If I belonged to this family I should hate Booth. + +_With which comment she joins_ BEATRICE _at the fireplace_. + +BEATRICE. A good day's shopping? + +ALICE. 'M. The baby bride and I bought clothes all the morning. Then we +had lunch with Denis and bought furniture. + +BEATRICE. Nice furniture? + +ALICE. It'll be very good and very new. They neither of them know what +they want. [_Then suddenly throwing up her chin and exclaiming._] When +it's a question of money I can understand it . . but if one can provide +for oneself or is independent why get married! Especially having been +brought up on the sheltered life principle . . one may as well make the +most of its advantages . . one doesn't go falling in love all over the +place as men seem to . . most of them. Of course with Ethel and Denis +it's different. They've both been caught young. They're two little birds +building their nests and it's all ideal. They'll soon forget they've +ever been apart. + +_Now_ HONOR _flutters into the room, patient but wild eyed_. + +HONOR. Mother wants last week's Notes and Queries. Have you seen it? + +BEATRICE. [_exasperated at the interruption._] No. + +HONOR. It ought not to be in here. [_so she proceeds to look for it._] +She's having a long argument with Mr. Colpus over Oliver Cromwell's +relations. + +ALICE. [_her eyes twinkling._] I thought Auntie didn't approve of Oliver +Cromwell. + +HONOR. She doesn't and she's trying to prove that he was a brewer or +something. I suppose someone has taken it away. + +_So she gives up the search and flutters out again._ + +ALICE. This is a most unrestful house. + +BEATRICE. I once thought of putting the Voyseys into a book of mine. +Then I concluded they'd be as dull there as they are anywhere else. + +ALICE. They're not duller than most other people. + +BEATRICE. But how very dull that is! + +ALICE. They're a little noisier and perhaps not quite so well mannered. +But I love them. + +BEATRICE. I don't. I should have thought Love was just what they +couldn't inspire. + +ALICE. Of course, Hugh is unlike any of the others. + +BEATRICE. He has most of their bad points. I don't love Hugh. + +ALICE. [_her eyebrows up, though she smiles._] Beatrice, you shouldn't +say so. + +BEATRICE. It sounds affected, doesn't it? Never mind; when he dies I'll +wear mourning . . but not weeds; I bargained against that when we were +engaged. + +ALICE. [_her face growing a little thoughtful._] Beatrice, I'm going to +ask questions. You were in love with Hugh when you married him? + +BEATRICE. Well . . I married him for his money. + +ALICE. He hadn't much. + +BEATRICE. I had none . . and I wanted to write books. Yes, I loved him. + +ALICE. And you thought you'd be happy? + +BEATRICE. [_considering carefully._] No, I didn't. I hoped he'd be +happy. + +ALICE. [_a little ironical._] Did you think your writing books would +make him so? + +BEATRICE. My dear Alice, wouldn't you feel it a very degrading thing to +have your happiness depend upon somebody else? + +ALICE. [_after pausing to find her phrase._] There's a joy of service. + +BEATRICE. [_ironical herself now._] I forgot . . you've four hundred a +year? + +ALICE. What has that to do with it? + +BEATRICE. [_putting her case very precisely._] I've had to earn my own +living, consequently there isn't one thing in my life that I have ever +done quite genuinely for its own sake . . but always with an eye towards +bread-and-butter, pandering to the people who were to give me that. +Happiness has been my only independence. + +_The conservatory door opens and through it come_ MR. VOYSEY _and_ MR. +BOOTH _in the midst of a discussion_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Very well, man, stick to the shares and risk it. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, of course, if you seriously advise me-- + +MR. VOYSEY. I never advise greedy children; I let 'em overeat 'emselves +and take the consequences-- + +ALICE. [_shaking a finger._] Uncle Trench, you've been in the garden +without a hat after playing billiards in that hot room. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. We had to give up . . my wrist was bad. They've +started pool. + +BEATRICE. Is Booth going to play? + +MR. VOYSEY. We left him instructing Ethel how to hold a cue. + +BEATRICE. Perhaps I can finish my letter. + +_Off she goes._ ALICE _is idly following with a little paper her hand +has fallen on behind the clock_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Don't run away, my dear. + +ALICE. I'm taking this to Auntie . . Notes and Queries . . she wants it. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Damn . . this gravel's stuck to my shoe. + +MR. VOYSEY. That's a new made path. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now don't you think it's too early to have put in +those plants? + +MR. VOYSEY. No, we're getting frost at night already. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I should have kept that bed a good ten feet further +from the tree. + +MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense, the tree's to the north of it. This room's cold. +Why don't they keep the fire up! [_He proceeds to put coals on it._] + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You were too hot in that billiard room. You know, +Voysey . . about those Alguazils? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_through the rattling of the coals._] What? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_trying to pierce the din._] Those Alguazils. + +MR. VOYSEY _with surprising inconsequence points a finger at the silk +handkerchief across_ MR. BOOTH'S _shirt front_. + +MR. VOYSEY. What d'you put your handkerchief there for? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Measure of precau--[_at that moment he sneezes._] Damn +it . . if you've given me a chill dragging me round your infernal +garden-- + +MR. VOYSEY. [_slapping him on the back._] You're an old crock. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in Egypt. [_He +returns to his subject._] And if you think seriously, that I ought to +sell out of the Alguazils before I go . . ? [_He looks with childlike +enquiry at his friend, who is apparently yawning slightly._] Why can't +you take them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney or +whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad. + +_At this moment_ PHOEBE, _the middle aged parlour-maid comes in, tray in +hand. Like an expert fisherman_ MR. VOYSEY _once more lets loose the +thread of the conversation_. + +MR. VOYSEY. D'you want to clear? + +PHOEBE. It doesn't matter, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. No, go on . . go on. + +_So_ MARY, _the young housemaid, comes in as well, and the two start to +clear the table. All of which fidgets poor_ MR. BOOTH _considerably. He +sits shrivelled up in the armchair by the fire; and now_ MR. VOYSEY +_attends to him_. + +MR. VOYSEY. What d'you want with high interest at all . . you never +spend half your income? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I like to feel that my money is doing some good in the +world. These mines are very useful things and forty two per cent is +pleasing. + +MR. VOYSEY. You're an old gambler. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_propitiatingly._] Ah, but then I've you to advise +me. I always do as you tell me in the end, now you can't deny that. + +MR. VOYSEY. The man who don't know must trust in the man who does! [_He +yawns again._] + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_modestly insisting._] There's five thousand in +Alguazils--what else could we put it into? + +MR. VOYSEY. I can get you something at four and a half. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, Lord . . that's nothing. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sudden serious friendliness._] I wish, my dear +George, you'd invest more on your own account. You know--what with one +thing and the other--I've got control of practically all you have in the +world. I might be playing old Harry with it for all you know. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_overflowing with confidence._] My dear feller . . if +I'm satisfied! Ah, my friend, what'll happen to your firm when you +depart this life! . . not before my time, I hope, though. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little frown._] What d'ye mean? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward's no use. + +MR. VOYSEY. I beg your pardon . . very sound in business. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. May be . . but I tell you he's no use. Too many +principles, as I said just now. Men have confidence in a personality, +not in principles. Where would you be without the confidence of your +clients? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_candidly._] True! + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. He'll never gain that. + +MR. VOYSEY. I fear you dislike Edward. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with pleasant frankness._] Yes, I do. + +MR. VOYSEY. That's a pity. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with a flattering smile._] Well, he's not his father +and never will be. What's the time? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with inappropriate thoughtfulness._] Twenty to ten. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I must be trotting. + +MR. VOYSEY. It's very early. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, and I've not said a word to Mrs. Voysey . . + +_As he goes to the door he meets_ EDWARD, _who comes in apparently +looking for his father; at any rate catches his eye immediately, while_ +MR. BOOTH _obliviously continues_. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you stroll round home with me? + +MR. VOYSEY. I can't. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_mildly surprised at the short reply._] Well, good +night. Good night, Edward. + +_He trots away._ + +MR. VOYSEY. Leave the rest of the table, Phoebe. + +PHOEBE. Yes, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. You can come back in ten minutes. + +PHOEBE _and_ MARY _depart and the door is closed. Alone with his son_ +MR. VOYSEY _does not move; his face grows a little keener, that's all_. + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, Edward? + +EDWARD _starts to move restlessly about, like a cowed animal in a cage; +silently for a moment or two. Then when he speaks, his voice is toneless +and he doesn't look at his father._ + +EDWARD. I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, to drop with me +all these protestations about putting the firm's affairs straight, and +all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . . +what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some +time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got +used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've +used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up +and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving +Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my +own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's +account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about +half the sum you've spent on us would have put things rightfirm's +affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I +see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen +yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered +from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't +been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce +your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten +thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd +it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was +probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous +to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would +have put things right. + +MR. VOYSEY. No, it would not. + +EDWARD. [_appealing for the truth._] Oh . . at some time or other! + +MR. VOYSEY. Well, if there have been good times there have been bad +times. At present the three hundred a year I'm to allow your sister is +going to be rather a pull. + +EDWARD. Three hundred a year . . and yet you've never attempted to put a +single account straight. Since it isn't lunacy, sir . . I can only +conclude that you enjoy being in this position. + +MR. VOYSEY. I have put accounts absolutely straight . . at the winding +up of a trust for instance . . at great inconvenience too. And to all +appearances they've been above suspicion. What's the object of all this +rodomontade, Edward? + +EDWARD. If I'm to remain in the firm, it had better be with a very clear +understanding of things as they are. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_firmly, not too anxiously._] Then you do remain? + +EDWARD. [_in a very low voice._] Yes, I remain. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_quite gravely._] That's wise of you . . I'm very glad. +[_and he is silent for a moment._] And now we needn't discuss the +impractical side of it any more. + +EDWARD. But I want to make one condition. And I want some information. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_his sudden cheerfulness relapsing again._] Well? + +EDWARD. Of course no one has ever discovered . . and no one suspects +this state of things? + +MR. VOYSEY. Peacey knows. + +EDWARD. Peacey! + +MR. VOYSEY. His father found out. + +EDWARD. Oh. Does he draw hush money? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_curling a little at the word._] It is my custom to make a +little present every Christmas. Not a cheque . . notes in an envelope. +[_He becomes benevolent._] I don't grudge the money . . Peacey's a +devoted fellow. + +EDWARD. Naturally this would be a heavily taxed industry. [_then he +smiles at his vision of the mild old clerk._] Peacey! There's another +thing I want to ask, sir. Have you ever under stress of circumstances +done worse than just make use of a client's capital? You boasted to me +yesterday that no one had ever suffered in pocket because of you. Is +that absolutely true? + +MR. VOYSEY _draws himself up, dignified and magniloquent_. + +MR. VOYSEY. My dear Edward, for the future my mind is open to you, you +can discover for yourself how matters stand to-day. But I decline to +gratify your curiosity as to what is over and done with. + +EDWARD. [_with entire comprehension._] Thank you, sir. The condition I +wish to make is that we should really do what we have pretended to be +doing . . try and put the accounts straight. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little polite shrug._] I've no doubt you'll prove +an abler man of business than I. + +EDWARD. One by one. + +MR. VOYSEY. Which one will you begin with? + +EDWARD. I shall begin, Father, by halving the salary I draw from the +firm. + +MR. VOYSEY. I see . . Retrenchment and Reform. + +EDWARD. And I think you cannot give Ethel this five thousand pounds +dowry. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_shortly, with one of the quick twists of his eye._] I have +given my word to Denis. + +EDWARD. The money isn't yours to give. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_in an indignant crescendo._] I should not dream of +depriving Ethel of what, as my daughter, she has every right to expect. +I am surprised at your suggesting such a thing. + +EDWARD. [_pale and firm._] I'm set on this, Father. + +MR. VOYSEY. Don't be such a fool, Edward. What would it look like . . +suddenly to refuse without rhyme or reason? What would old Tregoning +think? + +EDWARD. [_distressed._] You could give them a reason. + +MR. VOYSEY. Perhaps you'll invent one. + +EDWARD. If need be, Ethel should be told the truth. + +MR. VOYSEY. What! + +EDWARD. I know it would hurt her. + +MR. VOYSEY. And Denis told too, I suppose? + +EDWARD. Father, it is my duty to do whatever is necessary to prevent +this. + +MR. VOYSEY. It'll be necessary to tell the nearest policeman. It is my +duty to pay no more attention to these scruples of yours than a nurse +pays to her child's tantrums. Understand, Edward, I don't want to force +you to continue my partner. Come with me gladly or don't come at all. + +EDWARD. [_dully._] It is my duty to be of what use I can to you, sir. +Father, I want to save you if I can. + +_He flashes into this exclamation of almost broken-hearted affection._ +MR. VOYSEY _looks at his son for a moment and his lip quivers. Then he +steels himself._ + +MR. VOYSEY. Thank you! I have saved myself quite satisfactorily for the +last thirty years, and you must please believe that by this time I know +my own business best. + +EDWARD. [_hopelessly._] Let the money come some other way. How is your +own income regulated? + +MR. VOYSEY. I have a bank balance and a cheque book, haven't I? I spend +what I think well to spend. What's the use of earmarking this or that as +my own? You say none of it is my own. I might say it's all my own. I +think I've earned it. + +EDWARD. [_anger coming on him._] That's what I can't forgive. If you'd +lived poor . . if you'd really devoted your skill to your clients' good +and not to your aggrandisement . . then, even though things were only as +they are now, I could have been proud of you. But, Father, own the truth +to me, at least . . that's my due from you, considering how I'm placed +by all you've done. Didn't you simply seize this opportunity as a means +to your own end, to your own enriching? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sledge hammer irony._] Certainly. I sat that +morning in my father's office, studying the helmet of the policeman in +the street below, and thinking what a glorious path I had happened on to +wealth and honour and renown. [_Then he begins to bully_ EDWARD _in the +kindliest way._] My dear boy, you evidently haven't begun to grasp the +A. B. C. of my position. What has carried me to victory? The confidence +of my clients. What has earned that confidence? A decent life, my +integrity, my brains? No, my reputation for wealth . . that, and nothing +else. Business now-a-days is run on the lines of the confidence trick. +What makes old George Booth so glad to trust me with every penny he +possesses? Not affection . . he's never cared for anything in his life +but his collection of prints. No; he imagines that I have as big a stake +in the country, as he calls it, as he has and he's perfectly happy. + +EDWARD. [_stupefied, helpless._] So he's involved! + +MR. VOYSEY. Of course he's involved, and he's always after high interest +too . . it's little one makes out of him. But there's a further question +here, Edward. Should I have had confidence in myself, if I'd remained a +poor man? No, I should not. You must either be the master of money or +its servant. And if one is not opulent in one's daily life one loses +that wonderful . . financier's touch. One must be confident oneself . . +and I saw from the first that I must inspire confidence. My whole public +and private life has tended to that. All my surroundings . . you and +your brothers and sisters that I have brought into, and up, and put out +in the world so worthily . . you in your turn inspire confidence. + +EDWARD. Not our worth, not our abilities, nor our virtues, but the fact +that we travel first class and ride in hansoms. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_impatiently._] Well, I haven't organised Society upon a +basis of wealth. + +EDWARD. Is every single person who trusts you involved in your system? + +MR. VOYSEY. What new hole are you finding to pick in my conduct? + +EDWARD. My mind travelled naturally from George Booth with his big +income to old Nursie with her savings which she brought you to invest. +You've let those be, at least. + +MR. VOYSEY. I never troubled to invest them . . it wasn't worth while. + +EDWARD. Father! + +MR. VOYSEY. D'you know what she brought me? . . five hundred pounds. + +EDWARD. That's damnable. + +MR. VOYSEY. Indeed. I give her seventy five pounds a year for it. Would +you like to take charge of that account, Edward? I'll give you five +hundred to invest to-morrow. + +EDWARD, _hopelessly beaten, falls into an almost comic state of +despair_. + +EDWARD. My dear Father, putting every moral question aside . . it's all +very well your playing Robin Hood in this magnificent manner; but have +you given a moment's thought to the sort of inheritance you'll be +leaving me? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_pleased for the first time._] Ah! That is a question you +have every right to ask. + +EDWARD. If you died to-morrow could we pay eight shillings in the pound +. . or seventeen . . or five? Do you know? + +MR. VOYSEY. And my answer is, that by your help I have every intention, +when I die, of leaving a will behind me of property to you all running +into six figures. D'you think I've given my life and my talents to this +money making for a less result than that? I'm fond of you all . . and I +want you to be proud of me . . and I mean that the name of Voysey shall +be carried high in the world by my children and grandchildren. Don't you +be afraid, Edward. Ah, you lack experience, my boy . . you're not full +grown yet . . your impulses are a bit chaotic. You emotionalise over +your work, and you reason about your emotions. You must sort yourself. +You must realise that money making is one thing, and religion another, +and family-life a third . . and that if we apply our energies +whole-heartedly to each of these in turn, and realise that different +laws govern each, that there is a different end to be served, a +different ideal to be striven for in each,-- + +_His coherence is saved by the sudden appearance of his wife, who comes +round the door smiling benignly. Not in the least put out, in fact a +little relieved, he greets her with an affectionate shout, for she is +very deaf._ + +MR. VOYSEY. Hullo, Mother! + +MRS. VOYSEY. Oh, there you are, Trench. I've been deserted. + +MR. VOYSEY. George Booth gone? + +MRS. VOYSEY. Are you talking business? Perhaps you don't want me. + +MR. VOYSEY. No, no . . no business. + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has not looked for his answer._] I suppose the others +are in the billiard room. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_vociferously._] We're not talking business, old lady. + +EDWARD. I'll be off, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_genial as usual._] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with +you in the morning. + +EDWARD. No, thank you, sir. + +MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow. + +EDWARD. Good-night, Mother. + +MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up +affectionately_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired. + +EDWARD. No, I'm not. + +MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say? + +EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear. + +_He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._ + +MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy. + +_Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is +a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid +describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never +measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and +size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an +indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving, +healthy. That is her history._ + +MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd +taken a chill walking round the garden. + +MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right. + +MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No. + +MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on? + +MR. VOYSEY. Nothing. + +MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite +feverish. + +MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady. + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench. + +HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of +putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her +bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's +shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._ + +HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish +clearing? + +MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._] +Now who's careless! + +PHOEBE _comes into the room_. + +HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr. +Hugh. + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected +the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your +Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape. + +HONOR. Papa! + +MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me +some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right. + +HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey? +And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work +goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill. + +_Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at +the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and +Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump +cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to +soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers +it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY +_stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell +family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather +Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where +the taint crept in. + +MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself +putting in all those strawberry plants. + +MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_ +HUGH _and plants it on the table_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I +believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You +must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting. +There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where +was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._] + + + + + THE THIRD ACT + + +_The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon. +Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is +a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed +cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches, +biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little +pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole +room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations +denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_ +PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her +face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that +this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has +evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice +above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_. + +MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the +drawing room. + +PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the +door. + +MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into +the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to +admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR. +BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes +the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very +tenderly._ + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here? + +MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you. + +_With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._ + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer. + +MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just send round. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you. + +_He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He +shakes hands with them both._ + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily! My dear Booth! + +EMILY _is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She +looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than +usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though +his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible +for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair._ + +BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feeling that he is called on for praise._] Great +credit . . great credit. + +_He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by_ +TRENCHARD VOYSEY, _to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his +formula. But_ TRENCHARD _speaks first_. + +TRENCHARD. Have you the right time? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_taken aback and fumbling for his watch._] I think so +. . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [_he seizes the occasion._] +Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't +mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes +all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see +him before . . before . . + +TRENCHARD. [_his cold eye freezing this little gush._] I don't think he +asked for me. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_stoppered._] No? No! Well . . well. . . + +_At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in +the doorway. It is_ HUGH VOYSEY. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude. + +_Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula +and is off._ TRENCHARD _and_ HUGH, _eldest and youngest son, are as +unlike each other as it is possible for_ VOYSEYS _to be, but that isn't +very unlike_. TRENCHARD _has in excelsis the cocksure manner of the +successful barrister_; HUGH _the rather sweet though querulous air of +diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters +or artist. The self-respect of_ TRENCHARD'S _appearance is immense, and +he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even +upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure +upon the Bench_. HUGH _is always vague, searching Heaven or the corners +of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is +abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which +each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable. +Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the +appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed._ +HUGH _is depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief_; TRENCHARD +_conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels_; +BOOTH _stands statuesque at the mantelpiece; while_ EMILY _is by_ MRS. +VOYSEY, _whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many +happy memories of her husband_. + +BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily. + +EMILY. No, of course not. + +_Apologetically, she sits by the table._ + +TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh? + +HUGH. Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on +business. + +TRENCHARD. Really! + +_There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed boy in Etons. This +is the Major's eldest son. Looking scared and solemn he goes straight to +his mother._ + +EMILY. Now be very quiet, Christopher . . + +_Then_ DENIS TREGONING _appears_. + +TRENCHARD. Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back? + +DENIS. Yes. + +BOOTH. [_at the table._] A glass of wine, Mother. + +MRS. VOYSEY. What? + +BOOTH _hardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a +shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it._ + +BOOTH. Have a glass of wine? + +MRS. VOYSEY. Sherry, please. + +_While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this +occasion and not wine at all_, EDWARD _comes quickly into the room, his +face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No +one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all._ +TRENCHARD _is continuing his talk to_ DENIS. + +TRENCHARD. Give my love to Ethel. Is she ill that-- + +TREGONING. Not exactly, but she couldn't very well be with us. I thought +perhaps you might have heard. We're expecting . . + +_He hesitates with the bashfulness of a young husband._ TRENCHARD _helps +him out with a citizen's bow of respect for a citizen's duty_. + +TRENCHARD. Indeed. I congratulate you. I hope all will be well. Please +give my love . . my best love to Ethel. + +BOOTH. [_in an awful voice._] Lunch, Emily? + +EMILY. [_scared._] I suppose so, Booth, thank you. + +BOOTH. I think the boy had better run away and play . . [_he checks +himself on the word._] Well, take a book and keep quiet; d'ye hear me, +Christopher? + +CHRISTOPHER, _who looks incapable of a sound, gazes at his father with +round eyes_. EMILY _whispers "Library" to him and adds a kiss in +acknowledgement of his good behaviour. After a moment he slips out, +thankfully._ + +EDWARD. How's Ethel, Denis? + +TREGONING. A little smashed, of course, but no harm done. + +ALICE MAITLAND _comes in, brisk and businesslike; a little impatient of +this universal cloud of mourning_. + +ALICE. Edward, Honor has gone to her room. I want to take her some food +and make her eat it. She's very upset. + +EDWARD. Make her drink a glass of wine, and say it is necessary she +should come down here. And d'you mind not coming back yourself, Alice? + +ALICE. [_her eyebrows up._] Certainly, if you wish. + +BOOTH. [_overhearing._] What's this? What's this? + +_Alice gets her glass of wine and goes. The Major is suddenly full of +importance._ + +BOOTH. What is this, Edward? + +EDWARD. I have something to say to you all. + +BOOTH. What? + +EDWARD. Well, Booth, you'll hear when I say it. + +BOOTH. Is it business? . . because I think this is scarcely the time for +business. + +EDWARD. Why? + +BOOTH. Do you find it easy and reverent to descend from your natural +grief to the consideration of money . . ? I do not. [_he finds_ +TRENCHARD _at his elbow._] I hope you are getting some lunch, +Trenchard. + +EDWARD. This is business and more than business, Booth. I choose now, +because it is something I wish to say to the family, not write to each +individually . . and it will be difficult to get us all together again. + +BOOTH. [_determined at any rate to give his sanction._] Well, Trenchard, +as Edward is in the position of trustee--executor . . I don't know your +terms . . I suppose there's nothing more to be said. + +TRENCHARD. I don't see what your objection is. + +BOOTH. [_with some superiority._] Don't you? I should not have called +myself a sentimental man, but . . + +EDWARD. You had better stay, Denis; you represent Ethel. + +TREGONING. [_who has not heard the beginning of this._] Why? . . + +HONOR _has obediently come down from her room. She is pale and thin, +shaken with grief and worn out besides; for needless to say the brunt of +her father's illness, the brunt of everything has been on her. Six weeks +nursing, part of it hopeless, will exhaust anyone. Her handkerchief to +her eyes and every minute or two she cascades tears._ EDWARD _goes and +affectionately puts his arm round her_. + +EDWARD. My dear Honor, I am sorry to be so . . so merciless. There! . . +there! [_he hands her into the room; then shuts the door; then turns and +once more surveys the family, who this time mostly return the +compliment. Then he says shortly._] I think you might all sit down. +[_But he goes close to his mother and speaks very distinctly, very +kindly._] Mother, we're all going to have a little necessary talk over +matters . . now, because it's most convenient. I hope it won't . . I +hope you don't mind. Will you come to the table? + +MRS. VOYSEY _looks up as if understanding more than he says_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Edward . . + +EDWARD. Yes, mother? + +BOOTH. [_commandingly._] You'll sit here, mother, of course. + +_He places her in her accustomed chair at the foot of the table. One by +one the others sit down_, EDWARD _apparently last. But then he discovers +that_ HUGH _has lost himself in a corner of the room and is gazing into +vacancy_. + +EDWARD. Hugh, would you mind attending? + +HUGH. What is it? + +EDWARD. There's a chair. + +HUGH _takes it. Then for a minute--while_ EDWARD _is trying to frame in +coherent sentences what he must say to them--for a minute there is +silence, broken only by_ HONOR'S _sniffs, which culminate at last in a +noisy little cascade of tears_. + +BOOTH. Honor, control yourself. + +_And to emphasise his own perfect control he helps himself majestically +to a glass of sherry. Then says_ . . + +BOOTH. Well, Edward? + +EDWARD. I'll come straight to the point which concerns you. Our father's +will gives certain sums to you all . . the gross amount something over a +hundred thousand pounds. There will be no money. + +_He can get no further than the bare statement, which is received only +with varying looks of bewilderment, until_ MRS. VOYSEY, _discovering +nothing from their faces, breaks this second silence_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. I didn't hear. + +HUGH. [_in his mother's ear._] Edward says there's no money. + +TRENCHARD. [_precisely._] I think you said . . 'will be.' + +BOOTH. [_in a tone of mitigated thunder._] Why will there be no money? + +EDWARD. [_letting himself go._] Because every penny by right belongs to +those clients whom our father spent his life in defrauding. When I say +defrauding, I mean it in its worst sense . . swindling . . thieving. I +have been in the swim of it, for the past year . . oh, you don't know +the sink of iniquity . . and therefore I mean to collect every penny, +any money that you can give me; put the firm into bankruptcy; pay back +all these people what we can. I'll stand my trial . . it'll come to that +with me . . and as soon as possible. [_he pauses, partly for breath, and +glares at them all._] Are none of you going to speak? Quite right, what +is there to be said! [_Then with a gentle afterthought._] I'm sorry to +hurt you, mother. + +_The_ VOYSEY _family is simply buried deep by this avalanche of horror_. +MRS. VOYSEY, _though, who has been watching_ EDWARD _closely, says very +calmly_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. I can't hear quite all you say, but I guess what it is. You +don't hurt me, Edward . . I have known of this for a long time. + +EDWARD. [_with almost a cry._] Oh, mother, did he know you knew? + +MRS. VOYSEY. What do you say? + +TRENCHARD. [_collected and dry._] I may as well tell you, Edward, I +suspected everything wasn't right about the time of my last quarrel with +my father. Of course, I took care not to pursue my suspicions. Was +father aware that you knew, Mother? + +MRS. VOYSEY. We never discussed it. There was once a great danger . . +when you were all younger . . of his being found out. But we never +discussed it. + +EDWARD. [_swallowing a fresh bitterness._] I'm glad it isn't such a +shock to all of you. + +HUGH. [_alive to a dramatic aspect of the matter._] My God . . before +the earth has settled on his grave! + +EDWARD. I thought it wrong to postpone telling you. + +HONOR, _the word swindling having spelt itself out in her mind, at last +gives way to a burst of piteous grief_. + +HONOR. Oh, poor papa! . . poor papa! + +EDWARD. [_comforting her kindly._] Honor, we shall want your help and +advice. + +_The Major has recovered from the shock, to swell with importance. It +being necessary to make an impression he instinctively turns first to +his wife._ + +BOOTH. I think, Emily, there was no need for you to have been present at +this exposure, and that now you had better retire. + +EMILY. Very well, Booth. + +_She gets up to go, conscious of her misdemeanour. But as she reaches +the door, an awful thought strikes the Major._ + +BOOTH. Good Heavens . . I hope the servants haven't been listening! See +where they are, Emily . . and keep them away, distract them. Open the +door suddenly; [_she does so, more or less, and there is no one behind +it._] That's all right. + +_Having watched his wife's departure, he turns with gravity to his +brother._ + +BOOTH. I have said nothing as yet, Edward. I am thinking. + +TRENCHARD. [_a little impatient at this exhibition._] That's the worst +of these family practices . . a lot of money knocking around and no +audit ever required. The wonder to me is to find an honest solicitor at +all. + +BOOTH. Really, Trenchard! + +TRENCHARD. Well, the more able a man is the less the word Honesty +bothers him . . and the Pater was an able man. + +EDWARD. I thought that a year ago, Trenchard. I thought that at the +worst he was a splendid criminal. + +BOOTH. Really . . really, Edward! + +EDWARD. And everything was to come right in the end . . we were all to +be in reality as wealthy and as prosperous as we have seemed to be all +these years. But when he fell ill . . towards the last he couldn't keep +the facts from me any longer. + +TRENCHARD. And those are? + +EDWARD. Laughable. You wouldn't believe there were such fools in the +world as some of these wretched clients have been. I tell you the firm's +funds were just a lucky bag into which he dipped. Now sometimes their +money doesn't even exist. + +BOOTH. Where's it gone? + +EDWARD. [_very directly._] You've been living on it. + +BOOTH. Good God! + +TRENCHARD. What can you pay in the pound? + +EDWARD. Without help? . . six or seven shillings, I daresay. But we must +do better than that. + +_To which there is no response._ + +BOOTH. All this is very dreadful. Does it mean beggary for the whole +family? + +EDWARD. Yes, it should. + +TRENCHARD. [_sharply._] Nonsense. + +EDWARD. [_joining issue at once._] What right have we to a thing we +possess? + +TRENCHARD. He didn't make you an allowance, Booth . . your capital's +your own, isn't it? + +BOOTH. [_awkwardly placed between the two of them._] Really . . I--I +suppose so. + +TRENCHARD. Then that's all right. + +EDWARD. [_vehemently._] It's stolen money. + +TRENCHARD. Booth took it in good faith. + +BOOTH. I should hope so. + +EDWARD. [_dwelling on the words._] It's stolen money. + +BOOTH. [_bubbling with distress._] I say, what ought I to do? + +TRENCHARD. Do . . my dear Booth? Nothing. + +EDWARD. [_with great indignation._] Trenchard, we owe reparation-- + +TRENCHARD. [_readily._] To whom? From which account was Booth's money +taken? + +EDWARD. [_side tracked for the moment._] I don't know . . I daresay from +none directly. + +TRENCHARD. Very well then! + +EDWARD. [_grieved._] Trenchard, you argue as he did-- + +TRENCHARD. Nonsense, my dear Edward. The law will take anything it has a +right to and all it can get; you needn't be afraid. There's no +obligation, legal or moral, for us to throw our pounds into the wreck +that they may become pence. + +EDWARD. I can hear him. + +TRENCHARD. But what about your own position . . can we get you clear? + +EDWARD. That doesn't matter. + +BOOTH'S _head has been turning incessantly from one to the other and by +this he is just a bristle of alarm_. + +BOOTH. But I say, you know, this is awful! Will this have to be made +public? + +TRENCHARD. No help for it. + +_The Major's jaw drops; he is speechless._ MRS. VOYSEY'S _dead voice +steals in_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. What is all this? + +TRENCHARD. Edward wishes us to completely beggar ourselves in order to +pay back to every client to whom father owed a pound perhaps ten +shillings instead of seven. + +MRS. VOYSEY. He will find that my estate has been kept quite separate. + +EDWARD _hides his face in his hands_. + +TRENCHARD. I'm very glad to hear it, Mother. + +MRS. VOYSEY. When Mr. Barnes died your father agreed to appointing +another trustee. + +TREGONING. [_diffidently._] I suppose, Edward, I'm involved. + +EDWARD. [_lifting his head quickly._] Denis, I hope not. I didn't know +that anything of yours-- + +TREGONING. Yes . . all that I got under my aunt's will. + +EDWARD. You see how things are . . I've discovered no trace of that. +We'll hope for the best. + +TREGONING. [_setting his teeth._] It can't be helped. + +MAJOR BOOTH _leans over the table and speaks in the loudest of +whispers_. + +BOOTH. Let me advise you to say nothing of this to Ethel at such a +critical time. + +TREGONING. Thank you, Booth, naturally I shall not. + +HUGH, _by a series of contortions, has lately been giving evidence of a +desire or intention to say something_. + +EDWARD. Well, what is it, Hugh? + +HUGH. I have been wondering . . if he can hear this conversation. + +_Up to now it has all been meaningless to_ HONOR, _in her nervous +dilapidation, but this remark brings a fresh burst of tears_. + +HONOR. Oh, poor papa . . poor papa! + +MRS. VOYSEY. I think I'll go to my room. I can't hear what any of you +are saying. Edward can tell me afterwards. + +EDWARD. Would you like to go too, Honor? + +HONOR. [_through her sobs._] Yes, please, I would. + +TREGONING. And I'll get out, Edward. Whatever you think fit to do . . +Oh, well, I suppose there's only one thing to be done. + +EDWARD. Only that. + +TREGONING. I wish I were in a better position as to work, for Ethel's +sake and--and the child's. + +EDWARD. Shall I speak to Trenchard? + +TREGONING. No . . he knows I exist in a wig and gown. If I can be +useful to him, he'll be useful to me, I daresay. Good bye, Hugh. Good +bye, Booth. + +_By this time_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ HONOR _have been got out of the room_: +TREGONING _follows them. So the four brothers are left together._ HUGH +_is vacant_, EDWARD _does not speak_, BOOTH _looks at_ TRENCHARD, _who +settles himself to acquire information_. + +TRENCHARD. How long have things been wrong? + +EDWARD. He told me the trouble began in his father's time and that he'd +been battling with it ever since. + +TRENCHARD. [_smiling._] Oh, come now . . that's impossible. + +EDWARD. But I believed him! Now I look through his papers I can find +only one irregularity that's more than ten years old, and that's only to +do with old George Booth's business. + +BOOTH. But the Pater never touched his money . . why, he was a personal +friend. + +EDWARD. Did