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Title: The Doctor's Dilemma

Author: George Bernard Shaw

Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5070]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on April 14, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA ***




This etext was produced by Eve Sobol, South Bend, Indiana, USA






TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: The edition from which this play was taken
was printed with no contractions, thus "we've" is written as
"weve", "hadn't" as "hadnt", etc. There is no trailing period
after Mr, Dr, etc., and "show" is spelt "shew", "Shakespeare" is
Shakespear.





THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA

BERNARD SHAW

1906



I am grateful to Hesba Stretton, the authoress of "Jessica's
First Prayer," for permission to use the title of one of her
stories for this play.



ACT I

On the 15th June 1903, in the early forenoon, a medical student,
surname Redpenny, Christian name unknown and of no importance,
sits at work in a doctor's consulting-room. He devils for the
doctor by answering his letters, acting as his domestic
laboratory assistant, and making himself indispensable generally,
in return for unspecified advantages involved by intimate
intercourse with a leader of his profession, and amounting to an
informal apprenticeship and a temporary affiliation. Redpenny is
not proud, and will do anything he is asked without reservation
of his personal dignity if he is asked in a fellow-creaturely
way. He is a wide-open-eyed, ready, credulous, friendly, hasty
youth, with his hair and clothes in reluctant transition from the
untidy boy to the tidy doctor.

Redpenny is interrupted by the entrance of an old serving-woman
who has never known the cares, the preoccupations, the
responsibilities, jealousies, and anxieties of personal beauty.
She has the complexion of a never-washed gypsy, incurable by any
detergent; and she has, not a regular beard and moustaches, which
could at least be trimmed and waxed into a masculine
presentableness, but a whole crop of small beards and moustaches,
mostly springing from moles all over her face. She carries a
duster and toddles about meddlesomely, spying out dust so
diligently that whilst she is flicking off one speck she is
already looking elsewhere for another. In conversation she has
the same trick, hardly ever looking at the person she is
addressing except when she is excited. She has only one manner,
and that is the manner of an old family nurse to a child just
after it has learnt to walk. She has used her ugliness to secure
indulgences unattainable by Cleopatra or Fair Rosamund, and has
the further great advantage over them that age increases her
qualification instead of impairing it. Being an industrious,
agreeable, and popular old soul, she is a walking sermon on the
vanity of feminine prettiness. Just as Redpenny has no discovered
Christian name, she has no discovered surname, and is known
throughout the doctors' quarter between Cavendish Square and the
Marylebone Road simply as Emmy.

The consulting-room has two windows looking on Queen Anne Street.
Between the two is a marble-topped console, with haunched gilt
legs ending in sphinx claws. The huge pier-glass which surmounts
it is mostly disabled from reflection by elaborate painting on
its surface of palms, ferns, lilies, tulips, and sunflowers. The
adjoining wall contains the fireplace, with two arm-chairs before
it. As we happen to face the corner we see nothing of the other
two walls. On the right of the fireplace, or rather on the right
of any person facing the fireplace, is the door. On its left is
the writing-table at which Redpenny sits. It is an untidy table
with a microscope, several test tubes, and a spirit lamp standing
up through its litter of papers.  There is a couch in the middle
of the room, at right angles to the console, and parallel to the
fireplace. A chair stands between the couch and the windowed
wall. The windows have green Venetian blinds and rep curtains;
and there is a gasalier; but it is a convert to electric
lighting. The wall paper and carpets are mostly green, coeval
with the gasalier and the Venetian blinds. The house, in fact,
was so well furnished in the middle of the XIXth century that it
stands unaltered to this day and is still quite presentable.

EMMY [entering and immediately beginning to dust the couch]
Theres a lady bothering me to see the doctor.

REDPENNY [distracted by the interruption] Well, she cant see the
doctor. Look here: whats the use of telling you that the doctor
cant take any new patients, when the moment a knock comes to the
door, in you bounce to ask whether he can see somebody?

EMMY. Who asked you whether he could see somebody?

REDPENNY. You did.

EMMY. I said theres a lady bothering me to see the doctor. That
isnt asking. Its telling.

REDPENNY. Well, is the lady bothering you any reason for you to
come bothering me when I'm busy?

EMMY. Have you seen the papers?

REDPENNY. No.

EMMY. Not seen the birthday honors?

REDPENNY [beginning to swear] What the--

EMMY. Now, now, ducky!

REDPENNY. What do you suppose I care about the birthday honors?
Get out of this with your chattering. Dr Ridgeon will be down
before I have these letters ready. Get out.

EMMY. Dr Ridgeon wont never be down any more, young man.

She detects dust on the console and is down on it immediately.

REDPENNY [jumping up and following her] What?

EMMY. He's been made a knight. Mind you dont go Dr Ridgeoning him
in them letters. Sir Colenso Ridgeon is to be his name now.

REDPENNY. I'm jolly glad.

EMMY. I never was so taken aback. I always thought his great
discoveries was fudge (let alone the mess of them) with his drops
of blood and tubes full of Maltese fever and the like. Now he'll
have a rare laugh at me.

REDPENNY. Serve you right! It was like your cheek to talk to him
about science. [He returns to his table and resumes his writing].

EMMY. Oh, I dont think much of science; and neither will you when
youve lived as long with it as I have. Whats on my mind is
answering the door. Old Sir Patrick Cullen has been here already
and left first congratulations--hadnt time to come up on his way
to the hospital, but was determined to be first--coming back, he
said. All the rest will be here too: the knocker will be going
all day. What Im afraid of is that the doctor'll want a footman
like all the rest, now that he's Sir Colenso. Mind: dont you go
putting him up to it, ducky; for he'll never have any comfort
with anybody but me to answer the door. I know who to let in and
who to keep out. And that reminds me of the poor lady. I think he
ought to see her. Shes just the kind that puts him in a good
temper. [She dusts Redpenny's papers].

REDPENNY. I tell you he cant see anybody. Do go away, Emmy. How
can I work with you dusting all over me like this?

EMMY. I'm not hindering you working--if you call writing letters
working. There goes the bell. [She looks out of the window]. A
doctor's carriage. Thats more congratulations. [She is going out
when Sir Colenso Ridgeon enters]. Have you finished your two
eggs, sonny?

RIDGEON. Yes.

EMMY. Have you put on your clean vest?

RIDGEON. Yes.

EMMY. Thats my ducky diamond! Now keep yourself tidy and dont go
messing about and dirtying your hands: the people are coming to
congratulate you. [She goes out].

Sir Colenso Ridgeon is a man of fifty who has never shaken off
his youth. He has the off-handed manner and the little audacities
of address which a shy and sensitive man acquires in breaking
himself in to intercourse with all sorts and conditions of men.
His face is a good deal lined; his movements are slower than, for
instance, Redpenny's; and his flaxen hair has lost its lustre;
but in figure and manner he is more the young man than the titled
physician. Even the lines in his face are those of overwork and
restless scepticism, perhaps partly of curiosity and appetite,
rather than of age. Just at present the announcement of his
knighthood in the morning papers makes him specially self-
conscious, and consequently specially off-hand with Redpenny.

RIDGEON. Have you seen the papers? Youll have to alter the name
in the letters if you havnt.

REDPENNY. Emmy has just told me. I'm awfully glad. I--

RIDGEON. Enough, young man, enough. You will soon get accustomed
to it.

REDPENNY. They ought to have done it years ago.

RIDGEON. They would have; only they couldnt stand Emmy opening
the door, I daresay.

EMMY [at the door, announcing] Dr Shoemaker. [She withdraws].

A middle-aged gentleman, well dressed, comes in with a friendly
but propitiatory air, not quite sure of his reception. His
combination of soft manners and responsive kindliness, with a
certain unseizable reserve and a familiar yet foreign chiselling
of feature, reveal the Jew: in this instance the handsome
gentlemanly Jew, gone a little pigeon-breasted and stale after
thirty, as handsome young Jews often do, but still decidedly
good-looking.

THE GENTLEMAN. Do you remember me? Schutzmacher. University
College school and Belsize Avenue. Loony Schutzmacher, you know.

RIDGEON. What! Loony! [He shakes hands cordially]. Why, man, I
thought you were dead long ago. Sit down. [Schutzmacher sits on
the couch: Ridgeon on the chair between it and the window]. Where
have you been these thirty years?

SCHUTZMACHER. In general practice, until a few months ago. I've
retired.

RIDGEON. Well done, Loony! I wish I could afford to retire. Was
your practice in London?

SCHUTZMACHER. No.

RIDGEON. Fashionable coast practice, I suppose.

SCHUTZMACHER. How could I afford to buy a fashionable practice? I
hadnt a rap. I set up in a manufacturing town in the midlands in
a little surgery at ten shillings a week.

RIDGEON. And made your fortune?

SCHUTZMACHER. Well, I'm pretty comfortable. I have a place in
Hertfordshire besides our flat in town. If you ever want a quiet
Saturday to Monday, I'll take you down in my motor at an hours
notice.

RIDGEON. Just rolling in money! I wish you rich g.p.'s would
teach me how to make some. Whats the secret of it?

SCHUTZMACHER. Oh, in my case the secret was simple enough, though
I suppose I should have got into trouble if it had attracted any
notice. And I'm afraid you'll think it rather infra dig.

RIDGEON. Oh, I have an open mind. What was the secret?

SCHUTZMACHER. Well, the secret was just two words.

RIDGEON. Not Consultation Free, was it?

SCHUTZMACHER [shocked] No, no. Really!

RIDGEON [apologetic] Of course not. I was only joking.

SCHUTZMACHER. My two words were simply Cure Guaranteed.

RIDGEON [admiring] Cure Guaranteed!

SCHUTZMACHER. Guaranteed. After all, thats what everybody wants
from a doctor, isnt it?

RIDGEON. My dear loony, it was an inspiration. Was it on the
brass plate?

SCHUTZMACHER. There was no brass plate. It was a shop window:
red, you know, with black lettering. Doctor Leo Schutzmacher,
L.R.C.P.M.R.C.S. Advice and medicine sixpence. Cure Guaranteed.

RIDGEON. And the guarantee proved sound nine times out of ten,
eh?

SCHUTZMACHER [rather hurt at so moderate an estimate] Oh, much
oftener than that. You see, most people get well all right if
they are careful and you give them a little sensible advice. And
the medicine really did them good. Parrish's Chemical Food:
phosphates, you know. One tablespoonful to a twelve-ounce bottle
of water: nothing better, no matter what the case is.

RIDGEON. Redpenny: make a note of Parrish's Chemical Food.

SCHUTZMACHER. I take it myself, you know, when I feel run down.
Good-bye. You dont mind my calling, do you? Just to congratulate
you.

RIDGEON. Delighted, my dear Loony. Come to lunch on Saturday next
week. Bring your motor and take me down to Hertford.

SCHUTZMACHER. I will. We shall be delighted. Thank you. Good-bye.
[He goes out with Ridgeon, who returns immediately].

REDPENNY. Old Paddy Cullen was here before you were up, to be the
first to congratulate you.

RIDGEON. Indeed. Who taught you to speak of Sir Patrick Cullen as
old Paddy Cullen, you young ruffian?

REDPENNY. You never call him anything else.

RIDGEON. Not now that I am Sir Colenso. Next thing, you fellows
will be calling me old Colly Ridgeon.

REDPENNY. We do, at St. Anne's.

RIDGEON. Yach! Thats what makes the medical student the most
disgusting figure in modern civilization. No veneration, no
manners--no--

EMMY [at the door, announcing]. Sir Patrick Cullen. [She
retires].

Sir Patrick Cullen is more than twenty years older than Ridgeon,
not yet quite at the end of his tether, but near it and resigned
to it. His name, his plain, downright, sometimes rather arid
common sense, his large build and stature, the absence of those
odd moments of ceremonial servility by which an old English
doctor sometimes shews you what the status of the profession was
in England in his youth, and an occasional turn of speech, are
Irish; but he has lived all his life in England and is thoroughly
acclimatized. His manner to Ridgeon, whom he likes, is whimsical
and fatherly: to others he is a little gruff and uninviting, apt
to substitute more or less expressive grunts for articulate
speech, and generally indisposed, at his age, to make much social
effort. He shakes Ridgeon's hand and beams at him cordially and
jocularly.

SIR PATRICK. Well, young chap. Is your hat too small for you, eh?

RIDGEON. Much too small. I owe it all to you.

SIR PATRICK. Blarney, my boy. Thank you all the same. [He sits in
one of the arm-chairs near the fireplace. Ridgeon sits on the
couch]. Ive come to talk to you a bit. [To Redpenny] Young man:
get out.

REDPENNY. Certainly, Sir Patrick [He collects his papers and
makes for the door].

SIR PATRICK. Thank you. Thats a good lad. [Redpenny vanishes].
They all put up with me, these young chaps, because I'm an old
man, a real old man, not like you. Youre only beginning to give
yourself the airs of age. Did you ever see a boy cultivating a
moustache? Well, a middle-aged doctor cultivating a grey head is
much the same sort of spectacle.

RIDGEON. Good Lord! yes: I suppose so. And I thought that the
days of my vanity were past. Tell me at what age does a man leave
off being a fool?

SIR PATRICK. Remember the Frenchman who asked his grandmother at
what age we get free from the temptations of love. The old woman
said she didn't know. [Ridgeon laughs]. Well, I make you the same
answer. But the world's growing very interesting to me now,
Colly.

RIDGEON. You keep up your interest in science, do you?

SIR PATRICK. Lord! yes. Modern science is a wonderful thing. Look
at your great discovery! Look at all the great discoveries! Where
are they leading to? Why, right back to my poor dear old father's
ideas and discoveries. He's been dead now over forty years. Oh,
it's very interesting.

RIDGEON. Well, theres nothing like progress, is there?

SIR PATRICK. Dont misunderstand me, my boy. I'm not belittling
your discovery. Most discoveries are made regularly every fifteen
years; and it's fully a hundred and fifty since yours was made
last. Thats something to be proud of. But your discovery's not
new. It's only inoculation. My father practised inoculation until
it was made criminal in eighteen-forty. That broke the poor old
man's heart, Colly: he died of it. And now it turns out that my
father was right after all. Youve brought us back to inoculation.

RIDGEON. I know nothing about smallpox. My line is tuberculosis
and typhoid and plague. But of course the principle of all
vaccines is the same.

SIR PATRICK. Tuberculosis? M-m-m-m! Youve found out how to cure
consumption, eh?

RIDGEON. I believe so.

SIR PATRICK. Ah yes. It's very interesting. What is it the old
cardinal says in Browning's play? "I have known four and twenty
leaders of revolt." Well, Ive known over thirty men that found
out how to cure consumption. Why do people go on dying of it,
Colly? Devilment, I suppose. There was my father's old friend
George Boddington of Sutton Coldfield. He discovered the open-air
cure in eighteen-forty. He was ruined and driven out of his
practice for only opening the windows; and now we wont let a
consumptive patient have as much as a roof over his head. Oh,
it's very VERY interesting to an old man.

RIDGEON. You old cynic, you dont believe a bit in my discovery.

SIR PATRICK. No, no: I dont go quite so far as that, Colly. But
still, you remember Jane Marsh?

RIDGEON. Jane Marsh? No.

SIR PATRICK. You dont!

RIDGEON. No.

SIR PATRICK. You mean to tell me you dont remember the woman with
the tuberculosis ulcer on her arm?

RIDGEON [enlightened] Oh, your washerwoman's daughter. Was her
name Jane Marsh? I forgot.

SIR PATRICK. Perhaps youve forgotten also that you undertook to
cure her with Koch's tuberculin.

RIDGEON. And instead of curing her, it rotted her arm right off.
Yes: I remember. Poor Jane! However, she makes a good living out
of that arm now by shewing it at medical lectures.

SIR PATRICK. Still, that wasnt quite what you intended, was it?

RIDGEON. I took my chance of it.

SIR PATRICK. Jane did, you mean.

RIDGEON. Well, it's always the patient who has to take the chance
when an experiment is necessary. And we can find out nothing
without experiment.

SIR PATRICK. What did you find out from Jane's case?

RIDGEON. I found out that the inoculation that ought to cure
sometimes kills.

SIR PATRICK. I could have told you that. Ive tried these modern
inoculations a bit myself. Ive killed people with them; and Ive
cured people with them; but I gave them up because I never could
tell which I was going to do.

RIDGEON [taking a pamphlet from a drawer in the writing-table and
handing it to him] Read that the next time you have an hour to
spare; and youll find out why.

SIR PATRICK [grumbling and fumbling for his spectacles] Oh,
bother your pamphlets. Whats the practice of it? [Looking at the
pamphlet] Opsonin? What the devil is opsonin?

RIDGEON. Opsonin is what you butter the disease germs with to
make your white blood corpuscles eat them. [He sits down again on
the couch].

SIR PATRICK. Thats not new. Ive heard this notion that the white
corpuscles--what is it that whats his name?--Metchnikoff--calls
them?

RIDGEON. Phagocytes.

SIR PATRICK. Aye, phagocytes: yes, yes, yes. Well, I heard this
theory that the phagocytes eat up the disease germs years ago:
long before you came into fashion. Besides, they dont always eat
them.

RIDGEON. They do when you butter them with opsonin.

SIR PATRICK. Gammon.

RIDGEON. No: it's not gammon. What it comes to in practice is
this. The phagocytes wont eat the microbes unless the microbes
are nicely buttered for them. Well, the patient manufactures the
butter for himself all right; but my discovery is that the
manufacture of that butter, which I call opsonin, goes on in the
system by ups and downs--Nature being always rhythmical, you
know--and that what the inoculation does is to stimulate the ups
or downs, as the case may be. If we had inoculated Jane Marsh
when her butter factory was on the up-grade, we should have cured
her arm. But we got in on the downgrade and lost her arm for her.
I call the up-grade the positive phase and the down-grade the
negative phase. Everything depends on your inoculating at the
right moment. Inoculate when the patient is in the negative phase
and you kill: inoculate when the patient is in the positive phase
and you cure.

SIR PATRICK. And pray how are you to know whether the patient is
in the positive or the negative phase?

RIDGEON. Send a drop of the patient's blood to the laboratory at
St. Anne's; and in fifteen minutes I'll give you his opsonin
index in figures. If the figure is one, inoculate and cure: if
it's under point eight, inoculate and kill. Thats my discovery:
the most important that has been made since Harvey discovered the
circulation of the blood. My tuberculosis patients dont die now.

SIR PATRICK. And mine do when my inoculation catches them in the
negative phase, as you call it. Eh?

RIDGEON. Precisely. To inject a vaccine into a patient without
first testing his opsonin is as near murder as a respectable
practitioner can get. If I wanted to kill s man I should kill him
that way.

EMMY [looking in] Will you see a lady that wants her husband's
lungs cured?

RIDGEON [impatiently] No. Havnt I told you I will see nobody?[To
Sir Patrick] I live in a state of siege ever since it got about
that I'm a magician who can cure consumption with a drop of
serum. [To Emmy] Dont come to me again about people who have no
appointments. I tell you I can see nobody.

EMMY. Well, I'll tell her to wait a bit.

RIDGEON [furious] Youll tell her I cant see her, and send her
away: do you hear?

EMMY [unmoved] Well, will you see Mr Cutler Walpole? He dont want
a cure: he only wants to congratulate you.

RIDGEON. Of course. Shew him up. [She turns to go]. Stop. [To Sir
Patrick] I want two minutes more with you between ourselves. [To
Emmy] Emmy: ask Mr. Walpole to wait just two minutes, while I
finish a consultation.

EMMY. Oh, he'll wait all right. He's talking to the poor lady.
[She goes out].

SIR PATRICK. Well? what is it?

RIDGEON. Dont laugh at me. I want your advice.

SIR PATRICK. Professional advice?

RIDGEON. Yes. Theres something the matter with me. I dont know
what it is.

SIR PATRICK. Neither do I. I suppose youve been sounded.

RIDGEON. Yes, of course. Theres nothing wrong with any of the
organs: nothing special, anyhow. But I have a curious aching: I
dont know where: I cant localize it. Sometimes I think it's my
heart: sometimes I suspect my spine. It doesnt exactly hurt me;
but it unsettles me completely. I feel that something is going to
happen. And there are other symptoms. Scraps of tunes come into
my head that seem to me very pretty, though theyre quite
commonplace.

SIR PATRICK. Do you hear voices?

RIDGEON. No.

SIR PATRICK. I'm glad of that. When my patients tell me that
theyve made a greater discovery than Harvey, and that they hear
voices, I lock them up.

RIDGEON. You think I'm mad! Thats just the suspicion that has
come across me once or twice. Tell me the truth: I can bear it.

SIR PATRICK. Youre sure there are no voices?

RIDGEON. Quite sure.

SIR PATRICK. Then it's only foolishness.

RIDGEON. Have you ever met anything like it before in your
practice?

SIR PATRICK. Oh, yes: often. It's very common between the ages of
seventeen and twenty-two. It sometimes comes on again at forty or
thereabouts. Youre a bachelor, you see. It's not serious--if
youre careful.

RIDGEON. About my food?

SIR PATRICK. No: about your behavior. Theres nothing wrong with
your spine; and theres nothing wrong with your heart; but theres
something wrong with your common sense. Youre not going to die;
but you may be going to make a fool of yourself. So be careful.

RIDGEON. I sec you dont believe in my discovery. Well, sometimes
I dont believe in it myself. Thank you all the same. Shall we
have Walpole up?

SIR PATRICK. Oh, have him up. [Ridgeon rings]. He's a clever
operator, is Walpole, though he's only one of your chloroform
surgeons. In my early days, you made your man drunk; and the
porters and students held him down; and you had to set your teeth
and finish the job fast. Nowadays you work at your ease; and the
pain doesn't come until afterwards, when youve taken your
cheque and rolled up your bag and left the house. I tell you,
Colly, chloroform has done a lot of mischief. It's enabled every
fool to be a surgeon.

RIDGEON [to Emmy, who answers the bell] Shew Mr Walpole up.

EMMY. He's talking to the lady.

RIDGEON [exasperated] Did I not tell you--

Emmy goes out without heeding him. He gives it up, with a shrug,
and plants himself with his back to the console, leaning
resignedly against it.

SIR PATRICK. I know your Cutler Walpoles and their like. Theyve
found out that a man's body's full of bits and scraps of old
organs he has no mortal use for. Thanks to chloroform, you can
cut half a dozen of them out without leaving him any the worse,
except for the illness and the guineas it costs him. I knew the
Walpoles well fifteen years ago. The father used to snip off the
ends of people's uvulas for fifty guineas, and paint throats with
caustic every day for a year at two guineas a time. His brother-
in-law extirpated tonsils for two hundred guineas until he took
up women's cases at double the fees. Cutler himself worked hard
at anatomy to find something fresh to operate on; and at last he
got hold of something he calls the nuciform sac, which he's made
quite the fashion. People pay him five hundred guineas to cut it
out. They might as well get their hair cut for all the difference
it makes; but I suppose they feel important after it. You cant go
out to dinner now without your neighbor bragging to you of some
useless operation or other.

EMMY [announcing] Mr Cutler Walpole. [She goes out].

Cutler Walpole is an energetic, unhesitating man of forty, with a
cleanly modelled face, very decisive and symmetrical about the
shortish, salient, rather pretty nose, and the three trimly
turned corners made by his chin and jaws. In comparison with
Ridgeon's delicate broken lines, and Sir Patrick's softly rugged
aged ones, his face looks machine-made and beeswaxed; but his
scrutinizing, daring eyes give it life and force. He seems never
at a loss, never in doubt: one feels that if he made a mistake he
would make it thoroughly and firmly. He has neat, well-nourished
hands, short arms, and is built for strength and compactness
rather than for height. He is smartly dressed with a fancy
waistcoat, a richly colored scarf secured by a handsome ring,
ornaments on his watch chain, spats on his shoes, and a general
air of the well-to-do sportsman about him. He goes straight
across to Ridgeon and shakes hands with him.

WALPOLE. My dear Ridgeon, best wishes! heartiest congratulations!
You deserve it.

RIDGEON. Thank you.

WALPOLE. As a man, mind you. You deserve it as a man. The opsonin
is simple rot, as any capable surgeon can tell you; but we're all
delighted to see your personal qualities officially recognized.
Sir Patrick: how are you? I sent you a paper lately about a
little thing I invented: a new saw. For shoulder blades.

SIR PATRICK [meditatively] Yes: I got it. It's a good saw: a
useful, handy instrument.

WALPOLE [confidently] I knew youd see its points.

SIR PATRICK. Yes: I remember that saw sixty-five years ago.

WALPOLE. What!

SIR PATRICK. It was called a cabinetmaker's jimmy then.

WALPOLE. Get out! Nonsense! Cabinetmaker be--

RIDGEON. Never mind him, Walpole. He's jealous.

WALPOLE. By the way, I hope I'm not disturbing you two in
anything private.

RIDGEON. No no. Sit down. I was only consulting him. I'm rather
out of sorts. Overwork, I suppose.

WALPOLE [swiftly] I know whats the matter with you. I can see it
in your complexion. I can feel it in the grip of your hand.

RIDGEON. What is it?

WALPOLE. Blood-poisoning.

RIDGEON. Blood-poisoning! Impossible.

WALPOLE. I tell you, blood-poisoning. Ninety-five per cent of the
human race suffer from chronic blood-poisoning, and die of it.
It's as simple as A.B.C. Your nuciform sac is full of decaying
matter--undigested food and waste products--rank ptomaines. Now
you take my advice, Ridgeon. Let me cut it out for you. You'll be
another man afterwards.

SIR PATRICK. Dont you like him as he is?

WALPOLE. No I dont. I dont like any man who hasnt a healthy
circulation. I tell you this: in an intelligently governed
country people wouldnt be allowed to go about with nuciform sacs,
making themselves centres of infection. The operation ought to be
compulsory: it's ten times more important than vaccination.

SIR PATRICK. Have you had your own sac removed, may I ask?

WALPOLE [triumphantly] I havnt got one. Look at me! Ive no
symptoms. I'm as sound as a bell. About five per cent of the
population havnt got any; and I'm one of the five per cent. I'll
give you an instance. You know Mrs Jack Foljambe: the smart Mrs
Foljambe? I operated at Easter on her sister-in-law, Lady Gorran,
and found she had the biggest sac I ever saw: it held about two
ounces. Well, Mrs. Foljambe had the right spirit--the genuine
hygienic instinct. She couldnt stand her sister-in-law being a
clean, sound woman, and she simply a whited sepulchre. So she
insisted on my operating on her, too. And by George, sir, she
hadnt any sac at all. Not a trace! Not a rudiment!! I was so
taken aback--so interested, that I forgot to take the sponges
out, and was stitching them up inside her when the nurse
missed them.  Somehow, I'd made sure she'd have an exceptionally
large one. [He sits down on the couch, squaring his shoulders and
shooting his hands out of his cuffs as he sets his knuckles
akimbo].

EMMY [looking in] Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington.

A long and expectant pause follows this announcement. All look to
the door; but there is no Sir Ralph.

RIDGEON [at last] Were is he?

EMMY [looking back] Drat him, I thought he was following me. He's
stayed down to talk to that lady.

RIDGEON [exploding] I told you to tell that lady-- [Emmy
vanishes].

WALPOLE [jumping up again] Oh, by the way, Ridgeon, that reminds
me. Ive been talking to that poor girl. It's her husband; and she
thinks it's a case of consumption: the usual wrong diagnosis:
these damned general practitioners ought never to be allowed to
touch a patient except under the orders of a consultant. She's
been describing his symptoms to me; and the case is as plain as a
pikestaff: bad blood-poisoning. Now she's poor. She cant afford
to have him operated on. Well, you send him to me: I'll do it for
nothing. Theres room for him in my nursing home. I'll put him
straight, and feed him up and make him happy. I like making
people happy. [He goes to the chair near the window].

EMMY [looking in] Here he is.

Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington wafts himself into the room. He is
a tall man, with a head like a tall and slender egg. He has been
in his time a slender man; but now, in his sixth decade, his
waistcoat has filled out somewhat. His fair eyebrows arch good-
naturedly and uncritically. He has a most musical voice; his
speech is a perpetual anthem; and he never tires of the sound of
it. He radiates an enormous self-satisfaction, cheering,
reassuring, healing by the mere incompatibility of disease or
anxiety with his welcome presence. Even broken bones, it is said,
have been known to unite at the sound of his voice: he is a born
healer, as independent of mere treatment and skill as any
Christian scientist. When he expands into oratory or scientific
exposition, he is as energetic as Walpole; but it is with a
bland, voluminous, atmospheric energy, which envelops its subject
and its audience, and makes interruption or inattention
impossible, and imposes veneration and credulity on all but the
strongest minds. He is known in the medical world as B. B.; and
the envy roused by his success in practice is softened by the
conviction that he is, scientifically considered, a colossal
humbug: the fact being that, though he knows just as much (and
just as little) as his contemporaries, the qualifications that
pass muster in common men reveal their weakness when hung on his
egregious personality.

B. B. Aha! Sir Colenso. Sir Colenso, eh? Welcome to the order of
knighthood.

RIDGEON [shaking hands] Thank you, B. B.

B. B. What! Sir Patrick! And how are we to-day? a little chilly?
a little stiff? but hale and still the cleverest of us all. [Sir
Patrick grunts]. What! Walpole! the absent-minded beggar: eh?

WALPOLE. What does that mean?

B. B. Have you forgotten the lovely opera singer I sent you to
have that growth taken off her vocal cords?

WALPOLE [springing to his feet] Great heavens, man, you dont mean
to say you sent her for a throat operation!