you hear what Denis said? + +TRENCHARD. Very curious his evolving that fiction about his father . . I +wonder why. I remember the old man. He was honest as the day. + +EDWARD. To gain sympathy, I suppose. + +TRENCHARD. I think one can trace the psychology of it deeper than that. +It would add a fitness to the situation . . his handing on to you an +inheritance he had received. You know every criminal has a touch of the +artist in him. + +HUGH. [_suddenly roused._] That's true. + +TRENCHARD. What position did you take up on the matter when he told you? + +EDWARD. [_shrugging._] You know what the Pater was as well as I. + +TRENCHARD. Well . . what did you attempt to do? + +EDWARD. I urged him to start by making some of the smaller accounts +right. He said . . he said that would be penny wise and pound foolish. +So I did what I could myself. + +TRENCHARD. With your own money? + +EDWARD. The little I had. + +TRENCHARD. Can you prove that you did that? + +EDWARD. I suppose I could. + +TRENCHARD. It's a good point. + +BOOTH. [_not to be quite left out._] Yes, I must say-- + +TRENCHARD. You ought to have written him a letter, and left the firm the +moment you found out. Even then, legally . . ! But as he was your +father. What was his object in telling you? What did he expect you to +do? + +EDWARD. I've thought of every reason . . and now I really believe it was +that he might have someone to boast to of his financial exploits. + +TRENCHARD. [_appreciatively._] I daresay. + +BOOTH. Scarcely matters to boast of! + +TRENCHARD. Oh, you try playing the fool with other people's money, and +keeping your neck out of the noose for twelve years. It's not so easy. + +EDWARD. Then, of course, he always protested that things would come +right . . that he'd clear the firm and have a fortune to the good. Or +that if he were not spared I might do it. But he must have known that +was impossible. + +TRENCHARD. But there's the gambler all over. + +EDWARD. Why, he actually took the trouble to draw up this will! + +TRENCHARD. That was childish. + +EDWARD. I'm the sole executor. + +TRENCHARD. So I should think . . Was I down for anything? + +EDWARD. No. + +TRENCHARD. [_without resentment._] How he did hate me! + +EDWARD. You're safe from the results of his affection anyway. + +TRENCHARD. What on earth made you stay in the firm once you knew? + +EDWARD _does not answer for a moment_. + +EDWARD. I thought I might prevent things from getting any worse. I think +I did . . well, I should have done that if he'd lived. + +TRENCHARD. You knew the risk you were running? + +EDWARD. [_bowing his head._] Yes. + +TRENCHARD, _the only one of the three who comprehends, looks at his +brother for a moment with something that might almost be admiration. +Then he stirs himself._ + +TRENCHARD. I must be off. Business waiting . . end of term, you know. + +BOOTH. Shall I walk to the station with you? + +TRENCHARD. I'll spend a few minutes with Mother. [_he says, at the door, +very respectfully._] You'll count on my professional assistance, please, +Edward. + +EDWARD. [_simply._] Thank you, Trenchard. + +_So_ TRENCHARD _goes. And the Major, who has been endeavouring to fathom +his final attitude, then comments_-- + +BOOTH. No heart, y'know! Great brain! If it hadn't been for that +distressing quarrel he might have saved our poor father. Don't you think +so, Edward? + +EDWARD. Perhaps. + +HUGH. [_giving vent to his thoughts at last with something of a +relish._] The more I think this out, the more devilishly humorous it +gets. Old Booth breaking down by the grave . . Colpus reading the +service . . + +EDWARD. Yes, the Vicar's badly hit. + +HUGH. Oh, the Pater had managed his business for years. + +BOOTH. Good God . . how shall we ever look old Booth in the face again? + +EDWARD. I don't worry about him; he can die quite comfortably enough on +six shillings in the pound. It's one or two of the smaller fry who will +suffer. + +BOOTH. Now, just explain to me . . I didn't interrupt while Trenchard +was talking . . of what exactly did this defrauding consist? + +EDWARD. Speculating with a client's capital . . pocketing the gains, +cutting the losses; meanwhile paying the client his ordinary income. + +BOOTH. So that he didn't find it out? + +EDWARD. Quite so. + +BOOTH. In point of fact, he doesn't suffer? + +EDWARD. He doesn't suffer till he finds it out. + +BOOTH. And all that's wrong now is that some of their capital is +missing. + +EDWARD. [_half amused, half amazed at this process of reasoning._] Yes, +that's all that's wrong. + +BOOTH. What is the ah--deficit? [_the word rolls from his tongue._] + +EDWARD. Anything between two and three hundred thousand pounds. + +BOOTH. [_very impressed and not unfavourably._] Dear me . . this is a +big affair! + +HUGH. [_following his own line of thought._] Quite apart from the rights +and wrongs of this, only a very able man could have kept a straight face +to the world all these years, as the Pater did. + +BOOTH. I suppose he sometimes made money by these speculations. + +EDWARD. Very often. His own expenditure was heavy, as you know. + +BOOTH. [_with gratitude for favours received._] He was a very generous +man. + +HUGH. Did nobody ever suspect him? + +EDWARD. You see, Hugh, when there was any danger . . when a trust had to +be wound up . . he'd make a great effort and put the accounts straight. + +BOOTH. Then he did put some accounts straight? + +EDWARD. Yes, when he couldn't help himself. + +BOOTH _looks very enquiring and then squares himself up to the subject_. + +BOOTH. Now look here, Edward. You told us that he told you that it was +the object of his life to put these accounts straight. Then you laughed +at that. Now you tell me that he did put some accounts straight. + +EDWARD. [_wearily._] My dear Booth, you don't understand. + +BOOTH. Well, let me understand . . I am anxious to understand. + +EDWARD. We can't pay ten shillings in the pound. + +BOOTH. That's very dreadful. But do you know that there wasn't a time +when we couldn't have paid five? + +EDWARD. [_acquiescent._] I don't know. + +BOOTH. Very well then! If what he said was true about his father and all +that . . and why shouldn't we believe him if we can? . . and he did +effect an improvement, that's all to his credit. Let us at least be +just, Edward. + +EDWARD. [_patiently polite._] I am very sorry to appear unjust. He has +left me in a rather unfortunate position. + +BOOTH. Yes, his death was a tragedy. It seems to me that if he had been +spared he might have succeeded at length in this tremendous task and +restored to us our family honour. + +EDWARD. Yes, Booth, he spoke very feelingly of that. + +BOOTH. [_Irony lost upon him._] I can well believe it. And I can tell +you that now . . I may be right or I may be wrong . . I am feeling far +less concerned about the clients' money than I am at the terrible blow +to the Family which this exposure will strike. Money, after all, can to +a certain extent be done without . . but Honour-- + +_This is too much for_ EDWARD. + +EDWARD. Our honour! Does one of you mean to give me a single penny +towards undoing all the wrong that has been done? + +BOOTH. I take Trenchard's word for it that that would be illegal. + +EDWARD. Well . . don't talk to me of honour. + +BOOTH. [_somewhat nettled at this outburst._] I am speaking of the +public exposure. Edward, can't that be prevented? + +EDWARD. [_with quick suspicion._] How? + +BOOTH. Well . . how was it being prevented before he died--before we +knew anything about it? + +EDWARD. [_appealing to the spirits that watch over him._] Oh, listen to +this! First Trenchard . . and now you! You've the poison in your blood, +every one of you. Who am I to talk? I daresay so have I. + +BOOTH. [_reprovingly._] I am beginning to think that you have worked +yourself into rather an hysterical state over this unhappy business. + +EDWARD. [_rating him._] Perhaps you'd have been glad . . glad if I'd +held my tongue and gone on lying and cheating . . and married and +begotten a son to go on lying and cheating after me . . and to pay you +your interest . . your interest in the lie and the cheat. + +BOOTH. [_with statesman-like calm._] Look here, Edward, this rhetoric is +exceedingly out of place. The simple question before us is . . What is +the best course to pursue? + +EDWARD. There is no question before us. There's only one course to +pursue. + +BOOTH. [_crushingly._] You will let me speak, please. In so far as our +poor father was dishonest to his clients, I pray that he may be +forgiven. In so far as he spent his life honestly endeavouring to right +a wrong which he had found already committed . . I forgive him. I +admire him, Edward. And I feel it my duty to--er--reprobate most +strongly the--er--gusto with which you have been holding him up in +memory to us . . ten minutes after we have stood round his grave . . as +a monster of wickedness. I think I may say I knew him as well as you . . +better. And . . thank God! . . there was not between him and me +this--this unhappy business to warp my judgment of him. [_he warms to +his subject._] Did you ever know a more charitable man . . a +larger-hearted? He was a faithful husband . . and what a father to all +of us, putting us out into the world and fully intending to leave us +comfortably settled there. Further . . as I see this matter, Edward . . +when as a young man he was told this terrible secret and entrusted with +such a frightful task . . did he turn his back on it like a coward? No. +He went through it heroically to the end of his life. And as he died I +imagine there was no more torturing thought than that he had left his +work unfinished. [_he is very satisfied with this peroration._] And now +if all these clients can be kept receiving their natural income and if +Father's plan could be carried out of gradually replacing the capital-- + +EDWARD _at this raises his head and stares with horror_. + +EDWARD. You're appealing to me to carry on this . . Oh, you don't know +what you're talking about! + +_The Major, having talked himself back to a proper eminence remains +good-tempered._ + +BOOTH. Well, I'm not a conceited man . . but I do think that I can +understand a simple financial problem when it has been explained to me. + +EDWARD. You don't know the nerve . . the unscrupulous daring it requires +to-- + +BOOTH. Of course, if you're going to argue round your own incompetence-- + +EDWARD. [_very straight._] D'you want your legacy? + +BOOTH. [_with dignity._] In one moment I shall get very angry. Here am +I doing my best to help you and your clients . . and there you sit +imputing to me the most sordid motives. Do you suppose I should touch or +allow to be touched the money which father has left us till every +client's claim was satisfied? + +EDWARD. My dear Booth, I'm sure you mean well-- + +BOOTH. I'll come down to your office and work with you. + +_At this cheerful prospect even poor_ EDWARD _can't help smiling_. + +EDWARD. Why, you'd be found out at once. + +BOOTH. [_feeling that it is a chance lost._] Well, of course the Pater +never consulted me. I only know what I feel ought to be possible. I can +but make the suggestion. + +_At this point_ TRENCHARD _looks round the door to say_ . . + +TRENCHARD. Are you coming, Booth? + +BOOTH. Yes, certainly. I'll talk this over with Trenchard. [_as he gets +up and automatically stiffens, he is reminded of the occasion and his +voice drops._] I say . . we've been speaking very loud. You must do +nothing rash. I've no doubt I can devise something which will obviate . . +and then I'm sure I shall convince you . . [_glancing into the hall he +apparently catches_ TRENCHARD'S _impatient eye, for he departs abruptly +saying_ . . ] All right, Trenchard, you've eight minutes. + +BOOTH'S _departure leaves_ HUGH, _at any rate, really at his ease_. + +HUGH. What an experience for you, Edward! + +EDWARD. [_bitterly._] And I feared what the shock might be to you all! +Booth has made a good recovery. + +HUGH. You wouldn't have him miss such a chance of booming at us all. + +EDWARD. It's strange the number of people who believe you can do right +by means which they know to be wrong. + +HUGH. [_taking great interest in this._] Come, what do we know about +right and wrong? Let's say legal and illegal. You're so down on the +Governor because he has trespassed against the etiquette of your own +profession. But now he's dead . . and if there weren't the disgrace to +think of . . it's no use the rest of us pretending to feel him a +criminal, because we don't. Which just shows that money . . and +property-- + +_At this point he becomes conscious that_ ALICE MAITLAND _is standing +behind him, her eyes fixed on his brother. So he interrupts himself to +ask_ . . + +HUGH. D'you want to speak to Edward? + +ALICE. Please, Hugh. + +HUGH. I'll go. + +_He goes, a little martyrlike, to conclude the evolution of his theory +in soliloquy; his usual fate._ ALICE _still looks at_ EDWARD _with soft +eyes, and he at her rather appealingly_. + +ALICE. Auntie has told me. + +EDWARD. He was fond of you. Don't think worse of him than you can help. + +ALICE. I'm thinking of you. + +EDWARD. I may just escape. + +ALICE. So Trenchard says. + +EDWARD. My hands are clean, Alice. + +ALICE. [_her voice falling lovingly._] I know that. + +EDWARD. Mother's not very upset. + +ALICE. She had expected a smash in his life time. + +EDWARD. I'm glad that didn't happen. + +ALICE. Yes . . as the fault was his it won't hurt you so much to stand +up to the blame. + +EDWARD _looks puzzled at this for a moment, then gives it up_. + +EDWARD. I'm hurt enough now. + +ALICE. Why, what have the boys done? It was a mercy to tell Honor just +at this time. She can grieve for his death and his disgrace at the same +time . . and the one grief lessens the other perhaps. + +EDWARD. Oh, they're all shocked enough at the disgrace . . but will they +open their purses to lessen the disgrace? + +ALICE. Will it seem less disgraceful to have stolen ten thousand pounds +than twenty? + +EDWARD. I should think so. + +ALICE. I should think so, but I wonder if that's the Law. If it isn't, +Trenchard wouldn't consider the point. I'm sure Public Opinion doesn't +say so . . and that's what Booth is considering. + +EDWARD. [_with contempt._] Yes. + +ALICE. [_ever so gently ironical._] Well, he's in the Army . . he's +almost in Society . . and he has to get on in both; one mustn't blame +him. Of course if the money could have been given up with a flourish of +trumpets . . ! But even then I doubt whether the advertisement would +bring in what it cost. + +EDWARD. [_very serious._] But when one thinks how the money was +obtained! + +ALICE. When one thinks how most money is obtained! + +EDWARD. They've not earned it. + +ALICE. [_her eyes humorous._] If they had they might have given it you +and earned more. Did I ever tell you what my guardian said to me when I +came of age? + +EDWARD. I'm thankful your money's not been in danger. + +ALICE. It might have been, but I was made to look after it myself . . +much against my will. My guardian was a person of great character and no +principles, the best and most loveable man I've ever met . . I'm sorry +you never knew him Edward . . and he said once to me . . You've no right +to your money. You've not earned it or deserved it in any way. Therefore +don't be surprised or annoyed if any enterprising person tries to get +it from you. He has at least as much right to it as you have . . if he +can use it better, he has more right. Shocking sentiments, aren't they? +No respectable man of business could own to them. But I'm not so sorry +for some of these clients as you are, Edward. + +EDWARD _shakes his head, treating these paradoxes as they deserve_. + +EDWARD. Alice . . one or two of them will be beggared. + +ALICE. [_sincerely._] Yes, that is serious. What's to be done? + +EDWARD. There's old nurse . . with her poor little savings gone! + +ALICE. Surely those can be spared her? + +EDWARD. The Law's no respecter of persons . . that's its boast. Old +Booth with more than he wants will keep enough. My old nurse, with just +enough, may starve. But it'll be a relief to clear out this nest of +lies, even though one suffers one's self. I've been ashamed to walk into +that office, Alice . . I'll hold my head high in prison though. + +_He shakes himself stiffly erect, his chin high._ ALICE _quizzes him_. + +ALICE. Edward, I'm afraid you're feeling heroic. + +EDWARD. I! + +ALICE. Don't be so proud of your misfortune. You looked quite like Booth +for the moment. [_this effectually removes the starch._] It will be very +stupid to send you to prison and you must do your best to keep out. +[_she goes on very practically._] We were discussing if anything could +be done for these one or two people who'll be beggared. + +EDWARD. Yes, Alice. I'm sorry nothing can be done for them. + +ALICE. It's a pity. + +EDWARD. I suppose I was feeling heroic. I didn't mean to. + +_He has become a little like a child with her._ + +ALICE. That's the worst of acting on principle . . one begins thinking +of one's attitude instead of the use of what one is doing. + +EDWARD. I'm exposing this fraud on principle. + +ALICE. Perhaps that's what's wrong. + +EDWARD. Wrong! + +ALICE. My dear Edward, if people are to be ruined . . ! + +EDWARD. What else is there to be done? + +ALICE. Well . . have you thought? + +EDWARD. There's nothing else to be done. + +ALICE. On principle. + +_He looks at her, she is smiling, it is true, but smiling quite +gravely._ EDWARD _is puzzled. Then the yeast of her suggestion begins to +work in his mind slowly, perversely at first._ + +EDWARD. It had occurred to Booth. . . + +ALICE. Oh, anything may occur to Booth. + +EDWARD. . . In his grave concern for the family honour that I might +quietly cheat the firm back into credit again. + +ALICE. How stupid of Booth! + +EDWARD. Well . . like my father . . Booth believes in himself. + +ALICE. Yes, he's rather a credulous man. + +EDWARD. [_ignoring her little joke._] He might have been lucky and have +done some good. I'm a weak sort of creature, just a collection of +principles as you say. Look, all I've been able to do in this business . . +at the cost of my whole life perhaps . . has been to sit senselessly +by my father's side and prevent things going from bad to worse. + +ALICE. That was worth doing. The cost is your own affair. + +_She is watching him, stilly and closely. Suddenly his face lights a +little and he turns to her._ + +EDWARD. Alice . . there's something else I could do. + +ALICE. What? + +EDWARD. It's illegal. + +ALICE. So much the better perhaps. Oh, I'm lawless by birthright, being +a woman. + +EDWARD. I could take the money that's in my father's name and use it +only to put right the smaller accounts. It'd take a few months to do it +well . . and cover the tracks. That'd be necessary. + +ALICE. Then you'd give yourself up as you'd meant to do now? + +EDWARD. Yes . . practically. + +ALICE. It'd be worse for you then at the trial? + +EDWARD. [_with a touch of another sort of pride._] You said that was my +affair. + +ALICE. [_pain in her voice and eyes._] Oh, Edward! + +EDWARD. Shall I do this? + +ALICE. [_turning away._] Why must you ask me? + +EDWARD. You mocked at my principles, didn't you? You've taken them from +me. The least you can do is to give me advice in exchange. + +ALICE. [_after a moment._] No . . decide for yourself. + +_He jumps up and begins to pace about, doubtful, distressed._ + +EDWARD. Good Lord . . it means lying and shuffling! + +ALICE. [_a little trembling._] In a good cause. + +EDWARD. Ah . . but lying and shuffling takes the fine edge off one's +soul. + +ALICE. [_laughing at the quaintness of her own little epigram._] Edward, +are you one of God's dandies? + +EDWARD. And . . Alice, it wouldn't be easy work. It wants qualities I +haven't got. I should fail. + +ALICE. Would you? + +_He catches a look from her._ + +EDWARD. Well, I might not. + +ALICE. And you don't need success for a lure. That's like a common man. + +EDWARD. You want me to try to do this? + +_For answer, she dares only put out her hand, and he takes it._ + +ALICE. Oh, my dear . . cousin! + +EDWARD. [_excitedly._] My people will have to hold their tongues. I +needn't have told them all this to-day. + +ALICE. Don't tell them the rest . . they won't understand. I shall be +jealous if you tell them. + +EDWARD. [_looking at her as she at him._] Well, you've the right to be. +This deed . . it's not done yet . . is your property. + +ALICE. Thank you. I've always wanted to have something useful to my +credit . . and I'd almost given up hoping. + +_Then suddenly his face changes, his voice changes and he grips the hand +he is holding so tightly as to hurt her._ + +EDWARD. Alice, if my father's story were true . . he must have begun +like this. Trying to do the right thing in the wrong way . . then doing +the wrong thing . . then bringing himself to what he was . . and so me +to this. [_he flings away from her._] No, Alice, I won't do it. I +daren't take that first step down. It's a worse risk than any failure. +Think . . I might succeed. + +ALICE _stands very still, looking at him_. + +ALICE. It's a big risk. Well . . I'll take it. + +_He turns to her, in wonder._ + +EDWARD. You? + +ALICE. I'll risk your becoming a bad man. That's a big risk for me. + +_He understands, and is calmed and made happy._ + +EDWARD. Then there is no more to be said, is there? + +ALICE. Not now. [_as she drops this gentle hint she hears something--the +hall door opening._] Here's Booth back again. + +EDWARD. [_with a really mischievous grin._] He'll be so glad he's +convinced me. + +ALICE. I must go back to Honor, poor girl. I wonder she has a tear left. + +_She leaves him, briskly, brightly; leaves her cousin with his mouth set +and a light in his eyes._ + + + + + THE FOURTH ACT + + +MR. VOYSEY'S _room at the office is_ EDWARD'S _now. It has somehow lost +that brilliancy which the old man's occupation seemed to give it. +Perhaps it is only because this December morning is dull and depressing, +but the fire isn't bright and the panels and windows don't shine as they +did. There are no roses on the table either._ EDWARD, _walking in as his +father did, hanging his hat and coat where his father's used to hang, is +certainly the palest shadow of that other masterful presence. A +depressed, drooping shadow too. This may be what_ PEACEY _feels, if no +more, for he looks very surly as he obeys the old routine of following +his chief to this room on his arrival. Nor has_ EDWARD _so much as a +glance for his clerk. They exchange the formalest of greetings._ EDWARD +_sits joylessly to his desk, on which the morning's pile of letters +lies, unopened now_. + +PEACEY. Good morning, sir. + +EDWARD. Good morning, Peacey. Have you any notes for me? + +PEACEY. Well, I've hardly been through the letters yet, sir. + +EDWARD. [_his eyebrows meeting._] Oh . . and I'm half an hour late +myself this morning. + +PEACEY. I'm very sorry, sir. + +EDWARD. If Mr. Bullen calls you had better show him all those papers I +gave you. Write to Metcalfe as soon as possible; say I interviewed Mr. +Vickery myself this morning and the houses will not be proceeded with. +Better let me see the letter. + +PEACEY. Very good, sir. + +EDWARD. That's all, thank you. + +PEACEY _gets to the door, where he stops, looking not only surly but +nervous now_. + +PEACEY. May I speak to you a moment, sir? + +EDWARD. Certainly. + +PEACEY, _after a moment, makes an effort, purses his mouth and begins_. + +PEACEY. Bills are beginning to come in upon me as is usual at this +season, sir. My son's allowance at Cambridge is now rather a heavy item +of my expenditure. I hope that the custom of the firm isn't to be +neglected now that you are the head of it, Mr. Edward. Two hundred your +father always made it at Christmas . . in notes if you please. + +_Towards the end of this_ EDWARD _begins to pay great attention. When he +answers his voice is harsh._ + +EDWARD. Oh, to be sure . . your hush money. + +PEACEY. [_bridling._] That's not a very pleasant word. + +EDWARD. This is a very unpleasant subject. + +PEACEY. I'm sure it isn't my wish to bring out in cold conversation what +I know of the firm's position. Your father always gave me the notes in +an envelope when he shook hands with me at Christmas. + +EDWARD. [_blandly._] And I've been waiting for you to ask me. + +PEACEY. Well, we'll say no more about it. There's always a bit of +friction in coming to an understanding about anything, isn't there, sir? + +_He is going when_ EDWARD'S _question stops him_. + +EDWARD. Why didn't you speak to me about this last Christmas? + +PEACEY. I knew you were upset at your father's death. + +EDWARD. No, no, my father died the August before that. + +PEACEY. Well . . truthfully, Mr. Edward? + +EDWARD. As truthfully as you think suitable. + +_The irony of this is wasted on_ PEACEY, _who becomes pleasantly +candid_. + +PEACEY. Well, I couldn't make you out last Christmas. I'd always thought +there must be a smash when your father died . . but it didn't come. But +then again at Christmas you seemed all on edge and I didn't know what +might happen. So I thought I'd better keep quiet and say nothing. + +EDWARD. I see. This little pull of yours over the firm is an inheritance +from your father, isn't it? + +PEACEY. [_discreetly._] When he retired, sir, he said to me . . I've +told the Governor you know what I know. And Mr. Voysey said to me . . I +treat you as I did your father, Peacey. I never had another word on the +subject with him. + +EDWARD. A very decent arrangement. Your son's at Cambridge you say, +Peacey? + +PEACEY. Yes. + +EDWARD. I wonder you didn't bring him into the firm. + +PEACEY. [_taking this very kind._] Thank you, sir . . I thought of it. +But then I thought that two generations going in for this sort of thing +was enough. + +EDWARD. That's a matter of taste. + +PEACEY. And then, sir . . I don't want to hurt your feelings, but things +simply cannot go on for ever. The marvel to me is that the game has been +kept up as it has. So now, if he does well at Cambridge, I hope he'll go +to the bar. He has a distinct talent for patiently applying himself to +the details of a thing. + +EDWARD. I hope he'll do well. I'm glad to have had this talk with you, +Peacey. I'm sorry you can't have the money you want. + +_He returns to his letters, a little steely-eyed._ PEACEY _quite at his +ease, makes for the door yet again, saying_ . . + +PEACEY. Oh, any time will do, sir. + +EDWARD. You can't have the money at all. + +PEACEY. [_brought up short._] Can't I? + +EDWARD. [_very decidedly indeed._] No . . I made up my mind about that +eighteen months ago. Since my father's death the trust business of the +firm has not been conducted as it was formerly. We no longer make +illicit profits out of our clients. There are none for you to share. + +_Having thus given the explanation he considers due, he goes on with his +work. But_ PEACEY _has flushed up_. + +PEACEY. Look here, Mr. Edward, I'm sorry I began this discussion. You'll +give me my two hundred as usual, please, and we'll drop the subject. + +EDWARD. By all means drop the subject. + +PEACEY. [_his voice rising sharply._] I want the money. I think it is +not gentlemanly in you, Mr. Edward, to make these excuses to try to get +out of paying it me. Your father would never have made such an excuse. + +EDWARD. [_flabbergasted._] Do you think I'm lying to you? + +PEACEY. [_with a deprecating swallow._] I don't wish to criticise your +statements or your actions at all, sir. It was no concern of mine how +your father treated his clients. + +EDWARD. I understand. And now it's no concern of yours how honest I am. +You want your money just the same. + +PEACEY. Well, don't be sarcastic . . a man does get used to a state of +affairs whatever it may be. + +EDWARD. [_with considerable force._] My friend, if I drop sarcasm I +shall have to tell you very candidly what I think of you. + +PEACEY. That I'm a thief because I've taken money from a thief! + +EDWARD. Worse than a thief. You're content that others should steal for +you. + +PEACEY. And who isn't? + +EDWARD _is really pleased with the aptness of this. He at once changes +his tone, which indeed had become rather bullying._ + +EDWARD. Ah, Peacey, I perceive that you study sociology. Well, that's +too big a question to enter into now. The application of the present +portion of it is that I have for the moment, at some inconvenience to +myself, ceased to receive stolen goods and therefore am in a position to +throw a stone at you. I have thrown it. + +PEACEY, _who would far sooner be bullied than talked to like this, turns +very sulky_. + +PEACEY. And now I'm to leave the firm, I suppose? + +EDWARD. Not unless you wish. + +PEACEY. I happen to think the secret's worth its price. + +EDWARD. Perhaps someone will pay it you. + +PEACEY. [_feebly threatening._] You're presuming upon its not being +worth my while to make use of what I know. + +EDWARD. [_not unkindly._] My good Peacey, it happens to be the truth I +told you just now. Well, how on earth do you suppose you can +successfully blackmail a man, who has so much to gain by exposure and so +little to lose as I? + +PEACEY. [_peeving._] I don't want to ruin you, sir, and I have a great +regard for the firm . . but you must see that I can't have my income +reduced in this way without a struggle. + +EDWARD. [_with great cheerfulness._] Very well, my friend, struggle +away. + +PEACEY. [_his voice rising high and thin._] For one thing, sir, I don't +think it fair dealing on your part to dock the money suddenly. I have +been counting on it most of the year, and I have been led into heavy +expenses. Why couldn't you have warned me? + +EDWARD. That's true, Peacey, it was stupid of me. I apologise for the +mistake. + +PEACEY _is a little comforted by this quite candid acknowledgment_. + +PEACEY. Perhaps things may be easier for you by next Christmas. + +EDWARD. I hope so. + +PEACEY. Then . . perhaps you won't be so particular. + +_At this gentle insinuation_ EDWARD _looks up exasperated_. + +EDWARD. So you don't believe what I told you? + +PEACEY. Yes, I do. + +EDWARD. Then you think that the fascination of swindling one's clients +will ultimately prove irresistible? + +PEACEY. It's what happened to your father, I suppose you know. + +_This gives_ EDWARD _such pause that he drops his masterful tone_. + +EDWARD. I didn't. + +PEACEY. He got things as right as rain once. + +EDWARD. Did he? + +PEACEY. . . My father told me. Then he started again. + +EDWARD. But how did you find that out? + +PEACEY. [_expanding pleasantly._] Well, being so long in his service, I +grew to understand your father. But when I first came into the firm, I +simply hated him. He was that sour; so snappy with everyone . . as if he +had a grievance against the whole world. + +EDWARD. [_pensively._] It seems he had in those days. + +PEACEY. Well, as I said, his dealings with his clients were no business +of mine. And I speak as I find. He was very kind to me . . always +thoughtful and considerate. He grew to be so pleasant and generous to +everyone-- + +EDWARD. That you have great hopes of me yet? + +PEACEY. [_who has a simple mind._] No, Mr. Edward, no. You're different +from your father . . one must make up one's mind to that. And you may +believe me or not but I should be very glad to know that the firm was +solvent and going straight. There have been times when I have sincerely +regretted my connection with it. If you'll let me say so, I think it's +very noble of you to have undertaken the work you have. [_then, as +everything seems smooth again._] And Mr. Edward, if you'll give me +enough to cover this year's extra expense I think I may promise you that +I shan't expect money again. + +EDWARD. [_good-tempered, as he would speak to an importunate child._] +No, Peacey, no! + +PEACEY. [_fretful again._] Well, sir, you make things very difficult for +me. + +EDWARD. Here's a letter from Mr. Cartwright which you might attend to. +If he wants an appointment with me, don't make one till the New Year. +His case can't come on before February. + +PEACEY. [_taking the letter._] I am anxious to meet you in every +way--[_he is handed another._] + +EDWARD. "Perceval Building Estate" . . that's yours too. + +PEACEY. [_putting them both down resolutely._] But I refuse to be +ignored. I must consider my whole position. I hope I may not be tempted +to make use of the power I possess. But if I am driven to proceed to +extremities . . + +EDWARD. [_breaking in upon this bunch of tags._] My dear Peacey, don't +talk nonsense . . you couldn't proceed to an extremity to save your +life. You've taken this money irresponsibly for all these years. You'll +find you're no longer capable even of such a responsible act as tripping +up your neighbour. + +_This does completely upset the gentle blackmailer. He loses one +grievance in another._ + +PEACEY. Really, Mr. Edward, I am a considerably older man than you, and +I think that whatever our positions-- + +EDWARD. Don't let us argue, Peacey. You're quite at liberty to do +whatever you think worth your while. + +PEACEY. It isn't that, sir. But these personalities-- + +EDWARD. Oh . . I apologise. Don't forget the letters. + +PEACEY. I will not, sir. + +_He takes them with great dignity and is leaving the room._ + +PEACEY. Here's Mr. Hugh waiting. + +EDWARD. To see me? Ask him in. + +PEACEY. Come in, Mr. Hugh, please. + +HUGH _comes in_, PEACEY _holding the door for him with a frigid +politeness of which he is quite oblivious. At this final slight_ PEACEY +_goes out in dudgeon_. + +EDWARD. How are you, Hugh? + +HUGH. Good Lord! + +_And he throws himself into the chair by the fire._ EDWARD _quite used +to this sort of thing, goes quietly on with his work, adding +encouragingly after a moment_ . . + +EDWARD. How's Beatrice? + +HUGH. She's very busy. + +_He studies his boots with the gloomiest expression. And indeed, they +are very dirty and his turned up trousers are muddy at the edge. They +are dark trousers and well cut, but he wears with them a loose coat and +waistcoat of a peculiar light brown check. Add to this the roughest of +overcoats and a very soft hat. Add also the fact that he doesn't shave +well or regularly and that his hair wants cutting, and_ HUGH'S +_appearance this morning is described. As he is quite capable of sitting +silently by the fire for a whole morning_ EDWARD _asks him at last_ . . + +EDWARD. What d'you want? + +HUGH. [_with vehemence._] I want a machine gun planted in Regent Street +. . and one in the Haymarket . . and one in Leicester Square and one in +the Strand . . and a dozen in the City. An earthquake would be simpler. +Or why not a nice clean tidal wave? It's no good preaching and patching +up any longer, Edward. We must begin afresh. Don't you feel, even in +your calmer moments, that this whole country is simply hideous? The +other nations must look after themselves. I'm patriotic . . I only ask +that we should be destroyed. + +EDWARD. It has been promised. + +HUGH. I'm sick of waiting. [_then as_ EDWARD _says nothing_.] You say +this is the cry just of the weak man in despair! I wouldn't be anything +but a weak man in this world. I wouldn't be a king, I wouldn't be rich . . +I wouldn't be a Borough Councillor . . I should be so ashamed. I've +walked here this morning from Hampstead. I started to curse because the +streets were dirty. You'd think that an Empire could keep its streets +clean! But then I saw that the children were dirty too. + +EDWARD. That's because of the streets. + +HUGH. Yes, it's holiday time. Those that can cross a road safely are +doing some work now . . earning some money. You'd think a governing +race, grabbing responsibilities, might care for its children. + +EDWARD. Come, we educate them now. And I don't think many work in +holiday time. + +HUGH. [_encouraged by contradiction._] We teach them all that we're not +ashamed of . . and much that we ought to be . . and the rest they find +out for themselves. Oh, every man and woman I met was muddy eyed! They'd +joined the great conspiracy which we call our civilization. They've been +educated! They believe in the Laws and the Money-market and +Respectability. Well, at least they suffer for their beliefs. But I'm +glad I don't make the laws . . and that I haven't any money . . and that +I hate respectability . . or I should be so ashamed. By the bye, that's +what I've come for. + +EDWARD. [_pleasantly._] What? I thought you'd only come to talk. + +HUGH. You must take that money of mine for your clients. Of course you +ought to have had it when you asked for it. It has never belonged to me. +Well . . it has never done me any good. I have never made any use of it +and so it has been just a clog to my life. + +EDWARD. [_surprised._] My dear Hugh . . this is very generous of you. + +HUGH. Not a bit. I only want to start fresh and free. + +EDWARD. [_sitting back from his work._] Hugh, do you really think that +money has carried a curse with it? + +HUGH. [_with great violence._] Think! I'm the proof of it and look at +me. When I said I'd be an artist the governor gave me a hundred and +fifty a year . . the rent of a studio and the price of a velvet coat he +thought it; that was all he knew about art. Then my respectable training +got me engaged and married. Marriage in a studio puzzled the governor, +so he guessed it at _two_ hundred and fifty a year . . and looked for +lay figure-babies, I suppose. What had I to do with Art? Nothing I've +done yet but reflects our drawing-room at Chislehurst. + +EDWARD. [_considering._] Yes . . What do you earn in a year? I doubt if +you can afford to give this up. + +HUGH. Oh, Edward . . you clank the chain with the best of them. That +word Afford! I want to be free from my advantages. Don't you see I must +find out what I'm worth in myself . . whether I even exist or not? +Perhaps I'm only a pretence of a man animated by an income. + +EDWARD. But you can't return to nature on the London pavements. + +HUGH. No. Nor in England at all . . it's nothing but a big back garden. +[_now he collects himself for a final outburst._] But if there's no +place on this earth where a man can prove his right to live by some +other means than robbing his neighbour . . I'd better go and request +the next horse I meet to ride me . . to the nearest lunatic asylum. + +EDWARD _waits till the effects of this explosion are over_. + +EDWARD. And what does Beatrice say to your emigrating to the backwoods . . +if that is exactly what you mean? + +HUGH. Now that we're separating-- + +EDWARD. [_taken aback._] What? + +HUGH. We mean to separate. + +EDWARD. This is the first I've heard of it. + +HUGH. Beatrice is making some money by her books, so it has become +possible. + +EDWARD. [_humorously._] Have you told anyone yet? + +HUGH. We mean to now. I think a thing comes to pass quicker in public. + +EDWARD. Say nothing at home until after Christmas. + +HUGH. Oh Lord, I forgot! They'll discuss it solemnly. [_then he +whistles._] Emily knows! + +EDWARD. [_having considered._] I shan't accept this money from you . . +there's no need. All the good has been done that I wanted to do. No one +will be beggared now. So why should you be? + +HUGH. [_with clumsy affection._] We've taken a fine lot of interest in +your labours, haven't we, Hercules? + +EDWARD. You hold your tongue about the office affairs, don't you? It's +not safe. + +HUGH. When will you be quit of the beastly business? + +EDWARD. [_becoming reserved and cold at once._] I'm in no hurry. + +HUGH. What do you gain by hanging on now? + +EDWARD. Occupation. + +HUGH. But, Edward, it must be an awfully wearying state of things. I +suppose any moment a policeman may knock at the door . . so to speak? + +EDWARD. [_appreciating the figure of speech._] Any moment. I take no +precautions. I suppose that's why he doesn't come. At first I listened +for him, day by day. Then I said to myself . . next week. But a year has +gone by and more. I've ceased expecting to hear the knock at all. + +HUGH. But look here . . is all this worth while? + +EDWARD. [_supremely ironical._] My dear Hugh, what a silly question! + +HUGH. [_very seriously._] But have you the right to make a mean thing of +your life like this? + +EDWARD. Does my life matter? + +HUGH. Well . . of course! + +EDWARD. I find no evidence to convince me of it. The World that you talk +about so finely is using me up. A little wantonly . . a little +needlessly, I do think. But she knows her own damn business . . or so +she says, if you try to teach it her. And why should I trouble to fit +myself for better work than she has given me to do . . nursing fools' +money? + +HUGH. [_responding at once to this vein._] Edward, we must turn this +world upside down. It's her stupidity that drives me mad. We all want a +lesson in values. We're never taught what is worth having and what +isn't. Why should your real happiness be sacrificed to the sham +happiness which people have invested in the firm? + +EDWARD. I suppose their money means such happiness to them as they +understand. + +HUGH. Then we want another currency. We must learn to express ourselves +in terms of vitality. There can be no other standard of worth in life, +can there? I never believed that money was valuable. I remember once +giving a crossing sweeper a sovereign. The sovereign was nothing. But +the sensation I gave him was an intrinsically valuable thing. + +_He is fearfully pleased with his essay in philosophy._ + +EDWARD. He could buy other sensations with the sovereign. + +HUGH. But none like the first. [_then the realities of life overwhelm +him again._] And yet . . we're slaves! Beatrice won't let me go until +we're each certain of two hundred a year. And she's quite right . . I +should only get into debt. You know that two fifty a year of mine is a +hundred and eighty now. + +EDWARD. [_mischievous._] Why would you invest sensationally? + +HUGH. [_with great seriousness._] I put money into things which I know +ought to succeed . . + +_The telephone rings._ EDWARD _speaks through it_. + +EDWARD. Certainly . . bring him in. [_then to his brother, who sits on +the table idly disarranging everything._] You'll have to go now, Hugh. + +HUGH. [_shaking his head gloomily._] You're one of the few people I can +talk to, Edward. + +EDWARD. I like listening. + +HUGH. [_as much cheered as surprised._] Do you! I suppose I talk a lot +of rot . . but . . + +_In comes old_ MR. GEORGE BOOTH, _older too in looks than he was +eighteen months back. Very dandyishly dressed, he still seems by no +means so happy as his clothes might be making him._ + +MR. BOOTH. 'Ullo, Hugh! I thought I should find you, Edward. + +EDWARD. [_formally._] Good morning, Mr. Booth. + +HUGH. [_as he collects his hat, his coat, his various properties._] Well +. . Beatrice and I go down to Chislehurst to-morrow. I say . . d'you +know that old Nursie is furious with you about something? + +EDWARD. [_shortly._] Yes, I know. Good bye. + +HUGH. How are you? + +_He launches this enquiry at_ MR. BOOTH _with great suddenness just as +he leaves the room. The old gentleman jumps; then jumps again at the +slam of the door. And then he frowns at_ EDWARD _in a frightened sort of +way_. + +EDWARD. Will you come here . . or will you sit by the fire? + +MR. BOOTH. This'll do. I shan't detain you long. + +_He takes the chair by the table and occupies the next minute or two, +carefully disposing of his hat and gloves._ + +EDWARD. Are you feeling all right again? + +MR. BOOTH. A bit dyspeptic. How are you? + +EDWARD. Quite well, thanks. + +MR. BOOTH. I'm glad . . I'm glad. [_he now proceeds to cough a little, +hesitating painfully._] I'm afraid this isn't very pleasant business +I've come upon. + +EDWARD. D'you want to go to Law with anyone? + +MR. BOOTH. No . . oh, no. I'm getting too old to quarrel. + +EDWARD. A pleasant symptom. + +MR. BOOTH. [_with a final effort._] I mean to withdraw my securities +from the custody of your firm . . [_and he adds apologetically_] with +the usual notice, of course. + +_It would be difficult to describe what_ EDWARD _feels at this moment. +Perhaps something of the shock that the relief of death may be as an end +to pain so long endured that it has been half forgotten. He answers very +quietly, without a sign of emotion._ + +EDWARD. Thank you . . May one ask why? + +MR. BOOTH. [_relieved that the worst is over._] Certainly . . certainly. +My reason is straightforward and simple and well considered. I think you +must know, Edward, I have never been able to feel that implicit +confidence in your ability which I had in your father's. Well, it is +hardly to be expected, is it? + +EDWARD. [_with a grim smile._] No. + +MR. BOOTH. I can say that without unduly depreciating you. Men like +your father are few and far between. As far as I know things proceed at +this office as they have always done but . . since his death I have not +been happy about my affairs. + +EDWARD. [_speaking as it is his duty to._] I think you need be under no +apprehension . . + +MR. BOOTH. I daresay not. But that isn't the point. Now, for the first +time in my long life I am worried about money affairs; and I don't like +the feeling. The possession of money has always been a pleasure to me . . +and for what are perhaps my last years I don't wish that to be +otherwise. You must remember you have practically my entire property +unreservedly in your control. + +EDWARD. Perhaps we can arrange to hand you over the reins to an extent +which will ease your mind, and at the same time not . . + +MR. BOOTH. I thought of that. Believe me, I have every wish not to +slight unduly your father's son. I have not moved in the matter for +eighteen months. I have not been able to make up my mind to. Really, one +feels a little helpless . . and the transaction of business requires +more energy than . . But I saw my doctor yesterday, Edward, and he told +me . . well, it was a warning. And so I felt it my duty at once to . . +especially as I made up my mind to it some time ago. [_he comes to the +end of this havering at last and adds._] In point of fact, Edward, more +than a year before your father died I had quite decided that my affairs +could never be with you as they were with him. + +EDWARD _starts almost out of his chair; his face pale, his eyes black_. + +EDWARD. Did he know that? + +MR. BOOTH. [_resenting this new attitude._] I think I never said it in +so many words. But he may easily have guessed. + +EDWARD. [_as he relaxes and turns, almost shuddering, from the +possibility of dreadful knowledge._] No . . no . . he never guessed. +[_Then, with a sudden fresh impulse._] I hope you won't do this, Mr. +Booth. + +MR. BOOTH. I have quite made up my mind. + +EDWARD. You must let me persuade you-- + +MR. BOOTH. [_conciliatory._] I shall make a point of informing your +family that you are in no way to blame in the matter. And in the event +of any personal legal difficulties I shall always be delighted to come +to you. My idea is for the future to employ merely a financial agent-- + +EDWARD. [_still quite unstrung really, and his nerves betraying him._] +If you had made up your mind before my father died to do this, you ought +to have told =him=. + +MR. BOOTH. Please allow me to know my own business best. I did not +choose to distress him by-- + +EDWARD. [_pulling himself together: speaking half to himself._] Well . . +well . . this is one way out. And it's not my fault. + +MR. BOOTH. You're making a fearful fuss about a very simple matter, +Edward. The loss of one client, however important he may be . . Why, +this is one of the best family practices in London. I am surprised at +your lack of dignity. + +EDWARD _yields smilingly to this assertiveness_. + +EDWARD. True . . I have no dignity. Will you walk off with your papers +now? + +MR. BOOTH. What notice is usual? + +EDWARD. To a good solicitor, five minutes. Ten to a poor one. + +MR. BOOTH. You'll have to explain matters a bit to me. + +_Now_ EDWARD _settles to his desk again; really with a certain grim +enjoyment of the prospect_. + +EDWARD. Yes, I had better. Well, Mr. Booth, how much do you think you're +worth? + +MR. BOOTH. [_easily._] I couldn't say off hand. + +EDWARD. But you've a rough idea? + +MR. BOOTH. To be sure. + +EDWARD. You'll get not quite half that out of us. + +MR. BOOTH. [_precisely._] I think I said I had made up my mind to +withdraw the whole amount. + +EDWARD. You should have made up your mind sooner. + +MR. BOOTH. I don't in the least understand you, Edward. + +EDWARD. A great part of your capital doesn't exist. + +MR. BOOTH. [_with some irritation._] Nonsense, it must exist. [_He +scans_ EDWARD'S _set face in vain_.] You mean that it won't be prudent +to realise? You can hand over the securities. I don't want to reinvest +simply because-- + +EDWARD. I can't hand over what I haven't got. + +_This sentence falls on the old man's ears like a knell._ + +MR. BOOTH. Is anything . . =wrong=? + +EDWARD. [_grim and patient._] How many more times am I to say that we +have robbed you of nearly half your property? + +MR. BOOTH. [_his senses failing him._] Say that again. + +EDWARD. It's quite true. + +MR. BOOTH. My money . . =gone=? + +EDWARD. Yes. + +MR. BOOTH. [_clutching at a straw of anger._] You've been the thief . . +you . . you . . ? + +EDWARD. I wouldn't tell you if I could help it . . my father. + +_That actually calls the old man back to something like dignity and +self-possession. He thumps on_ EDWARD'S _table furiously_. + +MR. BOOTH. I'll make you prove that. + +_And now_ EDWARD _buries his face in his arms and just goes off into +hysterics_. + +EDWARD. Oh, you've fired a mine! + +MR. BOOTH. [_scolding him well._] Slandering your dead father . . and +lying to me, revenging yourself by frightening me . . because I detest +you. + +EDWARD. Why . . haven't I thanked you for putting an end to all my +troubles? I do . . I promise you I do. + +MR. BOOTH. [_shouting, and his sudden courage failing as he shouts._] +Prove this . . prove it to me! I'm not to be frightened so easily. One +can't lose half of all one has and then be told of it in two minutes . . +sitting at a table. [_his voice tails off to a piteous whimper._] + +EDWARD. [_quietly now and kindly._] If my father had told you this in +plain words you'd have believed him. + +MR. BOOTH. [_bowing his head._] Yes. + +EDWARD _looks at the poor old thing with great pity_. + +EDWARD. What on earth did you want to withdraw your account for? You +need never have known . . you could have died happy. Settling with all +those charities in your will would certainly have smashed us up. But +proving your will is many years off yet we'll hope. + +MR. BOOTH. [_pathetic and bewildered._] I don't understand. No, I don't +understand . . because your father . . But I =must= understand, Edward. + +EDWARD. Don't shock yourself trying to understand my father, for you +never will. Pull yourself together, Mr. Booth. After all, this isn't a +vital matter to you. It's not even as if you had a family to consider . . +like some of the others. + +MR. BOOTH. [_vaguely._] What others? + +EDWARD. Don't imagine your money has been specially selected for +pilfering. + +MR. BOOTH. [_with solemn incredulity._] One has read of this sort of +thing but . . I thought people always got found out. + +EDWARD. [_brutally humorous._] Well . . we are found out. You've found +us out. + +MR. BOOTH. [_rising to the full appreciation of his wrongs._] Oh . . +I've been foully cheated! + +EDWARD. [_patiently._] I've told you so. + +MR. BOOTH. [_his voice breaks, he appeals pitifully._] But by you, +Edward . . say it's by you. + +EDWARD. [_unable to resist his quiet revenge._] I've not the ability or +the personality for such work, Mr. Booth . . nothing but principles, +which forbid me even to lie to you. + +_The old gentleman draws a long breath and then speaks with great awe, +blending into grief._ + +MR. BOOTH. I think your father is in Hell . . I'd have gone there myself +to save him from it. I loved him very truly. How he could have had the +heart! We were friends for nearly fifty years. Am I to think now he only +cared for me to cheat me? + +EDWARD. [_venturing the comfort of an explanation._] No . . he didn't +value money as you do. + +MR. BOOTH. [_with sudden shrill logic._] But he took it. What d'you mean +by that? + +EDWARD _leans back in his chair and changes the tenor of their talk_. + +EDWARD. Well, you're master of the situation now. What are you going to +do? + +MR. BOOTH. To get my money back? + +EDWARD. No, that's gone. + +MR. BOOTH. Then give me what's left and-- + +EDWARD. Are you going to prosecute? + +MR. BOOTH. [_shifting uneasily in his chair._] Oh, dear . . is that +necessary? Can't somebody else do that? I thought the Law-- + +EDWARD. You need not prosecute, you know. + +MR. BOOTH. What'll happen if I don't. + +EDWARD. What do you suppose I'm doing here now? + +MR. BOOTH. [_as if he were being asked a riddle._] I don't know. + +EDWARD. [_earnestly._] I'm trying to straighten things a little. I'm +trying to undo what my father did . . to do again what he undid. It's a +poor dull sort of work now . . throwing penny after penny hardly earned +into the pit of our deficit. But I've been doing that for what it's +worth in the time that was left to me . . till this should happen. I +never thought you'd bring it to pass. I can continue to do that if you +choose . . until the next smash comes. I'm pleased to call this my duty. +[_He searches_ MR. BOOTH'S _face and finds there only disbelief and +fear. He bursts out._] Oh, why won't you believe me? It can't hurt you +to believe it. + +MR. BOOTH. You must admit, Edward, it isn't easy to believe anything in +this office . . just for the moment. + +EDWARD. [_bowing to the extreme reasonableness of this._] I suppose not. +I can prove it to you. I'll take you through the books . . you won't +understand them . . but I could prove it. + +MR. BOOTH. I think I'd rather not. D'you think I ought to hold any +further communication with you at all? [_and at this he takes his hat._] + +EDWARD. [_with a little explosion of contemptuous anger._] Certainly +not. Prosecute . . prosecute! + +MR. BOOTH. [_with dignity._] Don't lose your temper. You know it's my +place to be angry with you. + +EDWARD. I beg your pardon. [_then he is elaborately explanatory._] I +shall be =grateful= if you'll prosecute. + +MR. BOOTH. [_more puzzled than ever._] There's something in this which I +don't understand. + +EDWARD. [_with deliberate unconcern._] Think it over. + +MR. BOOTH. [_hesitating, fidgetting._] But surely I oughtn't to have to +make up my mind! There must be a right or a wrong thing to do. Edward, +can't =you= tell me? + +EDWARD. I'm prejudiced. + +MR. BOOTH. [_angrily._] What do you mean by placing me in a dilemma? I +believe you're simply trying to practise upon my goodness of heart. +Certainly I ought to prosecute at once . . Oughtn't I? [_then at the +nadir of helplessness._] Can't I consult another solicitor? + +EDWARD. [_his chin in the air._] Write to the Times about it! + +MR. BOOTH. [_shocked and grieved at his attitude._] Edward, how can you +be so cool and heartless? + +EDWARD. [_changing his tone._] D'you think I shan't be glad to sleep at +nights? + +MR. BOOTH. Perhaps you'll be put in prison? + +EDWARD. I =am= in prison . . a less pleasant one than Wormwood Scrubbs. +But we're all prisoners, Mr. Booth. + +MR. BOOTH. [_wagging his head._] Yes, this is what comes of your +philosophy. Why aren't you on your knees? + +EDWARD. To you? + +_This was not what_ MR. BOOTH _meant, but as he gets up from his chair +he feels all but mighty_. + +MR. BOOTH. And why should you expect me to shrink from vindicating the +law? + +EDWARD. [_shortly._] I don't. I've explained you'll be doing me a +kindness. When I'm wanted you'll find me here at my desk. [_then as an +afterthought._] If you take long to decide . . don't alter your +behaviour to my family in the meantime. They know the main points of the +business and-- + +MR. BOOTH. [_knocked right off his balance._] Do they! Good God! . . I'm +invited to dinner the day after to-morrow . . that's Christmas Eve. The +hypocrites! + +EDWARD. [_unmoved._] I shall be there . . that will have given you two +days. Will you tell me then? + +MR. BOOTH. [_protesting violently._] I can't go to dinner . . I can't +eat with them. I must be ill. + +EDWARD. [_with a half smile._] I remember I went to dinner at +Chislehurst to tell my father of my decision. + +MR. BOOTH. [_testily._] What decision? + +EDWARD. To remain in the firm when I first knew of the difficulties. + +MR. BOOTH. [_interested._] Was I present? + +EDWARD. I daresay. + +MR. BOOTH _stands there, hat, stick and gloves in hand, shaken by this +experience, helpless, at his wits' end. He falls into a sort of fretful +reverie, speaking half to himself but yet as if he hoped that_ EDWARD, +_who is wrapped in his own thoughts, would have the decency to answer, +or at least listen, to what he is saying_. + +MR. BOOTH. Yes, how often I dined with him. Oh, it was monstrous! [_his +eyes fall on the clock._] It's nearly lunch time now. Do you know I +still can hardly believe all this? I wish I hadn't found it out. If he +hadn't died I should never have found it out. I hate to have to be +vindictive . . it's not my nature. Indeed I'm sure I'm more grieved than +angry. But it isn't as if it were a small sum. And I don't see that one +is called upon to forgive crimes . . or why does the Law exist? I feel +that this will go near to killing me. I'm too old to have such troubles +. . it isn't right. And now if I have to prosecute-- + +EDWARD. [_at last throwing in a word._] You need not. + +MR. BOOTH. [_thankful for the provocation._] Don't you attempt to +influence me, sir. + +_He turns to go._ + +EDWARD. With the money you have left. . . + +EDWARD _follows him politely_. MR. BOOTH _flings the door open_. + +MR. BOOTH. Make out a cheque for that at once and send it me. + +EDWARD. You could . . . + +MR. BOOTH. [_clapping his hat on, stamping his stick._] I shall do the +right thing, sir, never fear. + +_So he marches off in fine style, having, he thinks, had the last word +and all. But_ EDWARD _closing the door after him, mutters_ . . + +EDWARD. . . Save your soul! . . I'm afraid I was going to say. + + + + + THE FIFTH ACT + + +_Naturally it is the dining room--consecrated as it is to the +distinguishing orgie of the season--which bears the brunt of what an +English household knows as Christmas decorations. They consist chiefly +of the branches of holly (that unyielding tree), stuck cock-eyed behind +the top edges of the pictures. The one picture conspicuously not +decorated is that which now hangs over the fireplace, a portrait of_ MR. +VOYSEY, _with its new gilt frame and its brassplate marking it also as a +presentation_. HONOR, _hastily and at some bodily peril, pulled down the +large bunch of mistletoe, which a callous housemaid had suspended above +it, in time to obviate the shock to family feelings which such +impropriety would cause. Otherwise the only difference between the +dining room's appearance at half past nine on Christmas eve and on any +other evening in the year is that little piles of queer shaped envelopes +seem to be lying about, while there is quite a lot of tissue paper and +string to be seen peeping from odd corners. The electric light is +reduced to one bulb, but when the maid opens the door showing in_ MR. +GEORGE BOOTH _she switches on the rest_. + +PHOEBE. This room is empty, sir. I'll tell Mr. Edward. + +_She leaves him to fidget towards the fireplace and back, not removing +his comforter or his coat, scarcely turning down the collar, screwing +his cap in his hands. In a very short time_ EDWARD _comes in, shutting +the door and taking stock of the visitor before he speaks_. + +EDWARD. Well? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feebly._] I hope my excuse for not coming to dinner +was acceptable. I did have . . I have a very bad headache. + +EDWARD. I daresay they believed it. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I have come immediately to tell you of my decision . . +perhaps this trouble will then be a little more off my mind. + +EDWARD. What is it? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I couldn't think the matter out alone. I went this +afternoon to talk it all over with my old friend Colpus. [_at this news_ +EDWARD'S _eyebrows contract and then rise_.] What a terrible shock to +him! + +EDWARD. Oh, nearly three of his four thousand pounds are quite safe. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. That you and your father . . you, whom he baptised . . +should have robbed him! I never saw a man so utterly prostrate with +grief. That it should have been your father! And his poor wife! . . +though she never got on with your father. + +EDWARD. [_with cheerful irony._] Oh, Mrs. Colpus knows too, does she? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Of course he told Mrs. Colpus. This is an unfortunate +time for the storm to break on him. What with Christmas Day and Sunday +following so close they're as busy as can be. He has resolved that +during this season of peace and goodwill he must put the matter from him +if he can. But once Christmas is over . . ! [_he envisages the Christian +old vicar giving_ EDWARD _a hell of a time then_.] + +EDWARD. [_coolly._] So I conclude you mean to prosecute. For if you +don't, you've given the Colpuses a lot of unnecessary pain . . and +inflicted a certain amount of loss by telling them. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_naively._] I never thought of that. No, Edward, I +have decided not to prosecute. + +EDWARD _hides his face for a moment_. + +EDWARD. And I've been hoping to escape! Well . . it can't be helped +[_and he sets his teeth_.] + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with touching solemnity._] I think I could not bear +to see the family I have loved brought to such disgrace. + +EDWARD. So you'll compound my felony? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_a little nervous._] That's only your joke! + +EDWARD. You'll come to no harm. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. On the contrary. And I want to ask your pardon, +Edward, for some of the hard thoughts I have had of you. I consider this +effort of yours to restore to the firm the credit which your father lost +a very striking one. What improvements have you effected so far? + +EDWARD. [_wondering what is coming now._] I took the money that my +father left . . + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. And I suppose you take the ordinary profits of the +firm? + +EDWARD. Yes. It costs me very little to live. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Do you restore to the clients all round in proportion +to the amount they have lost? + +EDWARD. [_cautiously._] That's the law. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. D'you think that's quite fair? + +EDWARD. No, I don't. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, I consider the treachery to have been blacker in +some cases than in others. + +EDWARD. [_his face brightening a little._] Are you going to help me in +this work of mine? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Surely by consenting not to prosecute I am doing so. + +EDWARD. Will you do no more? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, as far as my own money is concerned, this is my +proposal. [_he coughs and proceeds very formally._] Considering how +absolutely I trusted your father and believed in him, I think you +should at once return me the balance of my capital that there is left. + +EDWARD. [_cold again._] That is being done. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Good. That you should continue to pay me a fair +interest upon the rest of that capital, which ought to exist and does +not. And that you should, year by year, pay me back by degrees out of +the earnings of the firm as much of that capital as you can afford. We +will agree upon the sum . . say a thousand a year. I doubt if you can +ever restore me all that I have lost, but do your best and I shan't +complain. There . . I think that is fair dealing! + +EDWARD _does not take his eyes off_ MR. BOOTH _until the whole meaning +of this proposition has settled in his brain. Then, without warning, he +goes off into peals of laughter, much to the alarm of_ MR. BOOTH, _who +has never thought him over-sane_. + +EDWARD. How funny! How very funny! + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, don't laugh. + +EDWARD. I never heard anything quite so funny! + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, stop laughing. + +EDWARD. What will Colpus . . what will all the other Christian gentlemen +demand? Pounds of flesh! Pounds of flesh! + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Don't be hysterical. I demand what is mine . . in such +quantities as you can afford. + +EDWARD'S _laughter gives way to the deepest anger of which he is +capable_. + +EDWARD. I'm giving my soul and body to restoring you and the rest of you +to your precious money bags . . and you'll wring me dry. Won't you? +Won't you? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now be reasonable. Argue the point quietly. + +EDWARD. Go to the devil, sir. + +_And with that he turns away from the flabbergasted old gentleman._ + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Don't be rude. + +EDWARD. [_his anger vanishing._] I beg your pardon. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You're excited. Take time to think of it. I'm +reasonable. + +EDWARD. [_his sense of humour returning._] Most! Most! [_There is a +knock at the door._] Come in. Come in. + +HONOR _intrudes an apologetic head_. + +HONOR. Am I interrupting business? I'm so sorry. + +EDWARD. [_crowing in a mirthless enjoyment of his joke._] No! Business +is over . . quite over. Come in, Honor. + +HONOR _puts on the table a market basket bulging with little paper +parcels, and, oblivious to_ MR. BOOTH'S _distracted face, tries to fix +his attention_. + +HONOR. I thought, dear Mr. Booth, perhaps you wouldn't mind carrying +round this basket of things yourself. It's so very damp underfoot that I +don't want to send one of the maids out to-night if I can possibly avoid +it . . and if one doesn't get Christmas presents the very first thing on +Christmas morning quite half the pleasure in them is lost, don't you +think? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Yes . . yes. + +HONOR. [_fishing out the parcels one by one._] This is a bell for Mrs. +Williams . . something she said she wanted so that you can ring that for +her which saves the maids. Cap and apron for Mary. Cap and apron for +Ellen. Shawl for Davis when she goes out to the larder. All useful +presents. And that's something for you but you're not to look at it till +the morning. + +_Having shaken each of these at the old gentleman, she proceeds to +re-pack them. He is now trembling with anxiety to escape before any more +of the family find him there._ + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you . . thank you! I hope my lot has arrived. I +left instructions . . + +HONOR. Quite safely . . and I have hidden them. Presents are put on the +breakfast table to-morrow. + +EDWARD. [_with an inconsequence that still further alarms_ MR. BOOTH.] +When we were all children our Christmas breakfast was mostly made off +chocolates. + +_Before the basket is packed_, MRS. VOYSEY _sails slowly into the room, +as smiling and as deaf as ever_. MR. BOOTH _does his best not to scowl +at her_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Are you feeling better, George Booth? + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. [_then he elevates his voice with a show of +politeness._] No, thank you . . I can't say I am. + +MRS. VOYSEY. You don't look better. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I still have my headache. [_with a distracted shout._] +Headache. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Bilious, perhaps! I quite understood you didn't care to +dine. But why not have taken your coat off? How foolish in this warm +room! + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you. I'm just going. + +_He seizes the market basket. At that moment_ MRS. HUGH _appears_. + +BEATRICE. Your shawl, mother. [_and she clasps it round_ MRS. VOYSEY'S +_shoulders_.] + +MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you, Beatrice. I thought I had it on. [_then to_ MR. +BOOTH _who is now entangled in his comforter_.] A merry Christmas to +you. + +BEATRICE. Good evening, Mr. Booth. + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I beg your pardon. Good evening, Mrs. Hugh. + +HONOR. [_with sudden inspiration, to the company in general._] Why +shouldn't I write in here . . now the table's cleared! + +MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_sternly, now he is safe by the door._] Will you see +me out, Edward? + +EDWARD. Yes. + +_He follows the old man and his basket, leaving the others to distribute +themselves about the room. It is a custom of the female members of the_ +VOYSEY _family, especially about Christmas time, to return to the +dining room, when the table has been cleared and occupy themselves in +various ways which require space and untidiness. Sometimes as the +evening wears on they partake of cocoa, sometimes they abstain._ +BEATRICE _has a little work-basket, containing a buttonless glove and +such things, which she is rectifying_. HONOR'S _writing is done with the +aid of an enormous blotting book, which bulges with apparently a year's +correspondence. She sheds its contents upon the end of the dining table +and spreads them abroad._ MRS. VOYSEY _settles to the fire, opens the +Nineteenth Century and is instantly absorbed in it_. + +BEATRICE. Where's Emily? + +HONOR. [_mysteriously._] Well, Beatrice, she's in the library talking to +Booth. + +BEATRICE. Talking to her husband; good Heavens! I know she has taken my +scissors. + +HONOR. I think she's telling him about you. + +BEATRICE. What about me? + +HONOR. You and Hugh. + +BEATRICE. [_with a little movement of annoyance._] I suppose this is +Hugh's fault. It was carefully arranged no one was to be told till after +Christmas. + +HONOR. Emily told me . . and Edward knows . . and Mother knows . . + +BEATRICE. I warned Mother a year ago. + +HONOR. Everyone seems to know but Booth . . so I thought he'd better be +told. I suggested one night so that he might have time to think over it +. . but Emily said that'd wake Alfred. Besides she's nearly always +asleep herself when he comes to bed. + +BEATRICE. Why do they still have that baby in their room? + +HONOR. Emily considers it her duty. + +_At this moment_ EMILY _comes in, looking rather trodden upon_. HONOR +_concludes in the most audible of whispers_ . . + +HONOR. Don't say anything . . it's my fault. + +BEATRICE. [_fixing her with a severe forefinger._] Emily . . have you +taken my best scissors? + +EMILY. [_timidly._] No, Beatrice. + +HONOR. [_who is diving into the recesses of the blotting book._] Oh, +here they are! I must have taken them. I do apologise! + +EMILY. [_more timidly still._] I'm afraid Booth's rather cross . . he's +gone to look for Hugh. + +BEATRICE. [_with a shake of her head._] Honor . . I've a good mind to +make you sew on these buttons for me. + +_In comes the Major, strepitant. He takes, so to speak, just time enough +to train himself on_ BEATRICE _and then fires_. + +BOOTH. Beatrice, what on earth is this Emily has been telling me? + +BEATRICE. [_with elaborate calm._] Emily, what have you been telling +Booth? + +BOOTH. Please . . please do not prevaricate. Where is Hugh? + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_looking over her spectacles._] What did you say, Booth? + +BOOTH. I want Hugh, Mother. + +MRS. VOYSEY. I thought you were playing billiards together. + +EDWARD _strolls back from despatching_ MR. BOOTH, _his face thoughtful_. + +BOOTH. [_insistently._] Edward, where is Hugh? + +EDWARD. [_with complete indifference._] I don't know. + +BOOTH. [_in trumpet tones._] Honor, will you oblige me by finding Hugh +and saying I wish to speak to him, here, immediately? + +HONOR, _who has leapt at the sound of her name, flies from the room +without a word_. + +BEATRICE. I know quite well what you want to talk about, Booth. Discuss +the matter by all means if it amuses you . . but don't shout. + +BOOTH. I use the voice Nature has gifted me with, Beatrice. + +BEATRICE. [_as she searches for a glove button._] Certainly Nature did +let herself go over your lungs. + +BOOTH. [_glaring round with indignation._] This is a family matter, +otherwise I should not feel it my duty to interfere . . as I do. Any +member of the family has a right to express an opinion. I want Mother's. +Mother, what do you think? + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_amicably._] What about? + +BOOTH. Hugh and Beatrice separating. + +MRS. VOYSEY. They haven't separated. + +BOOTH. But they mean to. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Fiddle-de-dee! + +BOOTH. I quite agree with you. + +BEATRICE. [_with a charming smile._] This reasoning would convert a +stone. + +BOOTH. Why have I not been told? + +BEATRICE. You have just been told. + +BOOTH. [_thunderously._] Before. + +BEATRICE. The truth is, dear Booth, we're all so afraid of you. + +BOOTH. [_a little mollified._] Ha . . I should be glad to think that. + +BEATRICE. [_sweetly._] Don't you? + +BOOTH. [_intensely serious._] Beatrice, your callousness shocks me! That +you can dream of deserting Hugh . . a man of all others who requires +constant care and attention. + +BEATRICE. May I remark that the separation is as much Hugh's wish as +mine? + +BOOTH. I don't believe that. + +BEATRICE. [_her eyebrows up._] Really! + +BOOTH. I don't imply that you're lying. But you must know that it's +Hugh's nature to wish to do anything that he thinks anybody wishes him +to do. All my life I've had to stand up for him . . and by Jove, I'll +continue to do so. + +EDWARD. [_from the depths of his armchair._] If you'd taught him to +stand up for himself-- + +_The door is flung almost off its hinges by_ HUGH _who then stands +stamping and pale green with rage_. + +HUGH. Look here, Booth . . I will not have you interfering with my +private affairs. Is one never to be free from your bullying? + +BOOTH. You ought to be grateful. + +HUGH. Well, I'm not. + +BOOTH. This is a family affair. + +HUGH. It is not! + +BOOTH. [_at the top of his voice._] If all you can do is to contradict +me, you'd better listen to what I've got to say . . quietly. + +HUGH, _quite shouted down, flings himself petulantly into a chair. A +hush falls._ + +EMILY. [_in a still small voice._] Would you like me to go, Booth? + +BOOTH. [_severely._] No, Emily. Unless anything has been going on which +cannot be discussed before you . . [_then more severely still._] and I +hope that is not so. + +HUGH. [_muttering rebelliously._] Oh, you have the mind of a . . cheap +schoolmaster! + +BOOTH. Why do you wish to separate? + +HUGH. What's the use of telling you? You won't understand. + +BEATRICE. [_who sews on undisturbed._] We don't get on well together. + +BOOTH. [_amazedly._] Is that all? + +HUGH. [_snapping at him._] Yes, that's all. Can you find a better +reason? + +BOOTH. [_with brotherly contempt._] I have given up expecting common +sense from you. But Beatrice--! [_his tone implores her to be +reasonable._] + +BEATRICE. It doesn't seem to me any sort of sense that people should +live together for purposes of mutual irritation. + +BOOTH. [_protesting._] My dear girl! . . that sounds like a quotation +from your last book. + +BEATRICE. It isn't. I do think, Booth, you might read that book . . for +the honour of the Family. + +BOOTH. [_successfully side-tracked. ._ ] I have bought it, Beatrice, +and-- + +BEATRICE. That's the principal thing, of course-- + +BOOTH. [_. . and discovering it._] But do let us keep to the subject. + +BEATRICE. [_with flattering sincerity._] Certainly, Booth. And there is +hardly any subject that I wouldn't ask your advice about. But upon this +. . do let me know better. Hugh and I will be happier apart. + +BOOTH. [_obstinately._] Why? + +BEATRICE. [_with resolute patience, having vented a little sigh._] Hugh +finds that my opinions distress him. And I have at last lost patience +with Hugh. + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has been trying to follow this through her +spectacles._] What does Beatrice say? + +BOOTH. [_translating into a loud sing-song._] That she wishes to leave +her husband because she has lost patience! + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_with considerable acrimony._] Then you must be a very +ill-tempered woman. Hugh has a sweet nature. + +HUGH. [_shouting self-consciously._] Nonsense, mother. + +BEATRICE. [_shouting good-humouredly._] I quite agree with you, mother. +[_she continues to her husband in an even just tone._] You have a sweet +nature, Hugh, and it is most difficult to get angry with you. I have +been seven years working up to it. But now that I am angry, I shall +never get pleased again. + +_The Major returns to his subject, refreshed by a moment's repose._ + +BOOTH. How has he failed in his duty? Tell us. I'm not bigoted in his +favour. I know your faults, Hugh. + +_He wags his head at_ HUGH, _who writhes with irritation_. + +HUGH. Why can't you leave them alone . . leave us alone? + +BEATRICE. I'd state my case against Hugh, if I thought he'd retaliate. + +HUGH. [_desperately rounding on his brother._] If I tell you, you won't +understand. You understand nothing! Beatrice is angry with me because I +won't prostitute my art to make money. + +BOOTH. [_glancing at his wife._] Please don't use metaphors of that +sort. + +BEATRICE. [_reasonably._] Yes, I think Hugh ought to earn more money. + +BOOTH. [_quite pleased to be getting along at last._] Well, why doesn't +he? + +HUGH. I don't want money. + +BOOTH. You can't say you don't want money any more than you can say you +don't want bread. + +BEATRICE. [_as she breaks off her cotton._] It's when one has known what +it is to be a little short of both . . + +_Now the Major spreads himself and begins to be very wise, while_ HUGH, +_to whom this is more intolerable than all, can only clutch his hair_. + +BOOTH. You know I never considered Art a very good profession for you, +Hugh. And you won't even stick to one department of it. It's a +profession that gets people into very bad habits, I consider. Couldn't +you take up something else? You could still do those wood-cuts in your +spare time to amuse yourself. + +HUGH. [_commenting on this with two deliberate shouts of simulated +mirth._] Ha! Ha! + +BOOTH. [_sublimely superior._] Well, it wouldn't much matter if you +didn't do them at all! + +BEATRICE. [_subtly._] Booth, there speaks the true critic. + +BOOTH. [_deprecating any title to omniscience._] Well, I don't pretend +to know much about Art but-- + +HUGH. It would matter to me. There speaks the artist. + +BEATRICE. The arrogance of the artist! + +HUGH. We have a right to be arrogant. + +BEATRICE. Good workmen are humble. + +HUGH. And look to their wages. + +BEATRICE. Well, I'm only a workman. + +_With that she breaks the contact of this quiet deadly hopeless little +quarrel by turning her head away. The Major, who has given it most +friendly attention, comments . ._ + +BOOTH. Of course! Quite so! I'm sure all that is a very interesting +difference of opinion. + +MRS. VOYSEY _leaves her armchair for her favourite station at the dining +table_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Booth is the only one of you that I can hear at all +distinctly. But if you two foolish young people think you want to +separate . . try it. You'll soon come back to each other and be glad to. +People can't fight against Nature for long. And marriage is a natural +state . . once you're married. + +BOOTH. [_with intense approval._] Quite right, Mother. + +MRS. VOYSEY. I know. + +_She resumes the Nineteenth Century. The Major, to the despair of +everybody, makes yet another start; trying oratory this time._ + +BOOTH. My own opinion is, Beatrice and Hugh, that you don't realise the +meaning of the word marriage. I don't call myself a religious man . . +but dash it all, you were married in church! . . And you then entered +upon an awful compact! . . Surely . . as a woman, Beatrice . . the +religious point of it ought to appeal to you. Good Lord, suppose +everybody were to carry on like this! And have you considered, Beatrice, +that . . whether you're right or whether you're wrong . . if you desert +Hugh, you cut yourself off from the Family. + +BEATRICE. [_with the sweetest of smiles._] That will distress me +terribly. + +BOOTH. [_not doubting her for a moment._] Of course. + +HUGH _flings up his head and finds relief at last in many words_. + +HUGH. I wish to Heaven I'd ever been able to cut myself off from the +family! Look at Trenchard. + +BOOTH. [_gobbling a little at this unexpected attack._] I do not forgive +Trenchard for quarreling with and deserting our father. + +HUGH. Trenchard quarreled because that was his only way of escape. + +BOOTH. Escape from what? + +HUGH. From tyranny! . . from hypocrisy! . . from boredom! . . from his +Happy English Home! + +BEATRICE. [_kindly._] Hugh . . Hugh . . it's no use. + +BOOTH. [_attempting sarcasm._] Speak so that Mother can hear you! + +_But_ HUGH _isn't to be stopped now_. + +HUGH. Why are we all dull, cubbish, uneducated, hopelessly middle-class +. . that is hopelessly out of date. + +BOOTH. [_taking this as very personal._] Cubbish! + +HUGH. . . Because it's the middle-class ideal that you should respect +your parents . . live with them . . think with them . . grow like them. +Natural affection and gratitude! That's what's expected, isn't it? + +BOOTH. [_not to be obliterated._] Certainly. + +HUGH. Keep your children ignorant of all that you don't know, penniless +except for your good pleasure, dependent on you for permission to +breathe freely . . and be sure that their gratitude will be most +disinterested, and affection very natural. If your father's a drunkard +or poor; then perhaps you get free and can form an opinion or two of +your own . . and can love him or hate him as he deserves. But our father +and mother were models. They did their duty by us . . and taught us +ours. Trenchard escaped, as I say. You took to the Army . . so of course +you've never discovered how behind the times you are. [_the Major is +stupent._] I tried to express myself in art . . and found there was +nothing to express . . I'd been so well brought up. D'you blame me if I +wander about in search of a soul of some sort? And Honor-- + +BOOTH. [_disputing savagely._] Honor is very happy at home. Everyone +loves her. + +HUGH. [_with fierce sarcasm._] Yes . . what do we call her? Mother's +right hand! I wonder they bothered to give her a name. By the time +little Ethel came they were tired of training children . . [_his voice +loses its sting; he doesn't complete this sentence._] + +BEATRICE. Poor little Ethel . . + +BOOTH. Poor Ethel! + +_They speak as one speaks of the dead, and so the wrangling stops. Then_ +EDWARD _interposes quietly_. + +EDWARD. Yes, Hugh, if we'd been poor . . + +HUGH. I haven't spoken of your fate, Edward. That's too shameful. + +EDWARD. . . We should at least have learnt how to spend money. + +BOOTH. [_pathetically._] Really, Edward, need you attack me? + +HUGH. Well . . you're so proud of representing the family! + +BOOTH. And may I ask what we're discussing now? + +BEATRICE. Yes, Edward. I knew how to get the greatest possible +happiness out of a five pound note years before I had one. + +EDWARD. The first man who saved a sovereign has made a prisoner of me. + +BOOTH. [_determined to capture the conversation again._] Has made a . . ? + +EDWARD. Will make . . if you understand that better, Booth. + +BOOTH. I don't understand it at all. [_they leave him the field._] And +why for no earthly reason we must suddenly open up a--a street, which is +very painful . . I really cannot see. One never knows who may be +listening. [_he glances most uneasily towards the door and drops his +voice._] In that unhappy business, Edward, you very wisely did what we +all felt to be your duty. I'm sure we all hope you have succeeded in +your endeavours. But the least we can do now in respect to our poor +father's memory is to bury the matter in--in decent oblivion. And please +. . please don't talk of prison. I thought you'd given up that idea long +ago. [_having dismissed that subject unopposed, he takes a long +breath._] Now we will return to the original subject of discussion. +Hugh, this question of a separation-- + +_Past all patience_, HUGH _jumps up and flings his chair back to its +place_. + +HUGH. Beatrice and I mean to separate. And nothing you may say will +prevent us. The only difficulty in the way is money. Can we command +enough to live apart comfortably? + +BOOTH. Well? + +HUGH. Well . . we can't. + +BOOTH. Well? + +HUGH. So we can't separate. + +BOOTH. [_speaking with bewilderment._] Then what in Heaven's name have +we been discussing it for? + +HUGH. I haven't discussed it! I don't want to discuss it! Why can't you +mind your own business? Now I'll go back to the billiard room and my +book. + +_He is gone before the poor Major can recover his lost breath._ + +BOOTH. [_as he does recover it._] I am not an impatient man . . but +really . . [_and then words fail him._] + +BEATRICE. [_commenting calmly._] Of course Hugh was a spoilt child. They +grow to hate their parents sooner than others. He still cries for what +he wants. That makes him a wearisome companion. + +BOOTH. [_very sulky now._] You married him with your eyes open, I +suppose? + +BEATRICE. How few women marry with their eyes open! + +BOOTH. You have never made the best of Hugh. + +BEATRICE. I have spared him that indignity. + +BOOTH. [_vindictively._] I am very glad that you can't separate. + +BEATRICE. As soon as I'm reasonably sure of earning an income I shall +walk off from him. + +_The Major revives._ + +BOOTH. You will do nothing of the sort, Beatrice. + +BEATRICE. [_unruffled._] How will you stop me, Booth? + +BOOTH. I shall tell Hugh he must command you to stay. + +BEATRICE. [_with a little smile._] Now that might make a difference. It +was one of the illusions of my girlhood that I should love a man who +would master me. + +BOOTH. Hugh must assert himself. + +_He begins to walk about, giving some indication of how it should be +done._ BEATRICE'S _smile has vanished_. + +BEATRICE. Don't think I've enjoyed taking the lead in everything +throughout my married life. But someone had to plan and scheme and be +foreseeing . . we weren't sparrows or lilies of the field . . someone +had to get up and do something. [_she becomes conscious of his +strutting and smiles rather mischievously._] Ah . . if I'd married you, +Booth! + +BOOTH'S _face grows beatific_. + +BOOTH. Well, I must own to thinking that I am a masterful man . . that +is the duty of every man to be so. [_he adds forgivingly._] Poor old +Hugh! + +BEATRICE. [_unable to resist temptation._] If I'd tried to leave you, +Booth, you'd have whipped me . . wouldn't you? + +BOOTH. [_ecstatically complacent._] Ha . . well . . ! + +BEATRICE. Do say yes. Think how it'll frighten Emily. + +_The Major strokes his moustache and is most friendly._ + +BOOTH. Hugh's been a worry to me all my life. And now as Head of the +Family . . Well, I suppose I'd better go and give the dear old chap +another talking to. I quite see your point of view, Beatrice. + +BEATRICE. Why disturb him at his book? + +MAJOR BOOTH _leaves them, squaring his shoulders as becomes a lord of +creation. The two sisters-in-law go on with their work silently for a +moment; then_ BEATRICE _adds_ . . + +BEATRICE. Do you find Booth difficult to manage, Emily? + +EMILY. [_putting down her knitting to consider the matter._] No. It's +best to allow him to talk himself out. When he's done that he'll often +come to me for advice. I let him get his own way as much as possible . . +or think he's getting it. Otherwise he becomes so depressed. + +BEATRICE. [_quietly amused._] Edward shouldn't hear this. What has he to +do with women's secrets? + +EDWARD. I won't tell . . and I'm a bachelor. + +EMILY. [_solemnly as she takes up her knitting again._] Do you really +mean to leave Hugh? + +BEATRICE. [_slightly impatient._] Emily, I've said so. + +_They are joined by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who comes in gaily_. + +ALICE. What's Booth shouting about in the billiard room? + +EMILY. [_pained._] On Christmas Eve, too! + +BEATRICE. Don't you take any interest in my matrimonial affairs? + +MRS. VOYSEY _shuts up the Nineteenth Century and removes her +spectacles_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. That's a very interesting article. The Chinese Empire must +be in a shocking state! Is it ten o'clock yet? + +EDWARD. Past. + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_as_ EDWARD _is behind her_.] Can anyone see the clock? + +ALICE. It's past ten, Auntie. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Then I think I'll go to my room. + +EMILY. Shall I come and look after you, Mother? + +MRS. VOYSEY. If you'd find Honor for me, Emily. + +EMILY _goes in search of the harmless necessary_ HONOR _and_ MRS. VOYSEY +_begins her nightly chant of departure_. + +MRS. VOYSEY. Good night, Alice. Good night, Edward. + +EDWARD. Good night, Mother. + +MRS. VOYSEY. [_with sudden severity._] I'm not pleased with you, +Beatrice. + +BEATRICE. I'm sorry, Mother. + +_But without waiting to be answered the old lady has sailed out of the +room._ BEATRICE, EDWARD, _and_ ALICE _are attuned to each other enough +to be able to talk with ease_. + +BEATRICE. Hugh is right about his family. It'll never make any new life +for itself. + +EDWARD. There are Booth's children. + +BEATRICE. Poor little devils! + +ALICE. [_judicially._] Emily is an excellent mother. + +BEATRICE. Yes . . they'll grow up good men and women. And one will go +into the Army and one into the Navy and one into the Church . . and +perhaps one to the Devil and the Colonies. They'll serve their country +and govern it and help to keep it like themselves . . dull and +respectable . . hopelessly middle-class. [_she puts down her work now +and elevates an oratorical fist._] Genius and Poverty may exist in +England, if they'll hide their heads. For show days we've our +aristocracy. But never let us forget, gentlemen, that it is the plain +solid middle-class man who has made us . . what we are. + +EDWARD. [_in sympathetic derision._] Hear hear . . ! and cries of bravo! + +BEATRICE. Now, that is out of my book . . the next one. [_she takes up +her work again._] You know, Edward . . without wishing to open up +Painful Streets . . however scandalous it has been, your father left you +a man's work to do. + +EDWARD. [_his face cloudy._] An outlaw's! + +BEATRICE. [_whimsical, after a moment._] I meant that. At all events +you've not had to be your father's right arm . . or the instrument of +justice . . or a representative of the people . . or anything second +hand of that sort, have you? + +EDWARD. [_with sudden excitement._] Do you know what I discovered the +other day about [_he nods at the portrait._] . . him? + +BEATRICE. [_enquiring calmly._] Innocence or guilt? + +EDWARD. He saved his firm once . . that was true. A most capable piece +of heroism. Then, fifteen years afterwards . . he started again. + +BEATRICE. [_greatly interested._] Did he now? + +EDWARD. One can't believe it was merely through weakness . . + +BEATRICE. [_with artistic enthusiasm._] Of course not. He was a great +financier . . a man of imagination. He had to find scope for his +abilities or die. He despised these fat little clients living so snugly +on their unearned incomes . . and put them and their money to the best +use he could. + +EDWARD. [_shaking his head solemnly._] That's all a fine phrase for +robbery. + +BEATRICE _turns her clever face to him and begins to follow up her +subject keenly_. + +BEATRICE. My dear Edward . . I understand you've been robbing your rich +clients for the benefit of the poor ones? + +ALICE. [_who hasn't missed a word._] That's true. + +EDWARD. [_gently._] Well . . we're all a bit in debt to the poor, aren't +we? + +BEATRICE. Quite so. And you don't possess and your father didn't possess +that innate sense of the sacredness of property . . . [_she enjoys that +phrase._] which alone can make a truly honest man. Nor did the man +possess it who picked my pocket last Friday week . . nor does the +tax-gatherer . . . nor do I. Your father's freedom from prejudice was +tempered by a taste for Power and Display. Yours is by Charity. But +that's all the difference I'll admit between you. Robbery! . . it's a +beautiful word. + +EDWARD. [_a little pained by as much of this as he takes to be +serious._] I think he might have told me the truth. + +BEATRICE. Perhaps he didn't know it! Would you have believed him? + +EDWARD. Perhaps not. But I loved him. + +BEATRICE _looks again at the gentle, earnest face_. + +BEATRICE. After as well as before? + +EDWARD. Yes. And not from mere force of habit either. + +BEATRICE. [_with reverence in her voice now._] That should silence a +bench of judges. Well . . well . . + +_Her sewing finished, she stuffs the things into her basket, gets up in +her abrupt unconventional way and goes without another word. Her brain +is busy with the Voysey Inheritance._ EDWARD _and_ ALICE _are left in +chairs by the fire, facing each other like an old domestic couple_. + +EDWARD. Stay and speak to me. + +ALICE. I want to. Something more serious has happened since dinner. + +EDWARD. I'm glad you can see that. + +ALICE. What is it? + +EDWARD. [_with sudden exultation._] The smash has come . . and not by my +fault. Old George Booth-- + +ALICE. Has he been here? + +EDWARD. Can you imagine it? That old man forced me into telling him the +truth. I told him to take what money of his there was, and prosecute. He +won't prosecute, but he bargains to take the money . . and further to +bleed us, sovereign by sovereign, as I earn sovereign by sovereign with +the sweat of my soul. I'll see him in his Christian Heaven first . . the +Jew! + +ALICE. [_keeping her head._] You can't reason with him? + +EDWARD. He thinks he has the whip hand and he means to use it. Also the +Vicar has been told . . who has told his wife. She knows how not to keep +a secret. The smash has come at last. + +ALICE. So you're glad? + +EDWARD. Thankful. My conscience is clear. I've done my best. [_then as +usual with him, his fervour collapses._] And oh, Alice . . has it been +worth doing? + +ALICE. [_encouragingly._] Half a dozen people pulled out of the fire. + +EDWARD. If only that isn't found out! I've bungled this job, Alice. I +feared all along I should. It was work for a strong man . . not for me. + +ALICE. Work for a patient man. + +EDWARD. You use kind words. But I've never shirked the truth about +myself. My father said mine was a weak nature. He knew. + +ALICE. You have a religious nature. + +EDWARD. [_surprised._] Oh no! + +ALICE. [_proceeding to explain._] Therefore you're not fond of creeds +and ceremonies. Therefore . . as the good things of this wordly world +don't satisfy you, you shirk contact with it all you can. I understand +this temptation to neglect and despise practical things. But if one +yields to it one's character narrows and cheapens. That's a pity . . but +it's so. + +EDWARD. [_his eyes far away._] D'you ever feel that there aren't enough +windows in a house? + +ALICE. [_prosaically._] In this weather . . too many. + +EDWARD. Well then . . in a house--especially in a big city--in my office +at work, then . . one is out of hearing of all the music of the world. +And when one does get back to Nature, instead of being all curves to her +roundness, one is all corners. + +ALICE. [_smiling at him._] Yes, you love to think idly . . just as Hugh +does. You do it quite well, too. [_then briskly._] Edward, may I scold +you? + +EDWARD. For that? + +ALICE. Because of that. You're grown to be a sloven lately . . +deliberately letting yourself be unhappy. + +EDWARD. Is happiness under one's control? + +ALICE. My friend, you shouldn't neglect your happiness any more than you +neglect to wash your face. Here has the squalour of your work been +making you poor. Because it was liable to be stopped at any moment +uncompleted . . why should that let your life be incomplete? Edward, for +the last eighteen months you've been more like a moral portent than a +man. You've not had a smile to throw to a friend . . or an opinion upon +any subject. You've dropped your Volunteering. [_he protests._] I know +there's something comic in volunteering . . though Heaven knows what it +is! I suppose you found it out of keeping with your unhappy fate. And +how slack you were in your politics last November. I don't believe you +even voted . . + +EDWARD. [_contrite at this._] That was wrong of me! + +ALICE. Yes, I expect a man to be a good citizen. And you don't even eat +properly. + +_With that she completes the accusation and_ EDWARD _searches round for +a defence_. + +EDWARD. Alice, it was always an effort with me to do all those things . . +and lately every effort has had to go to my work. + +ALICE. You did them . . on principle. + +EDWARD. Don't laugh at me. + +ALICE. [_whispering the awful words._] Then truthfully, Edward, once +upon a time you were a bit of a prig. + +EDWARD. [_with enough sense of humour to whisper back._] Was I? + +ALICE. I'm afraid so! But the prig fell ill when your father died . . +and had to be buried in his grave. [_Then her voice rises stirringly._] +Oh, don't you see what a blessing this cursed work was meant to be to +you? Why must you stand stiff against it? + +EDWARD. [_without a smile now._] But lately, Alice, I've hardly known +myself. Once or twice I've lost my temper . . I've been brutal. + +ALICE. That's the best news in the world. There's your own wicked nature +coming out. That's what we've been waiting for . . that's what we want. +That's you. + +EDWARD. [_still serious._] I'm sorry for it. + +ALICE. Oh, Edward, be a little proud of poor humanity . . take your own +share in it gladly. It so discourages the rest of us if you don't. + +_Suddenly he breaks down completely._ + +EDWARD. I can't let myself be glad and live. There's the future to think +of. And I'm so afraid of that. I must pretend I don't care . . even to +myself . . even to you. + +ALICE. [_her mocking at an end._] What is it you fear most about the +future . . not just the obviously unpleasant things? + +EDWARD. They'll put me in prison. + +ALICE. Perhaps. + +EDWARD. Who'll be the man who comes out? + +ALICE. Yourself. + +EDWARD. No, no! I'm a coward. I can't stand alone, it's too lonely. I +need affection . . I need friends. I cling to people that I don't care +for deeply . . just for the comfort of it. I've no home of my own. Every +house that welcomes me now I like to think of as something of a home. +And I know that this disgrace in store will leave me for a long time or +a short time . . homeless. + +_There he sits shaken._ ALICE _waits a moment, not taking her eyes from +him; then speaks_. + +ALICE. There's something else I want to scold you for. You've still +given up proposing to me. Certainly that shows a lack of courage . . and +of perseverance. Or is it the loss of what I always considered a very +laudable ambition? + +EDWARD _is hardly able to trust his ears. Then he looks into her face +and his thankfulness frames itself into a single sentence._ + +EDWARD. Will you marry me? + +ALICE. Yes, Edward. + +_For a minute he just holds his breath with happiness. But he shakes +himself free of it, almost savagely._ + +EDWARD. No, no, no, we mustn't be stupid. I'm sorry I asked for that. + +ALICE. [_with serene strength._] I'm glad that you want me. While I live +. . where I am will be Home. + +EDWARD. [_struggling with himself._] No, it's too late. If you'd said +Yes before I came into my inheritance . . perhaps I shouldn't have +given myself to the work. So be glad that it's too late. I am. + +ALICE. [_happily._] There was never any chance of my marrying you when +you were only a well-principled prig. I didn't want you . . and I don't +believe you really wanted me. Now you do. And you must always take what +you want. + +EDWARD. [_turning to her again._] My dear, what have we to start life +upon . . to build our house upon? Poverty . . and prison for me. + +ALICE. [_mischievous._] Edward, you seem to think that all the money in +the world was invested in your precious firm. I have four hundred a year +of my own. At least let that tempt you. + +EDWARD _catches her in his arms with a momentary little burst of +passion_. + +EDWARD. You're tempting me. + +_She did not resist, but nevertheless he breaks away from her, +disappointed with himself. She goes on, quietly, serenely._ + +ALICE. Am I? Am I playing upon your senses in any way? Am I a silly +child looking to you for protection in return for your favour? Shall I +hinder or help your life? If you don't think me your equal as woman to +man, we'll never speak of this again. But if you do . . look at me and +make your choice. To refuse me my work and happiness in life and to +cripple your own nature . . or to take my hand. + +_She puts out her hand frankly, as a friend should. With only a second's +thought he, happy too now, takes it as frankly. Then she sits beside him +and quite cheerfully changes the subject._ + +ALICE. Now, referring to the subject of Mr. George Booth. What will he +do? + +EDWARD. [_responsive though impatient._] He'll do nothing. I shall be +before him. + +ALICE. What about his proposal? + +EDWARD. That needs no answer. + +ALICE. Yes, it does. I know the temptation to hit back at him +mock-heroically . . it's natural. Well, we'll consider it done. But he's +a silly old man and he doesn't know what he's talking about. I think we +can bargain with him to keep the firm going somehow . . and if we can we +must. + +_At this_ EDWARD _makes a last attempt to abandon himself to his +troubles_. + +EDWARD. No, Alice, no . . let it end here. It has done for me . . I'm +broken. And of course we can't be married . . that's absurd. + +ALICE. [_with firmness enough for two._] We shall be married. And +nothing's broken . . except our pride and righteousness . . and several +other things we're better without. And now we must break our dignity in +to bargaining. + +EDWARD. [_struggling in the toils of virtue._] But it'll be so useless. +Colpus'll be round in a day or two to make his conditions . . he'll tell +some intimate friend. They'll all come after their money like wasps +after honey. And if they know I won't lift a finger in my own defence . . +what sort of mercy will they have? + +ALICE. [_triumphantly completing her case._] No, Edward, if you +surrender yourself entirely, you'll find them powerless against you. You +see, you had something to hope or fear from Mr. Booth . . you hoped in +your heart he'd end your trouble. But when you've conquered that last +little atom of the selfishness which gets in one's way, I think you'll +find you can do what you wish with these selfish men. [_and she adds +fervently._] Oh, it's a power so seldom used. But the man who is able, +and cares deeply, and yet has nothing to hope or fear is all powerful . . +even in little things. + +EDWARD. Will nothing ever happen to set me free? Shall I never be able +to rest for a moment . . turn round and say I've succeeded or I've +failed? + +ALICE. That isn't what matters. + +EDWARD. If they could all meet and agree, they might syndicate +themselves and keep me at it for life. + +ALICE. What more could you wish for? + +EDWARD. Than that dreary round! + +ALICE. My dear, the world must be put tidy. That's the work which +splendid criminals . . and others leave about for us poor commonplace +people to do. + +EDWARD. [_with a little laugh._] And I don't believe in Heaven either. + +ALICE. [_close to him._] But there's to be our life. What's wrong with +that? + +EDWARD. My dear, when they put me in prison for swindling--[_he makes +the word sound its worst._] + +ALICE. I think they won't. But if they are so stupid . . I must be very +careful. + +EDWARD. Of what? + +ALICE. To avoid false pride. I shall be foolishly proud of you. + +EDWARD. It's good to be praised sometimes . . by you. + +ALICE. My heart praises you. Good night. + +EDWARD. Good night. + +_She kisses his forehead. But he puts up his face like a child, so she +bends down and for the first time their lips meet. Then she steps back +from him, adding happily, with perhaps just a touch of shyness._ + +ALICE. Till to-morrow. + +EDWARD. [_echoing in gratitude the hope and promise in her voice._] Till +to-morrow. + +_She leaves him to sit there by the table for a few moments longer, +looking into his future, streaked as it is to be with trouble and joy. +As whose is not? From above . . from above the mantelpiece, that is to +say . . the face of the late_ MR. VOYSEY _seems to look down upon his +son not unkindly, though with that curious buccaneering twist of the +eyebrows which distinguished his countenance in life_. + + + + + Waste + + 1906-7 + + + + + WASTE + + +At Shapters, GEORGE FARRANT'S house in Hertfordshire. Ten o'clock on a +Sunday evening in summer. + +_Facing you at her piano by the window, from which she is protected by a +little screen, sits_ MRS. FARRANT; _a woman of the interesting age, +clear-eyed and all her face serene, except for a little pucker of the +brows which shows a puzzled mind upon some important matters. To become +almost an ideal hostess has been her achievement; and in her own home, +as now, this grace is written upon every movement. Her eyes pass over +the head of a girl, sitting in a low chair by a little table, with the +shaded lamplight falling on her face. This is_ LUCY DAVENPORT; +_twenty-three, undefeated in anything as yet and so unsoftened. The book +on her lap is closed, for she has been listening to the music. It is +possibly some German philosopher, whom she reads with a critical +appreciation of his shortcomings. On the sofa near her lounges_ MRS. +O'CONNELL; _a charming woman, if by charming you understand a woman who +converts every quality she possesses into a means of attraction, and has +no use for any others. On the sofa opposite sits_ MISS TREBELL. _In a +few years, when her hair is quite grey, she will assume as by right the +dignity of an old maid. Between these two in a low armchair is_ LADY +DAVENPORT. _She has attained to many dignities. Mother and grandmother, +she has brought into the world and nourished not merely life but +character. A wonderful face she has, full of proud memories and fearless +of the future. Behind her, on a sofa between the windows, is_ WALTER +KENT. _He is just what the average English father would like his son to +be. You can see the light shooting out through the windows and mixing +with moonshine upon a smooth lawn. On your left is a door. There are +many books in the room, hardly any pictures, a statuette perhaps. The +owner evidently sets beauty of form before beauty of colour. It is a +woman's room and it has a certain delicate austerity. By the time you +have observed everything_, MRS. FARRANT _has played Chopin's prelude +opus 28, number 20 from beginning to end_. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Thank you, my dear Julia. + +WALTER KENT. [_Protesting._] No more? + +MRS. FARRANT. I won't play for a moment longer than I feel musical. + +MISS TREBELL. Do you think it right, Julia, to finish with that after an +hour's Bach? + +MRS. FARRANT. I suddenly came over Chopinesque, Fanny; . . what's your +objection? [_as she sits by her._] + +FRANCES TREBELL. What . . when Bach has raised me to the heights of +unselfishness! + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Grimacing sweetly, her eyes only half lifted._] Does +he? I'm glad that I don't understand him. + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_Putting mere prettiness in its place._] One may +prefer Chopin when one is young. + +AMY O'CONNELL. And is that a reproach or a compliment? + +WALTER KENT. [_Boldly._] I do. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Or a man may . . unless he's a philosopher. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_To the rescue._] Miss Trebell, you're very hard on +mere humanity. + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_Completing the reproof._] That's my wretched training +as a schoolmistress, Lady Davenport . . one grew to fear it above all +things. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Throwing in the monosyllable with sharp youthful +enquiry._] Why? + +FRANCES TREBELL. There were no text books on the subject. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Smiling at her friend._] Yes, Fanny . . I think you +escaped to look after your brother only just in time. + +FRANCES TREBELL. In another year I might have been head-mistress, which +commits you to approve of the system for ever. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_Shaking her wise head._] I've watched the Education +fever take England . . . + +FRANCES TREBELL. If I hadn't stopped teaching things I didn't +understand . . ! + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Not without mischief._] And what was the effect on the +pupils? + +LUCY DAVENPORT. I can tell you that. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Frances never taught you. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. No, I wish she had. But I was at her sort of a school +before I went to Newnham. I know. + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_Very distastefully._] Up-to-date, it was described +as. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. Well, it was like a merry-go-round at top speed. You +felt things wouldn't look a bit like that when you came to a standstill. + +AMY O'CONNELL. And they don't? + +LUCY DAVENPORT. [_With great decision._] Not a bit. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_In her velvet tone._] I was taught the whole duty of +woman by a parson-uncle who disbelieved in his Church. + +WALTER KENT. When a man at Jude's was going to take orders . . . + +AMY O'CONNELL. Jude's? + +WALTER KENT. At Oxford. The dons went very gingerly with him over bits +of science and history. + +[_This wakes a fruitful thought in_ JULIA FARRANT'S _brain_.] + +MRS. FARRANT. Mamma, have you ever discussed so-called anti-Christian +science with Lord Charles? + +FRANCES TREBELL. . . Cantelupe? + +MRS. FARRANT. Yes. It was over appointing a teacher for the schools down +here . . he was staying with us. The Vicar's his fervent disciple. +However, we were consulted. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. Didn't Lord Charles want you to send the boys there till +they were ready for Harrow? + +MRS. FARRANT. Yes. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Quite the last thing in Toryism! + +MRS. FARRANT. Mamma made George say we were too _nouveau riche_ to risk +it. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_As she laughs._] I couldn't resist that. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Catching something of her subject's dry driving +manner._] Lord Charles takes the superior line and says . . that with +his consent the Church may teach the unalterable Truth in scientific +language or legendary, whichever is easier understanded of the people. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Is it the prospect of Disestablishment suddenly makes +him so accommodating? + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_With large contempt._] He needn't be. The majority of +people believe the world was made in an English week. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. Oh, no! + +FRANCES TREBELL. No Bishop dare deny it. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_From the heights of experience._] Dear Lucy, do you +seriously think that the English spirit--the nerve that runs down the +backbone--is disturbed by new theology . . or new anything? + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_Enjoying her epigram._] What a waste of persecution +history shows us! + +WALTER KENT _now captures the conversation with a very young +politician's fervour_. + +WALTER KENT. Once they're disestablished they must make up their minds +what they do believe. + +LADY DAVENPORT. I presume Lord Charles thinks it'll hand the Church over +to him and his . . dare I say 'Sect'? + +WALTER KENT. Won't it? He knows what he wants. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Subtly._] There's the election to come yet. + +WALTER KENT. But now both parties are pledged to a bill of some sort. + +MRS. FARRANT. Political prophecies have a knack of not coming true; but, +d'you know, Cyril Horsham warned me to watch this position developing . . +nearly four years ago. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Sitting on the opposition bench sharpens the eye-sight. + +WALTER KENT. [_Ironically._] Has he been pleased with the prospect? + +MRS. FARRANT. [_With perfect diplomacy._] If the Church must be +disestablished . . better done by its friends than its enemies. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Still I don't gather he's pleased with his dear cousin +Charles's conduct. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Shrugging._] Oh, lately, Lord Charles has never +concealed his tactics. + +FRANCES TREBELL. And that speech at Leeds was the crowning move I +suppose; just asking the Nonconformists to bring things to a head? + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Judicially._] I think that was precipitate. + +WALTER KENT. [_Giving them_ LORD CHARLES'S _oratory_.] Gentlemen, in +these latter days of Radical opportunism!--You know, I was there . . +sitting next to an old gentleman who shouted "Jesuit." + +FRANCES TREBELL. But supposing Mallaby and the Nonconformists hadn't +been able to force the Liberals' hand? + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Speaking as of inferior beings._] Why, they were glad of +any cry going to the Country! + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_As she considers this._] Yes . . and Lord Charles +would still have had as good a chance of forcing Lord Horsham's. It has +been clever tactics. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Who has been listening, sharp-eyed._] Contrariwise, he +wouldn't have liked a Radical Bill though, would he? + +WALTER KENT. [_With aplomb._] He knew he was safe from that. The +government must have dissolved before Christmas anyway . . and the swing +of the pendulum's a sure thing. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_With her smile._] It's never a sure thing. + +WALTER KENT. Oh, Mrs. Farrant, look how unpopular the Liberals are. + +FRANCES TREBELL. What made them bring in Resolutions? + +WALTER KENT. [_Overflowing with knowledge of the subject._] I was told +Mallaby insisted on their showing they meant business. I thought he was +being too clever . . and it turns out he was. Tommy Luxmore told me +there was a fearful row in the Cabinet about it. But on their last legs, +you know, it didn't seem to matter, I suppose. Even then, if Prothero +had mustered up an ounce of tact . . I believe they could have pulled +them through . . + +FRANCES TREBELL. Not the Spoliation one. + +WALTER KENT. Well, Mr. Trebell dished that! + +FRANCES TREBELL. Henry says his speech didn't turn a vote. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_With charming irony._] How disinterested of him! + +WALTER KENT. [_Enthusiastic._] That speech did if ever a speech did. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Is there any record of a speech that ever did? He just +carried his own little following with him. + +MRS. FARRANT. But the crux of the whole matter is and has always been . . +what's to be done with the Church's money. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Visualising sovereigns._] A hundred millions or so . . +think of it! + +FRANCES TREBELL. There has been from the start a good deal of +anti-Nonconformist feeling against applying the money to secular uses. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Deprecating false modesty, on anyone's behalf._] Oh, of +course the speech turned votes . . twenty of them at least. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Determined on information._] Then I was told Lord +Horsham had tried to come to an understanding himself with the +Nonconformists about Disestablishment--oh--a long time ago . . over the +Education Bill. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Is that true, Julia? + +MRS. FARRANT. How should I know? + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_With some mischief._] You might. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Weighing her words._] I don't think it would have been +altogether wise to make advances. They'd have asked more than a +Conservative government could possibly persuade the Church to give up. + +WALTER KENT. I don't see that Horsham's much better off now. He only +turned the Radicals out on the Spoliation question by the help of +Trebell. And so far . . I mean, till this election is over Trebell +counts still as one of them, doesn't he, Miss Trebell? Oh . . perhaps he +doesn't. + +FRANCES TREBELL. He'll tell you he never has counted as one of them. + +MRS. FARRANT. No doubt Lord Charles would sooner have done without his +help. And that's why I didn't ask the gentle Jesuit this week-end if +anyone wants to know. + +WALTER KENT. [_Stupent at this lack of party spirit._] What . . he'd +rather have had the Liberals go to the country undefeated! + +MRS. FARRANT. [_With finesse._] The election may bring us back +independent of Mr. Trebell and anything he stands for. + +WALTER KENT. [_Sharply._] But you asked Lord Horsham to meet him. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_With still more finesse._] I had my reasons. Votes +aren't everything. + +LADY DAVENPORT _has been listening with rather a doubtful smile; she now +caps the discussion_. + +LADY DAVENPORT. I'm relieved to hear you say so, my dear Julia. On the +other hand democracy seems to have brought itself to a pretty pass. +Here's a measure, which the country as a whole neither demands nor +approves of, will certainly be carried, you tell me, because a minority +on each side is determined it shall be . . for totally different +reasons. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Shrugging again._] It isn't our business to prevent +popular government looking foolish, Mamma. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Is that Tory cynicism or feminine? + +_At this moment_ GEORGE FARRANT _comes through the window; a +good-natured man of forty-five. He would tell you that he was educated +at Eton and Oxford. But the knowledge which saves his life comes from +the thrusting upon him of authority and experience; ranging from the +management of an estate which he inherited at twenty-four, through the +chairmanship of a newspaper syndicate, through a successful marriage, +to a minor post in the last Tory cabinet and the prospect of one in the +near-coming next. Thanks to his agents, editors, permanent officials, +and his own common sense, he always acquits himself creditably. He comes +to his wife's side and waits for a pause in the conversation._ + +LADY DAVENPORT. I remember Mr. Disraeli once said to me . . Clever women +are as dangerous to the State as dynamite. + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_Not to be impressed by Disraeli._] Well, Lady +Davenport, if men will leave our intellects lying loose about . . + +FARRANT. Blackborough's going, Julia. + +MRS. FARRANT. Yes, George. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_Concluding her little apologue to_ MISS TREBELL.] Yes, +my dear, but power without responsibility isn't good for the character +that wields it either. + +[_There follows_ FARRANT _through the window a man of fifty. He has +about him that unmistakeable air of acquired wealth and power which +distinguishes many Jews and has therefore come to be regarded as a +solely Jewish characteristic. He speaks always with that swift decision +which betokens a narrowed view. This is_ RUSSELL BLACKBOROUGH; +_manufacturer, politician . . statesman, his own side calls him_.] + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_To his hostess._] If I start now, they tell me, I shall +get home before the moon goes down. I'm sorry I must get back to-night. +It's been a most delightful week-end. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Gracefully giving him a good-bye hand._] And a +successful one, I hope. + +FARRANT. We talked Education for half an hour. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Her eyebrows lifting a shade._] Education! + +FARRANT. Then Trebell went away to work. + +BLACKBOROUGH. I've missed the music, I fear. + +MRS. FARRANT. But it's been Bach. + +BLACKBOROUGH. No Chopin? + +MRS. FARRANT. For a minute only. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Why don't these new Italian men write things for the +piano? Good-night, Lady Davenport. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_As he bows over her hand._] And what has Education to +do with it? + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Non-committal himself._] Perhaps it was a subject that +compromised nobody. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Do you think my daughter has been wasting her time and +her tact? + +FARRANT. [_Clapping him on the shoulder._] Blackborough's frankly +flabbergasted at the publicity of this intrigue. + +MRS. FARRANT. Intrigue! Mr. Trebell walked across the House . . actually +into your arms. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_With a certain dubious grimness._] Well . . we've had +some very interesting talks since. And his views upon Education are +quite . . Utopian. Good-bye, Miss Trebell. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Good-bye. + +MRS. FARRANT. I wouldn't be so haughty till after the election, if I +were you, Mr. Blackborough. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Indifferently._] Oh, I'm glad he's with us on the Church +question . . so far. + +MRS. FARRANT. So far as you've made up your minds? The electoral cat +will jump soon. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_A little beaten by such polite cynicism._] Well . . our +conservative principles! After all we know what they are. Good-night, +Mrs. O'Connell. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Good-night. + +FARRANT. Your neuralgia better? + +AMY O'CONNELL. By fits and starts. + +FARRANT. [_Robustly._] Come and play billiards. Horsham and Maconochie +started a game. They can neither of them play. We left them working out +a theory of angles on bits of paper. + +WALTER KENT. Professor Maconochie lured me on to golf yesterday. He +doesn't suffer from theories about that. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_With approval._] Started life as a caddie. + +WALTER KENT. [_Pulling a wry face._] So he told me after the first hole. + +BLACKBOROUGH. What's this, Kent, about Trebell's making you his +secretary? + +WALTER KENT. He thinks he'll have me. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Almost reprovingly._] No question of politics? + +FARRANT. More intrigue, Blackborough. + +WALTER KENT. [_With disarming candour._] The truth is, you see, I +haven't any as yet. I was Socialist at Oxford . . but of course that +doesn't count. I think I'd better learn my job under the best man I can +find . . and who'll have me. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Gravely._] What does your father say? + +WALTER KENT. Oh, as long as Jack will inherit the property in a Tory +spirit! My father thinks it my wild oats. + +_A Footman has come in._ + +THE FOOTMAN. Your car is round, sir. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Ah! Good-night, Miss Davenport. Good-bye again, Mrs. +Farrant . . a charming week-end. + +_He makes a business-like departure_, FARRANT _follows him_. + +THE FOOTMAN. A telephone message from Dr. Wedgecroft, ma'am. His thanks; +they stopped the express for him at Hitchin and he has reached London +quite safely. + +MRS. FARRANT. Thank you. + +[_The Footman goes out._ MRS. FARRANT _exhales delicately as if the air +were a little refined by_ BLACKBOROUGH'S _removal_.] + +MRS. FARRANT. Mr. Blackborough and his patent turbines and his gas +engines and what not are the motive power of our party nowadays, Fanny. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Yes, you claim to be steering plutocracy. Do you never +wonder if it isn't steering you? + +MRS. O'CONNELL, _growing restless, has wandered round the room picking +at the books in their cases_. + +AMY O'CONNELL. I always like your books, Julia. It's an intellectual +distinction to know someone who has read them. + +MRS. FARRANT. That's the Communion I choose. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Aristocrat . . fastidious aristocrat. + +MRS. FARRANT. No, now. Learning's a great leveller. + +FRANCES TREBELL. But Julia . . books are quite unreal. D'you think life +is a bit like them? + +MRS. FARRANT. They bring me into touch with . . Oh, there's nothing more +deadening than to be boxed into a set in Society! Speak to a woman +outside it . . she doesn't understand your language. + +FRANCES TREBELL. And do you think by prattling Hegel with Gilbert +Wedgecroft when he comes to physic you-- + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Joyously._] Excellent physic that is. He never leaves a +prescription. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Don't you think an aristocracy of brains is the best +aristocracy, Miss Trebell? + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_With a little more bitterness than the abstraction of +the subject demands._] I'm sure it is just as out of touch with humanity +as any other . . more so, perhaps. If I were a country I wouldn't be +governed by arid intellects. + +MRS. FARRANT. Manners, Frances. + +FRANCES TREBELL. I'm one myself and I know. They're either dead or +dangerous. + +GEORGE FARRANT _comes back and goes straight to_ MRS. O'CONNELL. + +FARRANT. [_Still robustly._] Billiards, Mrs. O'Connell. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Declining sweetly._] I think not. + +FARRANT. Billiards, Lucy? + +LUCY DAVENPORT. [_As robust as he._] Yes, Uncle George. You shall mark +while Walter gives me twenty-five and I beat him. + +WALTER KENT. [_With a none-of-your-impudence air._] I'll give you ten +yards start and race you to the billiard room. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. Will you wear my skirt? Oh . . Grandmamma's thinking me +vulgar. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_Without prejudice._] Why, my dear, freedom of limb is +worth having . . and perhaps it fits better with freedom of tongue. + +FARRANT. [_In the proper avuncular tone._] I'll play you both . . and +I'd race you both if you weren't so disgracefully young. + +AMY O'CONNELL _has reached an open window_. + +AMY O'CONNELL. I shall go for a walk with my neuralgia. + +MRS. FARRANT. Poor thing! + +AMY O'CONNELL. The moon's good for it. + +LUCY DAVENPORT. Shall you come, Aunt Julia? + +MRS. FARRANT. [_In flat protest._] No, I will not sit up while you play +billiards. + +MRS. O'CONNELL _goes out through the one window, stands for a moment, +wistfully romantic, gazing at the moon, then disappears_. FARRANT _and_ +WALTER KENT _are standing at the other, looking across the lawn_. + +FARRANT. Horsham still arguing with Maconochie. They're got to Botany +now. + +WALTER KENT. Demonstrating something with a . . what's that thing? + +WALTER _goes out_. + +FARRANT. [_With a throw of his head towards the distant_ HORSHAM.] He +was so bored with our politics . . having to give his opinion too. We +could just hear your piano. + +_And he follows_ WALTER. + +MRS. FARRANT. Take Amy O'Connell that lace thing, will you, Lucy? + +LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Her tone expressing quite wonderfully her sentiments +towards the owner._] Don't you think she'd sooner catch cold? + +_She catches it up and follows the two men; then after looking round +impatiently, swings off in the direction_ MRS. O'CONNELL _took. The +three women now left together are at their ease._ + +FRANCES TREBELL. Did you expect Mr. Blackborough to get on well with +Henry? + +MRS. FARRANT. He has become a millionaire by appreciating clever men +when he met them. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Yes, Julia, but his political conscience is +comparatively new-born. + +MRS. FARRANT. Well, Mamma, can we do without Mr. Trebell? + +LADY DAVENPORT. Everyone seems to think you'll come back with something +of a majority. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_A little impatient._] What's the good of that? The Bill +can't be brought into the Lords . . and who's going to take +Disestablishment through the Commons for us? Not Eustace Fowler . . not +Mr. Blackborough . . not Lord Charles . . not George! + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_Warningly._] Not all your brilliance as a hostess will +keep Mr. Trebell in a Tory Cabinet. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_With wilful avoidance of the point._] Cyril Horsham is +only too glad. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Because you tell him he ought to be. + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_Coming to the rescue._] There is this. Henry has +never exactly called himself a Liberal. He really is elected +independently. + +MRS. FARRANT. I wonder will all the garden-cities become +pocket-boroughs. + +FRANCES TREBELL. I think he has made a mistake. + +MRS. FARRANT. It makes things easier now . . his having kept his +freedom. + +FRANCES TREBELL. I think it's a mistake to stand outside a system. +There's an inhumanity in that amount of detachment . . + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Brilliantly._] I think a statesman may be a little +inhuman. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_With keenness._] Do you mean superhuman? It's not the +same thing, you know. + +MRS. FARRANT. I know. + +LADY DAVENPORT. Most people don't know. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Proceeding with her cynicism._] Humanity achieves . . +what? Housekeeping and children. + +FRANCES TREBELL. As far as a woman's concerned. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_A little mockingly._] Now, Mamma, say that is as far as +a woman's concerned. + +LADY DAVENPORT. My dear, you know I don't think so. + +MRS. FARRANT. We may none of us think so. But there's our position . . +bread and butter and a certain satisfaction until . . Oh, Mamma, I wish +I were like you . . beyond all the passions of life. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_With great vitality._] I'm nothing of the sort. It's +my egoism's dead . . that's an intimation of mortality. + +MRS. FARRANT. I accept the snub. But I wonder what I'm to do with myself +for the next thirty years. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Help Lord Horsham to govern the country. + +JULIA FARRANT _gives a little laugh and takes up the subject this time_. + +MRS. FARRANT. Mamma . . how many people, do you think, believe that +Cyril's _grande passion_ for me takes that form? + +LADY DAVENPORT. Everyone who knows Cyril and most people who know you. + +MRS. FARRANT. Otherwise I seem to have fulfilled my mission in life. The +boys are old enough to go to school. George and I have become happily +unconscious of each other. + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_With sudden energy of mind._] Till I was forty I +never realised the fact that most women must express themselves through +men. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Looking at_ FRANCES _a little curiously_.] Didn't your +instinct lead you to marry . . or did you fight against it? + +FRANCES TREBELL. I don't know. Perhaps I had no vitality to spare. + +LADY DAVENPORT. That boy is a long time proposing to Lucy. + +_This effectually startles the other two from their conversational +reverie._ + +MRS. FARRANT. Walter? I'm not sure that he means to. She means to marry +him if he does. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Has she told you so? + +MRS. FARRANT. No. I judge by her business-like interest in his welfare. + +FRANCES TREBELL. He's beginning to feel the responsibility of manhood . . +doesn't know whether to be frightened or proud of it. + +LADY DAVENPORT. It's a pretty thing to watch young people mating. When +they're older and marry from disappointment or deliberate choice, +thinking themselves so worldly-wise . . + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Back to her politely cynical mood._] Well . . then at +least they don't develop their differences at the same fire-side, +regretting the happy time when neither possessed any character at all. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_Giving a final douche of common sense._] My dear, any +two reasonable people ought to be able to live together. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Granted three sitting rooms. That'll be the next +middle-class political cry . . when women are heard. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Suddenly as practical as her mother._] Walter's lucky . . +Lucy won't stand any nonsense. She'll have him in the Cabinet by the +time he's fifty. + +LADY DAVENPORT. And are you the power behind your brother, Miss Trebell? + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_Gravely._] He ignores women. I've forced enough good +manners on him to disguise the fact decently. His affections are two +generations ahead. + +MRS. FARRANT. People like him in an odd sort of way. + +FRANCES TREBELL. That's just respect for work done . . one can't escape +from it. + +_There is a slight pause in their talk. By some not very devious route_ +MRS. FARRANT'S _mind travels to the next subject_. + +MRS. FARRANT. Fanny . . how fond are you of Amy O'Connell? + +FRANCES TREBELL. She says we're great friends. + +MRS. FARRANT. She says that of me. + +FRANCES TREBELL. It's a pity about her husband. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Almost provokingly._] What about him? + +FRANCES TREBELL. It seems to be understood that he treats her badly. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_A little malicious._] Is there any particular reason +he should treat her well? + +FRANCES TREBELL. Don't you like her, Lady Davenport? + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_Dealing out justice._] I find her quite charming to +look at and talk to . . but why shouldn't Justin O'Connell live in +Ireland for all that? I'm going to bed, Julia. + +_She collects her belongings and gets up._ + +MRS. FARRANT. I must look in at the billiard room. + +FRANCES TREBELL. I won't come, Julia. + +MRS. FARRANT. What's your brother working at? + +FRANCES TREBELL. I don't know. Something we shan't hear of for a year, +perhaps. + +MRS. FARRANT. On the Church business, I daresay. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Did you hear Lord Horsham at dinner on the lack of +dignity in an irreligious state? + +MRS. FARRANT. Poor Cyril . . he'll have to find a way round that opinion +of his now. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Does he like leading his party? + +MRS. FARRANT. [_After due consideration._] It's an intellectual +exercise. He's the right man, Fanny. You see it isn't a party in the +active sense at all, except now and then when it's captured by someone +with an axe to grind. + +FRANCES TREBELL. [_Humorously._] Such as my brother. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_As humorous._] Such as your brother. It expresses the +thought of the men who aren't taken in by the claptrap of progress. + +FRANCES TREBELL. Sometimes they've a queer way of expressing their love +for the people of England. + +MRS. FARRANT. But one must use democracy. Wellington wouldn't . . +Disraeli did. + +LADY DAVENPORT. [_At the door._] Good-night, Miss Trebell. + +FRANCES TREBELL. I'm coming . . it's past eleven. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_At the window._] What a gorgeous night! I'll come in and +kiss you, Mamma. + +FRANCES _follows_ LADY DAVENPORT _and_ MRS. FARRANT _starts across the +lawn to the billiard room_ . . _An hour later you can see no change in +the room except that only one lamp is alight on the table in the +middle._ AMY O'CONNELL _and_ HENRY TREBELL _walk past one window and +stay for a moment in the light of the other. Her wrap is about her +shoulders. He stands looking down at her._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. There goes the moon . . it's quieter than ever now. [_She +comes in._] Is it very late? + +TREBELL. [_As he follows._] Half-past twelve. + +TREBELL _is hard-bitten, brainy, forty-five and very sure of himself. He +has a cold keen eye, which rather belies a sensitive mouth; hands which +can grip, and a figure that is austere._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. I ought to be in bed. I suppose everyone has gone. + +TREBELL. Early trains to-morrow. The billiard room lights are out. + +AMY O'CONNELL. The walk has just tired me comfortably. + +TREBELL. Sit down. [_She sits by the table. He sits by her and says with +the air of a certain buyer at a market._] You're very pretty. + +AMY O'CONNELL. As well here as by moonlight? Can't you see any wrinkles? + +TREBELL. One or two . . under the eyes. But they give character and +bring you nearer my age. Yes, Nature hit on the right curve in making +you. + +_She stretches herself cat-like._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. Praise is the greatest of luxuries, isn't it, Henry? . . +Henry . . [_she caresses the name._] + +TREBELL. Quite right . . Henry. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Henry . . Trebell. + +TREBELL. Having formally taken possession of my name . . + +AMY O'CONNELL. I'll go to bed. + +_His eyes have never moved from her. Now she breaks the contact and goes +towards the door._ + +TREBELL. I wouldn't . . my spare time for love making is so limited. + +_She turns back, quite at ease, her eyes challenging him._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. That's the first offensive thing you've said. + +TREBELL. Why offensive? + +AMY O'CONNELL. I may flirt. Making love's another matter. + +TREBELL. Sit down and explain the difference . . Mrs. O'Connell. + +_She sits down._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. Quite so. 'Mrs. O'Connell'. That's the difference. + +TREBELL. [_Provokingly._] But I doubt if I'm interested in the fact that +your husband doesn't understand you and that your marriage was a mistake +. . and how hard you find it to be strong. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Kindly._] I'm not quite a fool though you think so on a +three months' acquaintance. But tell me this . . what education besides +marriage does a woman get? + +TREBELL. [_His head lifting quickly._] Education . . + +AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be business-like. + +TREBELL. I beg your pardon. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Do you think the things you like to have taught in +schools are any use to one when one comes to deal with you? + +TREBELL. [_After a little scrutiny of her face._] Well, if marriage is +only the means to an end . . what's the end? Not flirtation. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_With an air of self-revelation._] I don't know. To keep +one's place in the world, I suppose, one's self-respect and a sense of +humour. + +TREBELL. Is that difficult? + +AMY O'CONNELL. To get what I want, without paying more than it's worth +to me . . ? + +TREBELL. Never to be reckless. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_With a side-glance._] One isn't so often tempted. + +TREBELL. In fact . . to flirt with life generally. Now, what made your +husband marry you? + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Dealing with the impertinence in her own fashion._] +What would make you marry me? Don't say: Nothing on earth. + +TREBELL. [_Speaking apparently of someone else._] A prolonged fit of +idleness might make me marry . . a clever woman. But I've never been +idle for more than a week. And I've never met a clever woman . . worth +calling a woman. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Bringing their talk back to herself, and +fastidiously._] Justin has all the natural instincts. + +TREBELL. He's Roman Catholic, isn't he? + +AMY O'CONNELL. So am I . . by profession. + +TREBELL. It's a poor religion unless you really believe in it. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Appealing to him._] If I were to live at Linaskea and +have as many children as God sent, I should manage to make Justin pretty +miserable! And what would be left of me at all I should like to know? + +TREBELL. So Justin lives at Linaskea alone? + +AMY O'CONNELL. I'm told now there's a pretty housemaid . . [_she +shrugs._] + +TREBELL. Does he drink too? + +AMY O'CONNELL. Oh, no. You'd like Justin, I daresay. He's clever. The +thirteenth century's what he knows about. He has done a book on its +statutes . . has been doing another. + +TREBELL. And after an evening's hard work I find you here ready to flirt +with. + +AMY O'CONNELL. What have you been working at? + +TREBELL. A twentieth century statute perhaps. That's not any concern of +yours either. + +_She does not follow his thought._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. No, I prefer you in your unprofessional moments. + +TREBELL. Real flattery. I didn't know I had any. + +AMY O'CONNELL. That's why you should flirt with me . . Henry . . to +cultivate them. I'm afraid you lack imagination. + +TREBELL. One must choose something to lack in this life. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Not develop your nature to its utmost capacity. + +TREBELL. And then? + +AMY O'CONNELL. Well, if that's not an end in itself . . [_With a touch +of romantic piety._] I suppose there's the hereafter. + +TREBELL. [_Grimly material._] What, more developing! I watch people +wasting time on themselves with amazement . . I refuse to look forward +to wasting eternity. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Shaking her head._] You are very self-satisfied. + +TREBELL. Not more so than any machine that runs smoothly. And I hope not +self-conscious. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Rather attractively treating him as a child._] It would +do you good to fall really desperately in love with me . . to give me +the power to make you unhappy. + +_He suddenly becomes very definite._ + +TREBELL. At twenty-three I engaged myself to be married to a charming +and virtuous fool. I broke it off. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Did she mind much? + +TREBELL. We both minded. But I had ideals of womanhood that I wouldn't +sacrifice to any human being. Then I fell in with a woman who seduced +me, and for a whole year led me the life of a French novel . . played +about with my emotion as I had tortured that other poor girl's brains. +Education you'd call it in the one case as I called it in the other. +What a waste of time! + +AMY O'CONNELL. And what has become of your ideal? + +TREBELL. [_Relapsing to his former mood._] It's no longer a personal +matter. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_With coquetry._] You're not interested in my character? + +TREBELL. Oh, yes, I am . . up to kissing point. + +_She does not shrink, but speaks with just a shade of contempt._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. You get that far more easily than a woman. That's one of +my grudges against men. Why can't women take love-affairs so lightly? + +TREBELL. There are reasons. But make a good beginning with this one. +Kiss me at once. + +_He leans towards her. She considers him quite calmly._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. No. + +TREBELL. When will you, then? + +AMY O'CONNELL. When I can't help myself . . if that time ever comes. + +TREBELL. [_Accepting the postponement in a business-like spirit._] Well +. . I'm an impatient man. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Confessing engagingly._] I made up my mind to bring you +within arms' length of me when we'd met at Lady Percival's. Do you +remember? [_His face shows no sign of it._] It was the day after your +speech on the Budget. + +TREBELL. Then I remember. But I haven't observed the process. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Subtly._] Your sister grew to like me very soon. That's +all the cunning there has been. + +TREBELL. The rest is just mutual attraction? + +AMY O'CONNELL. And opportunities. + +TREBELL. Such as this. + +_At the drop of their voices they become conscious of the silent house._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. Do you really think everyone has gone to bed? + +TREBELL. [_Disregardful._] And what is it makes my pressing attentions +endurable . . if one may ask? + +AMY O'CONNELL. Some spiritual need or other, I suppose, which makes me +risk unhappiness . . in fact, welcome it. + +TREBELL. [_With great briskness._] Your present need is a good shaking . . +I seriously mean that. You get to attach importance to these shades of +emotion. A slight physical shock would settle them all. That's why I +asked you to kiss me just now. + +AMY O'CONNELL. You haven't very nice ideas, have you? + +TREBELL. There are three facts in life that call up emotion . . Birth, +Death, and the Desire for Children. The niceties are shams. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Then why do you want to kiss me? + +TREBELL. I don't . . seriously. But I shall in a minute just to finish +the argument. Too much diplomacy always ends in a fight. + +AMY O'CONNELL. And if I don't fight . . it'd be no fun for you, I +suppose? + +TREBELL. You would get that much good out of me. For it's my point of +honour . . to leave nothing I touch as I find it. + +_He is very close to her._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. You're frightening me a little . . + +TREBELL. Come and look at the stars again. Come along. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Give me my wrap . . [_He takes it up, but holds it._] +Well, put it on me. [_He puts it round her, but does not withdraw his +arms._] Be careful, the stars are looking at you. + +TREBELL. No, they can't see so far as we can. That's the proper creed. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Softly, almost shyly._] Henry. + +TREBELL. [_Bending closer to her._] Yes, pretty thing. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Is this what you call being in love? + +_He looks up and listens._ + +TREBELL. Here's somebody coming. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Oh! . . + +TREBELL. What does it matter? + +AMY O'CONNELL. I'm untidy or something . . + +_She slips out, for they are close to the window. The_ FOOTMAN _enters, +stops suddenly_. + +THE FOOTMAN. I beg your pardon, sir. I thought everyone had gone. + +TREBELL. I've just been for a walk. I'll lock up if you like. + +THE FOOTMAN. I can easily wait up, sir. + +TREBELL. [_At the window._] I wouldn't. What do you do . . just slide +the bolt? + +THE FOOTMAN. That's all, sir. + +TREBELL. I see. Good-night. + +THE FOOTMAN. Good-night, sir. + +_He goes._ TREBELL'S _demeanour suddenly changes, becomes alert, with +the alertness of a man doing something in secret. He leans out of the +window and whispers._ + +TREBELL. Amy! + +_There is no answer, so he gently steps out. For a moment the room is +empty and there is silence. Then_ AMY _has flown from him into the +safety of lights. She is flushed, trembling, but rather ecstatic, and +her voice has lost all affectation now._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. Oh . . oh . . you shouldn't have kissed me like that! + +TREBELL _stands in the window-way; a light in his eyes, and speaks low +but commandingly_. + +TREBELL. Come here. + +_Instinctively she moves towards him. They speak in whispers._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. He was locking up. + +TREBELL. I've sent him to bed. + +AMY O'CONNELL. He won't go. + +TREBELL. Never mind him. + +AMY O'CONNELL. We're standing full in the light . . anyone could see us. + +TREBELL. [_With fierce egotism._] Think of me . . not of anyone else. +[_He draws her from the window; then does not let her go._] May I kiss +you again? + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Her eyes closed._] Yes. + +_He kisses her. She stiffens in his arms; then laughs almost joyously, +and is commonplace._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. Well . . let me get my breath. + +TREBELL. [_Letting her stand free._] Now . . go along. + +_Obediently she turns to the door, but sinks on the nearest chair._ + +AMY O'CONNELL. In a minute, I'm a little faint. [_He goes to her +quickly._] No, it's nothing. + +TREBELL. Come into the air again. [_Then half seriously._] I'll race you +across the lawn. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Still breathless and a little hysterical._] Thank you! + +TREBELL. Shall I carry you? + +AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be silly. [_She recovers her self-possession, gets +up and goes to the window, then looks back at him and says very +beautifully._] But the night's beautiful, isn't it? + +_He has her in his arms again, more firmly this time._ + +TREBELL. Make it so. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Struggling . . with herself._] Oh, why do you rouse me +like this? + +TREBELL. Because I want you. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Want me to . . ? + +TREBELL. Want you to . . kiss me just once. + +AMY O'CONNELL. [_Yielding._] If I do . . don't let me go mad, will you? + +TREBELL. Perhaps. [_He bends over her, her head drops back._] Now. + +AMY O'CONNELL. Yes! + +_She kisses him on the mouth. Then he would release her, but suddenly +she clings again._ + +Oh . . don't let me go. + +TREBELL. [_With fierce pride of possession._] Not yet. + +_She is fragile beside him. He lifts her in his arms and carries her out +into the darkness._ + + + + + THE SECOND ACT + + +TREBELL'S house in Queen Anne Street, London. Eleven o'clock on an +October morning. + +TREBELL'S _working room is remarkable chiefly for the love of sunlight +it evidences in its owner. The walls are white; the window which faces +you is bare of all but the necessary curtains. Indeed, lack of draperies +testifies also to his horror of dust. There faces you besides a double +door; when it is opened another door is seen. When that is opened you +discover a writing table, and beyond can discern a book-case filled with +heavy volumes--law reports perhaps. The little room beyond is, so to +speak, an under-study. Between the two rooms a window, again barely +curtained, throws light down the staircase. But in the big room, while +the books are many the choice of them is catholic; and the book-cases +are low, running along the wall. There is an armchair before the bright +fire, which is on your right. There is a sofa. And in the middle of the +room is an enormous double writing table piled tidily with much +appropriate impedimenta, blue books and pamphlets and with an especial +heap of unopened letters and parcels. At the table sits_ TREBELL +_himself, in good health and spirits, but eyeing askance the work to +which he has evidently just returned. His sister looks in on him. She is +dressed to go out and has a housekeeping air._ + +FRANCES. Are you busy, Henry? + +TREBELL. More or less. Come in. + +FRANCES. You'll dine at home? + +TREBELL. Anyone coming? + +FRANCES. Julia Farrant and Lucy have run up to town, I think. I thought +of going round and asking them to come in . . but perhaps your young man +will be going there. Amy O'Connell said something vague about our going +to Charles Street . . but she may be out of town by now. + +TREBELL. Well . . I'll be in anyhow. + +FRANCES. [_Going to the window as she buttons her gloves._] Were you on +deck early this morning? It must have been lovely. + +TREBELL. No, I turned in before we got out of le Havre. I left Kent on +deck and found him there at six. + +FRANCES. I don't think autumn means to come at all this year . . it'll +be winter one morning. September has been like a hive of bees, busy and +drowsy. By the way, Cousin Mary has another baby . . a girl. + +TREBELL. [_Indifferent to the information._] That's the fourth. + +FRANCES. Fifth. They asked me down for the christening . . but I really +couldn't. + +TREBELL. September's the month for Tuscany. The car chose to break down +one morning just as we were starting North again: so we climbed one of +the little hills and sat for a couple of hours, while I composed a +fifteenth century electioneering speech to the citizens of Siena. + +FRANCES. [_With a half smile._] Have you a vein of romance for holiday +time? + +TREBELL. [_Dispersing the suggestion._] Not at all romantic . . nothing +but figures and fiscal questions. That was the hardest commercial +civilisation there has been, though you only think of its art and its +murders now. + +FRANCES. The papers on both sides have been very full of you . . saying +you hold the moral balance . . or denying it. + +TREBELL. An interviewer caught me at Basle. I offered to discuss the +state of the Swiss navy. + +FRANCES. Was that before Lord Horsham wrote to you? + +TREBELL. Yes, his letter came to Innsbruck. He "expressed" it somehow. +Why . . it isn't known that he will definitely ask me to join? + +FRANCES. The Whitehall had a leader before the Elections were well over +to say that he must . . but, of course, that was Mr. Farrant. + +TREBELL. [_Knowingly._] Mrs. Farrant. I saw it in Paris . . it just +caught me up. + +FRANCES. The Times is very shy over the whole question . . has a letter +from a fresh bishop every day . . doesn't talk of you very kindly yet. + +TREBELL. Tampering with the Establishment, even Cantelupe's way, will be +a pill to the real old Tory right to the bitter end. + +WALTER KENT _comes in, very fresh and happy-looking. A young man started +in life_, TREBELL _hails him_. + +TREBELL. Hullo . . you've not been long getting shaved. + +KENT. How do you do, Miss Trebell? Lucy turned me out. + +FRANCES. My congratulations. I've not seen you since I heard the news. + +KENT. [_Glad and unembarrassed._] Thank you. I do deserve them, don't I? +Mrs. Farrant didn't come down . . she left us to breakfast together. But +I've a message for you . . her love and she is in town. I went and saw +Lord Charles, sir. He will come to you and be here at half past eleven. + +TREBELL. Look at these. + +_He smacks on the back, so to speak, the pile of parcels and letters._ + +KENT. Oh, lord! . . I'd better start on them. + +FRANCES. [_Continuing in her smooth oldmaidish manner._] Thank you for +getting engaged just before you went off with Henry . . it has given me +my only news of him, through Lucy and your postcards. + +TREBELL. Oh, what about Wedgecroft? + +KENT. I think it was he spun up just as I'd been let in. + +TREBELL. Oh, well . . [_And he rings at the telephone which is on his +table._] + +KENT. [_Confiding in MISS TREBELL._] We're a common sense couple, aren't +we? I offered to ask to stay behind but she . . . + +SIMPSON, _the maid, comes in_. + +SIMPSON. Dr. Wedgecroft, sir. + +WEDGECROFT _is on her heels. If you have an eye for essentials you may +tell at once that he is a doctor, but if you only notice externals you +will take him for anything else. He is over forty and in perfect health +of body and spirit. His enthusiasms are his vitality and he has too many +of them ever to lose one. He squeezes_ MISS TREBELL'S _hand with an air +of fearless affection which is another of his characteristics and not +the least loveable_. + +WEDGECROFT. How are you? + +FRANCES. I'm very well, thanks. + +WEDGECROFT. [_To_ TREBELL, _as they shake hands_.] You're looking fit. + +TREBELL. [_With tremendous emphasis._] I am! + +WEDGECROFT. You've got the motor eye though. + +TREBELL. Full of dust? + +WEDGECROFT. Look at Kent's. [_He takes_ WALTER'S _arm_.] It's a slight +but serious contraction of the pupil . . which I charge fifty guineas to +cure. + +FRANCES. It's the eye of faith in you and your homeopathic doses. Don't +you interfere with it. + +FRANCES TREBELL, _housekeeper, goes out_. KENT _has seized on the +letters and is carrying them to his room_. + +KENT. This looks like popularity and the great heart of the people, +doesn't it? + +WEDGECROFT. Trebell, you're not ill, and I've work to do. + +TREBELL. I want ten minutes. Keep anybody out, Kent. + +KENT. I'll switch that speaking tube arrangement to my room. + +TREBELL, _overflowing with vitality, starts to pace the floor_. + +TREBELL. I've seen the last of Pump Court, Gilbert. + +WEDGECROFT. The Bar ought to give you a testimonial . . to the man who +not only could retire on twenty years' briefs, but =has=. + +TREBELL. Fifteen. But I bled the City sharks with a good conscience . . +quite freely. + +WEDGECROFT. [_With a pretence at grumbling._] I wish I could retire. + +TREBELL. No you don't. Doctoring's a priestcraft . . you've taken vows. + +WEDGECROFT. Then why don't you establish =our= church instead of . . + +TREBELL. Yes, my friend . . but you're a heretic. I'd have to give the +Medical Council power to burn you at the stake. + +KENT. [_With the book packages._] Parcel from the S. P. C. K., sir. + +TREBELL. I know . . Disestablishment a crime against God; sermon +preached by the Vicar of something Parva in eighteen seventy three. I +hope you're aware it's your duty to read all those. + +KENT. Suppose they convert me? Lucy wanted to know if she could see you. + +TREBELL. [_His eyebrows up._] Yes, I'll call at Mrs. Farrant's. Oh, +wait. Aren't they coming to dinner? + +KENT. To-night? No, I think they go back to Shapters by the five +o'clock. I told her she might come round about twelve on the chance. + +TREBELL. Yes . . if Cantelupe's punctual . . I'd sooner not have too +long with him. + +KENT. All right, then. + +_He goes, shutting the door; then you hear the door of his room shut +too. The two friends face each other, glad of a talk._ + +TREBELL. Well? + +WEDGECROFT. Well . . you'll never do it. + +TREBELL. Yes, I shall. + +WEDGECROFT. You can't carry any bill to be a credit to you with the +coming Tory cabinet on your back. You know the Government is cursing you +with its dying breath. + +TREBELL. [_Rubbing his hands._] Of course. They've been beaten out of +the House and in now. I suppose they will meet Parliament. + +WEDGECROFT. They must, I think. It's over a month since-- + +TREBELL. [_His thoughts running quickly._] There'll only be a nominal +majority of sixteen against them. The Labour lot are committed on their +side . . and now that the Irish have gone-- + +WEDGECROFT. But they'll be beaten on the Address first go. + +TREBELL. Yes . . Horsham hasn't any doubt of it. + +WEDGECROFT. He'll be in office within a week of the King's speech. + +TREBELL. [_With another access of energy._] I'll pull the bill that's in +my head through a Horsham cabinet and the House. Then I'll leave them . . +they'll go to the country-- + +WEDGECROFT. You know Percival's pledge about that at Bristol wasn't very +definite. + +TREBELL. Horsham means to. + +WEDGECROFT. [_With friendly contempt._] Oh, Horsham! + +TREBELL. Anyway, it's about Percival I want you. How ill is he? + +WEDGECROFT. Not very. + +TREBELL. Is he going to die? + +WEDGECROFT. Well, I'm attending him. + +TREBELL. [_Pinked._] Yes . . that's a good answer. How does he stomach +me in prospect as a colleague, so far? + +WEDGECROFT. Sir, professional etiquette forbids me to disclose what a +patient may confess in the sweat of his agony. + +TREBELL. He'll be Chancellor again and lead the House. + +WEDGECROFT. Why not? He only grumbles that he's getting old. + +TREBELL. [_Thinking busily again._] The difficulty is I shall have to +stay through one budget with them. He'll have a surplus . . well, it +looks like it . . and my only way of agreeing with him will be to collar +it. + +WEDGECROFT. But . . good heavens! . . you'll have a hundred million or +so to give away when you've disendowed. + +TREBELL. Not to give away. I'll sell every penny. + +WEDGECROFT. [_With an incredulous grin._] You're not going back to +extending old-age pensions after turning the unfortunate Liberals out on +it, are you? + +TREBELL. No, no . . none of your half crown measures. They can wait to +round off their solution of that till they've the courage to make one +big bite of it. + +WEDGECROFT. We shan't see the day. + +TREBELL. [_Lifting the subject off its feet._] Not if I come out of the +cabinet and preach revolution? + +WEDGECROFT. Or will they make a Tory of you? + +TREBELL. [_Acknowledging that stroke with a return grin._] It'll be said +they have when the bill is out. + +WEDGECROFT. It's said so already. + +TREBELL. Who knows a radical bill when he sees it! + +WEDGECROFT. I'm not pleased you have to be running a tilt against the +party system. [_He becomes a little dubious._] My friend . . it's a +nasty windmill. Oh, you've not seen that article in the Nation on +Politics and Society . . it's written at Mrs. Farrant and Lady +Lurgashall and that set. They hint that the Tories would never have had +you if it hadn't been for this bad habit of opposite party men meeting +each other. + +TREBELL. [_Unimpressed._] Excellent habit! What we really want in this +country is a coalition of all the shibboleths with the rest of us in +opposition . . for five years only. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Smiling generously._] Well, it's a sensation to see you +become arbiter. The Tories are owning they can't do without you. +Percival likes you personally . . Townsend don't matter . . Cantelupe +you buy with a price, I suppose . . Farrant you can put in your pocket. +I tell you I think the man you may run up against is Blackborough. + +TREBELL. No, all he wants is to be let look big . . and to have an idea +given him when he's going to make a speech, which isn't often. + +WEDGECROFT. Otherwise . . I suppose . . now I may go down to history as +having been in your confidence. I'm very glad you've arrived. + +TREBELL. [_With great seriousness._] I've sharpened myself as a weapon +to this purpose. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Kindly._] And you're sure of yourself, aren't you? + +TREBELL. [_Turning his wrist._] Try. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Slipping his doctor's fingers over the pulse._] +Seventy, I should say. + +TREBELL. I promise you it hasn't varied a beat these three big months. + +WEDGECROFT. Well, I wish it had. Perfect balance is most easily lost. +How do you know you've the power of recovery? . . and it's that gets +one up in the morning day by day. + +TREBELL. Is it? My brain works steadily on . . hasn't failed me yet. I +keep it well fed. [_He breathes deeply._] But I'm not sure one shouldn't +have been away from England for five years instead of five weeks . . to +come back to a job like this with a fresh mind. D'you know why really I +went back on the Liberals over this question? Not because they wanted +the church money for their pensions . . but because all they can see in +Disestablishment is destruction. Any fool can destroy! I'm not going to +let a power like the Church get loose from the State. A thirteen hundred +years' tradition of service . . and all they can think of is to cut it +adrift! + +WEDGECROFT. I think the Church is moribund. + +TREBELL. Oh, yes, of course you do . . you sentimental agnostic +anarchist. Nonsense! The supernatural's a bit blown upon . . till we +re-discover what it means. But it's not essential. Nor is the Christian +doctrine. Put a Jesuit in a corner and shut the door and he'll own that. +No . . the tradition of self-sacrifice and fellowship in service for its +own sake . . that's the spirit we've to capture and keep. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Really struck._] A secular Church! + +TREBELL. [_With reasoning in his tone._] Well . . why not? Listen here. +In drafting an act of Parliament one must alternately imagine oneself +God Almighty and the most ignorant prejudiced little blighter who will +be affected by what's passed. God says: Let's have done with Heaven and +Hell . . it's the Earth that shan't pass away. Why not turn all those +theology mongers into doctors or schoolmasters? + +WEDGECROFT. As to doctors-- + +TREBELL. Quite so, you naturally prejudiced blighter. That priestcraft +don't need re-inforcing. + +WEDGECROFT. It needs recognition. + +TREBELL. What! It's the only thing most people believe in. Talk about +superstition! However, there's more life in you. Therefore it's to be +schoolmasters. + +WEDGECROFT. How? + +TREBELL. Listen again, young man. In the youth of the world, when +priests were the teachers of men . . . + +WEDGECROFT. [_Not to be preached at._] And physicians of men. + +TREBELL. Shut up. + +WEDGECROFT. If there's any real reform going, I want my profession made +into a state department. I won't shut up for less. + +TREBELL. [_Putting this aside with one finger._] I'll deal with you +later. There's still Youth in the world in another sense; but the +priests haven't found out the difference yet, so they're wasting most of +their time. + +WEDGECROFT. Religious education won't do now-a-days. + +TREBELL. What's Now-a-days? You're very dull, Gilbert. + +WEDGECROFT. I'm not duller than the people who will have to understand +your scheme. + +TREBELL. They won't understand it. I shan't explain to them that +education is religion, and that those who deal in it are priests without +any laying on of hands. + +WEDGECROFT. No matter what they teach? + +TREBELL. No . . the matter is how they teach it. I see schools in the +future, Gilbert, not built next to the church, but on the site of the +church. + +WEDGECROFT. Do you think the world is grown up enough to do without +dogma? + +TREBELL. Yes, I do. + +WEDGECROFT. What! . . and am I to write my prescriptions in English? + +TREBELL. Yes, you are. + +WEDGECROFT. Lord save us! I never thought to find you a visionary. + +TREBELL. Isn't it absurd to think that in a hundred years we shall be +giving our best brains and the price of them not to training grown men +into the discipline of destruction . . not even to curing the ills which +we might be preventing . . but to teaching our children. There's nothing +else to be done . . nothing else matters. But it's work for a +priesthood. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Affected; not quite convinced._] Do you think you can buy +a tradition and transmute it? + +TREBELL. Don't mock at money. + +WEDGECROFT. I never have. + +TREBELL. But you speak of it as an end not as a means. That's unfair. + +WEDGECROFT. I speaks as I finds. + +TREBELL. I'll buy the Church, not with money, but with the promise of +new life. [_A certain rather gleeful cunning comes over him._] It'll +only look like a dose of reaction at first . . Sectarian Training +Colleges endowed to the hilt. + +WEDGECROFT. What'll the Nonconformists say? + +TREBELL. Bribe them with the means of equal efficiency. The crux of the +whole matter will be in the statutes I'll force on those colleges. + +WEDGECROFT. They'll want dogma. + +TREBELL. Dogma's not a bad thing if you've power to adapt it +occasionally. + +WEDGECROFT. Instead of spending your brains in explaining it. Yes, I +agree. + +TREBELL. [_With full voice._] But in the creed I'll lay down as +unalterable there shall be neither Jew nor Greek . . What do you think +of St. Paul, Gilbert? + +WEDGECROFT. I'd make him the head of a college. + +TREBELL. I'll make the Devil himself head of a college, if he'll +undertake to teach honestly all he knows. + +WEDGECROFT. And he'll conjure up Comte and Robespierre for you to assist +in this little _rechauffee_ of their schemes. + +TREBELL. Hullo! Comte I knew about. Have I stolen from Robespierre too? + +WEDGECROFT. [_Giving out the epigram with an air._] Property to him who +can make the best use of it. + +TREBELL. And then what we must do is to give the children power over +their teachers? + +_Now he is comically enigmatic._ WEDGECROFT _echoes him_. + +WEDGECROFT. And what exactly do you mean by that? + +TREBELL. [_Serious again._] How positive a pedagogue would you be if you +had to prove your cases and justify your creed every century or so to +the pupils who had learnt just a little more than you could teach them? +Give power to the future, my friend . . not to the past. Give +responsibility . . even if you give it for your own discredit. What's +beneath trust deeds and last wills and testaments, and even acts of +Parliament and official creeds? Fear of the verdict of the next +generation . . fear of looking foolish in their eyes. Ah, we . . doing +our best now . . must be ready for every sort of death. And to provide +the means of change and disregard of the past is a secret of +statesmanship. Presume that the world will come to an end every thirty +years if it's not reconstructed. Therefore give responsibility . . give +responsibility . . give the children power. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Disposed to whistle._] Those statutes will want some +framing. + +TREBELL. [_Relapsing to a chuckle._] There's an incidental change to +foresee. Disappearance of the parson into the schoolmaster . . and the +Archdeacon into the Inspector . . and the Bishop into--I rather hope +he'll stick to his mitre, Gilbert. + +WEDGECROFT. Some Ruskin will arise and make him. + +TREBELL. [_As he paces the room and the walls of it fade away to him._] +What a church could be made of the best brains in England, sworn only to +learn all they could teach what they knew without fear of the future or +favour to the past . . sworn upon their honour as seekers after truth, +knowingly to tell no child a lie. It will come. + +WEDGECROFT. A priesthood of women too? There's the tradition of service +with them. + +TREBELL. [_With the sourest look yet on his face._] Slavery . . not +quite the same thing. And the paradox of such slavery is that they're +your only tyrants. + +[_At this moment the bell of the telephone upon the table rings. He goes +to it talking the while._] + +One has to be very optimistic not to advocate the harem. That's simple +and wholesome . . Yes? + +KENT _comes in_. + +KENT. Does it work? + +TREBELL. [_Slamming down the receiver._] You and your new toy! What is +it? + +KENT. I'm not sure about the plugs of it . . I thought I'd got them +wrong. Mrs. O'Connell has come to see Miss Trebell, who is out, and she +says will we ask you if any message has been left for her. + +TREBELL. No. Oh, about dinner? Well, she's round at Mrs. Farrant's. + +KENT. I'll ring them up. + +_He goes back into his room to do so leaving_ TREBELL'S _door open. The +two continue their talk._ + +TREBELL. My difficulties will be with Percival. + +WEDGECROFT. Not over the Church. + +TREBELL. You see I must discover how keen he'd be on settling the +Education quarrel, once and for all . . what there is left of it. + +WEDGECROFT. He's not sectarian. + +TREBELL. It'll cost him his surplus. When'll he be up and about? + +WEDGECROFT. Not for a week or more. + +TREBELL. [_Knitting his brow._] And I've to deal with Cantelupe. Curious +beggar, Gilbert. + +WEDGECROFT. Not my sort. He'll want some dealing with over your bill as +introduced to me. + +TREBELL. I've not cross-examined company promoters for ten years without +learning how to do business with a professional high churchman. + +WEDGECROFT. Providence limited . . eh? + +_They are interrupted by_ MRS. O'CONNELL'S _appearance in the doorway. +She is rather pale, very calm; but there is pain in her eyes and her +voice is unnaturally steady._ + +AMY. Your maid told me to come up and I'm interrupting business . . I +thought she was wrong. + +TREBELL. [_With no trace of self-consciousness._] Well . . how are you, +after this long time? + +AMY. How do you do? [_Then she sees_ WEDGECROFT _and has to control a +shrinking from him_.] Oh! + +WEDGECROFT. How are you, Mrs. O'Connell? + +TREBELL. Kent is telephoning to Frances. He knows where she is. + +AMY. How are you, Dr. Wedgecroft? [_then to_ TREBELL.] Did you have a +good holiday? London pulls one to pieces wretchedly. I shall give up +living here at all. + +WEDGECROFT. You look very well. + +AMY. Do I! + +TREBELL. A very good holiday. Sit down . . he won't be a minute. + +_She sits on the nearest chair._ + +AMY. You're not ill . . interviewing a doctor? + +TREBELL. The one thing Wedgecroft's no good at is doctoring. He keeps me +well by sheer moral suasion. + +KENT _comes out of his room and is off downstairs_. + +TREBELL _calls to him_. + +TREBELL. Mrs. O'Connell's here. + +KENT. Oh! [_He comes back and into the room._] Miss Trebell hasn't got +there yet. + +WEDGECROFT _has suddenly looked at his watch_. + +WEDGECROFT. I must fly. Good bye, Mrs. O'Connell. + +AMY. [_Putting her hand, constrained by its glove, into his open hand._] +I am always a little afraid of you. + +WEDGECROFT. That isn't the feeling a doctor wants to inspire. + +KENT. [_To_ TREBELL.] David Evans-- + +TREBELL. Evans? + +KENT. The reverend one . . is downstairs and wants to see you. + +WEDGECROFT. [_As he comes to them._] Hampstead Road Tabernacle . . Oh, +the mammon of righteousness! + +TREBELL. Shut up! How long have I before Lord Charles--? + +KENT. Only ten minutes. + +MRS. O'CONNELL _goes to sit at the big table, and apparently idly takes +a sheet of paper to scribble on_. + +TREBELL. [_Half thinking, half questioning._] He's a man I can say +nothing to politely. + +WEDGECROFT. I'm off to Percival's now. Then I've another case and I'm +due back at twelve. If there's anything helpful to say I'll look in +again for two minutes . . not more. + +TREBELL. You're a good man. + +WEDGECROFT. [_As he goes._] Congratulations, Kent. + +KENT. [_Taking him to the stairs._] Thank you very much. + +AMY. [_Beckoning with her eyes._] What's this, Mr. Trebell? + +TREBELL. Eh? I beg your pardon. + +_He goes behind her and reads over her shoulder what she has written._ +KENT _comes back_. + +KENT. Shall I bring him up here? + +TREBELL _looks up and for a moment stares at his secretary rather +sharply, then speaks in a matter-of-fact voice_. + +TREBELL. See him yourself, downstairs. Talk to him for five minutes . . +find out what he wants. Tell him it will be as well for the next week or +two if he can say he hasn't seen me. + +KENT. Yes. + +_He goes._ TREBELL _follows him to the door which he shuts. Then he +turns to face_ AMY, _who is tearing up the paper she wrote on_. + +TREBELL. What is it? + +AMY. [_Her steady voice breaking, her carefully calculated control +giving way._] Oh Henry . . Henry! + +TREBELL. Are you in trouble? + +AMY. You'll hate me, but . . oh, it's brutal of you to have been away so +long. + +TREBELL. Is it with your husband? + +AMY. Perhaps. Oh, come nearer to me . . do. + +TREBELL. [_Coming nearer without haste or excitement._] Well? [_Her eyes +are closed._] My dear girl, I'm too busy for love-making now. If there +are any facts to be faced, let me have them . . quite quickly. + +_She looks up at him for a moment; then speaks swiftly and sharply as +one speaks of disaster._ + +AMY. There's a danger of my having a child . . your child . . some time +in April. That's all. + +TREBELL. [_A sceptic who has seen a vision._] Oh . . it's impossible. + +AMY. [_Flashing at him, revengefully._] Why? + +TREBELL. [_Brought to his mundane self._] Well . . are you sure? + +AMY. [_In sudden agony._] D'you think I want it to be true? D'you think +I--? You don't know what it is to have a thing happening in spite of +you. + +TREBELL. [_His face set in thought._] Where have you been since we met? + +AMY. Not to Ireland . . I haven't seen Justin for a year. + +TREBELL. All the easier for you not to see him for another year. + +AMY. That wasn't what you meant. + +TREBELL. It wasn't . . but never mind. + +_They are silent for a moment . . miles apart. . Then she speaks dully._ + +AMY. We do hate each other . . don't we! + +TREBELL. Nonsense. Let's think of what matters. + +AMY. [_Aimlessly._] I went to a man at Dover . . picked him out of the +directory . . didn't give my own name . . pretended I was off abroad. He +was a kind old thing . . said it was all most satisfactory. Oh, my God! + +TREBELL. [_He goes to bend over her kindly._] Yes, you've had a +torturing month or two. That's been wrong, I'm sorry. + +AMY. Even now I have to keep telling myself that it's so . . otherwise I +couldn't understand it. Any more than one really believes one will ever +die . . one doesn't believe that, you know. + +TREBELL. [_On the edge of a sensation that is new to him._] I am told +that a man begins to feel unimportant from this moment forward. Perhaps +it's true. + +AMY. What has it to do with you anyhow? We don't belong to each other. +How long were we together that night? Half an hour! You didn't seem to +care a bit until after you'd kissed me and . . this is an absurd +consequence. + +TREBELL. Nature's a tyrant. + +AMY. Oh, it's my punishment . . I see that well enough . . for thinking +myself so clever . . forgetting my duty and religion . . not going to +confession, I mean. [_Then hysterically._] God can make you believe in +Him when he likes, can't he? + +TREBELL. [_With comfortable strength._] My dear girl, this needs your +pluck. [_And he sits by her._] All we have to do is to prevent it being +found out. + +AMY. Yes . . the scandal would smash you, wouldn't it? + +TREBELL. There isn't going to be any scandal. + +AMY. No . . if we're careful. You'll tell me what to do, won't you? Oh, +it's a relief to be able to talk about it. + +TREBELL. For one thing, you must take care of yourself and stop +worrying. + +_It soothes her to feel that he is concerned; but it is not enough to be +soothed._ + +AMY. Yes, I wouldn't like to have been the means of smashing you, Henry +. . especially as you don't care for me. + +TREBELL. I intend to care for you. + +AMY. Love me, I mean. I wish you did . . a little; then perhaps I +shouldn't feel so degraded. + +TREBELL. [_A shade impatiently, a shade contemptuously._] I can say I +love you if that'll make things easier. + +AMY. [_More helpless than ever._] If you'd said it at first I should be +taking it for granted . . though it wouldn't be any more true, I +daresay, than now . . when I should know you weren't telling the truth. + +TREBELL. Then I'd do without so much confusion. + +AMY. Don't be so heartless. + +TREBELL. [_As he leaves her._] We seem to be attaching importance to +such different things. + +AMY. [_Shrill even at a momentary desertion._] What do you mean? I want +affection now just as I want food. I can't do without it . . I can't +reason things out as you can. D'you think I haven't tried? [_Then in +sudden rebellion._] Oh, the physical curse of being a woman . . no +better than any savage in this condition . . worse off than an animal. +It's unfair. + +TREBELL. Never mind . . you're here now to hand me half the +responsibility, aren't you? + +AMY. As if I could! If I have to lie through the night simply shaking +with bodily fear much longer . . I believe I shall go mad. + +_This aspect of the matter is meaningless to him. He returns to the +practical issue._ + +TREBELL. There's nobody that need be suspecting, is there? + +AMY. My maid sees I'm ill and worried and makes remarks . . only to me +so far. Don't I look a wreck? I nearly ran away when I saw Dr. +Wedgecroft . . some of these men are so clever. + +TREBELL. [_Calculating._] Someone will have to be trusted. + +AMY. [_Burrowing into her little tortured self again._] And I ought to +feel as if I had done Justin a great wrong . . but I don't. I hate you +now; now and then. I was being myself. You've brought me down. I feel +worthless. + +_The last word strikes him. He stares at her._ + +TREBELL. Do you? + +AMY. [_Pleadingly._] There's only one thing I'd like you to tell me, +Henry . . it isn't much. That night we were together . . it was for a +moment different to everything that has ever been in your life before, +wasn't it? + +TREBELL. [_Collecting himself as if to explain to a child._] I must make +you understand . . I must get you to realise that for a little time to +come you're above the law . . above even the shortcomings and +contradictions of a man's affection. + +AMY. But let us have one beautiful memory to share. + +TREBELL. [_Determined she shall face the cold logic of her position._] +Listen. I look back on that night as one looks back on a fit of +drunkenness. + +AMY. [_Neither understanding nor wishing to; only shocked and hurt._] +You beast. + +TREBELL. [_With bitter sarcasm._] No, don't say that. Won't it comfort +you to think of drunkenness as a beautiful thing? There are precedents +enough . . classic ones. + +AMY. You mean I might have been any other woman. + +TREBELL. [_Quite inexorable._] Wouldn't any other woman have served the +purpose . . and is it less of a purpose because we didn't know we had +it? Does my unworthiness then . . if you like to call it so . . make you +unworthy now? I must make you see that it doesn't. + +AMY. [_Petulantly hammering at her idee fixe._] But you didn't love me . . +and you don't love me. + +TREBELL. [_Keeping his patience._] No . . only within the last five +minutes have I really taken the smallest interest in you. And now I +believe I'm half jealous. Can you understand that? You've been talking a +lot of nonsense about your emotions and your immortal soul. Don't you +see it's only now that you've become a person of some importance to the +world . . and why? + +AMY. [_Losing her patience, childishly._] What do you mean by the World? +You don't seem to have any personal feelings at all. It's horrible you +should have thought of me like that. There has been no other man than +you that I would have let come anywhere near me . . not for more than a +year. + +_He realises that she will never understand._ + +TREBELL. My dear girl, I'm sorry to be brutal. Does it matter so much to +you that I should have =wished= to be the father of your child? + +AMY. [_Ungracious but pacified by his change of tone._] It doesn't +matter now. + +TREBELL. [_Friendly still._] On principle I don't make promises. But I +think I can promise you that if you keep your head and will keep your +health, this shall all be made as