B. B. [archly] Aha! Ha ha! Aha! [trilling like a lark as he
shakes his finger at Walpole]. You removed her nuciform sac.
Well, well! force of habit! force of habit! Never mind,
ne-e-e-ver mind. She got back her voice after it, and thinks you
the greatest surgeon alive; and so you are, so you are, so you
are.

WALPOLE [in a tragic whisper, intensely serious] Blood-poisoning.
I see. I see. [He sits down again].

SIR PATRICK. And how is a certain distinguished family getting on
under your care, Sir Ralph?

B. B. Our friend Ridgeon will be gratified to hear that I have
tried his opsonin treatment on little Prince Henry with complete
success.

RIDGEON [startled and anxious] But how--

B. B. [continuing] I suspected typhoid: the head gardener's boy
had it; so I just called at St Anne's one day and got a tube of
your very excellent serum. You were out, unfortunately.

RIDGEON. I hope they explained to you carefully--

B. B. [waving away the absurd suggestion] Lord bless you, my dear
fellow, I didnt need any explanations. I'd left my wife in the
carriage at the door; and I'd no time to be taught my business by
your young chaps. I know all about it. Ive handled these anti-
toxins ever since they first came out.

RIDGEDN. But theyre not anti-toxins; and theyre dangerous unless
you use them at the right time.

B. B. Of course they are. Everything is dangerous unless you take
it at the right time. An apple at breakfast does you good: an
apple at bedtime upsets you for a week. There are only two rules
for anti-toxins. First, dont be afraid of them: second, inject
them a quarter of an hour before meals, three times a day.

RIDGEON [appalled] Great heavens, B. B., no, no, no.

B. B. [sweeping on irresistibly] Yes, yes, yes, Colly. The proof
of the pudding is in the eating, you know. It was an immense
success. It acted like magic on the little prince. Up went his
temperature; off to bed I packed him; and in a week he was all
right again, and absolutely immune from typhoid for the rest of
his life. The family were very nice about it: their gratitude was
quite touching; but I said they owed it all to you, Ridgeon; and
I am glad to think that your knighthood is the result.

RIDGEON. I am deeply obliged to you. [Overcome, he sits down on
the chair near the couch].

B. B. Not at all, not at all. Your own merit. Come! come! come!
dont give way.

RIDGEON. It's nothing. I was a little giddy just now. Overwork, I
suppose.

WALPOLE. Blood-poisoning.

B. B. Overwork! Theres no such thing. I do the work of ten men.
Am I giddy? No. NO. If youre not well, you have a disease. It may
be a slight one; but it's a disease. And what is a disease? The
lodgment in the system of a pathogenic germ, and the
multiplication of that germ. What is the remedy? A very simple
one. Find the germ and kill it.

SIR PATRICK. Suppose theres no germ?

B. B. Impossible, Sir Patrick: there must be a germ: else how
could the patient be ill?

SIR PATRICK. Can you shew me the germ of overwork?

B. B. No; but why? Why? Because, my dear Sir Patrick, though the
germ is there, it's invisible. Nature has given it no danger
signal for us. These germs--these bacilli--are translucent
bodies, like glass, like water. To make them visible you must
stain them. Well, my dear Paddy, do what you will, some of them
wont stain. They wont take cochineal: they wont take methylene
blue; they wont take gentian violet: they wont take any coloring
matter. Consequently, though we know, as scientific men, that
they exist, we cannot see them. But can you disprove their
existence? Can you conceive the disease existing without them?
Can you, for instance, shew me a case of diphtheria without the
bacillus?

SIR PATRICK. No; but I'll shew you the same bacillus, without the
disease, in your own throat.

B. B. No, not the same, Sir Patrick. It is an entirely different
bacillus; only the two are, unfortunately, so exactly alike that
you cannot see the difference. You must understand, my dear Sir
Patrick, that every one of these interesting little creatures has
an imitator. Just as men imitate each other, germs imitate each
other. There is the genuine diphtheria bacillus discovered by
Loeffler; and there is the pseudo-bacillus, exactly like it,
which you could find, as you say, in my own throat.

         SIR PATRICK. And how do you tell one from the other?

B. B. Well, obviously, if the bacillus is the genuine Loeffler,
you have diphtheria; and if it's the pseudobacillus, youre quite
well. Nothing simpler. Science is always simple and always
profound. It is only the half-truths that are dangerous. Ignorant
faddists pick up some superficial information about germs; and
they write to the papers and try to discredit science. They dupe
and mislead many honest and worthy people. But science has a
perfect answer to them on every point.

         A little learning is a dangerous thing;
         Drink deep; or taste not the Pierian spring.

I mean no disrespect to your generation, Sir Patrick: some of you
old stagers did marvels through sheer professional intuition and
clinical experience; but when I think of the average men of your
day, ignorantly bleeding and cupping and purging, and scattering
germs over their patients from their clothes and instruments, and
contrast all that with the scientific certainty and simplicity of
my treatment of the little prince the other day, I cant help
being proud of my own generation: the men who were trained on the
germ theory, the veterans of the great struggle over Evolution in
the seventies. We may have our faults; but at least we are men of
science. That is why I am taking up your treatment, Ridgeon, and
pushing it. It's scientific. [He sits down on the chair near the
couch].

EMMY [at the door, announcing] Dr Blenkinsop.

Dr Blenkinsop is a very different case from the others. He is
clearly not a prosperous man. He is flabby and shabby, cheaply
fed and cheaply clothed. He has the lines made by a conscience
between his eyes, and the lines made by continual money worries
all over his face, cut all the deeper as he has seen better days,
and hails his well-to-do colleagues as their contemporary and old
hospital friend, though even in this he has to struggle with the
diffidence of poverty and relegation to the poorer middle class.

RIDGEON. How are you, Blenkinsop?

BLENKINSOP. Ive come to offer my humble congratulations. Oh dear!
all the great guns are before me.

B. B. [patronizing, but charming] How d'ye do Blenkinsop? How
d'ye do?

BLENKINSOP. And Sir Patrick, too [Sir Patrick grunts].

RIDGEON. Youve met Walpole, of course?

WALPOLE. How d'ye do?

BLENKINSOP. It's the first time Ive had that honor. In my poor
little practice there are no chances of meeting you great men. I
know nobody but the St Anne's men of my own day. [To Ridgeon] And
so youre Sir Colenso. How does it feel?

RIDGEON. Foolish at first. Dont take any notice of it.

BLENKINSOP. I'm ashamed to say I havnt a notion what your great
discovery is; but I congratulate you all the same for the sake of
old times.

B. B. [shocked] But, my dear Blenkinsop, you used to be rather
keen on science.

BLENKINSOP. Ah, I used to be a lot of things. I used to have two
or three decent suits of clothes, and flannels to go up the river
on Sundays. Look at me now: this is my best; and it must last
till Christmas. What can I do? Ive never opened a book since I
was qualified thirty years ago. I used to read the medical papers
at first; but you know how soon a man drops that; besides, I cant
afford them; and what are they after all but trade papers, full
of advertisements? Ive forgotten all my science: whats the use of
my pretending I havnt? But I have great experience: clinical
experience; and bedside experience is the main thing, isn't it?

B. B. No doubt; always provided, mind you, that you have a sound
scientific theory to correlate your observations at the bedside.
Mere experience by itself is nothing. If I take my dog to the
bedside with me, he sees what I see. But he learns nothing from
it. Why? Because he's not a scientific dog.

WALPOLE. It amuses me to hear you physicians and general
practitioners talking about clinical experience. What do you see
at the bedside but the outside of the patient? Well: it isnt his
outside thats wrong, except perhaps in skin cases. What you want
is a daily familiarity with people's insides; and that you can
only get at the operating table. I know what I'm talking about:
Ive been a surgeon and a consultant for twenty years; and Ive
never known a general practitioner right in his diagnosis yet.
Bring them a perfectly simple case; and they diagnose cancer, and
arthritis, and appendicitis, and every other itis, when any
really experienced surgeon can see that it's a plain case of
blood-poisoning.

BLENKINSOP. Ah, it's easy for you gentlemen to talk; but what
would you say if you had my practice? Except for the workmen's
clubs, my patients are all clerks and shopmen. They darent be
ill: they cant afford it. And when they break down, what can I do
for them? You can send your people to St Moritz or to Egypt, or
recommend horse exercise or motoring or champagne jelly or
complete change and rest for six months. I might as well order my
people a slice of the moon. And the worst of it is, I'm too poor
to keep well myself on the cooking I have to put up with. Ive
such a wretched digestion; and I look it. How am I to inspire
confidence? [He sits disconsolately on the couch].

RIDGEON [restlessly] Dont, Blenkinsop: its too painful. The most
tragic thing in the world is a sick doctor.

WALPOLE. Yes, by George: its like a bald-headed man trying to
sell a hair restorer. Thank God I'm a surgeon!

B. B. [sunnily] I am never sick. Never had a day's illness in my
life. Thats what enables me to sympathize with my patients.

WALPOLE [interested] What! youre never ill?

B. B. Never.

WALPOLE. Thats interesting. I believe you have no nuciform sac.
If you ever do feel at all queer, I should very much like to have
a look.

B. B. Thank you, my dear fellow; but I'm too busy just now.

RIDGEON. I was just telling them when you came in, Blenkinsop,
that I have worked myself out of sorts.

BLENKINSOP. Well, it seems presumptuous of me to offer a
prescription to a great man like you; but still I have great
experience; and if I might recommend a pound of ripe greengages
every day half an hour before lunch, I'm sure youd find a
benefit. Theyre very cheap.

RIDGEON. What do you say to that B. B.?

B. B. [encouragingly] Very sensible, Blenkinsop: very sensible
indeed. I'm delighted to see that you disapprove of drugs.

SIR PATRICK [grunts]!

B. B. [archly] Aha! Haha! Did I hear from the fireside armchair
the bow-wow of the old school defending its drugs? Ah, believe
me, Paddy, the world would be healthier if every chemist's shop
in England were demolished. Look at the papers! full of
scandalous advertisements of patent medicines! a huge commercial
system of quackery and poison. Well, whose fault is it? Ours.
I say, ours. We set the example. We spread the superstition. We
taught the people to believe in bottles of doctor's stuff; and
now they buy it at the stores instead of consulting a medical
man.

WALPOLE. Quite true. Ive not prescribed a drug for the last
fifteen years.

B. B. Drugs can only repress symptoms: they cannot eradicate
disease. The true remedy for all diseases is Nature's remedy.
Nature and Science are at one, Sir Patrick, believe me; though
you were taught differently. Nature has provided, in the white
corpuscles as you call them--in the phagocytes as we call them--a
natural means of devouring and destroying all disease germs.
There is at bottom only one genuinely scientific treatment for
all diseases, and that is to stimulate the phagocytes. Stimulate
the phagocytes. Drugs are a delusion. Find the germ of the
disease; prepare from it a suitable anti-toxin; inject it three
times a day quarter of an hour before meals; and what is the
result? The phagocytes are stimulated; they devour the disease;
and the patient recovers--unless, of course, he's too far gone.
That, I take it, is the essence of Ridgeon's discovery.

SIR PATRICK [dreamily] As I sit here, I seem to hear my poor old
father talking again.

B. B. [rising in incredulous amazement] Your father! But, Lord
bless my soul, Paddy, your father must have been an older man
than you.

SIR PATRICK. Word for word almost, he said what you say. No more
drugs. Nothing but inoculation.

B. B. [almost contemptuously] Inoculation! Do you mean smallpox
inoculation?

SIR PATRICK. Yes. In the privacy of our family circle, sir, my
father used to declare his belief that smallpox inoculation was
good, not only for smallpox, but for all fevers.

B. B. [suddenly rising to the new idea with immense interest and
excitement] What! Ridgeon: did you hear that? Sir Patrick: I am
more struck by what you have just told me than I can well
express. Your father, sir, anticipated a discovery of my own.
Listen, Walpole. Blenkinsop: attend one moment. You will all be
intensely interested in this. I was put on the track by accident.
I had a typhoid case and a tetanus case side by side in the
hospital: a beadle and a city missionary. Think of what that
meant for them, poor fellows! Can a beadle be dignified with
typhoid? Can a missionary be eloquent with lockjaw? No. NO. Well,
I got some typhoid anti-toxin from Ridgeon and a tube of
Muldooley's anti-tetanus serum. But the missionary jerked all my
things off the table in one of his paroxysms; and in replacing
them I put Ridgeon's tube where Muldooley's ought to have been.
The consequence was that I inoculated the typhoid case for
tetanus and the tetanus case for typhoid. [The doctors look
greatly concerned. B. B., undamped, smiles triumphantly]. Well,
they recovered. THEY RECOVERED. Except for a touch of St Vitus's
dance the missionary's as well to-day as ever; and the beadle's
ten times the man he was.

BLENKINSOP. Ive known things like that happen. They cant be
explained.

B. B. [severely] Blenkinsop: there is nothing that cannot be
explained by science. What did I do? Did I fold my hands
helplessly and say that the case could not be explained? By no
means. I sat down and used my brains. I thought the case out on
scientific principles. I asked myself why didnt the missionary
die of typhoid on top of tetanus, and the beadle of tetanus on
top of typhoid? Theres a problem for you, Ridgeon. Think, Sir
Patrick. Reflect, Blenkinsop. Look at it without prejudice,
Walpole. What is the real work of the anti-toxin? Simply to
stimulate the phagocytes. Very well. But so long as you stimulate
the phagocytes, what does it matter which particular sort of
serum you use for the purpose? Haha! Eh? Do you see? Do you grasp
it? Ever since that Ive used all sorts of anti-toxins absolutely
indiscriminately, with perfectly satisfactory results. I
inoculated the little prince with your stuff, Ridgeon, because I
wanted to give you a lift; but two years ago I tried the
experiment of treating a scarlet fever case with a sample of
hydrophobia serum from the Pasteur Institute, and it answered
capitally. It stimulated the phagocytes; and the phagocytes did
the rest. That is why Sir Patrick's father found that inoculation
cured all fevers. It stimulated the phagocytes. [He throws
himself into his chair, exhausted with the triumph of his
demonstration, and beams magnificently on them].

EMMY [looking in] Mr Walpole: your motor's come for you; and it's
frightening Sir Patrick's horses; so come along quick.

WALPOLE [rising] Good-bye, Ridgeon.

RIDGEON. Good-bye; and many thanks.

B. B. You see my point, Walpole?

EMMY. He cant wait, Sir Ralph. The carriage will be into the area
if he dont come.

WALPOLE. I'm coming. [To B. B.] Theres nothing in your point:
phagocytosis is pure rot: the cases are all blood-poisoning; and
the knife is the real remedy. Bye-bye, Sir Paddy. Happy to have
met you, Mr. Blenkinsop. Now, Emmy. [He goes out, followed by
Emmy].