easy for you as if everyone could +know. And let's think what the child may mean to you . . just the fact +of his birth. Nothing to me, of course! Perhaps that accounts for the +touch of jealousy. I've forfeited my rights because I hadn't honourable +intentions. You can't forfeit yours. Even if you never see him and he +has to grow up among strangers . . just to have had a child must make a +difference to you. Of course, it may be a girl. I wonder. + +_As he wanders on so optimistically she stares at him and her face +changes. She realises . ._ + +AMY. Do you expect me to go through with this? Henry! . . I'd sooner +kill myself. + +_There is silence between them. He looks at her as one looks at some +unnatural thing. Then after a moment he speaks, very coldly._ + +TREBELL. Oh . . indeed. Don't get foolish ideas into your head. You've +no choice now . . no reasonable choice. + +AMY. [_Driven to bay; her last friend an enemy._] I won't go through +with it. + +TREBELL. It hasn't been so much the fear of scandal then-- + +AMY. That wouldn't break my heart. You'd marry me, wouldn't you? We +could go away somewhere. I could be very fond of you, Henry. + +TREBELL. [_Marvelling at these tangents._] Marry you! I should murder +you in a week. + +_This sounds only brutal to her; she lets herself be shamed._ + +AMY. You've no more use for me than the use you've made of me. + +TREBELL. [_Logical again._] Won't you realise that there's a third party +to our discussion . . that I'm of no importance beside him and you of +very little. Think of the child. + +AMY _blazes into desperate rebellion_. + +AMY. There's no child because I haven't chosen there shall be and there +shan't be because I don't choose. You'd have me first your plaything and +then Nature's, would you? + +TREBELL. [_A little abashed._] Come now, you knew what you were about. + +AMY. [_Thinking of those moments._] Did I? I found myself wanting you, +belonging to you suddenly. I didn't stop to think and explain. But are +we never to be happy and irresponsible . . never for a moment? + +TREBELL. Well . . one can't pick and choose consequences. + +AMY. Your choices in life have made you what you want to be, haven't +they? Leave me mine. + +TREBELL. But it's too late to argue like that. + +AMY. If it is, I'd better jump into the Thames. I've thought of it. + +_He considers how best to make a last effort to bring her to her senses. +He sits by her._ + +TREBELL. Amy . . if you were my wife-- + +AMY. [_Unresponsive to him now._] I was Justin's wife, and I went away +from him sooner than bear him children. Had I the right to choose or had +I not? + +TREBELL. [_Taking another path._] Shall I tell you something I believe? +If we were left to choose, we should stand for ever deciding whether to +start with the right foot or the left. We blunder into the best things +in life. Then comes the test . . have we faith enough to go on . . to go +through with the unknown thing? + +AMY. [_So bored by these metaphysics._] Faith in what? + +TREBELL. Our vitality. I don't give a fig for beauty, happiness, or +brains. All I ask of myself is . . can I pay Fate on demand? + +AMY. Yes . . in imagination. But I've got physical facts to face. + +_But he has her attention now and pursues the advantage._ + +TREBELL. Very well then . . let the meaning of them go. Look forward +simply to a troublesome illness. In a little while you can go abroad +quietly and wait patiently. We're not fools and we needn't find fools to +trust in. Then come back to England . . . + +AMY. And forget. That seems simple enough, doesn't it? + +TREBELL. If you don't want the child let it be mine . . not yours. + +AMY. [_Wondering suddenly at this bond between them._] Yours! What would +you do with it? + +TREBELL. [_Matter-of-fact._] Provide for it, of course. + +AMY. Never see it, perhaps. + +TREBELL. Perhaps not. If there were anything to be gained . . for the +child. I'll see that he has his chance as a human being. + +AMY. How hopeful! [_Now her voice drops. She is looking back, perhaps at +a past self._] If you loved me . . perhaps I might learn to love the +thought of your child. + +TREBELL. [_As if half his life depended on her answer._] Is that true? + +AMY. [_Irritably._] Why are you picking me to pieces? I think that is +true. If you had been loving me for a long, long time-- [_The agony +rushes back on her._] But now I'm only afraid. You might have some pity +for me . . I'm so afraid. + +TREBELL. [_Touched._] Indeed . . indeed, I'll take what share of this I +can. + +_She shrinks from him unforgivingly._ + +AMY. No, let me alone. I'm nothing to you. I'm a sick beast in danger of +my life, that's all . . cancerous! + +_He is roused for the first time, roused to horror and protest._ + +TREBELL. Oh, you unhappy woman! . . . if life is like death to you . . . + +AMY. [_Turning on him._] Don't lecture me! If you're so clever put a +stop to this horror. Or you might at least say you're sorry. + +TREBELL. Sorry! [_The bell on the table rings jarringly._] Cantelupe! + +_He goes to the telephone. She gets up cold and collected, steadied +merely by the unexpected sound._ + +AMY. I mustn't keep you from governing the country. I'm sure you'll do +it very well. + +TREBELL. [_At the telephone._] Yes, bring him up, of course . . isn't +Mr. Kent there? [_then to her._] I may be ten minutes with him or half +an hour. Wait and we'll come to a conclusion. + +KENT _comes in, an open letter in his hand_. + +KENT. This note, sir. Had I better go round myself and see him? + +TREBELL. [_As he takes the note._] Cantelupe's come. + +KENT. [_Glancing at the telephone._] Oh, has he! + +TREBELL. [_As he reads._] Yes I think you had. + +KENT. Evans was very serious. + +_He goes back into his room._ AMY _moves swiftly to where_ TREBELL _is +standing and whispers_. + +AMY. Won't you tell me whom to go to? + +TREBELL. No. + +AMY. Oh, really . . what unpractical sentimental children you men are! +You and your consciences . . you and your laws. You drive us to +distraction and sometimes to death by your stupidities. Poor women--! + +_The Maid comes in to announce_ LORD CHARLES CANTELUPE, _who follows +her_. CANTELUPE _is forty, unathletic, and a gentleman in the best and +worst sense of the word. He moves always with a caution which may betray +his belief in the personality of the Devil. He speaks cautiously too, +and as if not he but something inside him were speaking. One feels that +before strangers he would not if he could help it move or speak at all. +A pale face: the mouth would be hardened by fanaticism were it not for +the elements of Christianity in his religion: and he has the limpid eye +of the enthusiast._ + +TREBELL. Glad to see you. You know Mrs. O'Connell. + +CANTELUPE _bows in silence_. + +AMY. We have met. + +_She offers her hand. He silently takes it and drops it._ + +TREBELL. Then you'll wait for Frances. + +AMY. Is it worth while? + +KENT _with his hat on leaves his room and goes downstairs_. + +TREBELL. Have you anything better to do? + +AMY. There's somewhere I can go. But I mustn't keep you chatting of my +affairs. Lord Charles is impatient to disestablish the Church. + +CANTELUPE. [_Unable to escape a remark._] Forgive me, since that is also +your affair. + +AMY. Oh . . but I was received at the Oratory when I was married. + +CANTELUPE. [_With contrition._] I beg your pardon. + +_Then he makes for the other side of the room._ TREBELL _and_ MRS. +O'CONNELL _stroll to the door, their eyes full of meaning_. + +AMY. I think I'll go on to this place that I've heard of. If I wait . . +for your sister . . she may disappoint me again. + +TREBELL. Wait. + +KENT'S _room is vacant_. + +AMY. Well . . in here? + +TREBELL. If you like law-books. + +AMY. I haven't been much of an interruption now, have I? + +TREBELL. Please wait. + +AMY. Thank you. + +TREBELL _shuts her in, for a moment seems inclined to lock her in, but +he comes back into his own room and faces_ CANTELUPE, _who having primed +and trained himself on his subject like a gun, fires off a speech, +without haste, but also apparently without taking breath_. + +CANTELUPE. I was extremely thankful, Mr. Trebell, to hear last week from +Horsham that you will see your way to join his cabinet and undertake the +disestablishment bill in the House of Commons. Any measure of mine, I +have always been convinced, would be too much under the suspicion of +blindly favouring Church interests to command the allegiance of that +heterogeneous mass of thought . . in some cases, alas, of free thought . . +which now-a-days composes the Conservative party. I am more than +content to exercise what influence I may from a seat in the cabinet +which will authorise the bill. + +TREBELL. Yes. That chair's comfortable. + +CANTELUPE _takes another_. + +CANTELUPE. Horsham forwarded to me your memorandum upon the conditions +you held necessary and I incline to think I may accept them in principle +on behalf of those who honour me with their confidences. + +_He fishes some papers from his pocket._ TREBELL _sits squarely at his +table to grapple with the matter_. + +TREBELL. Horsham told me you did accept them . . it's on that I'm +joining. + +CANTELUPE. Yes . . in principle. + +TREBELL. Well . . we couldn't carry a bill you disapproved of, could we? + +CANTELUPE. [_With finesse._] I hope not. + +TREBELL. [_A little dangerously._] And I have no intention of being made +the scapegoat of a wrecked Tory compromise with the Nonconformists. + +CANTELUPE. [_Calmly ignoring the suggestion._] So far as I am concerned +I meet the Nonconformists on their own ground . . that Religion had +better be free from all compromise with the State. + +TREBELL. Quite so . . if you're set free you'll look after yourselves. +My discovery must be what to do with the men who think more of the state +than their Church . . the majority of parsons, don't you think? . . if +the question's really put and they can be made to understand it. + +CANTELUPE. [_With sincere disdain._] There are more profitable +professions. + +TREBELL. And less. Will you allow me that it is statecraft to make a +profession profitable? + +CANTELUPE _picks up his papers, avoiding theoretical discussion_. + +CANTELUPE. Well now . . will you explain to me this project for endowing +Education with your surplus? + +TREBELL. Putting Appropriation, the Buildings and the Representation +question on one side for the moment? + +CANTELUPE. Candidly, I have yet to master your figures . . . + +TREBELL. The roughest figures so far. + +CANTELUPE. Still I have yet to master them on the first two points. + +TREBELL. [_Firmly premising._] We agree that this is not diverting +church money to actually secular uses. + +CANTELUPE. [_As he peeps from under his eyelids._] I can conceive that +it might not be. You know that we hold Education to be a Church +function. But . . . + +TREBELL. Can you accept thoroughly now the secular solution for all +Primary Schools? + +CANTELUPE. Haven't we always preferred it to the undenominational? Are +there to be facilities for any of the teachers giving dogmatic +instruction? + +TREBELL. I note your emphasis on any. I think we can put the burden of +that decision on local authorities. Let us come to the question of +Training Colleges for your teachers. It's on that I want to make my +bargain. + +CANTELUPE. [_Alert and cautious._] You want to endow colleges? + +TREBELL. Heavily. + +CANTELUPE. Under public control? + +TREBELL. Church colleges under Church control. + +CANTELUPE. There'd be others? + +TREBELL. To preserve the necessary balance in the schools. + +CANTELUPE. Not founded with church money? + +TREBELL. Think of the grants in aid that will be released. I must ask +the Treasury for a further lump sum and with that there may be +sufficient for secular colleges . . if you can agree with me upon the +statutes of those over which you'd otherwise have free control. + +TREBELL _is weighing his words_. + +CANTELUPE. "You" meaning, for instance . . what authorities in the +Church? + +TREBELL. Bishops, I suppose . . and others. [CANTELUPE _permits himself +to smile._] On that point I shall be weakness itself and . . may I +suggest . . your seat in the cabinet will give you some control. + +CANTELUPE. Statutes? + +TREBELL. To be framed in the best interests of educational efficiency. + +CANTELUPE. [_Finding an opening._] I doubt if we agree upon the meaning +to be attached to that term. + +TREBELL. [_Forcing the issue._] What meaning do you attach to it? + +CANTELUPE. [_Smiling again._] I have hardly a sympathetic listener. + +TREBELL. You have an unprejudiced one . . the best you can hope for. I +was not educated myself. I learnt certain things that I desired to know +. . from reading my first book--Don Quixote it was--to mastering Company +Law. You see, as a man without formulas either for education or +religion, I am perhaps peculiarly fitted to settle the double question. +I have no grudges . . no revenge to take. + +CANTELUPE. [_Suddenly congenial._] Shelton's translation of Don Quixote +I hope . . the modern ones have no flavour. And you took all the +adventures as seriously as the Don did? + +TREBELL. [_Not expecting this._] I forget. + +CANTELUPE. It's the finer attitude . . the child's attitude. And it +would enable you immediately to comprehend mine towards an education +consisting merely of practical knowledge. The life of Faith is still the +happy one. What is more crushingly finite than knowledge? Moral +discipline is a nation's only safety. How much of your science tends in +support of the great spiritual doctrine of sacrifice! + +TREBELL _returns to his subject as forceful as ever_. + +TREBELL. The Church has assimilated much in her time. Do you think it +wise to leave agnostic science at the side of the plate? I think, you +know, that this craving for common knowledge is a new birth in the mind +of man; and if your church won't recognise that soon, by so much will +she be losing her grip for ever over men's minds. What's the test of +godliness, but your power to receive the new idea in whatever form it +comes and give it life? It is blasphemy to pick and choose your good. +[_For a moment his thoughts seem to be elsewhere._] That's an unhappy +man or woman or nation . . I know it if it has only come to me this +minute . . and I don't care what their brains or their riches or their +beauty or any of their triumph may be . . they're unhappy and useless if +they can't tell life from death. + +CANTELUPE. [_Interested in the digression._] Remember that the Church's +claim has ever been to know that difference. + +TREBELL. [_Fastening to his subject again._] My point is this: A man's +demand to know the exact structure of a fly's wing, and his assertion +that it degrades any child in the street not to know such a thing, is a +religious revival . . a token of spiritual hunger. What else can it be? +And we commercialise our teaching! + +CANTELUPE. I wouldn't have it so. + +TREBELL. Then I'm offering you the foundation of a new Order of men and +women who'll serve God by teaching his children. Now shall we finish the +conversation in prose? + +CANTELUPE. [_Not to be put down._] What is the prose for God? + +TREBELL. [_Not to be put down either._] That's what we irreligious +people are giving our lives to discover. [_He plunges into detail._] I'm +proposing to found about seventy-two new colleges, and of course, to +bring the ones there are up to the new standard. Then we must gradually +revise all teaching salaries in government schools . . to a scale I have +in mind. Then the course must be compulsory and the training time +doubled-- + +CANTELUPE. Doubled! Four years? + +TREBELL. Well, a minimum of three . . a university course. Remember +we're turning a trade into a calling. + +CANTELUPE. There's more to that than taking a degree. + +TREBELL. I think so. You've fought for years for your tests and your +atmosphere with plain business men not able to understand such lunacy. +Quite right . . atmosphere's all that matters. If one and one don't make +two by God's grace . . . + +CANTELUPE. Poetry again! + +TREBELL. I beg your pardon. Well . . you've no further proof. If you +can't plant your thumb on the earth and your little finger on the pole +star you know nothing of distances. We must do away with text-book +teachers. + +CANTELUPE _is opening out a little in spite of himself_. + +CANTELUPE. I'm waiting for our opinions to differ. + +TREBELL. [_Businesslike again._] I'll send you a draft of the statutes I +propose within a week. Meanwhile shall I put the offer this way. If I +accept your tests will you accept mine? + +CANTELUPE. What are yours? + +TREBELL. I believe if one provides for efficiency one provides for the +best part of truth . . honesty of statement. I shall hope for a little +more elasticity in your dogmas than Becket or Cranmer or Laud would have +allowed. When you've a chance to re-formulate the reasons of your faith +for the benefit of men teaching mathematics and science and history and +political economy, you won't neglect to answer or allow for criticisms +and doubts. I don't see why . . in spite of all the evidence to the +contrary . . such a thing as progress in a definite religious faith is +impossible. + +CANTELUPE. Progress is a soiled word. [_And now he weighs his words._] I +shall be very glad to accept on the Church's behalf control of the +teaching of teachers in these colleges. + +TREBELL. Good. I want the best men. + +CANTELUPE. You are surprisingly inexperienced if you think that creeds +can ever become mere forms except to those who have none. + +TREBELL. But teaching--true teaching--is learning, and the wish to know +is going to prevail against any creed . . so I think. I wish you cared +as little for the form in which a truth is told as I do. On the whole, +you see, I think I shall manage to plant your theology in such soil this +spring that the garden will be fruitful. On the whole I'm a believer in +Churches of all sorts and their usefulness to the State. Your present +use is out-worn. Have I found you in this the beginnings of a new one? + +CANTELUPE. The Church says: Thank you, it is a very old one. + +TREBELL. [_Winding up the interview._] To be sure, for practical +politics our talk can be whittled down to your accepting the secular +solution for Primary Schools, if you're given these colleges under such +statutes as you and I shall agree upon. + +CANTELUPE. And the country will accept. + +TREBELL. The country will accept any measure if there's enough money in +it to bribe all parties fairly. + +CANTELUPE. You expect very little of the constancy of my Church to her +Faith, Mr. Trebell. + +TREBELL. I have only one belief myself. That is in human progress--yes, +progress--over many obstacles and by many means. I have no ideals. I +believe it is statesmanlike to use all the energy you find . . turning +it into the nearest channel that points forward. + +CANTELUPE. Forward to what? + +TREBELL. I don't know . . and my caring doesn't matter. We do know . . +and if we deny it it's only to be encouraged by contradiction . . that +the movement is forward and with some gathering purpose. I'm friends +with any fellow traveller. + +CANTELUPE _has been considering him very curiously. Now he gets up to +go._ + +CANTELUPE. I should like to continue our talk when I've studied your +draft of the statutes. Of course the political position is favourable to +a far more comprehensive bill than we had ever looked for . . and you've +the advantage now of having held yourself very free from party ties. In +fact not only will you give us the bill we shall most care to accept, +but I don't know what other man would give us a bill we and the other +side could accept at all. + +TREBELL. I can let you have more Appropriation figures by Friday. The +details of the Fabrics scheme will take a little longer. + +CANTELUPE. In a way there's no such hurry. We're not in office yet. + +TREBELL. When I'm building with figures I like to give the foundations +time to settle. Otherwise they are the inexactest things. + +CANTELUPE. [_Smiling to him for the first time._] We shall have you +finding Faith the only solvent of all problems some day. + +TREBELL. I hope my mind is not afraid . . even of the Christian +religion. + +CANTELUPE. I am sure that the needs of the human soul . . be it dressed +up in whatever knowledge . . do not alter from age to age . . + +_He opens the door to find_ WEDGECROFT _standing outside, watch in +hand_. + +TREBELL. Hullo . . . waiting? + +WEDGECROFT. I was giving you two minutes by my watch. How are you, +Cantelupe? + +CANTELUPE, _with a gesture which might be mistaken for a bow, folds +himself up_. + +TREBELL. Shall I bring you the figures on Friday . . that might save +time. + +CANTELUPE, _by taking a deeper fold in himself seems to assent_. + +TREBELL. Will the afternoon do? Kent shall fix the hour. + +CANTELUPE. [_With an effort._] Kent? + +TREBELL. My secretary. + +CANTELUPE. Friday. Any hour before five. I know my way. + +_The three phrases having meant three separate efforts_, CANTELUPE +_escapes_. WEDGECROFT _has walked to the table, his brows a little +puckered. Now_ TREBELL _notices that_ KENT'S _door is open; he goes +quickly into the room and finds it empty. Then he stands for a moment +irritable and undecided before returning._ + +TREBELL. Been here long? + +WEDGECROFT. Five minutes . . more, I suppose. + +TREBELL. Mrs. O'Connell gone? + +WEDGECROFT. To her dressmaker's. + +TREBELL. Frances forgot she was coming and went out. + +WEDGECROFT. Pretty little fool of a woman! D'you know her husband? + +TREBELL. No. + +WEDGECROFT. Says she's been in Ireland with him since we met at +Shapters. He has trouble with his tenantry. + +TREBELL. Won't he sell or won't they purchase? + +WEDGECROFT. Curious chap. A Don at Balliol when I first knew him. Warped +of late years . . perhaps by his marriage. + +TREBELL. [_Dismissing that subject._] Well . . how's Percival? + +WEDGECROFT. Better this morning. I told him I'd seen you . . and in a +little calculated burst of confidence what I'd reason to think you were +after. He said you and he could get on though you differed on every +point; but he didn't see how you'd pull with such a blasted weak-kneed +lot as the rest of the Horsham's cabinet would be. He'll be up in a week +or ten days. + +TREBELL. Can I see him? + +WEDGECROFT. You might. I admire the old man . . the way he sticks to his +party, though they misrepresent now most things he believes in! + +TREBELL. What a damnable state to arrive at . . doubly damned by the +fact you admire it. + +WEDGECROFT. And to think that at this time of day you should need +instructing in the ethics of party government. But I'll have to do it. + +TREBELL. Not now. I've been at ethics with Cantelupe. + +WEDGECROFT. Certainly not now. What about my man with the stomach-ache +at twelve o'clock sharp! Good-bye. + +_He is gone._ TREBELL _battles with uneasiness and at last mutters_. +"Oh . . why didn't she wait?" _Then the telephone bell rings. He goes +quickly as if it were an answer to his anxiety._ "Yes?" _Of course, it +isn't . ._ "Yes." _He paces the room, impatient, wondering what to do. +The Maid comes in to announce_ MISS DAVENPORT. LUCY _follows her. She +has gained lately perhaps a little of the joy which was lacking and at +least she brings now into this room a breath of very wholesome +womanhood._ + +LUCY. It's very good of you to let me come; I'm not going to keep you +more than three minutes. + +TREBELL. Sit down. + +_Only women unused to busy men would call him rude._ + +LUCY. What I want to say is . . don't mind my being engaged to Walter. +It shan't interfere with his work for you. If you want a proof that it +shan't . . it was I got Aunt Julia to ask you to take him . . Though he +didn't know . . so don't tell him that. + +TREBELL. You weren't engaged then. + +LUCY. I . . thought that we might be. + +TREBELL. [_With cynical humour._] Which I'm not to tell him either? + +LUCY. Oh, that wouldn't matter. + +TREBELL. [_With decision._] I'll make sure you don't interfere. + +LUCY. [_Deliberately . . not to be treated as a child._] You couldn't, +you know, if I wanted to. + +TREBELL. Why, is Walter a fool? + +LUCY. He's very fond of me, if that's what you mean? + +TREBELL _looks at her for the first time and changes his tone a little_. + +TREBELL. If it was what I meant . . I'm disposed to withdraw the +suggestion. + +LUCY. And, because I'm fond of his work as well, I shan't therefore ask +him to tell me things . . secrets. + +TREBELL. [_Reverting to his humour._] It'll be when you're a year or two +married that danger may occur . . in his desperate effort to make +conversation. + +LUCY _considers this and him quite seriously_. + +LUCY. You're rather hard on women, aren't you . . just because they +don't have the chances men do. + +TREBELL. Do you want the chances? + +LUCY. I think I'm as clever as most men I meet, though I know less, of +course. + +TREBELL. Perhaps I should have offered you the secretaryship instead. + +LUCY. [_Readily._] Don't you think I'm taking it in a way . . by +marrying Walter? That's fanciful of course. But marriage is a very +general and complete sort of partnership, isn't it? At least, I'd like +to make mine so. + +TREBELL. He'll be more under your thumb in some things if you leave him +free in others. + +_She receives the sarcasm in all seriousness and then speaks to him as +she would to a child._ + +LUCY. Oh . . I'm not explaining what I mean quite well perhaps. Walter +has been everywhere and done everything. He speaks three languages . . +which all makes him an ideal private secretary. + +TREBELL. Quite. + +LUCY. Do you think he'd develop into anything else . . but for me? + +TREBELL. So I have provided just a first step, have I? + +LUCY. [_With real enthusiasm._] Oh, Mr. Trebell, it's a great thing for +us. There isn't anyone worth working under but you. You'll make him +think and give him ideas instead of expecting them from him. But just +for that reason he'd get so attached to you and be quite content to grow +old in your shadow . . if it wasn't for me. + +TREBELL. True . . I should encourage him in nothingness. What's more, I +want extra brains and hands. It's not altogether a pleasant thing, is +it . . the selfishness of the hard worked man? + +LUCY. If you don't grudge your own strength, why should you be tender of +other people's? + +_He looks at her curiously._ + +TREBELL. Your ambition is making for only second-hand satisfaction +though. + +LUCY. What's a woman to do? She must work through men, mustn't she? + +TREBELL. I'm told that's degrading . . the influencing of husbands and +brothers and sons. + +LUCY. [_Only half humorously._] But what else is one to do with them? Of +course, I've enough money to live on . . so I could take up some woman's +profession. . . What are you smiling at? + +TREBELL. [_Who has smiled very broadly._] As you don't mean to . . don't +stop while I tell you. + +LUCY. But I'd sooner get married. I want to have children. [_The words +catch him and hold him. He looks at her reverently this time. She +remembers she has transgressed convention; then, remembering that it is +only convention, proceeds quite simply._] I hope we shall have children. + +TREBELL. I hope so. + +LUCY. Thank you. That's the first kind thing you've said. + +TREBELL. Oh . . you can do without compliments, can't you? + +_She considers for a moment._ + +LUCY. Why have you been talking to me as if I were someone else? + +TREBELL. [_Startled._] Who else? + +LUCY. No one particular. But you've shaken a moral fist so to speak. I +don't think I provoked it. + +TREBELL. It's a bad parliamentary habit. I apologise. + +_She gets up to go._ + +LUCY. Now I shan't keep you longer . . you're always busy. You've been +so easy to talk to. Thank you very much. + +TREBELL. Why . . I wonder? + +LUCY. I knew you would be or I shouldn't have come. You think Life's an +important thing, don't you? That's priggish, isn't it? Good-bye. We're +coming to dinner . . Aunt Julia and I. Miss Trebell arrived to ask us +just as I left. + +TREBELL. I'll see you down. + +LUCY. What waste of time for you. I know how the door opens. + +_As she goes out_ WALTER KENT _is on the way to his room. The two nod to +each other like old friends._ TREBELL _turns away with something of a +sigh_. + +KENT. Just come? + +LUCY. Just going. + +KENT. I'll see you at dinner. + +LUCY. Oh, are you to be here? . . that's nice. + +LUCY _departs as purposefully as she came_. KENT _hurries to_ TREBELL, +_whose thoughts are away again by now_. + +KENT. I haven't been long there and back, have I? The Bishop gave me +these letters for you. He hasn't answered the last . . but I've his +notes of what he means to say. He'd like them back to-night. He was just +going out. I've one or two notes of what Evans said. Bit of a charlatan, +don't you think? + +TREBELL. Evans? + +KENT. Well, he talked of his Flock. There are quite fifteen letters +you'll have to deal with yourself, I'm afraid. + +TREBELL _stares at him: then, apparently, making up his mind_ . . + +TREBELL. Ring up a messenger, will you . . I must write a note and send +it. + +KENT. Will you dictate? + +TREBELL. I shall have done it while you're ringing . . it's only a +personal matter. Then we'll start work. + +KENT _goes into his room and tackles the telephone there_. TREBELL _sits +down to write the note, his face very set and anxious_. + + + + + THE THIRD ACT + + +At LORD HORSHAM'S house in Queen Anne's Gate, in the evening, a week +later. + +_If rooms express their owners' character, the grey and black of_ LORD +HORSHAM'S _drawing room, the faded brocade of its furniture, reveal him +as a man of delicate taste and somewhat thin intellectuality. He stands +now before a noiseless fire, contemplating with a troubled eye either +the pattern of the Old French carpet, or the black double doors of the +library opposite, or the moulding on the Adams ceiling, which the +flicker of all the candles casts into deeper relief. His grey hair and +black clothes would melt into the decoration of his room, were the +figure not rescued from such oblivion by the British white glaze of his +shirt front and--to a sympathetic eye--by the loveable perceptive face +of the man. Sometimes he looks at the sofa in front of him, on which +sits_ WEDGECROFT, _still in the frock coat of a busy day, depressed and +irritable. With his back to them, on a sofa with its back to them, is_ +GEORGE FARRANT, _planted with his knees apart, his hands clasped, his +head bent; very glum. And sometimes_ HORSHAM _glances at the door, as if +waiting for it to open. Then his gaze will travel back, up the long +shiny black piano, with a volume of the Well Tempered Clavichord open on +its desk, to where_ CANTELUPE _is perched uncomfortably on the bench; +paler than ever; more self-contained than ever, looking, to one who +knows him as well as_ HORSHAM _does, a little dangerous. So he returns +to contemplation of the ceiling or the carpet. They wait there as men +wait who have said all they want to say upon an unpleasant subject and +yet cannot dismiss it. At last_ FARRANT _breaks the silence_. + +FARRANT. What time did you ask him to come, Horsham? + +HORSHAM. Eh . . O'Connell? I didn't ask him directly. What time did you +say, Wedgecroft? + +WEDGECROFT. Any time after half past ten, I told him. + +FARRANT. [_Grumbling._] It's a quarter to eleven. Doesn't Blackborough +mean to turn up at all? + +HORSHAM. He was out of town . . my note had to be sent after him. I +couldn't wire, you see. + +FARRANT. No. + +CANTELUPE. It was by the merest chance your man caught me, Cyril. I was +taking the ten fifteen to Tonbridge and happened to go to James Street +first for some papers. + +_The conversation flags again._ + +CANTELUPE. But since Mrs. O'Connell is dead what is the excuse for a +scandal? + +_At this unpleasant dig into the subject of their thoughts the three +other men stir uncomfortably._ + +HORSHAM. Because the inquest is unavoidable . . apparently. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Suddenly letting fly._] I declare I'd have risked penal +servitude and given a certificate, but just before the end O'Connell +would call in old Fielding Andrews, who has moral scruples about +everything--it's his trademark--and of course about this . . ! + +FARRANT. Was he told of the whole business? + +WEDGECROFT. No . . O'Connell kept things up before him. Well . . the +woman was dying. + +HORSHAM. Couldn't you have kept the true state of the case from Sir +Fielding? + +WEDGECROFT. And been suspected of the malpractice myself if he'd found +it out? . . which he would have done . . he's no fool. Well . . I +thought of trying that. . . + +FARRANT. My dear Wedgecroft . . how grossly quixotic! You have a duty to +yourself. + +HORSHAM. [_Rescuing the conversation from unpleasantness._] I'm afraid I +feel that our position to-night is most irregular, Wedgecroft. + +WEDGECROFT. Still if you can make O'Connell see reason. And if you all +can't . . [_He frowns at the alternative._] + +CANTELUPE. Didn't you say she came to you first of all? + +WEDGECROFT. I met her one morning at Trebell's. + +FARRANT. Actually at Trebell's! + +WEDGECROFT. The day he came back from abroad. + +FARRANT. Oh! No one seems to have noticed them together much at any +time. My wife. . . No matter! + +WEDGECROFT. She tackled me as a doctor with one part of her trouble . . +added she'd been with O'Connell in Ireland, which of course it turns out +wasn't true . . asked me to help her. I had to say I couldn't. + +HORSHAM. [_Echoing rather than querying._] You couldn't. + +FARRANT. [_Shocked._] My dear Horsham! + +WEDGECROFT. Well, if she'd told me the truth! . . No, anyhow I couldn't. +I'm sure there was no excuse. One can't run these risks. + +FARRANT. Quite right, quite right. + +WEDGECROFT. There are men who do on one pretext or another. + +FARRANT. [_Not too shocked to be curious._] Are there really? + +WEDGECROFT. Oh yes, men well known . . in other directions. I could give +you four addresses . . but of course I wasn't going to give her one. +Though there again . . if she'd told me the whole truth! . . My God, +women are such fools! And they prefer quackery . . look at the decent +doctors they simply turn into charlatans. Though, there again, that all +comes of letting a trade work mysteriously under the thumb of a +benighted oligarchy . . which is beside the question. But one day I'll +make you sit up on the subject of the Medical Council, Horsham. + +HORSHAM _assumes an impenetrable air of statesmanship_. + +HORSHAM. I know. Very interesting . . very important . . very difficult +to alter the status quo. + +WEDGECROFT. Then the poor little liar said she'd go off to an +appointment with her dressmaker; and I heard nothing more till she sent +for me a week later, and I found her almost too ill to speak. Even then +she didn't tell me the truth! So, when O'Connell arrived, of course I +spoke to him quite openly and all he told me in reply was that it +wouldn't have been his child. + +FARRANT. Poor devil! + +WEDGECROFT. O'Connell? + +FARRANT. Yes, of course. + +WEDGECROFT. I wonder. Perhaps she didn't realize he'd been sent for . . +or felt then she was dying and didn't care . . or lost her head. I don't +know. + +FARRANT. Such a pretty little woman! + +WEDGECROFT. If I could have made him out and dealt with him, of course, +I shouldn't have come to you. Farrant's known him even longer than I +have. + +FARRANT. I was with him at Harrow. + +WEDGECROFT. So I went to Farrant first. + +_That part of the subject drops._ CANTELUPE, _who has not moved, strikes +in again_. + +CANTELUPE. How was Trebell's guilt discovered? + +FARRANT. He wrote her one letter which she didn't destroy. O'Connell +found it. + +WEDGECROFT. Picked it up from her desk . . it wasn't even locked up. + +FARRANT. Not twenty words in it . . quite enough though. + +HORSHAM. His habit of being explicit . . of writing things down . . I +know! + +_He shakes his head, deprecating all rashness. There is another pause._ +FARRANT, _getting up to pace about, breaks it_. + +FARRANT. Look here, Wedgecroft, one thing is worrying me. Had Trebell +any foreknowledge of what she did and the risk she was running and could +he have stopped it? + +WEDGECROFT. [_Almost ill-temperedly._] How could he have stopped it? + +FARRANT. Because . . well, I'm not a casuist . . but I know by instinct +when I'm up against the wrong thing to do; and if he can't be cleared on +that point I won't lift a finger to save him. + +HORSHAM. [_With nice judgment._] In using the term Any Foreknowledge, +Farrant, you may be more severe on him than you wish to be. + +FARRANT, _unappreciative, continues_. + +FARRANT. Otherwise . . well, we must admit, Cantelupe, that if it hadn't +been for the particular consequence of this it wouldn't be anything to +be so mightily shocked about. + +CANTELUPE. I disagree. + +FARRANT. My dear fellow, it's our business to make laws and we know the +difference of saying in one of 'em you may or you must. Who ever +proposed to insist on pillorying every case of spasmodic adultery? One +would never have done! Some of these attachments do more harm . . to the +third party, I mean . . some less. But it's only when a menage becomes +socially impossible that a sensible man will interfere. [_He adds quite +unnecessarily._] I'm speaking quite impersonally, of course. + +CANTELUPE. [_As coldly as ever._] Trebell is morally responsible for +every consequence of the original sin. + +WEDGECROFT. That is a hard saying. + +FARRANT. [_Continuing his own remarks quite independently._] And I put +aside the possibility that he deliberately helped her to her death to +save a scandal because I don't believe it is a possibility. But if that +were so I'd lift my finger to help him to his. I'd see him hanged with +pleasure. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Settling this part of the matter._] Well, Farrant, to all +intents and purposes he didn't know and he'd have stopped it if he +could. + +FARRANT. Yes, I believe that. But what makes you so sure? + +WEDGECROFT. I asked him and he told me. + +FARRANT. That's no proof. + +WEDGECROFT. You read the letter that he sent her . . unless you think it +was written as a blind. + +FARRANT. Oh . . to be sure . . yes. I might have thought of that. + +_He settles down again. Again no one has anything to say._ + +CANTELUPE. What is to be said to Mr. O'Connell when he comes? + +HORSHAM. Yes . . what exactly do you propose we shall say to O'Connell, +Wedgecroft? + +WEDGECROFT. Get him to open his oyster of a mind and . . . + +FARRANT. So it is and his face like a stone wall yesterday. Absolutely +refused to discuss the matter with me! + +CANTELUPE. May I ask, Cyril, why are we concerning ourselves with this +wickedness at all? + +HORSHAM. Just at this moment when we have official weight without +official responsibility, Charles . . + +WEDGECROFT. I wish I could have let Percival out of bed, but these first +touches of autumn are dangerous to a convalescent of his age. + +HORSHAM. But you saw him, Farrant . . and he gave you his opinion, +didn't he? + +FARRANT. Last night . . yes. + +HORSHAM. I suppose it's a pity Blackborough hasn't turned up. + +FARRANT. Never mind him. + +HORSHAM. He gets people to agree with him. That's a gift. + +FARRANT. Wedgecroft, what is the utmost O'Connell will be called upon to +do for us . . for Trebell? + +WEDGECROFT. Probably only to hold his tongue at the inquest to-morrow. +As far as I know there's no one but her maid to prove that Mrs. +O'Connell didn't meet her husband some time in the summer. He'll be +called upon to tell a lie or two by implication. + +FARRANT. Cantelupe . . what does perjury to that extent mean to a Roman +Catholic? + +CANTELUPE'S _face melts into an expression of mild amazement_. + +CANTELUPE. Your asking such a question shows that you would not +understand my answer to it. + +FARRANT. [_Leaving the fellow to his subtleties._] Well, what about the +maid? + +WEDGECROFT. She may suspect facts but not names, I think. Why should +they question her on such a point if O'Connell says nothing? + +HORSHAM. He's really very late. I told . . [_He stops._] Charles, I've +forgotten that man's name again. + +CANTELUPE. Edmunds, you said it was. + +HORSHAM. Edmunds. Everybody's down at Lympne . . I've been left with a +new man here and I don't know his name. [_He is very pathetic._] I told +him to put O'Connell in the library there. I thought that either Farrant +or I might perhaps see him first and-- + +_At this moment_ EDMUNDS _comes in, and, with that air of discreet tact +which he considers befits the establishment of a Prime Minister, +announces_, "Mr. O'Connell, my lord." _As_ O'CONNELL _follows him_, +HORSHAM _can only try not to look too disconcerted_. O'CONNELL, _in his +tightly buttoned frock coat, with his shaven face and close-cropped iron +grey hair, might be mistaken for a Catholic priest; except that he has +not also acquired the easy cheerfulness which professional familiarity +with the mysteries of that religion seems to give. For the moment, at +least, his features are so impassive that they may tell either of the +deepest grief or the purest indifference; or it may be, merely of +reticence on entering a stranger's room. He only bows towards_ HORSHAM'S +_half-proffered hand. With instinctive respect for the situation of this +tragically made widower the men have risen and stand in various uneasy +attitudes._ + +HORSHAM. Oh . . how do you do? Let me see . . do you know my cousin +Charles Cantelupe? Yes . . we were expecting Russell Blackborough. Sir +Henry Percival is ill. Do sit down. + +O'CONNELL _takes the nearest chair and gradually the others settle +themselves_; FARRANT _seeking an obscure corner. But there follows an +uncomfortable silence, which_ O'CONNELL _at last breaks_. + +O'CONNELL. You have sent for me, Lord Horsham? + +HORSHAM. I hope that by my message I conveyed no impression of sending +for you. + +O'CONNELL. I am always in some doubt as to by what person or persons in +or out of power this country is governed. But from all I hear you are at +the present moment approximately entitled to send for me. + +_The level music of his Irish tongue seems to give finer edge to his +sarcasm._ + +HORSHAM. Well, Mr. O'Connell . . you know our request before we make it. + +O'CONNELL. Yes, I understand that if the fact of Mr. Trebell's adultery +with my wife were made as public as its consequences to her must be +to-morrow, public opinion would make it difficult for you to include +him in your cabinet. + +HORSHAM. Therefore we ask you . . though we have no right to ask you . . +to consider the particular circumstances and forget the man in the +statesman, Mr. O'Connell. + +O'CONNELL. My wife is dead. What have I to do at all with Mr. Trebell as +a man? As a statesman I am in any case uninterested in him. + +_Upon this throwing of cold water_, EDMUNDS _returns to mention even +more discreetly_ . . . + +EDMUNDS. Mr. Blackborough is in the library, my lord. + +HORSHAM. [_Patiently impatient._] No, no . . here. + +WEDGECROFT. Let me go. + +HORSHAM. [_To the injured_ EDMUNDS.] Wait . . wait. + +WEDGECROFT. I'll put him _au fait_. I shan't come back. + +HORSHAM. [_Gratefully._] Yes, yes. [_Then to_ EDMUNDS _who is waiting +with perfect dignity_.] Yes . . yes . . yes. + +EDMUNDS _departs and_ WEDGECROFT _makes for the library door, glad to +escape_. + +O'CONNELL. If you are not busy at this hour, Wedgecroft, I should be +grateful if you'd wait for me. I shall keep you, I think, but a very few +minutes. + +WEDGECROFT. [_In his most matter-of-fact tone._] All right, O'Connell. + +_He goes into the library._ + +CANTELUPE. Don't you think, Cyril, it would be wiser to prevent your man +coming into the room at all while we're discussing this? + +HORSHAM. [_Collecting his scattered tact._] Yes, I thought I had +arranged that he shouldn't. I'm very sorry. He's a fool. However, +there's no one else to come. Once more, Mr. O'Connell . . [_He frames no +sentence._] + +O'CONNELL. I am all attention, Lord Horsham. + +CANTELUPE _with a self-denying effort has risen to his feet_. + +CANTELUPE. Mr. O'Connell, I remain here almost against my will. I cannot +think quite calmly about this double and doubly heinous sin. Don't +listen to us while we make light of it. If we think of it as a political +bother and ask you to smooth it away . . I am ashamed. But I believe I +may not be wrong if I put it to you that, looking to the future and for +the sake of your own Christian dignity, it may become you to be +merciful. And I pray too . . I think we may believe . . that Mr. Trebell +is feeling need of your forgiveness. I have no more to say. [_He sits +down again._] + +O'CONNELL. It may be. I have never met Mr. Trebell. + +HORSHAM. I tell you, Mr. O'Connell, putting aside Party, that your +country has need of this man just at this time. + +_They hang upon_ O'CONNELL'S _reply. It comes with deliberation_. + +O'CONNELL. I suppose my point of view must be an unusual one. I notice, +at least, that twenty four hours and more has not enabled Farrant to +grasp it. + +FARRANT. For God's sake, O'Connell, don't be so cold-blooded. You have +the life or death of a man's reputation to decide on. + +O'CONNELL. [_With a cold flash of contempt._] That's a petty enough +thing now-a-days it seems to me. There are so many clever men . . and +they are all so alike . . surely one will not be missed. + +CANTELUPE. Don't you think that is only sarcasm, Mr. O'Connell? + +_The voice is so gently reproving that_ O'CONNELL _must turn to him_. + +O'CONNELL. Will you please to make allowance, Lord Charles, for a +mediaeval scholar's contempt of modern