B. B. [sadly] Walpole has no intellect. A mere surgeon. Wonderful
operator; but, after all, what is operating? Only manual labor.
Brain--BRAIN remains master of the situation. The nuciform sac is
utter nonsense: theres no such organ. It's a mere accidental kink
in the membrane, occurring in perhaps two-and-a-half per cent of
the population. Of course I'm glad for Walpole's sake that the
operation is fashionable; for he's a dear good fellow; and after
all, as I always tell people, the operation will do them no harm:
indeed, Ive known the nervous shake-up and the fortnight in bed
do people a lot of good after a hard London season; but still
it's a shocking fraud. [Rising] Well, I must be toddling. Good-
bye, Paddy [Sir Patrick grunts] good-bye, goodbye. Good-bye, my
dear Blenkinsop, good-bye! Goodbye, Ridgeon. Dont fret about your
health: you know what to do: if your liver is sluggish, a little
mercury never does any harm. If you feel restless, try bromide,
If that doesnt answer, a stimulant, you know: a little phosphorus
and strychnine. If you cant sleep, trional, trional, trion--

SIR PATRICK [drily] But no drugs, Colly, remember that.

B. B. [firmly] Certainly not. Quite right, Sir Patrick. As
temporary expedients, of course; but as treatment, no, No. Keep
away from the chemist's shop, my dear Ridgeon, whatever you do.

RIDGEON [going to the door with him] I will. And thank you for
the knighthood. Good-bye.

B. B. [stopping at the door, with the beam in his eye twinkling a
little] By the way, who's your patient?

RIDGEON. Who?

B. B. Downstairs. Charming woman. Tuberculous husband.

RIDGEON. Is she there still?

Emmy [looking in] Come on, Sir Ralph: your wife's  waiting in the
carriage.

B. B. [suddenly sobered] Oh! Good-bye. [He goes out almost
precipitately].

RIDGEON. Emmy: is that woman there still? If so, tell her once
for all that I cant and wont see her. Do you hear?

EMMY. Oh, she aint in a hurry: she doesnt mind how long she
waits. [She goes out].

BLENKINSOP. I must be off, too: every half-hour I spend away from
my work costs me eighteenpence. Good-bye, Sir Patrick.

SIR PATRICK. Good-bye. Good-bye.

RIDGEON. Come to lunch with me some day this week.

BLENKINSOP. I cant afford it, dear boy; and it would put me off
my own food for a week. Thank you all the same.

RIDGEON [uneasy at Blenkinsop's poverty] Can I do nothing for
you?

BLENKINSOP. Well, if you have an old frock-coat to spare? you see
what would be an old one for you would be a new one for me; so
remember the next time you turn out your wardrobe. Good-bye. [He
hurries out].

RIDGEON [looking after him] Poor chap! [Turning to Sir Patrick]
So thats why they made me a knight! And thats the medical
profession!

SIR PATRICK. And a very good profession, too, my lad. When you
know as much as I know of the ignorance and superstition of the
patients, youll wonder that we're half as good as we are.

RIDGEON. We're not a profession: we're a conspiracy.

SIR PATRICK. All professions are conspiracies against the laity.
And we cant all be geniuses like you. Every fool can get ill; but
every fool cant be a good doctor: there are not enough good ones
to go round. And for all you know, Bloomfield Bonington kills
less people than you do.

RIDGEON. Oh, very likely. But he really ought to know the
difference between a vaccine and an anti-toxin. Stimulate the
phagocytes! The vaccine doesnt affect the phagocytes at all. He's
all wrong: hopelessly, dangerously wrong. To put a tube of serum
into his hands is murder: simple murder.

EMMY [returning] Now, Sir Patrick. How long more are you going to
keep them horses standing in the draught?

SIR PATRICK. Whats that to you, you old catamaran?

EMMY. Come, come, now! none of your temper to me. And it's time
for Colly to get to his work.

RIDGEON. Behave yourself, Emmy. Get out.

EMMY. Oh, I learnt how to behave myself before I learnt you to do
it. I know what doctors are: sitting talking together about
themselves when they ought to be with their poor patients. And I
know what horses are, Sir Patrick. I was brought up in the
country. Now be good; and come along.

SIR PATRICK [rising] Very well, very well, very well. Good-bye,
Colly. [He pats Ridgeon on the shoulder and goes out, turning for
a moment at the door to look meditatively at Emmy and say, with
grave conviction] You are an ugly old devil, and no mistake.

EMMY [highly indignant, calling after him] Youre no beauty
yourself. [To Ridgeon, much flustered] Theyve no manners: they
think they can say what they like to me; and you set them on, you
do. I'll teach them their places. Here now: are you going to see
that poor thing or are you not?

RIDGEON. I tell you for the fiftieth time I wont see anybody.
Send her away.

EMMY. Oh, I'm tired of being told to send her away. What good
will that do her?

RIDGEON. Must I get angry with you, Emmy?

EMMY [coaxing] Come now: just see her for a minute to please me:
theres a good boy. She's given me half-a-crown. She thinks it's
life and death to her husband for her to see you.

RIDGEON. Values her husband's life at half-a-crown!

EMMY. Well, it's all she can afford, poor lamb. Them others think
nothing of half-a-sovereign just to talk about themselves to you,
the sluts! Besides, she'll put you in a good temper for the day,
because it's a good deed to see her; and she's the sort that gets
round you.

RIDGEON. Well, she hasnt done so badly. For half-a-crown she's
had a consultation with Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington and Cutler
Walpole. Thats six guineas' worth to start with. I dare say she's
consulted Blenkinsop too: thats another eighteenpence.

EMMY. Then youll see her for me, wont you?

RIDGEON. Oh, send her up and be hanged. [Emmy trots out,
satisfied. Ridgeon calls] Redpenny!

REDPENNY [appearing at the door] What is it?

RIDGEON. Theres a patient coming up. If she hasnt gone in five
minutes, come in with an urgent call from the hospital for me.
You understand: she's to have a strong hint to go.

REDPENNY. Right O! [He vanishes].

Ridgeon goes to the glass, and arranges his tie a little.

EMMY [announcing] Mrs Doobidad [Ridgeon leaves the glass and goes
to the writing-table].

The lady comes in. Emmy goes out and shuts the door. Ridgeon, who
has put on an impenetrable and rather distant professional
manner, turns to the lady, and invites her, by a gesture, to sit
down on the couch.

Mrs Dubedat is beyond all demur an arrestingly good-looking young
woman. She has something of the grace and romance of a wild
creature, with a good deal of the elegance and dignity of a fine
lady. Ridgeon, who is extremely susceptible to the beauty of
women, instinctively assumes the defensive at once, and hardens
his manner still more. He has an impression that she is very well
dressed, but she has a figure on which any dress would look well,
and carries herself with the unaffected distinction of a woman
who has never in her life suffered from those doubts and fears as
to her social position which spoil the manners of most middling
people. She is tall, slender, and strong; has dark hair, dressed
so as to look like hair and not like a bird's nest or a
pantaloon's wig (fashion wavering just then between these two
models); has unexpectedly narrow, subtle, dark-fringed eyes that
alter her expression disturbingly when she is excited and flashes
them wide open; is softly impetuous in her speech and swift in
her movements; and is just now in mortal anxiety. She carries a
portfolio.

MRS DUBEDAT [in low urgent tones] Doctor--

RIDGEON [curtly] Wait. Before you begin, let me tell you at once
that I can do nothing for you. My hands are full. I sent you that
message by my old servant. You would not take that answer.

MRS DUBEDAT. How could I?

RIDGEON. You bribed her.

MRS DUBEDAT. I--

RIDGEON. That doesnt matter. She coaxed me to see you. Well, you
must take it from me now that with all the good will in the
world, I cannot undertake another case.

MRS DUBEDAT. Doctor: you must save my husband. You must. When I
explain to you, you will see that you must. It is not an ordinary
case, not like any other case. He is not like anybody else in the
world: oh, believe me, he is not. I can prove it to you:
[fingering her portfolio] I have brought some things to shew you.
And you can save him: the papers say you can.

RIDGEON. Whats the matter? Tuberculosis?

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes. His left lung--

RIDGEON Yes: you neednt tell me about that.

MRS DUBEDAT. You can cure him, if only you will. It is true that
you can, isnt it? [In great distress] Oh, tell me, please.

RIDGEON [warningly] You are going to be quiet and self-possessed,
arnt you?

MRs DUBEDAT. Yes. I beg your pardon. I know I shouldnt--[Giving
way again] Oh, please, say that you can; and then I shall be all
right.

RIDGEON [huffily] I am not a curemonger: if you want cures, you
must go to the people who sell them. [Recovering himself, ashamed
of the tone of his own voice] But I have at the hospital ten
tuberculous patients whose lives I believe I can save.

MRS DUBEDAT. Thank God!

RIDGEON. Wait a moment. Try to think of those ten patients as ten
shipwrecked men on a raft--a raft that is barely large enough to
save them--that will not support one more. Another head bobs up
through the waves at the side. Another man begs to be taken
aboard. He implores the captain of the raft to save him. But the
captain can only do that by pushing one of his ten off the raft
and drowning him to make room for the new comer. That is what you
are asking me to do.

MRS DUBEDAT. But how can that be? I dont understand. Surely--

RIDGEON. You must take my word for it that it is so. My
laboratory, my staff, and myself are working at full pressure. We
are doing our utmost. The treatment is a new one. It takes time,
means, and skill; and there is not enough for another case. Our
ten cases are already chosen cases. Do you understand what I mean
by chosen?

MRS DUBEDAT. Chosen. No: I cant understand.

RIDGEON [sternly] You must understand. Youve got to understand
and to face it. In every single one of those ten cases I have had
to consider, not only whether the man could be saved, but whether
he was worth saving. There were fifty cases to choose from; and
forty had to be condemned to death. Some of the forty had young
wives and helpless children. If the hardness of their cases could
have saved them they would have been saved ten times over. Ive no
doubt your case is a hard one: I can see the tears in your eyes
[she hastily wipes her eyes]: I know that you have a torrent of
entreaties ready for me the moment I stop speaking; but it's no
use. You must go to another doctor.

MRS DUBEDAT. But can you give me the name of another doctor who
understands your secret?

RIDGEON. I have no secret: I am not a quack.

MRS DUBEDAT. I beg your pardon: I didnt mean to say anything
wrong. I dont understand how to speak to you. Oh, pray dont be
offended.

RIDGEON [again a little ashamed] There! there! never mind. [He
relaxes and sits down]. After all, I'm talking nonsense: I
daresay I AM a quack, a quack with a qualification. But my
discovery is not patented.

MRS DUBEDAT. Then can any doctor cure my husband? Oh, why dont
they do it? I have tried so many: I have spent so much. If only
you would give me the name of another doctor.

RIDGEON. Every man in this street is a doctor. But outside myself
and the handful of men I am training at St Anne's, there is
nobody as yet who has mastered the opsonin treatment. And we are
full up? I'm sorry; but that is all I can say. [Rising] Good
morning.

MRS DUBEDAT [suddenly and desperately taking some drawings from
her portfolio] Doctor: look at these. You understand drawings:
you have good ones in your waiting-room. Look at them. They are
his work.

RIDGEON. It's no use my looking. [He looks, all the same] Hallo!
[He takes one to the window and studies it]. Yes: this is the
real thing. Yes, yes. [He looks at another and returns to her].
These are very clever. Theyre unfinished, arnt they?

MRS DUBEDAT. He gets tired so soon. But you see, dont you, what a
genius he is? You see that he is worth saving. Oh, doctor, I
married him just to help him to begin: I had money enough to tide
him over the hard years at the beginning--to enable him to follow
his inspiration until his genius was recognized. And I was useful
to him as a model: his drawings of me sold quite quickly.

RIDGEON. Have you got one?

MRS DUBEDAT [producing another] Only this one. It was the first.

RIDGEON [devouring it with his eyes] Thats a wonderful drawing.
Why is it called Jennifer?

MRS DUBEDAT. My name is Jennifer.

RIDGEON. A strange name.

MRS DUBEDAT. Not in Cornwall. I am Cornish. It's only what you
call Guinevere.

RIDGEON [repeating the  names with a certain pleasure in them]
Guinevere. Jennifer. [Looking again at the drawing] Yes: it's
really a wonderful drawing. Excuse me; but may I ask is it for
sale? I'll buy it.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, take it. It's my own: he gave it to me. Take it.
Take them all. Take everything; ask anything; but save him. You
can: you will: you must.

REDPENNY [entering with every sign of alarm] Theyve just
telephoned from the hospital that youre to come instantly--a
patient on the point of death. The carriage is waiting.

RIDGEON [intolerantly] Oh, nonsense: get out. [Greatly annoyed]
What do you mean by interrupting me like this?

REDPENNY. But--

RIDGEON. Chut! cant you see I'm engaged? Be off.

Redpenny, bewildered, vanishes.

MRS DUBEDAT [rising] Doctor: one instant only before you go--

RIDGEON. Sit down. It's nothing.

MRS DUBEDAT. But the patient. He said he was dying.

RIDGEON. Oh, he's dead by this time. Never mind. Sit down.

MRS DUBEDAT [sitting down and breaking down] Oh, you none of you
care. You see people die every day.

RIDGEON [petting her] Nonsense! it's nothing: I told him to come
in and say that. I thought I should want to get rid of you.

MRS DUBEDAT [shocked at the falsehood] Oh!
'
RIDGEON [continuing] Dont look so bewildered: theres nobody
dying.

MRS DUBEDAT. My husband is.

RIDGEON [pulling himself together] Ah, yes: I had forgotten your
husband. Mrs Dubedat: you are asking me to do a very serious
thing?

MRS DUBEDAT. I am asking you to save the life of a great man.

RIDGEON. You are asking me to kill another man for his sake; for
as surely as I undertake another case, I shall have to hand back
one of the old ones to the ordinary treatment. Well, I dont
shrink from that. I have had to do it before; and I will do it
again if you can convince me that his life is more important than
the worst life I am now saving. But you must convince me first.

MRS DUBEDAT. He made those drawings; and they are not the best--
nothing like the best; only I did not bring the really best: so
few people like them. He is twenty-three: his whole life is
before him. Wont you let me bring him to you? wont you speak to
him? wont you see for yourself?

RIDGEON. Is he well enough to come to a dinner at the Star and
Garter at Richmond?

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh yes. Why?

RIDGEON. I'll tell you. I am inviting all my old friends to a
dinner to celebrate my knighthood--youve seen about it in the
papers, havnt you?

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, oh yes. That was how I found out about you.

RIDGEON. It will be a doctors' dinner; and it was to have been a
bachelors' dinner. I'm a bachelor. Now if you will entertain for
me, and bring your husband, he will meet me; and he will meet
some of the most eminent men in my profession: Sir Patrick
Cullen, Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington, Cutler Walpole, and
others. I can put the case to them; and your husband will have to
stand or fall by what we think of him. Will you come?

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, of course I will come. Oh, thank you, thank
you. And may I bring some of his drawings--the really good ones?

RIDGEON. Yes. I will let you know the date in the course of to-
morrow. Leave me your address.

MRS DUBEDAT. Thank you again and again. You have made me so
happy: I know you will admire him and like him. This is my
address. [She gives him her card].

RIDGEON. Thank you. [He rings].

MRS DUBEDAT [embarrassed] May I--is there--should I--I mean--[she
blushes and stops in confusion].

RIDGEON. Whats the matter?

MRS DUBEDAT. Your fee for this consultation?

RIDGEON. Oh, I forgot that. Shall we say a beautiful drawing of
his favorite model for the whole treatment, including the cure?

MRS DUBEDAT. You are very generous. Thank you. I know you will
cure him. Good-bye.

RIDGEON. I will. Good-bye. [They shake hands]. By the way, you
know, dont you, that tuberculosis is catching. You take every
precaution, I hope.

MRS DUBEDAT. I am not likely to forget it. They treat us like
lepers at the hotels.

EMMY [at the door] Well, deary: have you got round him?

RIDGEON. Yes. Attend to the door and hold your tongue.

EMMY. Thats a good boy. [She goes out with Mrs Dubedat].

RIDGEON [alone] Consultation free. Cure guaranteed. [He heaves a
great sigh].



ACT II

After dinner on the terrace at the Star and Garter, Richmond.
Cloudless summer night; nothing disturbs the stillness except
from time to time the long trajectory of a distant train and the
measured clucking of oars coming up from the Thames in the valley
below. The dinner is over; and three of the eight chairs are
empty. Sir Patrick, with his back to the view, is at the head of
the square table with Ridgeon. The two chairs opposite them are
empty. On their right come, first, a vacant chair, and then one
very fully occupied by B. B., who basks blissfully in the
moonbeams. On their left, Schutzmacher and Walpole. The entrance
to the hotel is on their right, behind B. B. The five men are
silently enjoying their coffee and cigarets, full of food, and
not altogether void of wine.

Mrs Dubedat, wrapped up for departure, comes in. They rise,
except Sir Patrick; but she takes one of the vacant places at the
foot of the table, next B. B.; and they sit down again.

MRS DUBEDAT [as she enters] Louis will be here presently. He is
shewing Dr Blenkinsop how to work the telephone. [She sits.] Oh,
I am so sorry we have to go. It seems such a shame, this
beautiful night. And we have enjoyed ourselves so much.

RIDGEON. I dont believe another half-hour would do Mr Dubedat a
bit of harm.

SIR PATRICK. Come now, Colly, come! come! none of that. You take
your man home, Mrs Dubedat; and get him to bed before eleven.

B. B. Yes, yes. Bed before eleven. Quite right, quite right.
Sorry to lose you, my dear lady; but Sir Patrick's orders are the
laws of--er--of Tyre and Sidon.

WALPOLE. Let me take you home in my motor.

SIR PATRICK. No. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Walpole.
Your motor will take Mr and Mrs Dubedat to the station, and quite
far enough too for an open carriage at night.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, I am sure the train is best.

RIDGEON. Well, Mrs Dubedat, we have had a most enjoyable evening.

WALPOLE.  {Most enjoyable.
B. B.     {Delightful. Charming. Unforgettable.

MRS DUBEDAT [with a touch of shy anxiety] What did you think of
Louis? Or am I wrong to ask?

RIDGEON. Wrong! Why, we are all charmed with him.

WALPOLE. Delighted.

B. B. Most happy to have met him. A privilege, a real privilege.

SIR PATRICK [grunts]!

MRS DUBEDAT [quickly] Sir Patrick: are YOU uneasy about him?

SIR PATRICK [discreetly] I admire his drawings greatly, maam.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes; but I meant--

RIDGEON. You shall go away quite happy. He's  worth saving. He
must and shall be saved.

Mrs Dubedat rises and gasps with delight, relief, and gratitude.
They all rise except Sir Patrick and Schutzmacher, and come
reassuringly to her.

B. B. Certainly, CER-tainly.

WALPOLE. Theres no real difficulty, if only you know what to do.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, how can I ever thank you! From this night I can
begin to be happy at last. You dont know what I feel.

She sits down in tears. They crowd about her to console her.

B. B. My dear lady: come come! come come! [very persuasively]
come come!

WALPOLE. Dont mind us. Have a good cry.

RIDGEON. No: dont cry. Your husband had better not know that weve
been talking about him.

MRS DUBEDAT [quickly pulling herself together] No, of course not.
Please dont mind me. What a glorious thing it must be to be a
doctor! [They laugh]. Dont laugh. You dont know what youve done
for me. I never knew until now how deadly afraid I was--how
I had come to dread the worst. I never dared let myself know. But
now the relief has come: now I know.

Louis Dubedat comes from the hotel, in his overcoat, his throat
wrapped in a shawl. He is a slim young man of 23, physically
still a stripling, and pretty, though not effeminate. He has
turquoise blue eyes, and a trick of looking you straight in the
face with them, which, combined with a frank smile, is very
engaging. Although he is all nerves, and very observant and quick
of apprehension, he is not in the least shy. He is younger than
Jennifer; but he patronizes her as a matter of course. The
doctors do not put him out in the least: neither Sir Patrick's
years nor Bloomfield Bonington's majesty have the smallest
apparent effect on him: he is as natural as a cat: he moves among
men as most men move among things, though he is intentionally
making himself agreeable to them on this occasion. Like all
people who can be depended on to take care of themselves, he is
welcome company; and his artist's power of appealing to the
imagination gains him credit for all sorts of qualities and
powers, whether he possesses them or not.

LOUIS [pulling on his gloves behind Ridgeon's chair] Now, Jinny-
Gwinny: the motor has come round.

RIDGEON. Why do you let him spoil your beautiful name like that,
Mrs Dubedat?

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, on grand occasions I am Jennifer.

B. B. You are a bachelor: you do not understand these things,
Ridgeon. Look at me [They look]. I also have two names. In
moments of domestic worry, I am simple Ralph. When the sun shines
in the home, I am Beedle-Deedle-Dumkins. Such is married life! Mr
Dubedat: may I ask you to do me a favor before you go. Will you
sign your name to this menu card, under the sketch you have made
of me?

WALPOLE. Yes; and mine too, if you will be so good.

LOUIS. Certainly. [He sits down and signs the cards].

MRS DUBEDAT. Wont you sign Dr Schutzmacher's for him, Louis?

LOUIS. I dont think Dr Schutzmacher is pleased with his portrait.
I'll tear it up. [He reaches across the table for Schutzmacher's
menu card, and is about to tear it. Schutzmacher makes no sign].

RIDGEON. No, no: if Loony doesnt want it, I do.

LOUIS. I'll sign it for you with pleasure. [He signs and hands it
to Ridgeon]. Ive just been making a little note of the river to-
night: it will work up into something good [he shews a pocket
sketch-book]. I think I'll call it the Silver Danube.

B. B. Ah, charming, charming.

WALPOLE. Very sweet. Youre a nailer at pastel.

Louis coughs, first out of modesty, then from tuberculosis.

SIR PATRICK. Now then, Mr Dubedat: youve had enough of the night
air. Take him home, maam.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes. Come, Louis.

RIDGEON. Never fear. Never mind. I'll make that cough all right.

B. B. We will stimulate the phagocytes. [With tender effusion,
shaking her hand] Good-night, Mrs Dubedat. Good-night. Good-
night.

WALPOLE. If the phagocytes fail, come to me. I'll put you right.

LOUIS. Good-night, Sir Patrick. Happy to have met you.

SIR PATRICK. Night [half a grunt].

MRS DUBEDAT. Good-night, Sir Patrick.

SIR PATRICK. Cover yourself well up. Dont think your lungs are
made of iron because theyre better than his. Good-night.

MRS DUBEDAT. Thank you. Thank you. Nothing hurts me. Good-night.

Louis goes out through the hotel without noticing Schutzmacher.
Mrs Dubedat hesitates, then bows to him. Schutzmacher rises and
bows formally, German fashion. She goes out, attended by Ridgeon.
The rest resume their seats, ruminating or smoking quietly.

B. B. [harmoniously] Dee-lightful couple! Charming woman! Gifted
lad! Remarkable talent! Graceful outlines! Perfect evening! Great
success! Interesting case! Glorious night! Exquisite scenery!
Capital dinner! Stimulating conversation! Restful outing! Good
wine! Happy ending! Touching gratitude! Lucky Ridgeon--

RIDGEON [returning] Whats that? Calling me, B. B.? [He goes back
to his seat next Sir Patrick].

B. B. No, no. Only congratulating you on a most successful
evening! Enchanting woman! Thorough breeding! Gentle nature!
Refined--

Blenkinsop comes from the hotel and takes the empty chair next
Ridgeon.

BLENKINSOP. I'm so sorry to have left you like this, Ridgeon; but
it was a telephone message from the police. Theyve found half a
milkman at our level crossing with a prescription of mine in its
pocket. Wheres Mr Dubedat?

RIDGEON. Gone.

BLENKINSOP [rising, very pale] Gone!

RIDGEON. Just this moment--

BLENKINSOP. Perhaps I could overtake him--[he rushes into the
hotel].

WALPOLE [calling after him] He's in the motor, man, miles off.
You can--[giving it up]. No use.

RIDGEON. Theyre really very nice people. I confess I was afraid
the husband would turn out an appalling bounder. But he's almost
as charming in his way as she is in hers. And theres no mistake
about his being a genius. It's something to have got a case
really worth saving. Somebody else will have to go; but at all
events it will be easy to find a worse man.

SIR PATRICK. How do you know?

RIDGEON. Come now, Sir Paddy, no growling. Have something more to
drink.

SIR PATRICK. No, thank you.

WALPOLE. Do you see anything wrong with Dubedat, B. B.?

B. B. Oh, a charming young fellow. Besides, after all, what could
be wrong with him? Look at him. What could be wrong with him?

SIR PATRICK. There are two things that can be wrong with any man.
One of them is a cheque. The other is a woman. Until you know
that a man's sound on these two points, you know nothing about
him.

B. B. Ah, cynic, cynic!

WALPOLE. He's all right as to the cheque, for a while at all
events. He talked to me quite frankly before dinner as to the
pressure of money difficulties on an artist. He says he has no
vices and is very economical, but that theres one extravagance he
cant afford and yet cant resist; and that is dressing his wife
prettily. So I said, bang plump out, "Let me lend you twenty
pounds, and pay me when your ship comes home." He was really very
nice about it. He took it like a man; and it was a pleasure to
see how happy it made him, poor chap.

B. B. [who has listened to Walpole with growing perturbation]
But--but--but--when was this, may I ask?

WALPOLE. When I joined you that time down by the river.

B. B. But, my dear Walpole, he had just borrowed ten pounds from
me.

WALPOLE. What!

SIR PATRICK [grunts]!

B. B. [indulgently] Well, well, it was really hardly borrowing;
for he said heaven only knew when he could pay me. I couldnt
refuse. It appears that Mrs Dubedat has taken a sort of fancy to
me--

WALPOLE [quickly] No: it was to me.

B. B. Certainly not. Your name was never mentioned between us. He
is so wrapped up in his work that he has to leave her a good deal
alone; and the poor innocent young fellow--he has of course no
idea of my position or how busy I am--actually wanted me to call
occasionally and talk to her.

WALPOLE. Exactly what he said to me!

B. B. Pooh! Pooh pooh! Really, I must say. [Much disturbed, he
rises and goes up to the balustrade, contemplating the landscape
vexedly].

WALPOLE. Look here, Ridgeon! this is beginning to look serious.

Blenkinsop, very anxious and wretched, but trying to look
unconcerned, comes back.

RIDGEON. Well, did you catch him?

BLENKINSOP. No. Excuse my running away like that. [He sits down
at the foot of the table, next Bloomfeld Bonington's chair].

WALPOLE. Anything the matter?

BLENKINSOP. Oh no. A trifle--something ridiculous. It cant be
helped. Never mind.

RIDGEON. Was it anything about Dubedat?

BLENKINSOP [almost breaking down] I ought to keep it to myself, I
know. I cant tell you, Ridgeon, how ashamed I am of dragging my
miserable poverty to your dinner after all your kindness. It's
not that you wont ask me again; but it's so humiliating. And I
did so look forward to one evening in my dress clothes (THEYRE
still presentable, you see) with all my troubles left behind,
just like old times.

RIDGEON. But what has happened?

BLENKINSOP. Oh, nothing. It's too ridiculous. I had just scraped
up four shillings for this little outing; and it cost me one-and-
fourpence to get here. Well, Dubedat asked me to lend him half-a-
crown to tip the chambermaid of the room his wife left her wraps
in, and for the cloakroom. He said he only wanted it for five
minutes, as she had his purse. So of course I lent it to him. And
he's forgotten to pay me. I've just tuppence to get back with.

RIDGEON. Oh, never mind that--

BLENKINSOP [stopping him resolutely] No: I know what youre going
to say; but I wont take it. Ive never borrowed a penny; and I
never will. Ive nothing left but my friends; and I wont sell
them. If none of you were to be able to meet me without being
afraid that my civility was leading up to the loan of five
shillings, there would be an end of everything for me. I'll take
your old clothes, Colly, sooner than disgrace you by talking to
you in the street in my own; but I wont borrow money. I'll train
it as far as the twopence will take me; and I'll tramp the rest.

WALPOLE. Youll do the whole distance in my motor. [They are all
greatly relieved; and Walpole hastens to get away from the
painful subject by adding] Did he get anything out of you, Mr
Schutzmacher?

SCHUTZMACHER [shakes his head in a most expressive negative].

WALPOLE. You didnt appreciate his drawing, I think.

SCHUTZMACHER. Oh yes I did. I should have liked very much to have
kept the sketch and got it autographed.

B. B. But why didnt you?

SCHUTZMACHER. Well, the fact is, when I joined Dubedat after his
conversation with Mr Walpole, he said the Jews were the only
people who knew anything about art, and that though he had to put
up with your Philistine twaddle, as he called it, it was what I
said about the drawings that really pleased him. He also said
that his wife was greatly struck with my knowledge, and that she
always admired Jews. Then he asked me to advance him 50 pounds on
the security of the drawings.

B. B.         { [All       } No, no. Positively! Seriously!
WALPOLE       { exclaiming } What! Another fifty!
BLENKINSOP    { together]  } Think of that!
SIR PATRICK   {            } [grunts]!

SCHUTZMACHER. Of course I couldnt lend money to a stranger like
that.

B. B. I envy you the power to say No, Mr Schutzmacher. Of course,
I knew I oughtnt to lend money to a young fellow in that way; but
I simply hadnt the nerve to refuse. I couldnt very well, you
know, could I?

SCHUTZMACHER. I dont understand that. I felt that I couldnt very
well lend it.

WALPOLE. What did he say?

SCHUTZMACHER. Well, he made a very uncalled-for remark about a
Jew not understanding the feelings of a gentleman. I must say you
Gentiles are very hard to please. You say we are no gentlemen
when we lend money; and when we refuse to lend it you say just
the same. I didnt mean to behave badly. As I told him, I might
have lent it to him if he had been a Jew himself.

SIR PATRICK [with a grunt] And what did he say to that?