government? =You= at least will +partly understand his horror as a Catholic at the modern superstitions +in favour of popular opinion and control which it encourages. You see, +Lord Horsham, I am not a party man, only a little less enthusiastic for +the opposite cries than for his own. You appealed very strangely to my +feelings of patriotism for this country; but you see even my own is--in +the twentieth century--foreign to me. From my point of view neither Mr. +Trebell, nor you, nor the men you have just defeated, nor any +discoverable man or body of men will make laws which matter . . or +differ in the slightest. You are all part of your age and you all +voice--though in separate keys, or even tunes they may be--only the +greed and follies of your age. That you should do this and nothing more +is, of course, the democratic ideal. You will forgive my thinking +tenderly of the statesmanship of the =first= Edward. + +_The library door opens and_ RUSSELL BLACKBOROUGH _comes in. He has on +evening clothes, complicated by a long silk comforter and the motoring +cap which he carries._ + +HORSHAM. You know Russell Blackborough. + +O'CONNELL. I think not. + +BLACKBOROUGH. How d'you do? + +O'CONNELL _having bowed_, BLACKBOROUGH _having nodded, the two men sit +down_, BLACKBOROUGH _with an air of great attention_, O'CONNELL _to +continue his interrupted speech_. + +O'CONNELL. And you are as far from me in your code of personal morals as +in your politics. In neither do you seem to realise that such a thing as +passion can exist. No doubt you use the words Love and Hatred; but do +you know that love and hatred for principles or persons should come from +beyond a man? I notice you speak of forgiveness as if it were a penny in +my pocket. You have been endeavouring for these two days to rouse me +from my indifference towards Mr. Trebell. Perhaps you are on the point +of succeeding . . but I do not know what you may rouse. + +HORSHAM. I understand. We are much in agreement, Mr. O'Connell. What can +a man be--who has any pretensions to philosophy--but helplessly +indifferent to the thousands of his fellow creatures whose fates are +intertwined with his? + +O'CONNELL. I am glad that you understand. But, again . . have I been +wrong to shrink from personal relations with Mr. Trebell? Hatred is as +sacred a responsibility as love. And you will not agree with me when I +say that punishment can be the salvation of a man's soul. + +FARRANT. [_With aggressive common sense._] Look here, O'Connell, if +you're indifferent it doesn't hurt you to let him off. And if you hate +him . . ! Well, one shouldn't hate people . . there's no room for it in +this world. + +CANTELUPE. [_Quietly as ever._] We have some authority for thinking that +the punishment of a secret sin is awarded by God secretly. + +O'CONNELL. We have very poor authority, sir, for using God's name merely +to fill up the gaps in an argument, though we may thus have our way +easily with men who fear God more than they know him. I am not one of +those. Yes, Farrant, you and your like have left little room in this +world except for the dusty roads on which I notice you beginning once +more to travel. The rule of them is the same for all, is it not . . from +the tramp and the labourer to the plutocrat in his car? This is the age +of equality; and it's a fine practical equality . . the equality of the +road. But you've fenced the fields of human joy and turned the very +hillsides into hoardings. Commercial opportunity is painted on them, I +think. + +FARRANT. [_Not to be impressed._] Perhaps it is O'Connell. My father +made his money out of newspapers and I ride in a motor car and you came +from Holyhead by train. What has all that to do with it? Why can't you +make up your mind? You know in this sort of case one talks a lot . . +and then does the usual thing. You must let Trebell off and that's all +about it. + +O'CONNELL. Indeed. And do they still think it worth while to administer +an oath to your witnesses? + +_He is interrupted by the flinging open of the door and the triumphant +right-this-time-anyhow voice in which_ EDMUNDS _announces_ "Mr. Trebell, +my lord." _The general consternation expresses itself through_ HORSHAM, +_who complains aloud and unreservedly_. + +HORSHAM. Good God . . No! Charles, I must give him notice at once . . +he'll have to go. [_He apologises to the company._] I beg your pardon. + +_By this time_ TREBELL _is in the room and has discovered the stranger, +who stands to face him without emotion or anger_. BLACKBOROUGH'S _face +wears the grimmest of smiles_, CANTELUPE _is sorry_, FARRANT _recovers +from the fit of choking which seemed imminent and_ EDMUNDS, _dimly +perceiving by now some fly in the perfect amber of his conduct, departs. +The two men still face each other._ FARRANT _is prepared to separate +them should they come to blows, and indeed is advancing in that +anticipation when_ O'CONNELL _speaks_. + +O'CONNELL. I am Justin O'Connell. + +TREBELL. I guess that. + +O'CONNELL. There's a dead woman between us, Mr. Trebell. + +_A tremor sweeps over_ TREBELL; _then he speaks simply_. + +TREBELL. I wish she had not died. + +O'CONNELL. I am called upon by your friends to save you from the +consequences of her death. What have you to say about that? + +TREBELL. I have been wondering what sort of expression the last of your +care for her would find . . but not much. My wonder is at the power +over me that has been given to something I despised. + +_Only_ O'CONNELL _grasps his meaning. But he, stirred for the first time +and to his very depths, drives it home._ + +O'CONNELL. Yes . . If I wanted revenge I have it. She was a worthless +woman. First my life and now yours! Dead because she was afraid to bear +your child, isn't she? + +TREBELL. [_In agony._] I'd have helped that if I could. + +O'CONNELL. Not the shame . . not the wrong she had done me . . but just +fear--fear of the burden of her woman-hood. And because of her my +children are bastards and cannot inherit my name. And I must live in sin +against my church, as--God help me--I can't against my nature. What are +men to do when this is how women use the freedom we have given them? Is +the curse of barrenness to be nothing to a man? And that's the death in +life to which you gentlemen with your fine civilisation are bringing us. +I think we are brothers in misfortune, Mr. Trebell. + +TREBELL. [_Far from responding._] Not at all, sir. If you wanted +children you did the next best thing when she left you. My own problem +is neither so simple nor is it yet anyone's business but my own. I +apologise for alluding to it. + +HORSHAM _takes advantage of the silence that follows_. + +HORSHAM. Shall we . . + +O'CONNELL. [_Measuring_ TREBELL _with his eyes_.] And by which shall I +help you to a solution . . telling lies or the truth to-morrow? + +TREBELL. [_Roughly, almost insolently._] If you want my advice . . I +should do the thing that comes more easily to you, or that will content +you most. If you haven't yet made up your mind as to the relative +importance of my work and your conscience, it's too late to begin now. +Nothing you may do can affect =me=. + +HORSHAM. [_Fluttering fearfully into this strange dispute._] O'Connell . . +if you and I were to join Wedgecroft . . + +O'CONNELL. You value your work more than anything else in the world? + +TREBELL. Have I anything else in the world? + +O'CONNELL. Have you not? [_With grim ambiguity._] Then I am sorry for +you, Mr. Trebell. [_Having said all he had to say, he notices_ HORSHAM.] +Yes, Lord Horsham, by all means . . + +_Then_ HORSHAM _opens the library door and sees him safely through. He +passes_ TREBELL _without any salutation, nor does_ TREBELL _turn after +him; but when_ HORSHAM _also is in the library and the door is closed, +comments viciously_. + +TREBELL. The man's a sentimentalist . . like all men who live alone or +shut away. [_Then surveying his three glum companions, bursts out._] +Well . . ? We can stop thinking of this dead woman, can't we? It's a +waste of time. + +FARRANT. Trebell, what did you want to come here for? + +TREBELL. Because you thought I wouldn't. I knew you'd be sitting round, +incompetent with distress, calculating to a nicety the force of a +scandal. . . + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_With the firmest of touches._] Horsham has called some +of us here to discuss the situation. I am considering my opinion. + +TREBELL. You are not, Blackborough. You haven't recovered yet from the +shock of your manly feelings. Oh, cheer up. You know we're an adulterous +and sterile generation. Why should you cry out at a proof now and then +of what's always in the hearts of most of us? + +FARRANT. [_Plaintively._] Now, for God's sake, Trebell . . O'Connell has +been going on like that. + +TREBELL. Well then . . think of what matters. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Of you and your reputation in fact. + +FARRANT. [_Kindly._] Why do you pretend to be callous? + +_He strokes_ TREBELL'S _shoulder, who shakes him off impatiently_. + +TREBELL. Do you all mean to out-face the British Lion with me after +to-morrow . . dare to be Daniels? + +BLACKBOROUGH. Bravado won't carry this off. + +TREBELL. Blackborough . . it would immortalize you. I'll stand up in my +place in the House of Commons and tell everything that has befallen +soberly and seriously. Why should I flinch? + +FARRANT. My dear Trebell, if your name comes out at the inquest-- + +TREBELL. If it does! . . whose has been the real offence against Society +. . hers or mine? It's I who am most offended . . if I choose to think +so. + +BLACKBOROUGH. You seem to forget the adultery. + +TREBELL. Isn't Death divorce enough for her? And . . oh, wasn't I right? +. . What do you start thinking of once the shock's over? Punishment . . +revenge . . uselessness . . waste of me. + +FARRANT. [_With finality._] If your name comes out at the inquest, to +talk of anything but retirement from public life is perfect lunacy . . +and you know it. + +HORSHAM _comes back from the passage. He is a little distracted; then +the more so at finding himself again in a highly-charged atmosphere._ + +HORSHAM. He's gone off with Wedgecroft. + +TREBELL. [_Including_ HORSHAM _now in his appeal._] Does anyone think he +knows me now to be a worse man . . less fit, less able . . than he did a +week ago? + +_From the piano-stool comes_ CANTELUPE'S _quiet voice_. + +CANTELUPE. Yes, Trebell . . I do. + +TREBELL _wheels round at this and ceases all bluster_. + +TREBELL. On what grounds? + +CANTELUPE. Unarguable ones. + +HORSHAM. [_Finding refuge again in his mantelpiece._] You know, he has +gone off without giving me his promise. + +FARRANT. That's your own fault, Trebell. + +HORSHAM. The fool says I didn't give him explicit instructions. + +FARRANT. What fool? + +HORSHAM. That man . . [_The name fails him._] . . my new man. One of +those touches of Fate's little finger, really. + +_He begins to consult the ceiling and the carpet once more._ TREBELL +_tackles_ CANTELUPE _with gravity_. + +TREBELL. I have only a logical mind, Cantelupe. I know that to make +myself a capable man I've purged myself of all the sins . . I never was +idle enough to commit. I know that if your God didn't make use of men, +sins and all . . what would ever be done in the world? That one natural +action, which the slight shifting of a social law could have made as +negligible as eating a meal, can make me incapable . . takes the +linch-pin out of one's brain, doesn't it? + +HORSHAM. Trebell, we've been doing our best to get you out of this mess. +Your remarks to O'Connell weren't of any assistance, and . . + +CANTELUPE _stands up, so momentously that_ HORSHAM'S _gentle flow of +speech dries up_. + +CANTELUPE. Perhaps I had better say at once that, whatever hushing up +you may succeed in, it will be impossible for me to sit in a cabinet +with Mr. Trebell. + +_It takes even_ FARRANT _a good half minute to recover his power of +speech on this new issue_. + +FARRANT. What perfect nonsense, Cantelupe! I hope you don't mean that. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Complication number one, Horsham. + +FARRANT. [_Working up his protest._] Why on earth not? You really +mustn't drag your personal feelings and prejudices into important +matters like this . . matters of state. + +CANTELUPE. I think I have no choice, when Trebell stands convicted of a +mortal sin, of which he has not even repented. + +TREBELL. [_With bitterest cynicism._] Dictate any form of repentance you +like . . my signature is yours. + +CANTELUPE. Is this a matter for intellectual jugglery? + +TREBELL. [_His defence failing at last._] I offered to face the scandal +from my place in the House. That was mad, wasn't it . . + +BLACKBOROUGH--_his course mapped out--changes the tone of the +discussion_. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Horsham, I hope Trebell will believe I have no personal +feelings in this matter, but we may as well face the fact even now that +O'Connell holding his tongue to-morrow won't stop gossip in the House, +club gossip, gossip in drawing rooms. What do the Radicals really care +so long as a scandal doesn't get into the papers! There's an inner +circle with its eye on us. + +FARRANT. Well, what does that care as long as scandal's its own +copyright? Do you know, my dear father refused a peerage because he felt +it meant putting blinkers on his best newspaper. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_A little subtly._] Still . . now you and Horsham are +cousins, aren't you? + +FARRANT. [_Off the track and explanatory._] No, no . . my wife's mother +. . . + +BLACKBOROUGH. I'm inaccurate, for I'm not one of the family circle +myself. My money gets me here and any skill I've used in making it. It +wouldn't keep me at a pinch. And Trebell . . [_He speaks through his +teeth._] . . do you think your accession to power in the party is +popular at the best? Who is going to put out a finger to make it less +awkward for Horsham to stick to you if there's a chance of your going +under? + +TREBELL _smiles at some mental picture he is making_. + +TREBELL. Can your cousins and aunts make it so awkward for you, Horsham? + +HORSHAM. [_Repaying humour with humour._] I bear up against their +affectionate attentions. + +TREBELL. But I quite understand how uncongenial I may be. What made you +take up with me at all? + +FARRANT. Your brains, Trebell. + +TREBELL. He should have enquired into my character first, shouldn't he, +Cantelupe? + +CANTELUPE. [_With crushing sincerity._] Yes. + +TREBELL. Oh, the old unnecessary choice . . Wisdom or Virtue. We all +think we must make it . . and we all discover we can't. But if you've to +choose between Cantelupe and me, Horsham, I quite see you've no choice. + +HORSHAM _now takes the field, using his own weapons_. + +HORSHAM. Charles, it seems to me that we are somewhat in the position of +men who have overheard a private conversation. Do you feel justified in +making public use of it? + +CANTELUPE. It is not I who am judge. God knows I would not sit in +judgment upon anyone. + +TREBELL. Cantelupe, I'll take your personal judgment if you can give it +me. + +FARRANT. Good Lord, Cantelupe, didn't you sit in a cabinet with . . +Well, we're not here to rake up old scandals. + +BLACKBOROUGH. I am concerned with the practical issue. + +HORSHAM. We know, Blackborough. [_Having quelled the interruption he +proceeds._] Charles, you spoke, I think, of a mortal sin. + +CANTELUPE. In spite of your lifted eyebrows at the childishness of the +word. + +HORSHAM. Theoretically, we must all wish to guide ourselves by eternal +truths. But you would admit, wouldn't you, that we can only deal with +temporal things? + +CANTELUPE. [_Writhing slightly under the sceptical cross-examination._] +There are divine laws laid down for our guidance . . I admit no +disbelief in them. + +HORSHAM. Do they place any time-limit to the effect of a mortal sin? If +this affair were twenty years old would you do as you are doing? Can you +forecast the opinion you will have of it six months hence? + +CANTELUPE. [_Positively._] Yes. + +HORSHAM. Can you? Nevertheless I wish you had postponed your decision +even till to-morrow. + +_Having made his point he looks round almost for approval._ + +BLACKBOROUGH. What had Percival to say on the subject, Farrant? + +FARRANT. I was only to make use of his opinion under certain +circumstances. + +BLACKBOROUGH. So it isn't favourable to your remaining with us, Mr. +Trebell. + +FARRANT. [_Indignantly emerging from the trap._] I never said that. + +_Now_ TREBELL _gives the matter another turn, very forcefully_. + +TREBELL. Horsham . . I don't bow politely and stand aside at this +juncture as a gentleman should, because I want to know how the work's to +be done if I leave you what I was to do. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Are we so incompetent? + +TREBELL. I daresay not. I want to know . . that's all. + +CANTELUPE. Please understand, Mr. Trebell, that I have in no way altered +my good opinion of your proposals. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Well, I beg to remind you, Horsham, that from the first +I've reserved myself liberty to criticise fundamental points in the +scheme. + +HORSHAM. [_Pacifically._] Quite so . . quite so. + +BLACKBOROUGH. That nonsensical new standard of teachers' salaries for +one thing . . you'd never pass it. + +HORSHAM. Quite easily. It's an administrative point, so leave the +legislation vague. Then, as the appropriation money falls in, the +qualifications rise and the salaries rise. No one will object because no +one will appreciate it but administrators past or future . . and they +never cavil at money. [_He remains lost in the beauty of this +prospect._] + +TREBELL. Will you take charge of the bill, Blackborough? + +BLACKBOROUGH. Are you serious? + +HORSHAM. [_Brought to earth._] Oh no! [_He corrects himself smiling._] I +mean, my dear Blackborough, why not stick to the Colonies? + +BLACKBOROUGH. You see, Trebell, there's still the possibility that +O'Connell may finally spike your gun tomorrow. You realise that, don't +you? + +TREBELL. Thank you. I quite realise that. + +CANTELUPE. Can nothing further be done? + +BLACKBOROUGH. Weren't we doing our best? + +HORSHAM. Yes . . if we were bending our thoughts to that difficulty +now . . . + +TREBELL. [_Hardly._] May I ask you to interfere on my behalf no further? + +FARRANT. My dear Trebell! + +TREBELL. I assure you that I am interested in the Disestablishment Bill. + +_So they turn readily enough from the more uncomfortable part of their +subject._ + +BLACKBOROUGH. Well . . here's Farrant. + +FARRANT. I'm no good. Give me Agriculture. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Pity you're in the Lords, Horsham. + +TREBELL. Horsham, I'll devil for any man you choose to name . . feed him +sentence by sentence. . . + +HORSHAM. That's impossible. + +TREBELL. Well, what's to become of my bill? I want to know. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Casting his care on Providence._] We shall manage +somehow. Why, if you had died suddenly . . or let us say, never been +born. . . + +TREBELL. Then, Blackborough . . speaking as a dying man . . if you go +back on the integrity of this scheme, I'll haunt you. [_Having said this +with some finality, he turns his back._] + +CANTELUPE. Cyril, I agree with what Trebell is saying. Whatever happens +there must be no tampering with the comprehensiveness of the scheme. +Remember you are in the hands of the extremists . . on both sides. I +won't support a compromise on one . . nor will they on the other. + +HORSHAM. Well, I'll confess to you candidly, Trebell, that I don't know +of any man available for this piece of work but you. + +TREBELL. Then I should say it would be almost a relief to you if +O'Connell tells on me to-morrow. + +FARRANT. We seem to have got off that subject altogether. [_There comes +a portentous tap at the door._] Good Lord! . . I'm getting jumpy. + +HORSHAM. Excuse me. + +_A note is handed to him through the half opened door; and obviously it +is at_ EDMUNDS _whom he frowns. Then he returns fidgetting for his +glasses_. + +Oh, it turns out . . I'm so sorry you were blundered in here, Trebell . . +this man . . what's his name . . Edwards . . had been reading the +papers and thought it was a cabinet council . . seemed proud of himself. +This is from Wedgecroft . . scribbled in a messenger office. I never can +read his writing . . it's like prescriptions. Can you? + +_It has gradually dawned on the three men and then on_ TREBELL _what +this note may have in it_. FARRANT'S _hand even trembles a little as he +takes it. He gathers the meaning himself and looks at the others with a +smile before he reads the few words aloud._ + +FARRANT. "All right. He has promised." + +BLACKBOROUGH. O'Connell? + +FARRANT. Thank God. [_He turns enthusiastically to_ TREBELL _who stands +rigid_.] My dear fellow . . I hope you know how glad I am. + +CANTELUPE. I am very glad. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Of course we're all very glad indeed, Trebell . . very +glad we persuaded him. + +FARRANT. That's dead and buried now, isn't it? + +TREBELL _moves away from them all and leaves them wondering. When he +turns round his face is as hard as ever; his voice, if possible, +harder._ + +TREBELL. But, Horsham, returning to the more important question . . +you've taken trouble, and O'Connell's to perjure himself for nothing if +you still can't get me into your child's puzzle . . to make the pretty +picture that a Cabinet should be. + +HORSHAM _looks at_ BLACKBOROUGH _and scents danger_. + +HORSHAM. We shall all be glad, I am sure, to postpone any further +discussion. . . + +TREBELL. I shall not. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Encouragingly._] Quite so, Trebell. We're on the +subject, and it won't discount our pleasure that you're out of this +mess, to continue it. This habit of putting off the hour of disagreement +is . . well, Horsham, it's contrary to my business instincts. + +TREBELL. If one time's as good as another for you . . this moment is +better than most for me. + +HORSHAM. [_A little irritated at the wantonness of this dispute._] There +is nothing before us on which we are capable of coming to any decision . . +in a technical sense. + +BLACKBOROUGH. That's a quibble. [_Poor_ HORSHAM _gasps_.] I'm not going +to pretend either now or in a month's time that I think Trebell anything +but a most dangerous acquisition to the party. I pay you a compliment in +that, Trebell. Now, Horsham proposes that we should go to the country +when Disestablishment's through. + +HORSHAM. It's the condition of Nonconformist support. + +BLACKBOROUGH. One condition. Then you'd leave us, Trebell? + +HORSHAM. I hope not. + +BLACKBOROUGH. And carry with you the credit of our one big measure. +Consider the effect upon our reputation with the Country. + +FARRANT. [_Waking to_ BLACKBOROUGH'S _line of action_.] Why on earth +should you leave us, Trebell? You've hardly been a Liberal, even in +name. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Vigorously making his point._] Then what would be the +conditions of your remaining? You're not a party man, Trebell. You +haven't the true party feeling. You are to be bought. Of course you take +your price in measures, not in money. But you are preeminently a man of +ideas . . an expert. And a man of ideas is often a grave embarrassment +to a government. + +HORSHAM. And vice-versa . . vice-versa! + +TREBELL. [_Facing_ BLACKBOROUGH _across the room_.] Do I understand that +you for the good of the Tory party . . just as Cantelupe for the good of +his soul . . will refuse to sit in a cabinet with me. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Unembarrassed._] I don't commit myself to saying that. + +CANTELUPE. No, Trebell . . it's that I must believe your work could not +prosper . . in God's way. + +TREBELL _softens to his sincerity_. + +TREBELL. Cantelupe, I quite understand. You may be right . . it's a very +interesting question. Blackborough, I take it that you object first of +all to the scheme that I'm bringing you. + +BLACKBOROUGH. I object to those parts of it which I don't think you'll +get through the House. + +FARRANT. [_Feeling that he must take part._] For instance? + +BLACKBOROUGH. I've given you one already. + +CANTELUPE. [_His eye on_ BLACKBOROUGH.] Understand there are things in +that scheme we must stand or fall by. + +_Suddenly_ TREBELL _makes for the door_. HORSHAM _gets up concernedly_. + +TREBELL. Horsham, make up your mind to-night whether you can do with me +or not. I have to see Percival again to-morrow . . we cut short our +argument at the important point. Good-bye . . don't come down. Will you +decide to-night? + +HORSHAM. I have made up my own mind. + +TREBELL. Is that sufficient? + +HORSHAM. A collective decision is a matter of development. + +TREBELL. Well, I shall expect to hear. + +HORSHAM. By hurrying one only reaches a rash conclusion. + +TREBELL. Then be rash for once and take the consequences. Good-night. + +_He is gone before_ HORSHAM _can compose another epigram_. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Deprecating such conduct._] Lost his temper! + +FARRANT. [_Ruffling considerably._] Horsham, if Trebell is to be hounded +out of your cabinet . . he won't go alone. + +HORSHAM. [_Bitter-sweet._] My dear Farrant . . I have yet to form my +cabinet. + +CANTELUPE. You are forming it to carry disestablishment, are you not, +Cyril? Therefore you will form it in the best interests of the best +scheme possible. + +HORSHAM. Trebell was and is the best man I know of for the purpose. I'm +a little weary of saying that. + +_He folds his arms and awaits further developments. After a moment_ +CANTELUPE _gets up as if to address a meeting_. + +CANTELUPE. Then if you would prefer not to include me . . I shall feel +justified in giving independent support to a scheme I have great faith +in. [_And he sits down again._] + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Impatiently._] My dear Cantelupe, if you think Horsham +can form a disestablishment cabinet to include Trebell and exclude you, +you're vastly mistaken. I for one . . . + +FARRANT. But do both of you consider how valuable, how vital Trebell is +to us just at this moment? The Radicals trust him. . . + +BLACKBOROUGH. They hate him. + +HORSHAM. [_Elucidating._] Their front bench hates him because he turned +them out. The rest of them hate their front bench. After six years of +office, who wouldn't? + +BLACKBOROUGH. That's true. + +FARRANT. Oh, of course, we must stick to Trebell, Blackborough. + +BLACKBOROUGH _is silent; so_ HORSHAM _turns his attention to his +cousin_. + +HORSHAM. Well, Charles, I won't ask you for a decision now. I know how +hard it is to accept the dictates of other men's consciences . . but a +necessary condition of all political work; believe me. + +CANTELUPE. [_Uneasily._] You can form your cabinet without me, Cyril. + +_At this_ BLACKBOROUGH _charges down on them, so to speak_. + +BLACKBOROUGH. No, I tell you, I'm damned if he can. Leaving the whole +high church party to blackmail all they can out of us and vote how they +like! Here . . I've got my Yorkshire people to think of. I can bargain +for them with you in a cabinet . . not if you've the pull of being out +of it. + +HORSHAM. [_With charming insinuation._] And have you calculated, +Blackborough, what may become of us if Trebell has the pull of being out +of it? + +BLACKBOROUGH _makes a face_. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Yes . . I suppose he might turn nasty. + +FARRANT. I should hope he would. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Tackling_ FARRANT _with great ease_.] I should hope he +would consider the matter not from the personal, but from the political +point of view . . as I am trying to do. + +HORSHAM. [_Tasting his epigram with enjoyment._] Introspection is the +only bar to such an honourable endeavour, [BLACKBOROUGH _gapes_.] You +don't suffer from that as--for instance--Charles here, does. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Pugnaciously._] D'you mean I'm just pretending not to +attack him personally? + +HORSHAM. [_Safe on his own ground._] It's only a curious metaphysical +point. Have you never noticed your distaste for the colour of a man's +hair translate itself ultimately into an objection to his religious +opinions . . or what not? I am sure--for instance--I could trace +Charles's scruples about sitting in a cabinet with Trebell back to a +sort of academic reverence for women generally which he possesses. I am +sure I could . . if he were not probably now doing it himself. But this +does not make the scruples less real, less religious, or less political. +We must be humanly biased in expression . . or not express ourselves. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Whose thoughts have wandered._] The man's less of a +danger than he was . . I mean he'll be alone. The Liberals won't have +him back. He smashed his following there to come over to us. + +FARRANT. [_Giving a further meaning to this._] Yes, Blackborough, he +did. + +BLACKBOROUGH. To gain his own ends! Oh, my dear Horsham, can't you see +that if O'Connell had blabbed to-morrow it really would have been a +blessing in disguise? I don't pretend to Cantelupe's standard . . but +there must be something radically wrong with a man who could get +himself into such a mess as that . . now mustn't there? Ah! . . you have +a fatal partiality for clever people. I tell you . . though this might +be patched up . . Trebell would fail us in some other way before we were +six months older. + +_This speech has its effect; but_ HORSHAM _looks at him a little +sternly_. + +HORSHAM. And am I to conclude that you don't want Charles to change his +mind? + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_On another tack._] Farrant has not yet allowed us to +hear Percival's opinion. + +FARRANT _looks rather alarmed_. + +FARRANT. It has very little reference to the scandal. + +BLACKBOROUGH. As that is at an end . . all the more reason we should +hear it. + +HORSHAM. [_Ranging himself with_ FARRANT.] I called this quite informal +meeting, Blackborough, only to dispose of the scandal, if possible. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Well, of course, if Farrant chooses to insult Percival so +gratuitously by burking his message to us . . + +_There is an unspoken threat in this._ HORSHAM _sees it and without +disguising his irritation_. . . + +HORSHAM. Let us have it, Farrant. + +FARRANT. [_With a sort of puzzled discontent._] Well . . I never got to +telling him of the O'Connell affair at all. He started talking to me . . +saying that he couldn't for a moment agree to Trebell's proposals for +the finance of his bill . . I couldn't get a word in edgeways. Then his +wife came up. . . + +HORSHAM _takes something in this so seriously that he actually +interrupts_. + +HORSHAM. Does he definitely disagree? What is his point? + +FARRANT. He says Disestablishment's a bad enough speculation for the +party as it is. + +BLACKBOROUGH. It is inevitable. + +FARRANT. He sees that. But then he says . . to go to the country again +having bolstered up Education and quarrelled with everybody will be bad +enough . . to go having spent fifty millions on it will dish us all for +our lifetimes. + +HORSHAM. What does he propose? + +FARRANT. He'll offer to draft another bill and take it through himself. +He says . . do as many good turns as we can with the money . . don't put +it all on one horse. + +BLACKBOROUGH. He's your man, Horsham. That's one difficulty settled. + +HORSHAM'S _thoughts are evidently beyond_ BLACKBOROUGH, _beyond the +absent_ PERCIVAL _even_. + +HORSHAM. Oh . . any of us could carry that sort of a bill. + +CANTELUPE _has heard this last passage with nothing less than horror and +pale anger, which he contains no longer_. + +CANTELUPE. I won't have this. I won't have this opportunity frittered +away for party purposes. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Expostulating reasonably._] My dear Cantelupe . . you'll +get whatever you think it right for the Church to have. You carry a +solid thirty eight votes with you. + +HORSHAM'S _smooth voice intervenes. He speaks with finesse._ + +HORSHAM. Percival, as an old campaigner, expresses himself very roughly. +The point is, that we are after all only the trustees of the party. If +we know that a certain step will decimate it . . clearly we have no +right to take the step. + +CANTELUPE. [_Glowing to white heat._] Is this a time to count the +consequences to ourselves? + +HORSHAM. [_Unkindly._] By your action this evening, Charles, you +evidently think not. [_He salves the wound._] No matter, I agree with +you . . the bill should be a comprehensive one, whoever brings it in. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Not without enjoyment of the situation._] Whoever brings +it in will have to knuckle under to Percival over its finance. + +FARRANT. Trebell won't do that. I warned Percival. + +HORSHAM. Then what did he say? + +FARRANT. He only swore. + +HORSHAM _suddenly becomes peevish_. + +HORSHAM. I think, Farrant, you should have given me this message before. + +FARRANT. My dear Horsham, what had it to do with our request to +O'Connell? + +HORSHAM. [_Scolding the company generally._] Well then, I wish he hadn't +sent it. I wish we were not discussing these points at all. The proper +time for them is at a cabinet meeting. And when we have actually assumed +the responsibilities of government . . then threats of resignation are +not things to be played about with. + +FARRANT. Did you expect Percival's objection to the finance of the +scheme? + +HORSHAM. Perhaps . . perhaps. I knew Trebell was to see him last +Tuesday. I expect everybody's objections to any parts of every scheme to +come at a time when I am in a proper position to reconcile them . . not +now. + +_Having vented his grievances he sits down to recover._ BLACKBOROUGH +_takes advantage of the ensuing pause_. + +BLACKBOROUGH. It isn't so easy for me to speak against Trebell, since he +evidently dislikes me personally as much as I dislike him . . but I'm +sure I'm doing my duty. Horsham . . here you have Cantelupe who won't +stand in with the man, and Percival who won't stand in with his measure, +while I would sooner stand in with neither. Isn't it better to face the +situation now than take trouble to form the most makeshift of Cabinets, +and if that doesn't go to pieces, be voted down in the House by your +own party? + +_There is an oppressive silence._ HORSHAM _is sulky. The matter is +beyond_ FARRANT. CANTELUPE _whose agonies have expressed themselves in +slight writhings, at last, with an effort, writhes himself to his feet_. + +CANTELUPE. I think I am prepared to reconsider my decision. + +FARRANT. That's all right then! + +_He looks round wonderingly for the rest of the chorus to find that +neither_ BLACKBOROUGH _nor_ HORSHAM _have stirred_. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Stealthily._] Is it, Horsham? + +HORSHAM. [_Sotto voce._] Why did you ever make it? + +BLACKBOROUGH _leaves him for_ CANTELUPE. + +BLACKBOROUGH. You're afraid for the integrity of the bill. + +CANTELUPE. It must be comprehensive . . that's vital. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Very forcefully._] I give you my word to support its +integrity, if you'll keep with me in persuading Horsham that the +inclusion of Trebell in his cabinet will be a blow to the whole +Conservative Cause. Horsham, I implore you not to pursue this +short-sighted policy. All parties have made up their minds to +Disestablishment . . surely nothing should be easier than to frame a +bill which will please all parties. + +FARRANT. [_At last perceiving the drift of all this._] But good Lord, +Blackborough . . now Cantelupe has come round and will stand in . . . + +BLACKBOROUGH. That's no longer the point. And what's all this nonsense +about going to the country again next year? + +HORSHAM. [_Mildly._] After consulting me Percival said at Bristol. . . + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Quite unchecked._] I know. But if we pursue a thoroughly +safe policy and the bye-elections go right . . there need be no vote of +censure carried for three or four years. The Radicals want a rest with +the country and they know it. And one has no right, what's more, to go +wantonly plunging the country into the expenses of these constant +general elections. It ruins trade. + +FARRANT. [_Forlornly sticking to his point._] What has all this to do +with Trebell? + +HORSHAM. [_Thoughtfully._] Farrant, beyond what you've told us, Percival +didn't recommend me to throw him over. + +FARRANT. No, he didn't . . that is, he didn't exactly. + +HORSHAM. Well . . he didn't? + +FARRANT. I'm trying to be accurate! [_Obviously their nerves are now on +edge._] He said we should find him tough to assimilate--as he warned +you. + +HORSHAM _with knit brows, loses himself in thought again_. BLACKBOROUGH +_quietly turns his attention to_ FARRANT. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Farrant, you don't seriously think that . . outside his +undoubted capabilities . . Trebell is an acquisition to the party? + +FARRANT. [_Unwillingly._] Perhaps not. But if you're going to chuck a +man . . don't chuck him when he's down. + +BLACKBOROUGH. He's no longer down. We've got him O'Connell's promise and +jolly grateful he ought to be. I think the least we can do is to keep +our minds clear between Trebell's advantage and the party's. + +CANTELUPE. [_From the distant music-stool._] And the party's and the +Country's. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Countering quite deftly._] Cantelupe, either we think it +best for the country to have our party in power or we don't. + +FARRANT. [_In judicious temper._] Certainly, I don't feel our +responsibility towards him is what it was ten minutes ago. The man has +other careers besides his political one. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Ready to praise._] Clever as paint at the Bar--best +Company lawyer we've got. + +CANTELUPE. It is not what he loses, I think . . but what we lose in +losing him. + +_He says this so earnestly that_ HORSHAM _pays attention_. + +HORSHAM. No, my dear Charles, let us be practical. If his position with +us is to be made impossible it is better that he shouldn't assume it. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Soft and friendly._] How far are you actually pledged to +him? + +HORSHAM _looks up with the most ingenuous of smiles_. + +HORSHAM. That's always such a difficult sort of point to determine, +isn't it? He thinks he is to join us. But I've not yet been commanded to +form a cabinet. If neither you--nor Percival--nor perhaps others will +work with him . . what am I to do? [_He appeals to them generally to +justify this attitude._] + +BLACKBOROUGH. He no longer thinks he's to join us . . it's the question +he left us to decide. + +_He leaves_ HORSHAM, _whose perplexity is diminishing_. FARRANT _makes +an effort_. + +FARRANT. But the scandal won't weaken his position with us now. There +won't be any scandal . . there won't, Blackborough. + +HORSHAM. There may be. Though, I take it we're all guiltless of having +mentioned the matter. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_Very detached._] I've only known of it since I came into +this house . . but I shall not mention it. + +FARRANT. Oh, I'm afraid my wife knows. [_He adds hastily._] My fault . . +my fault entirely. + +BLACKBOROUGH. I tell you Rumour's electric. + +HORSHAM _has turned to_ FARRANT _with a sweet smile and with the air of +a man about to be relieved of all responsibility_. + +HORSHAM. What does she say? + +FARRANT. [_As one speaks of a nice woman._] She was horrified. + +HORSHAM. Of course. [_Once more he finds refuge and comfort on the +hearthrug, to say, after a moment, with fine resignation._] I suppose I +must let him go. + +CANTELUPE. [_On his feet again._] Cyril! + +HORSHAM. Yes, Charles? + +_With this query he turns an accusing eye on_ CANTELUPE, _who is +silenced_. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Have you made up your mind to that? + +FARRANT. [_In great distress._] You're wrong, Horsham. [_Then in +greater._] That is . . I =think= you're wrong. + +HORSHAM. I'd sooner not let him know to-night. + +BLACKBOROUGH. But he asked you to. + +HORSHAM. [_All show of resistance gone._] Did he? Then I suppose I must. +[_He sighs deeply._] + +BLACKBOROUGH. Then I'll get back to Aylesbury. + +_He picks up his motor-cap from the table and settles it on his head +with immense aplomb._ + +HORSHAM. So late? + +BLACKBOROUGH. Really one can get along quicker at night if one knows the +road. You're in town, aren't you, Farrant? Shall I drop you at Grosvenor +Square? + +FARRANT. [_Ungraciously._] Thank you. + +BLACKBOROUGH. [_With a conqueror's geniality._] I don't mind telling you +now, Horsham, that ever since we met at Shapters I've been wondering how +you'd escape from this association with Trebell. Thought he was being +very clever when he crossed the House to us! It's needed a special +providence. You'd never have got a cabinet together to include him. + +HORSHAM. [_With much intention._] No. + +FARRANT. [_Miserably._] Yes, I suppose that intrigue was a mistake from +the beginning. + +BLACKBOROUGH. Well, good-night. [_As he turns to go he finds_ CANTELUPE +_upright, staring very sternly at him_.] Good-night, Cantelupe. + +CANTELUPE. From what motives have we thrown Trebell over? + +BLACKBOROUGH. Never mind the motives if the move is the right one. +[_Then he nods at_ HORSHAM.] I shall be up again next week if you want +me. + +_And he flourishes out of the room; a man who has done a good hour's +work._ FARRANT, _who has been mooning depressedly around, now backs +towards the door_. + +FARRANT. In one way, of course, Trebell won't care a damn. I mean, he +knows as well as we do that office isn't worth having . . he has never +been a place-hunter. On the other hand . . what with one thing and the +other . . Blackborough is a sensible fellow. I suppose it can't be +helped. + +HORSHAM. Blackborough will tell you so. Good-night. + +_So_ FARRANT _departs, leaving the two cousins together_. CANTELUPE _has +not moved and now faces_ HORSHAM _just as accusingly_. + +CANTELUPE. Cyril, this is tragic. + +HORSHAM. [_More to himself than in answer._] Yes . . most annoying. + +CANTELUPE. Lucifer, son of the morning! Why is it always the highest who +fall? + +HORSHAM _shies fastidiously at this touch of poetry_. + +HORSHAM. No, my dear Charles, let us above all things keep our mental +balance. Trebell is a most capable fellow. I'd set my heart on having +him with me . . he'll be most awkward to deal with in opposition. But we +shall survive his loss and so would the country. + +CANTELUPE. [_Desperately._] Cyril, promise me there shall be no +compromise over this measure. + +HORSHAM. [_Charmingly candid._] No . . no unnecessary compromise, I +promise you. + +CANTELUPE. [_With a sigh._] If we had done what we have done to-night in +the right spirit! Blackborough was almost vindictive. + +HORSHAM. [_Smiling without amusement._] Didn't you keep thinking . . I +did . . of that affair of his with Mrs. Parkington . . years ago? + +CANTELUPE. There was never any proof of it. + +HORSHAM. No . . he bought off the husband. + +CANTELUPE. [_Uneasily._] His objections to Trebell were--political. + +HORSHAM. Yours weren't. + +CANTELUPE. [_More uneasily still._] I withdrew mine. + +HORSHAM. [_With elderly reproof._] I don't think, Charles, you have the +least conception of what a nicely balanced machine a cabinet is. + +CANTELUPE. [_Imploring comfort._] But should we have held together +through Trebell's bill? + +HORSHAM. [_A little impatient._] Perhaps not. But once I had them all +round a table . . Trebell is very keen on office for all his independent +airs . . he and Percival could have argued the thing out. However, it's +too late now. + +CANTELUPE. Is it? + +_For a moment_ HORSHAM _is tempted to indulge in the luxury of changing +his mind; but he puts Satan behind him with a shake of the head_. + +HORSHAM. Well, you see . . Percival I can't do without. Now that +Blackborough knows of his objections to the finance he'd go to him and +take Chisholm and offer to back them up. I know he would . . he didn't +take Farrant away with him for nothing. [_Then he flashes out rather +shrilly._] It's Trebell's own fault. He ought not to have committed +himself definitely to any scheme until he was safely in office. I warned +him about Percival . . I warned him not to be explicit. One cannot work +with men who will make up their minds prematurely. No, I shall not +change my mind. I shall write to him. + +_He goes firmly to his writing desk leaving_ CANTELUPE _forlorn_. + +CANTELUPE. What about a messenger? + +HORSHAM. Not at this time of night. I'll post it. + +CANTELUPE. I'll post it as I go. + +_He seeks comfort again in the piano and this time starts to play, with +one finger and some hesitation, the first bars of a Bach fugue._ +HORSHAM'S _pen-nib is disappointing him and the letter is not easy to +phrase_. + +HORSHAM. But I hate coming to immediate decisions. The administrative +part of my brain always tires after half an hour. Does yours, Charles? + +CANTELUPE. What do you think Trebell will do now? + +HORSHAM. [_A little grimly._] Punish us all he can. + +_On reaching the second voice in the fugue_ CANTELUPE'S _virtuosity +breaks down_. + +CANTELUPE. All that ability turned to destructiveness . . what a pity! +That's the paradox of human activities . . + +_Suddenly_ HORSHAM _looks up and his face is lighted with a seraphic +smile_. + +HORSHAM. Charles . . I wish we could do without Blackborough. + +CANTELUPE. [_Struck with the idea._] Well . . why not? + +HORSHAM. Yes . . I must think about it. [_They both get up, cheered +considerably._] You won't forget this, will you? + +CANTELUPE. [_The letter in_ HORSHAM'S _hand accusing him_.] No . . no. I +don't think I have been the cause of your dropping Trebell, have I? + +HORSHAM, _rid of the letter, is rid of responsibility and his charming +equable self again. He comforts his cousin paternally._ + +HORSHAM. I don't think so. The split would have come when Blackborough +checkmated my forming a cabinet. It would have pleased him to do that . . +and he could have, over Trebell. But now that question's out of the +way . . you won't get such a bad measure with Trebell in opposition. +He'll frighten us into keeping it up to the mark, so to speak. + +CANTELUPE. [_A little comforted._] But I shall miss one or two of those +ideas . . + +HORSHAM. [_So pleasantly sceptical._] Do you think they'd have outlasted +the second reading? Dullness in the country one expects. Dullness in the +House one can cope with. But do you know, I have never sat in a cabinet +yet that didn't greet anything like a new idea in chilling silence. + +CANTELUPE. Well, I should regret to have caused you trouble, Cyril. + +HORSHAM. [_His hand on the other's shoulder._] Oh . . we don't take +politics so much to heart as that, I hope. + +CANTELUPE. [_With sweet gravity._] I take politics very much to heart. +Yes, I know what you mean . . but that's the sort of remark that makes +people call you cynical. [HORSHAM _smiles as if at a compliment and +starts with_ CANTELUPE _towards the door_. CANTELUPE, _who would not +hurt his feelings, changes the subject_.] By the bye, I'm glad we met +this evening! Do you hear Aunt Mary wants to sell the Burford Holbein? +Can she? + +HORSHAM. [_Taking as keen, but no keener, an interest in this than in +the difficulty he has just surmounted._] Yes, by the will she can, but +she mustn't. Dear me, I thought I'd put a stop to that foolishness. Well +now, we must take that matter up very seriously. . . + +_They go out talking arm in arm._ + + + + + THE FOURTH ACT + + +At TREBELL'S again; later, the same evening. + +_His room is in darkness but for the flicker the fire makes and the +streaks of moonlight between the curtains. The door is open, though, and +you see the light of the lamp on the stairs. You hear his footstep too. +On his way he stops to draw back the curtains of the passage-way window; +the moonlight makes his face look very pale. Then he serves the curtains +of his own window the same; flings it open, moreover, and stands looking +out. Something below draws his attention. After leaning over the balcony +with a short_ "Hullo" _he goes quickly downstairs again. In a minute_ +WEDGECROFT _comes up_. TREBELL _follows, pausing by the door a moment to +light up the room_. WEDGECROFT _is radiant_. + +TREBELL. [_With a twist of his mouth._] Promised, has he? + +WEDGECROFT. Suddenly broke out as we walked along, that he liked the +look of you and that men must stand by one another nowadays against +these women. Then he said good-night and walked away. + +TREBELL. Back to Ireland and the thirteenth century. + +WEDGECROFT. After to-morrow. + +TREBELL. [_Taking all the meaning of to-morrow._] Yes. Are you in for +perjury, too? + +WEDGECROFT. [_His thankfulness checked a little._] No . . not exactly. + +TREBELL _walks away from him_. + +TREBELL. It's a pity the truth isn't to be told, I think. I suppose the +verdict will be murder. + +WEDGECROFT. They won't catch the man. + +TREBELL. You don't mean . . me. + +WEDGECROFT. No, no . . my dear fellow. + +TREBELL. You might, you know. But nobody seems to see this thing as I +see it. If I were on that jury I'd say murder too and accuse . . so many +circumstances, Gilbert, that we should go home . . and look in the +cupboards. What a lumber of opinions we inherit and keep! + +WEDGECROFT. [_Humouring him._] Ought we to burn the house down? + +TREBELL. Rules and regulations for the preservation of rubbish are the +laws of England . . and I was adding to their number. + +WEDGECROFT. And so you shall . . to the applause of a grateful country. + +TREBELL. [_Studying his friend's kindly encouraging face._] Gilbert, it +is not so much that you're an incorrigible optimist . . but why do you +subdue your mind to flatter people into cheerfulness? + +WEDGECROFT. I'm a doctor, my friend. + +TREBELL. You're a part of our tendency to keep things alive by hook or +by crook . . not a spark but must be carefully blown upon. The world's +old and tired; it dreads extinction. I think I disapprove . . I think +I've more faith. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Scolding him._] Nonsense . . you've the instinct to +preserve your life as everyone else has . . and I'm here to show you +how. + +TREBELL. [_Beyond the reach of his kindness._] I assure you that these +two days while you've been fussing around O'Connell--bless your kind +heart--I've been waiting events, indifferent enough to understand his +indifference. + +WEDGECROFT. Not indifferent. + +TREBELL. Lifeless enough already, then. [_Suddenly a thought strikes +him._] D'you think it was Horsham and his little committee persuaded +O'Connell? + +WEDGECROFT. On the contrary. + +TREBELL. So you need not have let them into the secret? + +WEDGECROFT. No. + +TREBELL. Think of that. + +_He almost laughs; but_ WEDGECROFT _goes on quite innocently_. + +WEDGECROFT. Yes . . I'm sorry. + +TREBELL. Upsetting their moral digestion for nothing. + +WEDGECROFT. But when O'Connell wouldn't listen to us we had to rope in +the important people. + +TREBELL. With their united wisdom. [_Then he breaks away again into +great bitterness._] No . . what do they make of this woman's death? I +saw them in that room, Gilbert, like men seen through the wrong end of a +telescope. D'you think if the little affair with Nature . . her offence +and mine against the conveniences of civilization . . had ended in my +death too . . then they'd have stopped to wonder at the misuse and waste +of the only force there is in the world . . come to think of it, there +is no other . . than this desire for expression . . in words . . or +through children. Would they have thought of that and stopped whispering +about the scandal? + +_Through this_ WEDGECROFT _has watched him very gravely_. + +WEDGECROFT. Trebell . . if the inquest to-morrow had put you out of +action . . + +TREBELL. Should I have grown a beard and travelled abroad and after ten +years timidly tried to climb my way back into politics? When public +opinion takes its heel from your face it keeps it for your finger-tips. +After twenty years to be forgiven by your more broad-minded friends and +tolerated as a dotard by a new generation. . . + +WEDGECROFT. Nonsense. What age are you now . . forty-six . . +forty-seven? + +TREBELL. Well . . let's instance a good man. Gladstone had done his best +work by sixty-five. Then he began to be popular. Think of his last years +of oratory. + +_He has gone to his table and now very methodically starts to tidy his +papers_, WEDGECROFT _still watching him_. + +WEDGECROFT. You'd have had to thank Heaven for a little that there were +more lives than one to lead. + +TREBELL. That's another of your faults, Gilbert . . it's a comfort just +now to enumerate them. You're an anarchist . . a kingdom to yourself. +You make little treaties with Truth and with Beauty, and what can +disturb you? I'm a part of the machine I believe in. If my life as I've +made it is to be cut short . . the rest of me shall walk out of the +world and slam the door . . with the noise of a pistol shot. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Concealing some uneasiness._] Then I'm glad it's not to be +cut short. You and your cabinet rank and your disestablishment bill! + +TREBELL _starts to enjoy his secret_. + +TREBELL. Yes . . our minds have been much relieved within the last half +hour, haven't they? + +WEDGECROFT. I scribbled Horsham a note in a messenger office and sent it +as soon as O'Connell had left me. + +TREBELL. He'd be glad to get that. + +WEDGECROFT. He has been most kind about the whole thing. + +TREBELL. Oh, he means well. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Following up his fancied advantage._] But, my friend . . +suicide whilst of unsound mind would never have done . . The hackneyed +verdict hits the truth, you know. + +TREBELL. You think so? + +WEDGECROFT. I don't say there aren't excuses enough in this miserable +world, but fundamentally . . no sane person will destroy life. + +TREBELL. [_His thoughts shifting their plane._] Was she so very mad? I'm +not thinking of her own death. + +WEDGECROFT. Don't brood, Trebell. Your mind isn't healthy yet about her +and-- + +TREBELL. And my child. + +_Even_ WEDGECROFT'S _kindness is at fault before the solemnity of this_. + +WEDGECROFT. Is that how you're thinking of it? + +TREBELL. How else? It's very inexplicable . . this sense of fatherhood. +[_The eyes of his mind travel down--what vista of possibilities. Then he +shakes himself free._] Let's drop the subject. To finish the list of +shortcomings, you're a bit of an artist too . . therefore I don't think +you'll understand. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Successfully decoyed into argument._] Surely an artist is +a man who understands. + +TREBELL. Everything about life, but not life itself. That's where art +fails a man. + +WEDGECROFT. That's where everything but living fails a man. [_Drifting +into introspection himself._] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and +I've written a book . . but I'm barren. [_Then the healthy mind +re-asserts itself._] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children . . +and marry and intermarry. And we're peopling the world . . not badly. + +TREBELL. Well . . either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so +big that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two +points of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes +the last use made of life. + +_There is a tone of menace in this which recalls_ WEDGECROFT _to the +present trouble_. + +WEDGECROFT. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice . . or the use of it. + +TREBELL. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he +think so now? . . not he. + +WEDGECROFT. You mean if they'd had to throw you over? + +_Once again_ TREBELL _looks up with that secretive smile_. + +TREBELL. Yes . . if they'd had to. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow, +Horsham would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot +yourself after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you +so-called strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to +come out to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you +pistols by post, requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham +would grieve over ten dinner-tables in succession and then return to his +philosophy. One really mustn't waste a life trying to shock polite +politicians. There'd even be a suspicion of swagger in it. + +TREBELL. Quite so . . the bomb that's thrown at their feet must be +something otherwise worthless. + +FRANCES _comes in quickly, evidently in search of her brother. Though +she has not been crying, her eyes are wide with grief._ + +FRANCES. Oh, Henry . . I'm so glad you're still up. [_She notices_ +WEDGECROFT.] How d'you do, Doctor? + +TREBELL. [_Doubling his mask of indifference._] Meistersinger's over +early. + +FRANCES. Is it? + +TREBELL. Not much past twelve yet. + +FRANCES. [_The little gibe lost on her._] It was Tristan to-night. I'm +quite upset. I heard just as I was coming away . . Amy O'Connell's dead. +[_Both men hold their breath._ TREBELL _is the first to find control of +his and give the cue_.] + +TREBELL. Yes . . Wedgecroft has just told me. + +FRANCES. She was only taken ill last week . . it's so extraordinary. +[_She remembers the doctor._] Oh . . have you been attending her? + +WEDGECROFT. Yes. + +FRANCES. I hear there's to be an inquest. + +WEDGECROFT. Yes. + +FRANCES. But what has been the matter? + +TREBELL. [_Sharply forestalling any answer._] You'll know to-morrow. + +FRANCES. [_The little snub almost bewildering her._] Anything private? I +mean . . + +TREBELL. No . . I'll tell you. Don't make Gilbert repeat a story twice . . +He's tired with a good day's work. + +WEDGECROFT. Yes . . I'll be getting away. + +FRANCES _never heeds this flash of a further meaning between the two +men_. + +FRANCES. And I meant to have gone to see her to-day. Was the end very +sudden? Did her husband arrive in time? + +WEDGECROFT. Yes. + +FRANCES. They didn't get on . . he'll be frightfully upset. + +TREBELL _resists a hideous temptation to laugh_. + +WEDGECROFT. Good night, Trebell. + +TREBELL. Good night, Gilbert. Many thanks. + +_There is enough of a caress in_ TREBELL'S _tone to turn_ FRANCES +_towards their friend, a little remorseful for treating him so casually, +now as always_. + +FRANCES. He's always thanking you. You're always doing things for him. + +WEDGECROFT. Good night. [_Seeing the tears in her eyes._] Oh, don't +grieve. + +FRANCES. One shouldn't be sorry when people die, I know. But she liked +me more than I liked her. . [_This time_ TREBELL _does laugh, +silently_.] . . so I somehow feel in her debt and unable to pay now. + +TREBELL. [_An edge on his voice._] Yes . . people keep on dying at all +sorts of ages, in all sorts of ways. But we seem never to get used to it +. . narrow-minded as we are. + +WEDGECROFT. Don't you talk nonsense. + +TREBELL. [_One note sharper yet._] One should occasionally test one's +sanity by doing so. If we lived in the logical world we like to believe +in, I could also prove that black was white. As it is . . there are more +ways of killing a cat than hanging it. + +WEDGECROFT. Had I better give you a sleeping draught? + +FRANCES. Are you doctoring him for once? Henry, have you at last managed +to overwork yourself? + +TREBELL. No . . I started the evening by a charming little dinner at the +Van Meyer's . . sat next to Miss Grace Cutler, who is writing a _vie +intime_ of Louis Quinze and engaged me with anecdotes of the same. + +FRANCES. A champion of her sex, whom I do not like. + +WEDGECROFT. She's writing such a book to prove that women are equal to +anything. + +_He goes towards the door and_ FRANCES _goes with him_. TREBELL _never +turns his head_. + +TREBELL. I shall not come and open the door for you . . but mind you +shut it. + +FRANCES _comes back_. + +FRANCES. Henry . . this is dreadful about that poor little woman. + +TREBELL. An unwelcome baby was arriving. She got some quack to kill her. + +_These exact words are like a blow in the face to her, from which, being +a woman of brave common sense, she does not shrink._ + +TREBELL. What do you say to that? + +_She walks away from him, thinking painfully._ + +FRANCES. She had never had a child. There's the common-place thing to +say . . Ungrateful little fool! But . . + +TREBELL. If you had been in her place? + +FRANCES. [_Subtly._] I have never made the mistake of marrying. She grew +frightened, I suppose. Not just physically frightened. How can a man +understand? + +TREBELL. The fear of life . . do you think it was . . which is the +beginning of all evil? + +FRANCES. A woman must choose what her interpretation of life is to be . . +as a man must too in his way . . as you and I have chosen, Henry. + +TREBELL. [_Asking from real interest in her._] Was yours a deliberate +choice and do you never regret it? + +FRANCES. [_Very simply and clearly._] Perhaps one does nothing quite +deliberately and for a definite reason. My state has its compensations . . +if one doesn't value them too highly. I've travelled in thought over +all this question. You mustn't blame a woman for wishing not to bear +children. But . . well, if one doesn't like the fruit one mustn't +cultivate the flower. And I suppose that saying condemns poor Amy . . +condemned her to death . . [_Then her face hardens as she concentrates +her meaning._] and brands most men as . . let's unsentimentally call it +=illogical=, doesn't it? + +_He takes the thrust in silence._ + +TREBELL. Did you notice the light in my window as you came in? + +FRANCES. Yes . . in both as I got out of the cab. Do you want the +curtains drawn back? + +TREBELL. Yes . . don't touch them. + +_He has thrown himself into his chair by the fire. She lapses into +thought again._ + +FRANCES. Poor little woman. + +TREBELL. [_In deep anger._] Well, if women will be little and poor . . + +_She goes to him and slips an arm over his shoulder._ + +FRANCES. What is it you're worried about . . if a mere sister may ask? + +TREBELL. [_Into the fire._] I want to think. I haven't thought for +years. + +FRANCES. Why, you have done nothing else. + +TREBELL. I've been working out problems in legal and political algebra. + +FRANCES. You want to think of =yourself=. + +TREBELL. Yes. + +FRANCES. [_Gentle and ironic._] Have you ever, for one moment, thought +in that sense of anyone else? + +TREBELL. Is that a complaint? + +FRANCES. The first in ten years' housekeeping. + +TREBELL. No, I never have . . but I've never thought selfishly either. + +FRANCES. That's a paradox I don't quite understand. + +TREBELL. Until women do they'll remain where they are . . and what they +are. + +FRANCES. Oh, I know you hate us. + +TREBELL. Yes, dear sister, I'm afraid I do. And I hate your influence on +men . . compromise, tenderness, pity, lack of purpose. Women don't know +the values of things, not even their own value. + +_For a moment she studies him, wonderingly._ + +FRANCES. I'll take up the counter-accusation to-morrow. Now I'm tired +and I'm going to bed. If I may insult you by mothering you, so should +you. You look tired and I've seldom seen you. + +TREBELL. I'm waiting up for a message. + +FRANCES. So late? + +TREBELL. It's a matter of life and death. + +FRANCES. Are you joking? + +TREBELL. Yes. If you want to spoil me find me a book to read. + +FRANCES. What will you have? + +TREBELL. Huckleberry Finn. It's on a top shelf towards the end somewhere +. . or should be. + +_She finds the book. On her way back with it she stops and shivers._ + +FRANCES. I don't think I shall sleep to-night. Poor Amy O'Connell! + +TREBELL. [_Curiously._] Are you afraid of death? + +FRANCES. [_With humorous stoicism._] It will be the end of me, perhaps. + +_She gives him the book, with its red cover; the '86 edition, a boy's +friend evidently. He fingers it familiarly._ + +TREBELL. Thank you. Mark Twain's a jolly fellow. He has courage . . +comic courage. That's what's wanted. Nothing stands against it. You +be-little yourself by laughing . . then all this world and the last and +the next grow little too . . and so you grow great again. Switch off +some light, will you? + +FRANCES. [_Clicking off all but his reading lamp._] So? + +TREBELL. Thanks. Good night, Frankie. + +_She turns at the door, with a glad smile._ + +FRANCES. Good night. When did you last use that nursery name? + +_Then she goes, leaving him still fingering the book, but looking into +the fire and far beyond. Behind him through the open window one sees how +cold and clear the night is._ + + * * * * * + +_At eight in the morning he is still here. His lamp is out, the fire is +out and the book laid aside. The white morning light penetrates every +crevice of the room and shows every line on_ TREBELL'S _face. The spirit +of the man is strained past all reason. The door opens suddenly and_ +FRANCES _comes in, troubled, nervous. Interrupted in her dressing, she +has put on some wrap or other._ + +FRANCES. Henry . . Simpson says you've not been to bed all night. + +_He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness--_ + +TREBELL. No. Good morning. + +FRANCES. Oh, my dear . . what is wrong? + +TREBELL. The message hasn't come . . and I've been thinking. + +FRANCES. Why don't you tell me? [_He turns his head away._] I think you +haven't the right to torture me. + +TREBELL. Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to +face. + +SIMPSON, _the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the morning's +letters_. FRANCES _rounds on her irritably_. + +FRANCES. What is it, Simpson? + +MAID. The letters, Ma'am. + +TREBELL _is on his feet at that_. + +TREBELL. Ah . . I want them. + +FRANCES. [_Taking the letters composedly enough._] Thank you. + +SIMPSON _departs and_ TREBELL _comes to her for his letters. She looks +at him with baffled affection._ + +FRANCES. Can I do nothing? Oh, Henry! + +TREBELL. Help me to open my letters. + +FRANCES. Don't you leave them to Mr. Kent? + +TREBELL. Not this morning. + +FRANCES. But there are so many. + +TREBELL. [_For the first time lifting his voice from its dull +monotony._] What a busy man I was. + +FRANCES. Henry . . you're a little mad. + +TREBELL. Do you find me so? That's interesting. + +FRANCES. [_With the ghost of a smile._] Well . . maddening. + +_By this time he is sitting at his table; she near him watching +closely. They halve the considerable post and start to open it._ + +TREBELL. We arrange them in three piles . . personal . . political . . +and preposterous. + +FRANCES. This is an invitation . . the Anglican League. + +TREBELL. I can't go. + +_She looks sideways at him as he goes on mechanically tearing the +envelopes._ + +FRANCES. I heard you come upstairs about two o'clock. + +TREBELL. That was to dip my head in water. Then I made an instinctive +attempt to go to bed . . got my tie off even. + +FRANCES. [_Her anxiety breaking out._] If you'd tell me that you're only +ill . . . + +TREBELL. [_Forbiddingly commonplace._] What's that letter? Don't fuss . . +and remember that abnormal conduct is sometimes quite rational. + +FRANCES _returns to her task with misty eyes_. + +FRANCES. It's from somebody whose son can't get into something. + +TREBELL. The third heap . . Kent's . . the preposterous. [_Talking on +with steady monotony._] But I saw it would not do to interrupt that +logical train of thought which reached definition about half past six. I +had then been gleaning until you came in. + +FRANCES. [_Turning the neat little note in her hand._] This is from Lord +Horsham. He writes his name small at the bottom of the envelope. + +TREBELL. [_Without a tremor._] Ah . . give it me. + +_He opens this as he has opened the others, carefully putting the +envelope to one side._ FRANCES _has ceased for the moment to watch him_. + +FRANCES. That's Cousin Robert's handwriting. [_She puts a square +envelope at his hand._] Is a letter marked private from the Education +Office political or personal? + +_By this he has read_ HORSHAM'S _letter twice. So he tears it up and +speaks very coldly._ + +TREBELL. Either. It doesn't matter. + +_In the silence her fears return._ + +FRANCES. Henry, it's a foolish idea . . I suppose I have it because I +hardly slept for thinking of her. Your trouble is nothing to do with Amy +O'Connell, is it? + +TREBELL. [_His voice strangled in his throat._] Her child should have +been my child too. + +FRANCES. [_Her eyes open, the whole landscape of her mind suddenly +clear._] Oh, I . . no, I didn't think so . . but. . . + +TREBELL. [_Dealing his second blow as remorselessly as dealt to him._] +Also I'm not joining the new Cabinet, my dear sister. + +FRANCES. [_Her thoughts rushing now to the present--the future._] Not! +Because of . . ? Do people know? Will they . ? You didn't . . ? + +_As mechanically as ever he has taken up_ COUSIN ROBERT'S _letter and, +in some sense, read it. Now he recapitulates, meaninglessly, that his +voice may just deaden her pain and his own._ + +TREBELL. Robert says . . that we've not been to see them for some time . . +but that now I'm a greater man than ever I must be very busy. The +vicarage has been painted and papered throughout and looks much fresher. +Mary sends you her love and hopes you have no return of the rheumatism. +And he would like to send me the proof sheets of his critical commentary +on First Timothy . . for my alien eye might possibly detect some logical +lapses. Need he repeat to me his thankfulness at my new attitude upon +Disestablishment . . or assure me again that I have his prayers. Could +we not go and stay there only for a few days? Possibly his opinion-- + +_She has borne this cruel kindness as long as she can and she breaks +out . ._ + +FRANCES. Oh . . don't . . don't! + +_He falls from his seeming callousness to the very blankness of +despair._ + +TREBELL. No, we'll leave that . . and the rest . . and everything. + +_Her agony passes._ + +FRANCES. What do you mean to do? + +TREBELL. There's to be no public scandal. + +FRANCES. Why has Lord Horsham thrown you over then . . or hasn't that +anything to do with it? + +TREBELL. It has to do with it. + +FRANCES. [_Lifting her voice; some tone returning to it._] Unconsciously +. . I've known for years that this sort of thing might happen to you. + +TREBELL. Why? + +FRANCES. Power over men and women and contempt for them! Do you think +they don't take their revenge sooner or later? + +TREBELL. Much good may it do them! + +FRANCES. Human nature turns against you . . by instinct . . in +self-defence. + +TREBELL. And my own human-nature! + +FRANCES. [_Shocked into great pity, by his half articulate pain._] Yes . . +you must have loved her, Henry . . in some odd way. I'm sorry for you +both. + +TREBELL. I'm hating her now . . as a man can only hate his own silliest +vices. + +FRANCES. [_Flashing into defence._] That's wrong of you. If you thought +of her only as a pretty little fool . . Bearing your child . . all her +womanly life belonged to you . . and for that time there was no other +sort of life in her. So she became what you thought her. + +TREBELL. That's not true. + +FRANCES. It's true enough . . it's true of men towards women. You can't +think of them through generations as one thing and then suddenly find +them another. + +TREBELL. [_Hammering at his fixed idea._] She should have brought that +child into the world. + +FRANCES. You didn't love her enough! + +TREBELL. I didn't love her at all. + +FRANCES. Then why should she value your gift? + +TREBELL. For its own sake. + +FRANCES. [_Turning away._] It's hopeless . . you don't understand. + +TREBELL. [_Helpless; almost like a deserted child._] I've been trying to +. . all through the night. + +FRANCES. [_Turning back enlightened a little._] That's more the trouble +then than the Cabinet question? + +_He shakes himself to his feet and begins to pace the room; his keenness +coming back to him, his brow knitting again with the delight of +thought._ + +TREBELL. Oh . . as to me against the world . . I'm fortified with comic +courage. [_Then turning on her like any examining professor._] Now which +do you believe . . that Man is the reformer, or that the Time brings +forth such men as it needs and lobster-like can grow another claw? + +FRANCES. [_Watching this new mood carefully._] I believe that you'll be +missed from Lord Horsham's Cabinet. + +TREBELL. The hand-made statesman and his hand-made measure! They were +out of place in that pretty Tory garden. Those men are the natural +growth of the time. Am I? + +FRANCES. Just as much. And wasn't your bill going to be such a good +piece of work? That can't be thrown away . . wasted. + +TREBELL. Can one impose a clever idea upon men and women? I wonder. + +FRANCES. That rather begs the question of your very existence, doesn't +it? + +_He comes to a standstill._ + +TREBELL. I know. + +_His voice shows her that meaning in her words and beyond it a threat. +She goes to him, suddenly shaking with fear._ + +FRANCES. Henry, I didn't mean that. + +TREBELL. You think I've a mind to put an end to that same? + +FRANCES. [_Belittling her fright._] No . . for how unreasonable. . . + +TREBELL. In view of my promising past. I've stood for success, Fanny; I +still stand for success. I could still do more outside the Cabinet than +the rest of them, inside, will do. But suddenly I've a feeling the work +would be barren. [_His eyes shift beyond her; beyond the room._] What is +it in your thoughts and actions which makes them bear fruit? Something +that the roughest peasant may have in common with the best of us +intellectual men . . something that a dog might have. It isn't +successful cleverness. + +_She stands . . his trouble beyond her reach._ + +FRANCES. Come now . . you've done very well with your life. + +TREBELL. Do you know how empty I feel of all virtue at this moment? + +_He leaves her. She must bring him back to the plane on which she can +help him._ + +FRANCES. We must think what's best to be done . . now . . and for the +future. + +TREBELL. Why, I could go on earning useless money at the Bar . . think +how nice that would be. I could blackmail the next judgeship out of +Horsham. I think I could even smash his Disestablishment Bill . . and +perhaps get into the next Liberal Cabinet and start my own all over +again, with necessary modifications. I shan't do any such things. + +FRANCES. No one knows about you and poor Amy? + +TREBELL. Half a dozen friends. Shall I offer to give evidence at the +inquest this morning? + +FRANCES. [_With a little shiver._] They'll say bad enough things about +her without your blackening her good name. + +_Without warning, his anger and anguish break out again._ + +TREBELL. All she had . . all there is left of her! She was a nothingness +. . silly . . vain. And I gave her this power over me! + +_He is beaten, exhausted. Now she goes to him, motherlike._ + +FRANCES. My dear, listen to me for a little. Consider that as a sorrow +and put it behind you. And think now . . whatever love there may be +between us has neither hatred nor jealousy in it, has it, Henry? Since +I'm not a mistress or a friend but just the likest fellow-creature to +you . . perhaps. + +TREBELL. [_Putting out his hand for hers._] Yes, my sister. What I've +wanted to feel for vague humanity has been what I should have felt for +you . . if you'd ever made a single demand on me. + +_She puts her arms round him; able to speak._ + +FRANCES. Let's go away somewhere . . I'll make demands. I need +refreshing as much as you. My joy of life has been withered in me . . +oh, for a long time now. We must kiss the earth again . . take interest +in common things, common people. There's so much of the world we don't +know. There's air to breathe everywhere. Think of the flowers in a Tyrol +valley in the early spring. One can walk for days, not hurrying, as soon +as the passes are open. And the people are kind. There's Italy . . +there's Russia full of simple folk. When we've learned to be friends +with them we shall both feel so much better. + +TREBELL. [_Shaking his head, unmoved._] My dear sister . . I should be +bored to death. The life contemplative and peripatetic would literally +bore me into a living death. + +FRANCES. [_Letting it be a fairy tale._] Is your mother the Wide World +nothing to you? Can't you open your heart like a child again? + +TREBELL. No, neither to the beauty of Nature nor the particular human +animals that are always called a part of it. I don't even see them with +your eyes. I'm a son of the anger of Man at men's foolishness, and +unless I've that to feed upon . . .! [_Now he looks at her, as if for +the first time wanting to explain himself, and his voice changes._] +Don't you know that when a man cuts himself shaving, he swears? When he +loses a seat in the Cabinet he turns inward for comfort . . and if he +only finds there a spirit which should have been born, but is dead . . +what's to be done then? + +FRANCES. [_In a whisper._] You mustn't think of that woman. . . + +TREBELL. I've reasoned my way through life. . . + +FRANCES. I see how awful it is to have the double blow fall. + +TREBELL. [_The wave of his agony rising again._] But here's something in +me which no knowledge touches . . some feeling . . some power which +should be the beginning of new strength. But it has been killed in me +unborn before I had learnt to understand . . and that's killing me. + +FRANCES. [_Crying out._] Why . . why did no woman teach you to be +gentle? Why did you never believe in any woman? Perhaps even I am to +blame. . . + +TREBELL. The little fool, the little fool . . why did she kill my child? +What did it matter what I thought her? We were committed together to +that one thing. Do you think I didn't know that I was heartless and that +she was socially in the wrong? But what did Nature care for that? And +Nature has broken us. + +FRANCES. [_Clinging to him as he beats the air._] Not you. She's dead, +poor girl . . but not you. + +TREBELL. Yes . . that's the mystery no one need believe till he has +dipped in it. The man bears the child in his soul as the woman carries +it in her body. + +_There is silence between them, till she speaks low and tonelessly, +never loosing his hand._ + +FRANCES. Henry, I want your promise that you'll go on living till . . +till . . + +TREBELL. Don't cry, Fanny, that's very foolish. + +FRANCES. Till you've learnt to look at all this calmly. Then I can trust +you. + +TREBELL _smiles, not at all grimly_. + +TREBELL. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a +shock if I shot myself . . it would make them think about things. + +FRANCES. [_With one catch of wretched laughter._] Oh, my dear, if +shooting's wanted . . shoot them. Or I'll do it for you. + +_He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand +still grasping his._ + +TREBELL. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night . . our lives +are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and +dying for others. The first is easy . . it's a way out of boredom. To +make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal +resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure +and certain hope that it really doesn't matter . . that God is +infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after +our death than men do while we live? + +FRANCES. I want your promise, Henry. + +TREBELL. You know I never make promises . . it's taking oneself too +seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too. +I've upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better +go and finish dressing? [_She doesn't move._] My dear . . you don't +propose to hold my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I +still could jump out of a window. + +FRANCES. I'll trust you, Henry. + +_She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final grip +she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently than +ever._ + +TREBELL. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it? + +FRANCES. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice +through the years that remain. [_Instinctively she rectifies some little +untidiness in the room._] What fools they are to think they can run that +government without you! + +TREBELL. Horsham will do his best. [_Then, as for the second time she +reaches the door._] Don't take away my razors, will you? I only use them +for shaving. + +FRANCES. [_Almost blushing._] I half meant to . . I'm sorry. After all, +Henry, just because they are forgetting in personal feelings what's best +for the country . . it's your duty not to. You'll stand by and do what +you can, won't you? + +TREBELL. [_His queer smile returning, in contrast to her seriousness._] +Disestablishment. It's a very interesting problem. I must think it out. + +FRANCES. [_Really puzzled._] What do you mean? + +_He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her. +His smile changes into a graver gladness._ + +TREBELL. Something has happened . . in spite of me. My heart's clean +again. I'm ready for fresh adventures. + +FRANCES. [_With a nod and answering gladness._] That's right. + +_So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move. +When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries them +carefully into_ WALTER KENT'S _room and arranges them as carefully on +his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then with a sudden +movement bangs the door._ + +_Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full of +light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open, showing +you_ KENT'S _door still closed. At the big writing table in_ TREBELL'S +_chair sits_ WEDGECROFT, _pale and grave, intent on finishing a letter_. +FRANCES _comes to find him. For a moment she leans on the table +silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a broken woman. When she +speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly._ + +FRANCES. Lord Horsham is in the drawing room . . and I can't see him, I +really can't. He has come to say he is sorry . . and I should tell him +that it is his fault, partly. I know I should . . and I don't want to. +Won't you go in? What are you writing? + +WEDGECROFT, _with his physicianly pre-occupation, can attend, +understand, sympathise, without looking up at her_. + +WEDGECROFT. Never mind. A necessary note . . to the Coroner's office. +Yes, I'll see Horsham. + +FRANCES. I've managed to get the pistol out of his hand. Was that wrong +. . oughtn't I to have touched it? + +WEDGECROFT. Of course you oughtn't. You must stay away from the room. +I'd better have locked the door. + +FRANCES. [_Pitifully._] I'm sorry . . but I couldn't bear to see the +pistol in his hand. I won't go back. After all he's not there in the +room, is he? But how long do you think the spirit stays near the body . . +how long? When people die gently of age or weakness . . . But when +the spirit and body are so strong and knit together and all alive as +his . . . + +WEDGECROFT. [_His hand on hers._] Hush . . hush. + +FRANCES. His face is very eager . . as if it still could speak. I know +that. + +MRS. FARRANT _comes through the open doorway_. FRANCES _hears her steps +and turning falls into her outstretched arms to cry there_. + +FRANCES. Oh, Julia! + +MRS. FARRANT. Oh my dear Fanny! I came with Cyril Horsham . . I don't +think Simpson even saw me. + +FRANCES. I can't go in and talk to him. + +MRS. FARRANT. He'll understand. But I heard you come in here . . + +WEDGECROFT. I'll tell Horsham. + +_He has finished and addressed his letter, so he goes out with it._ +FRANCES _lifts her head. These two are in accord and can speak their +feelings without disguise or preparation._ + +FRANCES. Julia, Julia . . isn't it unbelievable? + +MRS. FARRANT. I'd give . . oh, what wouldn't I give to have it undone! + +FRANCES. I knew he meant to . . and yet I thought I had his promise. If +he really meant to . . I couldn't have stopped it, could I? + +MRS. FARRANT. Walter sent to tell me and I sent round to . . . + +FRANCES. Walter came soon after, I think. Julia, I was in my room . . it +was nearly breakfast time . . when I heard the shot. Oh . . don't you +think it was cruel of him? + +MRS. FARRANT. He had a right to. We must remember that. + +FRANCES. You say that easily of my brother . . you wouldn't say it of +your husband. + +_They are apart by this._ JULIA FARRANT _goes to her gently_. + +MRS. FARRANT. Fanny . . will it leave you so very lonely? + +FRANCES. Yes . . lonelier than you can ever be. You have children. I'm +just beginning to realise. . . + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Leading her from the mere selfishness of sorrow._] +There's loneliness of the spirit, too. + +FRANCES. Ah, but once you've tasted the common joys of life . . once +you've proved all your rights as a man or woman . . . + +MRS. FARRANT. Then there are subtler things to miss. As well be alone +like you, or dead like him, without them . . I sometimes think. + +FRANCES. [_Responsive, lifted from egoism, reading her friend's mind._] +You demand much. + +MRS. FARRANT. I wish that he had demanded much of any woman. + +FRANCES. You know how this misery began? That poor little wretch . . +she's lying dead too. They're both dead together now. Do you think +they've met . . ? + +JULIA _grips both her hands and speaks very steadily to help her friend +back to self control_. + +MRS. FARRANT. George told me as soon as he was told. I tried to make him +understand my opinion, but he thought I was only shocked. + +FRANCES. I was sorry for her. Now I can't forgive her either. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_Angry, remorseful, rebellious._] When will men learn to +know one woman from another? + +FRANCES. [_With answering bitterness._] When will all women care to be +one thing rather than the other? + +_They are stopped by the sound of the opening of_ KENT'S _door_. WALTER +_comes from his room, some papers from his table held listlessly in one +hand. He is crying, undisguisedly, with a child's grief._ + +KENT. Oh . . am I in your way . . ? + +FRANCES. I didn't know you were still here, Walter. + +KENT. I've been going through the letters as usual. I don't know why, +I'm sure. They won't have to be answered now . . will they? + +WEDGECROFT _comes back, grave and tense_. + +WEDGECROFT. Horsham has gone. He thought perhaps you'd be staying with +Miss Trebell for a bit. + +MRS. FARRANT. Yes, I shall be. + +WEDGECROFT. I must go too . . it's nearly eleven. + +FRANCES. To the =other= inquest? + +_This stirs her two listeners to something of a shudder._ + +WEDGECROFT. Yes. + +MRS. FARRANT. [_In a low voice._] It will make no difference now . . I +mean . . still nothing need come out? We needn't know why he . . why he +did it. + +WEDGECROFT. When he talked to me last night, and I didn't know what he +was talking of. . . + +FRANCES. He was waiting this morning for Lord Horsham's note. . . + +MRS. FARRANT. [_In real alarm._] Oh, it wasn't because of the Cabinet +trouble . . you must persuade Cyril Horsham of that. You haven't told +him . . he's so dreadfully upset as it is. I've been swearing it had +nothing to do with that. + +WEDGECROFT. [_Cutting her short, bitingly._] Has a time ever come to you +when it was easier to die than to go on living? Oh . . I told Lord +Horsham just what I thought. + +_He leaves them, his own grief unexpressed._ + +FRANCES. [_Listlessly._] Does it matter why? + +MRS. FARRANT. Need there be more suffering and reproaches? It's not as +if even grief would do any good. [_Suddenly with nervous caution._] +Walter, you don't know, do you? + +WALTER _throws up his tear-marked face and a man's anger banishes the +boyish grief_. + +WALTER. No, I don't know why he did it . . and I don't care. And grief +is no use. I'm angry . . just angry at the waste of a good man. Look at +the work undone . . think of it! Who is to do it! Oh . . the waste . . ! + + + + +_"The Marrying of Ann Leete" was produced by the Stage Society at the +Royalty Theatre on the evening of January 26th, 1902._ + + +Ann Leete _Miss Winifred Fraser_ +Lord John Carp _Julian Royce_ +George Leete _Kenneth Douglas_ +Mr. Daniel Tatton _J. Malcolm Dunn_ +Lady Cottesham _Miss Henrietta Watson_ +Carnaby Leete _H. A. Saintsbury_ +John Abud _C. M. Hallard_ +The Rev. Dr. Remnant _Howard Sturge_ +Mrs. Opie _Miss Helen Rous_ +Dimmuck _George Trollope_ +Mr. Tetgeen _A. E. George_ +Lord Arthur Carp _Charles V. France_ +Mr. Smallpeice _J. Y. F. Cooke_ +Sir George Leete _Arthur Grenville_ +Mr. Crowe _Sydney Paxton_ +Lady Leete _Miss Bessie Page_ +Mrs. George Leete _Miss Florence Neville_ +The Rev. Mr. Tozer _Ivan Berlin_ +Mr. Prestige _Howard Templeton_ +Mrs. Prestige _Mrs. Gordon Gray_ + + + + +_"The Voysey Inheritance" was first played at the Court Theatre, a +Vedrenne-Barker performance, on the afternoon of November 7th 1905._ + + +Mr. Voysey _A. E. George_ +Mrs. Voysey _Miss Florence Haydon_ +Trenchard Voysey, K. C. _Eugene Mayeur_ +Honor Voysey _Miss Geraldine Olliffe_ +Major Booth Voysey _Charles Fulton_ +Mrs. Booth Voysey _Miss Grace Edwin_ +Christopher _Harry C. Duff_ +Edward Voysey _Thalberg Corbett_ +Hugh Voysey _Dennis Eadie_ +Mrs. Hugh Voysey _Miss Henrietta Watson_ +Ethel Voysey _Miss Alexandra Carlisle_ +Denis Tregoning _Frederick Lloyd_ +Alice Maitland _Miss Mabel Hackney_ +Mr. Booth _O. B. Clarence_ +The Rev. Evan Colpus _Edmund Gwenn_ +Peacey _Trevor Lowe_ +Phoebe _Miss Gwynneth Galton_ +Mary _Mrs. Fordyce_ + + + + +_"Waste" was produced by the Stage Society at the Imperial Theatre, +Westminster, on the evening of November 24th, 1907._ + + +Lady Davenport _Miss Amy Coleman_ +Walter Kent _Vernon Steel_ +Mrs. Farrant _Miss Beryl Faber_ +Miss Trebell _Miss Henrietta Watson_ +Mrs. O'Connell _Miss Aimee De Burgh_ +Lucy Davenport _Miss Dorothy Thomas_ +George Farrant _Frederick Lloyd_ +Russell Blackborough _A. Holmes-Gore_ +A Footman _Allan Wade_ +Henry Trebell _Granville Barker_ +Simpson _Miss Mary Barton_ +Gilbert Wedgecroft _Berte Thomas_ +Lord Charles Cantelupe _Dennis Eadie_ +The Earl of Horsham _Henry Vibart_ +Edmunds _Trevor Lowe_ +Justin O'Connell _J. Fisher White_ + + + + +Transcriber's Notes:- + +Ellipses and hyphenation have been kept as in the original. + +P. 16 "Innocency's opininons are invariably entertaining."==>"Innocency's + opinions are invariably entertaining." + +P. 79 "[_Disgustedly to_ MR. SMALLPIECE]"==>"[_Disgustedly to_ MR. + SMALLPEICE]" + +P. 103 "In ten years years I may be"==>"In ten years I may be" + +P. 145 "one can trace the pyschology"==>"one can trace the psychology" + +G e s p e r r t spacing has been replaced with bold markup. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Plays by Granville-Barker, by +Harley Granville-Barker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE-BARKER *** + +***** This file should be named 35640.txt or 35640.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/6/4/35640/ + +Produced by David T. 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