SCHUTZMACHER. Oh, he began trying to persuade me that he was one
of the chosen people--that his artistic faculty shewed it, and
that his name was as foreign as my own. He said he didnt really
want 50 pounds; that he was only joking; that all he wanted was a
couple of sovereigns.

B. B. No, no, Mr Schutzmacher. You invented that last touch.
Seriously, now?

SCHUTZMACHER. No. You cant improve on Nature in telling stories
about gentlemen like Mr Dubedat.

BLENKINSOP. You certainly do stand by one another, you chosen
people, Mr Schutzmacher.

SCHUTZMACHER. Not at all. Personally, I like Englishmen better
than Jews, and always associate with them. Thats only natural,
because, as I am a Jew, theres nothing interesting in a Jew to
me, whereas there is always something interesting and foreign in
an Englishman. But in money matters it's quite different. You
see, when an Englishman borrows, all he knows or cares is that he
wants money; and he'll sign anything to get it, without in the
least understanding it, or intending to carry out the agreement
if it turns out badly for him. In fact, he thinks you a cad if
you ask him to carry it out under such circumstances. Just like
the Merchant of Venice, you know. But if a Jew makes an
agreement, he means to keep it and expects you to keep it. If he
wants money for a time, he borrows it and knows he must pay it at
the end of the time. If he knows he cant pay, he begs it as a
gift.

RIDGEON. Come, Loony! do you mean to say that Jews are never
rogues and thieves?

SCHUTZMACHER. Oh, not at all. But I was not talking of criminals.
I was comparing honest Englishmen with honest Jews.

One of the hotel maids, a pretty, fair-haired woman of about 25,
comes from the hotel, rather furtively. She accosts Ridgeon.

THE MAID. I beg your pardon, sir--

RIDGEON. Eh?

THE MAID. I beg pardon, sir. It's not about the hotel. I'm not
allowed to be on the terrace; and I should be discharged if I
were seen speaking to you, unless you were kind enough to say you
called me to ask whether the motor has come back from the station
yet.

WALPOLE. Has it?

THE MAID. Yes, sir.

RIDGEON. Well, what do you want?

THE MAID. Would you mind, sir, giving me the address of the
gentleman that was with you at dinner?

RIDGEON [sharply] Yes, of course I should mind very much. You
have no right to ask.

THE MAID. Yes, sir, I know it looks like that. But what am I to
do?

SIR PATRICK. Whats the matter with you?

THE MAID. Nothing, sir. I want the address: thats all.

B. B. You mean the young gentleman?

THE MAID. Yes, sir: that went to catch the train with the woman
he brought with him.

RIDGEON. The woman! Do you mean the lady who dined here? the
gentleman's wife?

THE MAID. Dont believe them, sir. She cant be his wife. I'm his
wife.

B. B.    {[in amazed remonstrance] My good girl!
RIDGEON  {You his wife!
WALPOLE  {What! whats that? Oh, this is getting perfectly
          fascinating, Ridgeon.

THE MAID. I could run upstairs and get you my marriage lines in a
minute, sir, if you doubt my word. He's Mr Louis Dubedat, isnt
he?

RIDGEON. Yes.

THE MAID. Well, sir, you may believe me or not; but I'm the
lawful Mrs Dubedat.

SIR PATRICK. And why arnt you living with your husband?

THE MAID. We couldnt afford it, sir. I had thirty pounds saved;
and we spent it all on our honeymoon in three weeks, and a lot
more that he borrowed. Then I had to go back into service, and he
went to London to get work at his drawing; and he never wrote me
a line or sent me an address. I never saw nor heard of him again
until I caught sight of him from the window going off in the
motor with that woman.

SIR PATRICK. Well, thats two wives to start with.

B. B. Now upon my soul I dont want to be uncharitable; but really
I'm beginning to suspect that our young friend is rather
careless.

SIR PATRICK. Beginning to think! How long will it take you, man,
to find out that he's a damned young blackguard?

BLENKINSOP. Oh, thats severe, Sir Patrick, very severe. Of course
it's bigamy; but still he's very young; and she's very pretty. Mr
Walpole: may I spunge on you for another of those nice cigarets
of yours? [He changes his seat for the one next Walpole].

WALPOLE. Certainly. [He feels in his pockets]. Oh bother!
Where--? [Suddenly remembering] I say: I recollect now: I passed
my cigaret case to Dubedat and he didnt return it. It was a gold
one.

THE MAID. He didnt mean any harm: he never thinks about things
like that, sir. I'll get it back for you, sir, if youll tell me
where to find him.

RIDGEON. What am I to do? Shall I give her the address or not?

SIR PATRICK. Give her your own address; and then we'll see. [To
the maid] Youll have to be content with that for the present, my
girl. [Ridgeon gives her his card]. Whats your name?

THE MAID. Minnie Tinwell, sir.

SIR PATRICK. Well, you write him a letter to care of this
gentleman; and it will be sent on. Now be off with you.

THE MAID. Thank you, sir. I'm sure you wouldnt see me wronged.
Thank you all, gentlemen; and excuse the liberty.

She goes into the hotel. They match her in silence.

RIDGEON [when she is gone] Do you realize, chaps, that we have
promised Mrs Dubedat to save this fellow's life?

BLENKINSOP. Whats the matter with him?

RIDGEON. Tuberculosis.

BLENKINSOP [interested] And can you cure that?

RIDGEON. I believe so.

BLENKINSOP. Then I wish youd cure me. My right lung is touched,
I'm sorry to say.

RIDGEON       }               { What! Your lung is going?
B.B           }               { My dear Blenkinsop, what do you
              }   [all        { tell me? [full of concern for
              }    together]  { Blenkinsop he comes back from the
              }               { balustrade].
SIR PATRICK   }               { Eh? Eh? Whats that?
WALPOLE       }               { Hullo, you mustn't neglect this,
              }               { you know.

BLENKINSOP [putting his fingers in his ears] No, no: it's no use.
I know what youre going to say: Ive said it often to others. I
cant afford to take care of myself; and theres an end of it. If a
fortnight's holiday would save my life, I'd have to die. I shall
get on as others have to get on. We cant all go to St Moritz or
to Egypt, you know, Sir Ralph. Dont talk about it.

Embarrassed silence.

SIR PATRICK [grunts and looks hard at Ridgeon]!

SCHUTZMACHER [looking at his watch and rising] I must go. It's
been a very pleasant evening, Colly. You might let me have my
portrait if you dont mind. I'll send Mr Dubedat that couple of
sovereigns for it.

RIDGEON [giving him the menu card] Oh dont do that, Loony. I dont
think he'd like that.

SCHUTZMACHER. Well, of course I shant if you feel that way about
it. But I dont think you understand Dubedat. However, perhaps
thats because I'm a Jew. Good-night, Dr Blenkinsop [shaking
hands].

BLENKINSOP. Good-night, sir--I mean--Good-night.

SCHUTZMACHER [waving his hand to the rest] Goodnight, everybody.

WALPOLE     {
B. B.       {
SIR PATRICK {  Good-night.
RIDGEON     {

B. B. repeats the salutation several times, in varied musical
tones. Schutzmacher goes out.

SIR PATRICK. Its time for us all to move. [He rises and comes
between Blenkinsop and Walpole. Ridgeon also rises]. Mr Walpole:
take Blenkinsop home: he's had enough of the open air cure for
to-night. Have you a thick overcoat to wear in the motor, Dr
Blenkinsop?

BLENKINSOP. Oh, theyll give me some brown paper in the hotel; and
a few thicknesses of brown paper across the chest are better than
any fur coat.

WALPOLE. Well, come along. Good-night, Colly. Youre coming with
us, arnt you, B. B.?

B. B. Yes: I'm coming. [Walpole and Blenkinsop go into
the hotel]. Good-night, my dear Ridgeon [shaking hands
affectionately]. Dont let us lose sight of your interesting
patient and his very charming wife. We must not judge him too
hastily, you know. [With unction] G o o o o o o o o d-night,
Paddy. Bless you, dear old chap. [Sir Patrick utters a formidable
grunt. B. B. laughs and pats him indulgently on the shoulder]
Good-night. Good-night. Good-night. Good-night. [He good-nights
himself into the hotel].

The others have meanwhile gone without ceremony. Ridgeon and Sir
Patrick are left alone together. Ridgeon, deep in thought, comes
down to Sir Patrick.

SIR PATRICK. Well, Mr Savior of Lives: which is it to be? that
honest decent man Blenkinsop, or that rotten blackguard of an
artist, eh?

RIDGEON. Its not an easy case to judge, is it? Blenkinsop's an
honest decent man; but is he any use? Dubedat's a rotten
blackguard; but he's a genuine source of pretty and pleasant and
good things.

SIR PATRICK. What will he be a source of for that poor innocent
wife of his, when she finds him out?

RIDGEON. Thats true. Her life will be a hell.

SIR PATRICK. And tell me this. Suppose you had this choice put
before you: either to go through life and find all the pictures
bad but all the men and women good, or to go through life and
find all the pictures good and all the men and women rotten.
Which would you choose?

RIDGEON. Thats a devilishly difficult question, Paddy. The
pictures are so agreeable, and the good people so infernally
disagreeable and mischievous, that I really cant undertake to say
offhand which I should prefer to do without.

SIR PATRICK. Come come! none of your cleverness with me: I'm too
old for it. Blenkinsop isnt that sort of good man; and you know
it.

RIDGEON. It would be simpler if Blenkinsop could paint Dubedat's
pictures.

SIR PATRICK. It would be simpler still if Dubedat had some of
Blenkinsop's honesty. The world isnt going to be made simple for
you, my lad: you must take it as it is. Youve to hold the scales
between Blenkinsop and Dubedat. Hold them fairly.

RIDGEON. Well, I'll be as fair as I can. I'll put into one scale
all the pounds Dubedat has borrowed, and into the other all the
half-crowns that Blenkinsop hasnt borrowed.

SIR PATRICK. And youll take out of Dubedat's scale all the faith
he has destroyed and the honor he has lost, and youll put into
Blenkinsop's scale all the faith he has justified and the honor
he has created.

RIDGEON. Come come, Paddy! none of your claptrap with me: I'm too
sceptical for it. I'm not at all convinced that the world wouldnt
be a better world if everybody behaved as Dubedat does than it is
now that everybody behaves as Blenkinsop does.

SIR PATRICK. Then why dont you behave as Dubedat does?

RIDGEON. Ah, that beats me. Thats the experimental test. Still,
it's a dilemma. It's a dilemma. You see theres a complication we
havnt mentioned.

SIR PATRICK. Whats that?

RIDGEON. Well, if I let Blenkinsop die, at least nobody can say I
did it because I wanted to marry his widow.

SIR PATRICK. Eh? Whats that?

RIDGEON. Now if I let Dubedat die, I'll marry his widow.

SIR PATRICK. Perhaps she wont have you, you know.

RIDGEON [with a self-assured shake of the head] I've a pretty
good flair for that sort of thing. I know when a woman is
interested in me. She is.

SIR PATRICK. Well, sometimes a man knows best; and sometimes he
knows worst. Youd much better cure them both.

RIDGEON. I cant. I'm at my limit. I can squeeze in one more case,
but not two. I must choose.

SIR PATRICK. Well, you must choose as if she didnt exist: thats
clear.

RIDGEON. Is that clear to you? Mind: it's not clear to me. She
troubles my judgment.

SIR PATRICK. To me, it's a plain choice between a man and a lot
of pictures.

RIDGEON. It's easier to replace a dead man than a good picture.

SIR PATRICK. Colly: when you live in an age that runs to pictures
and statues and plays and brass bands because its men and women
are not good enough to comfort its poor aching soul, you should
thank Providence that you belong to a profession which is a high
and great profession because its business is to heal and mend men
and women.

RIDGEON. In short, as a member of a high and great profession,
I'm to kill my patient.

SIR PATRICK. Dont talk wicked nonsense. You cant kill him. But
you can leave him in other hands.

RIDGEON. In B. B.'s, for instance: eh? [looking at him
significantly].

SIR PATRICK [demurely facing his look] Sir Ralph Bloomfield
Bonington is a very eminent physician.

RIDGEON. He is.

SIR PATRICK. I'm going for my hat.

Ridgeon strikes the bell as Sir Patrick makes for the hotel. A
waiter comes.

RIDGEON [to the waiter] My bill, please.

WAITER. Yes, sir.

He goes for it.



ACT III

In Dubedat's studio. Viewed from the large window the outer door
is in the wall on the left at the near end. The door leading to
the inner rooms is in the opposite wall, at the far end. The
facing wall has neither window nor door. The plaster on all the
walls is uncovered and undecorated, except by scrawlings of
charcoal sketches and memoranda. There is a studio throne (a
chair on a dais) a little to the left, opposite the inner door,
and an easel to the right, opposite the outer door, with a
dilapidated chair at it. Near the easel and against the wall is a
bare wooden table with bottles and jars of oil and medium, paint-
smudged rags, tubes of color, brushes, charcoal, a small last
figure, a kettle and spirit-lamp, and other odds and ends. By
the table is a sofa, littered with drawing blocks, sketch-books,
loose sheets of paper, newspapers, books, and more smudged rags.
Next the outer door is an umbrella and hat stand, occupied partly
by Louis' hats and cloak and muffler, and partly by odds
and ends of costumes. There is an old piano stool on the
near side of this door. In the corner near the inner door
is a little tea-table. A lay figure, in a cardinal's robe and
hat, with an hour-glass in one hand and a scythe slung on its
back, smiles with inane malice at Louis, who, in a milkman's
smock much smudged with colors, is painting a piece of brocade
which he has draped about his wife.

She is sitting on the throne, not interested in the painting, and
appealing to him very anxiously about another matter.

MRS DUBEDAT. Promise.

LOUIS [putting on a touch of paint with notable skill and care
and answering quite perfunctorily] I promise, my darling.

MRS DUBEDAT. When you want money, you will always come to me.

LOUIS. But it's so sordid, dearest. I hate money. I cant keep
always bothering you for money, money, money. Thats what drives
me sometimes to ask other people, though I hate doing it.

MRS DUBEDAT. It is far better to ask me, dear. It gives people a
wrong idea of you.

LOUIS. But I want to spare your little fortune, and raise money
on my own work. Dont be unhappy, love: I can easily earn enough
to pay it all back. I shall have a one-man-show next season; and
then there will be no more money troubles. [Putting down his
palette] There! I mustnt do any more on that until it's bone-dry;
so you may come down.

MRS DUBEDAT [throwing off the drapery as she steps down, and
revealing a plain frock of tussore silk] But you have promised,
remember, seriously and faithfully, never to borrow again until
you have first asked me.

LOUIS. Seriously and faithfully. [Embracing her] Ah, my love, how
right you are! how much it means to me to have you by me to guard
me against living too much in the skies. On my solemn oath, from
this moment forth I will never borrow another penny.

MRS DUBEDAT [delighted] Ah, thats right. Does his wicked worrying
wife torment him and drag him down from the clouds. [She kisses
him]. And now, dear, wont you finish those drawings for Maclean?

LOUIS. Oh, they dont matter. Ive got nearly all the money from
him in advance.

MRS DUBEDAT. But, dearest, that is just the reason why you should
finish them. He asked me the other day whether you really
intended to finish them.

LOUIS. Confound his impudence! What the devil does he take me
for? Now that just destroys all my interest in the beastly job.
Ive a good mind to throw up the commission, and pay him back his
money.

MRS DUBEDAT. We cant afford that, dear. You had better finish the
drawings and have done with them. I think it is a mistake to
accept money in advance.

LOUIS. But how are we to live?

MRS DUBEDAT. Well, Louis, it is getting hard enough as it is, now
that they are all refusing to pay except on delivery.

LOUIS. Damn those fellows! they think of nothing and care for
nothing but their wretched money.

MRS DUBEDAT. Still, if they pay us, they ought to have what they
pay for.

LOUIS [coaxing;] There now: thats enough lecturing for to-day.
Ive promised to be good, havnt I?

MRS DUDEBAT [putting her arms round his neck] You know that I
hate lecturing, and that I dont for a moment misunderstand you,
dear, dont you?

LOUIS [fondly] I know. I know. I'm a wretch; and youre an angel.
Oh, if only I were strong enough to work steadily, I'd make my
darling's house a temple, and her shrine a chapel more beautiful
than was ever imagined. I cant pass the shops without wrestling
with the temptation to go in and order all the really good things
they have for you.

MRS DUBEDAT. I want nothing but you, dear. [She gives him a
caress, to which he responds so passionately that she disengages
herself]. There! be good now: remember that the doctors are
coming this morning. Isnt it extraordinarily kind of them, Louis,
to insist on coming? all of them, to consult about you?

LOUIS [coolly] Oh, I daresay they think it will be a feather in
their cap to cure a rising artist. They wouldnt come if it didnt
amuse them, anyhow. [Someone knocks at the door]. I say: its not
time yet, is it?

MRS DUDEBAT. No, not quite yet.

LOUIS [opening the door and finding Ridgeon there] Hello,
Ridgeon. Delighted to see you. Come in.

MRS DUDEBAT [shaking hands] It's so good of you to come, doctor.

LOUIS. Excuse this place, wont you? Its only a studio, you know:
theres no real convenience for living here. But we pig along
somehow, thanks to Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Now I'll run away. Perhaps later on, when youre
finished with Louis, I may come in and hear the verdict. [Ridgeon
bows rather constrainedly]. Would you rather I didnt?

RIDGEON. Not at all. Not at all.

Mrs Dubedat looks at him, a little puzzled by his formal manner;
then goes into the inner room.

LOUIS [flippantly] I say: dont look so grave. Theres nothing
awful going to happen, is there?

RIDGEON. No.

LOUIS. Thats all right. Poor Jennifer has been looking forward to
your visit more than you can imagine. Shes taken quite a fancy to
you, Ridgeon. The poor girl has nobody to talk to: I'm always
painting. [Taking up a sketch] Theres a little sketch I made of
her yesterday.

RIDGEON. She shewed it to me a fortnight ago when she first
called on me.

LOUIS [quite unabashed] Oh! did she? Good Lord! how time does
fly! I could have sworn I'd only just finished it. It's hard for
her here, seeing me piling up drawings and nothing coming in for
them. Of course I shall sell them next year fast enough, after my
one-man-show; but while the grass grows the steed starves. I hate
to have her coming to me for money, and having none to give her.
But what can I do?

RIDGEON. I understood that Mrs Dubedat had some property of her
own.

Louis. Oh yes, a little; but how could a man with any decency of
feeling touch that? Suppose I did, what would she have to live on
if I died? I'm not insured: cant afford the premiums. [Picking
out another drawing] How do you like that?

RIDGEON [putting it aside] I have not come here to-day to look at
your drawings. I have more serious and pressing business with
you.

LOUIS. You want to sound my wretched lung. [With impulsive
candor] My dear Ridgeon: I'll be frank with you. Whats the matter
in this house isnt lungs but bills. It doesnt matter about me;
but Jennifer has actually to economize in the matter of food.
Youve made us feel that we can treat you as a friend. Will you
lend us a hundred and fifty pounds?

RIDGEON. No.

LOUIS [surprised] Why not?

RIDGEON. I am not a rich man; and I want every penny I can spare
and more for my researches.

LOUIS. You mean youd want the money back again.

RIDGEON. I presume people sometimes have that in view when they
lend money.

LOUIS [after a moment's reflection] Well, I can manage that for
you. I'll give you a cheque--or see here: theres no reason why
you shouldnt have your bit too: I'll give you a cheque for two
hundred.

RIDGEON. Why not cash the cheque at once without troubling me?

LOUIS. Bless you! they wouldnt cash it: I'm overdrawn as it is.
No: the way to work it is this. I'll postdate the cheque next
October. In October Jennifer's dividends come in. Well, you
present the cheque. It will be returned marked "refer to drawer"
or some rubbish of that sort. Then you can take it to Jennifer,
and hint that if the cheque isnt taken up at once I shall be
put in prison. She'll pay you like a shot. Youll clear 50 pounds;
and youll do me a real service; for I do want the money very
badly, old chap, I assure you.

RIDGEON [staring at him] You see no objection to the transaction;
and you anticipate none from me!

LOUIS. Well, what objection can there be? It's quite safe. I can
convince you about the dividends.

RIDGEON. I mean on the score of its being--shall I say
dishonorable?

LOUIS. Well, of course I shouldnt suggest it if I didnt want the
money.

RIDGEON. Indeed! Well, you will have to find some other means of
getting it.

LOUIS. Do you mean that you refuse?

RIDGEON. Do I mean--! [letting his indignation loose] Of course I
refuse, man. What do you take me for? How dare you make such a
proposal to me?

LOUIS. Why not?

RIDGEON. Faugh! You would not understand me if I tried to
explain. Now, once for all, I will not lend you a farthing. I
should be glad to help your wife; but lending you money is no
service to her.

LOUIS. Oh well, if youre in earnest about helping her, I'll tell
you what you might do. You might get your patients to buy some of
my things, or to give me a few portrait commissions.

RIDGEON. My patients call me in as a physician, not as a
commercial traveller.

A knock at the door.

Louis goes unconcernedly to open it, pursuing the subject as he
goes.

LOUIS. But you must have great influence with them. You must know
such lots of things about them--private things that they wouldnt
like to have known. They wouldnt dare to refuse you.

RIDGEON [exploding] Well, upon my--

Louis opens the door, and admits Sir Patrick, Sir Ralph, and
Walpole.

RIDGEON [proceeding furiously] Walpole: Ive been here hardly ten
minutes; and already he's tried to borrow 150 pounds from me.
Then he proposed that I should get the money for him by
blackmailing his wife; and youve just interrupted him in the act
of suggesting that I should blackmail my patients into sitting to
him for their portraits.

LOUIS. Well, Ridgeon, if this is what you call being an honorable
man! I spoke to you in confidence.

SIR PATRICK. We're all going to speak to you in confidence, young
man.

WALPOLE [hanging his hat on the only peg left vacant on the hat-
stand] We shall make ourselves at home for half an hour, Dubedat.
Dont be alarmed: youre a most fascinating chap; and we love you.

LOUIS. Oh, all right, all right. Sit down--anywhere you can. Take
this chair, Sir Patrick [indicating the one on the throne]. Up-z-
z-z! [helping him up: Sir Patrick grunts and enthrones himself].
Here you are, B. B. [Sir Ralph glares at the familiarity; but
Louis, quite undisturbed, puts a big book and a sofa cushion on
the dais, on Sir Patrick's right; and B. B. sits down, under
protest]. Let me take your hat. [He takes B. B.'s hat
unceremoniously, and substitutes it for the cardinal's hat on the
head of the lay figure, thereby ingeniously destroying the
dignity of the conclave. He then draws the piano stool from the
wall and offers it to Walpole]. You dont mind this, Walpole, do
you? [Walpole accepts the stool, and puts his hand into his
pocket for his cigaret case. Missing it, he is reminded of his
loss].

WALPOLE. By the way, I'll trouble you for my cigaret case, if you
dont mind?

LOUIS. What cigaret case?

WALPOLE. The gold one I lent you at the Star and Garter.

LOUIS [surprised] Was that yours?

WALPOLE. Yes.

LOUIS. I'm awfully sorry, old chap. I wondered whose it was. I'm
sorry to say this is all thats left of it. [He hitches up his
smock; produces a card from his waistcoat pocket; and hands it to
Walpole].

WALPOLE. A pawn ticket!

LOUIS [reassuringly] It's quite safe: he cant sell it for a year,
you know. I say, my dear Walpole, I am sorry. [He places his hand
ingenuously on Walpole's shoulder and looks frankly at him].

WALPOLE [sinking on the stool with a gasp] Dont mention it. It
adds to your fascination.

RIDGEON [who has been standing near the easel] Before we go any
further, you have a debt to pay, Mr Dubedat.

LOUIS. I have a precious lot of debts to pay, Ridgeon. I'll fetch
you a chair. [He makes for the inner door].

RIDGEON [stopping him] You shall not leave the room until you pay
it. It's a small one; and pay it you must and shall. I dont so
much mind your borrowing 10 pounds from one of my guests and 20
pounds from the other--

WALPOLE. I walked into it, you know. I offered it.

RIDGEON. --they could afford it. But to clean poor Blenkinsop out
of his last half-crown was damnable. I intend to give him that
half-crown and to be in a position to pledge him my word that you
paid it. I'll have that out of you, at all events.

B. B. Quite right, Ridgeon. Quite right. Come, young man! down
with the dust. Pay up.

LOUIS. Oh, you neednt make such a fuss about it. Of course I'll
pay it. I had no idea the poor fellow was hard up. I'm as shocked
as any of you about it. [Putting his hand into his pocket] Here
you are. [Finding his pocket empty] Oh, I say, I havnt any money
on me just at present. Walpole: would you mind lending me half-a-
crown just to settle this.

WALPOLE. Lend you half-- [his voice faints away].

LOUIS. Well, if you dont, Blenkinsop wont get it; for I havnt a
rap: you may search my pockets if you like.

WALPOLE. Thats conclusive. [He produces half-a-crown].

LOUIS [passing it to Ridgeon] There! I'm really glad thats
settled: it was the only thing that was on my conscience. Now I
hope youre all satisfied.

SIR PATRICK. Not quite, Mr Dubedat. Do you happen to know a young
woman named Minnie Tinwell?

LOUIS. Minnie! I should think I do; and Minnie knows me too.
She's a really nice good girl, considering her station. Whats
become of her?

WALPOLE. It's no use bluffing, Dubedat. Weve seen Minnie's
marriage lines.

LOUIS [coolly] Indeed? Have you seen Jennifer's?

RIDGEON [rising in irrepressible rage] Do you dare insinuate that
Mrs Dubedat is living with you without being married to you?

LOUIS. Why not?

B. B.    { [echoing him in  }  Why not!
SIR PATRICK { various tones of }  Why not!
RIDGEON { scandalized  }  Why not!
WALPOLE { amazement]  }  Why not!

LOUIS. Yes, why not? Lots of people do it: just as good people as
you. Why dont you learn to think, instead of bleating and bashing
like a lot of sheep when you come up against anything youre not
accustomed to? [Contemplating their amazed faces with a chuckle]
I say: I should like to draw the lot of you now: you do look
jolly foolish. Especially you, Ridgeon. I had you that time, you
know.

RIDGEON. How, pray?

LOUIS. Well, you set up to appreciate Jennifer, you know. And you
despise me, dont you?

RIDGEON [curtly] I loathe you. [He sits down again on the sofa].

LOUIS. Just so. And yet you believe that Jennifer is a bad lot
because you think I told you so.

RIDGEON. Were you lying?

LOUIS. No; but you were smelling out a scandal instead of keeping
your mind clean and wholesome. I can just play with people like
you. I only asked you had you seen Jennifer's marriage lines; and
you concluded straight away that she hadnt got any. You dont know
a lady when you see one.

B. B. [majestically] What do you mean by that, may I ask?

LOUIS. Now, I'm only an immoral artist; but if YOUD told me that
Jennifer wasnt married, I'd have had the gentlemanly feeling and
artistic instinct to say that she carried her marriage
certificate in her face and in her character. But you are all
moral men; and Jennifer is only an artist's wife--probably a
model; and morality consists in suspecting other people of not
being legally married. Arnt you ashamed of yourselves? Can one of
you look me in the face after it?

WALPOLE. Its very hard to look you in the face, Dubedat; you have
such a dazzling cheek. What about Minnie Tinwell, eh?

LOUIS. Minnie Tinwell is a young woman who has had three weeks of
glorious happiness in her poor little life, which is more than
most girls in her position get, I can tell you. Ask her whether
she'd take it back if she could. She's got her name into history,
that girl. My little sketches of her will be bought by collectors
at Christie's. She'll have a page in my biography. Pretty good,
that, for a still-room maid at a seaside hotel, I think. What
have you fellows done for her to compare with that?

RIDGEON. We havnt trapped her into a mock marriage and deserted
her.

LOUIS. No: you wouldnt have the pluck. But dont fuss yourselves.
I didnt desert little Minnie. We spent all our money--

WALPOLE. All HER money. Thirty pounds.

LOUIS. I said all our money: hers and mine too. Her thirty pounds
didnt last three days. I had to borrow four times as much to
spend on her. But I didnt grudge it; and she didnt grudge her few
pounds either, the brave little lassie. When we were cleaned out,
we'd had enough of it: you can hardly suppose that we were fit
company for longer than that: I an artist, and she quite out of
art and literature and refined living and everything else. There
was no desertion, no misunderstanding, no police court or divorce
court sensation for you moral chaps to lick your lips over at
breakfast. We just said, Well, the money's gone: weve had a good
time that can never be taken from us; so kiss; part good friends;
and she back to service, and I back to my studio and my Jennifer,
both the better and happier for our holiday.

WALPOLE. Quite a little poem, by George!'

B. B. If you had been scientifically trained, Mr Dubedat, you
would know how very seldom an actual case bears out a principle.
In medical practice a man may die when, scientifically speaking,
he ought to have lived. I have actually known a man die of a
disease from which he was scientifically speaking, immune. But
that does not affect the fundamental truth of science. In just
the same way, in moral cases, a man's behavior may be quite
harmless and even beneficial, when he is morally behaving like a
scoundrel. And he may do great harm when he is morally acting on
the highest principles. But that does not affect the fundamental
truth of morality.

SIR PATRICK. And it doesnt affect the criminal law on the subject
of bigamy.

LOUIS. Oh bigamy! bigamy! bigamy! What a fascination anything
connected with the police has for you all, you moralists! Ive
proved to you that you were utterly wrong on the moral point: now
I'm going to shew you that youre utterly wrong on the legal
point; and I hope it will be a lesson to you not to be so jolly
cocksure next time.

WALPOLE. Rot! You were married already when you married her; and
that settles it.

LOUIS. Does it! Why cant you think? How do you know she wasnt
married already too?

B.B.          {   [all       }   Walpole! Ridgeon!
RIDGEON       {  crying      }   This is beyond everything!
WALPOLE       {    out       }   Well, damn me!
SIR PATRICK   {  together]   }   You young rascal.

LOUIS [ignoring their outcry] She was married to the steward of a
liner. He cleared out and left her; and she thought, poor girl,
that it was the law that if you hadnt heard of your husband for
three years you might marry again. So as she was a thoroughly
respectable girl and refused to have anything to say to me unless
we were married I went through the ceremony to please her and to
preserve her self-respect.

RIDGEON. Did you tell her you were already married?

LOUIS. Of course not. Dont you see that if she had known, she
wouldnt have considered herself my wife? You dont seem to
understand, somehow.

SIR PATRICK. You let her risk imprisonment in her ignorance of
the law?

LOUIS. Well, _I_ risked imprisonment for her sake. I could have
been had up for it just as much as she. But when a man makes a
sacrifice of that sort for a woman, he doesnt go and brag about
it to her; at least, not if he's a gentleman.

WALPOLE. What are we to do with this daisy?

LOUIS. [impatiently] Oh, go and do whatever the devil you please.
Put Minnie in prison. Put me in prison. Kill Jennifer with the
disgrace of it all. And then, when youve done all the mischief
you can, go to church and feel good about it. [He sits down
pettishly on the old chair at the easel, and takes up a sketching
block, on which he begins to draw]

WALPOLE. He's got us.

SIR PATRICK [grimly] He has.

B. B. But is he to be allowed to defy the criminal law of the
land?

SIR PATRICK. The criminal law is no use to decent people. It only
helps blackguards to blackmail their families. What are we family
doctors doing half our time but conspiring with the family
solicitor to keep some rascal out of jail and some family out of
disgrace?

B. B. But at least it will punish him.

SIR PATRICK. Oh, yes: Itll punish him. Itll punish not only him
but everybody connected with him, innocent and guilty alike. Itll
throw his board and lodging on our rates and taxes for a couple
of years, and then turn him loose on us a more dangerous
blackguard than ever. Itll put the girl in prison and ruin her:
Itll lay his wife's life waste. You may put the criminal law out
of your head once for all: it's only fit for fools and savages.

LOUIS. Would you mind turning your face a little more this way,
Sir Patrick. [Sir Patrick turns indignantly and glares at him].
Oh, thats too much.

SIR PATRICK. Put down your foolish pencil, man; and think of your
position. You can defy the laws made by men; but there are other
laws to reckon with. Do you know that youre going to die?

LOUIS. We're all going to die, arnt we?

WALPOLE. We're not all going to die in six months.

LOUIS. How do you know?

This for B. B. is the last straw. He completely loses his temper
and begins to walk excitedly about.

B. B. Upon my soul, I will not stand this. It is in questionable
taste under any circumstances or in any company to harp on the
subject of death; but it is a dastardly advantage to take of a
medical man. [Thundering at Dubedat] I will not allow it, do you
hear?

LOUIS. Well, I didn't begin it: you chaps did. It's always the
way with the inartistic professions: when theyre beaten in
argument they fall back on intimidation. I never knew a lawyer
who didnt threaten to put me in prison sooner or later. I never
knew a parson who didnt threaten me with damnation. And now you
threaten me with death. With all your talk youve only one real
trump in your hand, and thats Intimidation. Well, I'm not a
coward; so it's no use with me.

B. B. [advancing upon him] I'll tell you what you are, sir. Youre
a scoundrel.

LOUIS. Oh, I don't mind you calling me a scoundrel a bit. It's
only a word: a word that you dont know the meaning of. What is a
scoundrel?

B. B. You are a scoundrel, sir.

LOUIS. Just so. What is a scoundrel? I am. What am I? A
Scoundrel. It's just arguing in a circle. And you imagine youre a
man of science!

B. B. I--I--I--I have a good mind to take you by the scruff of
your neck, you infamous rascal, and give you a sound thrashing.

LOUIS. I wish you would. Youd pay me something handsome to keep
it out of court afterwards. [B. B., baffled, flings away from him
with a snort]. Have you any more civilities to address to me in
my own house? I should like to get them over before my wife comes
back. [He resumes his sketching].

RIDGEON. My mind's made up. When the law breaks down, honest men
must find a remedy for themselves. I will not lift a finger to
save this reptile.

B. B. That is the word I was trying to remember. Reptile.

WALPOLE. I cant help rather liking you, Dubedat. But you
certainly are a thoroughgoing specimen.

SIR PATRICK. You know our opinion of you now, at all events.

LOUIS [patiently putting down his pencil] Look here. All this is
no good. You dont understand. You imagine that I'm simply an
ordinary criminal.

WALPOLE. Not an ordinary one, Dubedat. Do yourself justice.

LOUIS. Well youre on the wrong tack altogether. I'm not a
criminal. All your moralizings have no value for me. I don't
believe in morality. I'm a disciple of Bernard Shaw.

SIR PATRICK [puzzled] Eh?

B.B. [waving his hand as if the subject was now disposed of]
Thats enough, I wish to hear no more.

LOUIS. Of course I havnt the ridiculous vanity to set up to be
exactly a Superman; but still, it's an ideal that I strive
towards just as any other man strives towards his ideal.

B. B. [intolerant] Dont trouble to explain. I now understand you
perfectly. Say no more, please. When a man pretends to discuss
science, morals, and religion, and then avows himself a follower
of a notorious and avowed anti-vaccinationist, there is nothing
more to be said. [Suddenly putting in an effusive saving clause
in parenthesis to Ridgeon] Not, my dear Ridgeon, that I believe
in vaccination in the popular sense any more than you do: I
neednt tell you that. But there are things that place a man
socially; and anti-vaccination is one of them. [He resumes his
seat on the dais].

SIR PATRICK. Bernard Shaw? I never heard of him. He's a Methodist
preacher, I suppose.

LOUIS [scandalized] No, no. He's the most advanced man now
living: he isn't anything.

SIR PATRICK. I assure you, young man, my father learnt the
doctrine of deliverance from sin from John Wesley's own lips
before you or Mr. Shaw were born. It used to be very popular as
an excuse for putting sand in sugar and water in milk. Youre a
sound Methodist, my lad; only you don't know it.

LOUIS [seriously annoyed for the first time] Its an intellectual
insult. I don't believe theres such a thing as sin.

SIR PATRICK. Well, sir, there are people who dont believe theres
such a thing as disease either. They call themselves Christian
Scientists, I believe. Theyll just suit your complaint. We can do
nothing for you. [He rises]. Good afternoon to you.

LOUIS [running to him piteously] Oh dont get up, Sir Patrick.
Don't go. Please dont. I didnt mean to shock you, on my word. Do
sit down again. Give me another chance. Two minutes more: thats
all I ask.

SIR PATRICK [surprised by this sign of grace, and a little
touched] Well-- [He sits down]

LOUIS [gratefully] Thanks awfully.

SIR PATRICK [continuing] I don't mind giving you two minutes
more. But dont address yourself to me; for Ive retired from
practice; and I dont pretend to be able to cure your complaint.
Your life is in the hands of these gentlemen.

RIDGEON. Not in mine. My hands are full. I have no time and no
means available for this case.

SIR PATRICK. What do you say, Mr. Walpole?

WALPOLE. Oh, I'll take him in hand: I dont mind. I feel perfectly
convinced that this is not a moral case at all: it's a physical
one. Theres something abnormal about his brain. That means,
probably, some morbid condition affecting the spinal cord. And
that means the circulation. In short, it's clear to me that he's
suffering from an obscure form of blood-poisoning, which is
almost certainly due to an accumulation of ptomaines in the
nuciform sac. I'll remove the sac--

LOUIS [changing color] Do you mean, operate on me? Ugh! No, thank
you.

WALPOLE. Never fear: you wont feel anything. Youll be under an
anaesthetic, of course. And it will be extraordinarily
interesting.

LOUIS. Oh, well, if it would interest you, and if it wont hurt,
thats another matter. How much will you give me to let you do it?

WALPOLE [rising indignantly] How much! What do you mean?

LOUIS. Well, you dont expect me to let you cut me up for nothing,
do you?

WALPOLE. Will you paint my portrait for nothing?

LOUIS. No; but I'll give you the portrait when its painted; and
you can sell it afterwards for perhaps double the money. But I
cant sell my nuciform sac when youve cut it out.

WALPOLE. Ridgeon: did you ever hear anything like this! [To
Louis] Well, you can keep your nuciform sac, and your tubercular
lung, and your diseased brain: Ive done with you. One would think
I was not conferring a favor on the fellow! [He returns to his
stool in high dudgeon].

SIR PATRICK. That leaves only one medical man who has not
withdrawn from your case, Mr. Dubedat. You have nobody left to
appeal to now but Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington.

WALPOLE. If I were you, B. B., I shouldnt touch him with a pair
of tongs. Let him take his lungs to the Brompton Hospital. They
wont cure him; but theyll teach him manners.

B. B. My weakness is that I have never been able to say No, even
to the most thoroughly undeserving people. Besides, I am bound to
say that I dont think it is possible in medical practice to go
into the question of the value of the lives we save. Just
consider, Ridgeon. Let me put it to you, Paddy. Clear your mind
of cant, Walpole.

WALPOLE [indignantly] My mind is clear of cant.

B. B. Quite so. Well now, look at my practice. It is what I
suppose you would call a fashionable practice, a smart practice,
a practice among the best people. You ask me to go into the
question of whether my patients are of any use either to
themselves or anyone else. Well, if you apply any scientific test
known to me, you will achieve a reductio ad absurdum. You will be
driven to the conclusion that the majority of them would be, as
my friend Mr J. M. Barrie has tersely phrased it, better dead.
Better dead. There are exceptions, no doubt. For instance, there
is the court, an essentially social-democratic institution,
supported out of public funds by the public because the public
wants it and likes it. My court patients are hard-working people
who give satisfaction, undoubtedly. Then I have a duke or two
whose estates are probably better managed than they would be in
public hands. But as to most of the rest, if I once began to
argue about them, unquestionably the verdict would be, Better
dead. When they actually do die, I sometimes have to offer that
consolation, thinly disguised, to the family. [Lulled by the
cadences of his own voice, he becomes drowsier and drowsier]. The
fact that they spend money so extravagantly on medical attendance
really would not justify me in wasting my talents--such as they
are--in keeping them alive. After all, if my fees are high, I
have to spend heavily. My own tastes are simple: a camp bed, a
couple of rooms, a crust, a bottle of wine; and I am happy and
contented. My wife's tastes are perhaps more luxurious; but even
she deplores an expenditure the sole object of which is to
maintain the state my patients require from their medical
attendant. The--er--er--er-- [suddenly waking up] I have lost the
thread of these remarks. What was I talking about, Ridgeon?

RIDGEON. About Dubedat.

B. B. Ah yes. Precisely. Thank you. Dubedat, of course. Well,
what is our friend Dubedat? A vicious and ignorant young man with
a talent for drawing.

LOUIS. Thank you. Dont mind me.

B. B. But then, what are many of my patients? Vicious and
ignorant young men without a talent for anything. If I were to
stop to argue about their merits I should have to give up three-
quarters of my practice. Therefore I have made it a rule not so
to argue. Now, as an honorable man, having made that rule as to
paying patients, can I make an exception as to a patient who, far
from being a paying patient, may more fitly be described as a
borrowing patient? No. I say No. Mr Dubedat: your moral character
is nothing to me. I look at you from a purely scientific point of
view. To me you are simply a field of battle in which an invading
army of tubercle bacilli struggles with a patriotic force of
phagocytes. Having made a promise to your wife, which my
principles will not allow me to break, to stimulate those
phagocytes, I will stimulate them. And I take no further
responsibility. [He digs himself back in his seat exhausted].

SIR PATRICK. Well, Mr Dubedat, as Sir Ralph has very kindly
offered to take charge of your case, and as the two minutes I
promised you are up, I must ask you to excuse me. [He rises].

LOUIS. Oh, certainly. Ive quite done with you. [Rising and
holding up the sketch block] There! While youve been talking, Ive
been doing. What is there left of your moralizing? Only a little
carbonic acid gas which makes the room unhealthy. What is there
left of my work? That. Look at it [Ridgeon rises to look at it].

SIR PATRICK [who has come down to him from the throne] You young
rascal, was it drawing me you were?

LOUIS. Of course. What else?

SIR PATRICK [takes the drawing from him and grunts approvingly]
Thats rather good. Dont you think so, Lolly?

RIDGEON. Yes. So good that I should like to have it.

SIR PATRICK. Thank you; but _I_ should like to have it myself.
What d'ye think, Walpole?

WALPOLE [rising and coming over to look] No, by Jove: _I_ must
have this.

LOUIS. I wish I could afford to give it to you, Sir Patrick. But
I'd pay five guineas sooner than part with it.

RIDGEON. Oh, for that matter, I will give you six for it.

WALPOLE. Ten.

LOUIS. I think Sir Patrick is morally entitled to it, as he sat
for it. May I send it to your house, Sir Patrick, for twelve
guineas?

SIR PATRICK. Twelve guineas! Not if you were President of the
Royal Academy, young man. [He gives him back the drawing
decisively and turns away, taking up his hat].

LOUIS [to B. B.] Would you like to take it at twelve, Sir Ralph?

B. B. [coming between Louis and Walpole] Twelve guineas? Thank
you: I'll take it at that. [He takes it and presents it to Sir
Patrick]. Accept it from me, Paddy; and may you long be spared to
contemplate it.

SIR PATRICK. Thank you. [He puts the drawing into his hat].

B. B. I neednt settle with you now, Mr Dubedat: my fees will come
to more than that. [He also retrieves his hat].

LOUIS [indignantly] Well, of all the mean--[words fail him]! I'd
let myself be shot sooner than do a thing like that. I consider
youve stolen that drawing.

SIR PATRICK [drily] So weve converted you to a belief in morality
after all, eh?

LOUIS. Yah! [To Walpole] I'll do another one for you, Walpole, if
youll let me have the ten you promised.

WALPOLE. Very good. I'll pay on delivery.

LOUIS. Oh! What do you take me for? Have you no confidence in my
honor?

WALPOLE. None whatever.

LOUIS. Oh well, of course if you feel that way, you cant help it.
Before you go, Sir Patrick, let me fetch Jennifer. I know she'd
like to see you, if you dont mind. [He goes to the inner door].
And now, before she comes in, one word. Youve all been talking
here pretty freely about me--in my own house too. I dont mind
that: I'm a man and can take care of myself. But when Jennifer
comes in, please remember that she's a lady, and that you are
supposed to be gentlemen. [He goes out].

WALPOLE. Well!!! [He gives the situation up as indescribable, and
goes for his hat].

RIDGEON. Damn his impudence!

B. B. I shouldnt be at all surprised to learn that he's well
connected. Whenever I meet dignity and self-possession without
any discoverable basis, I diagnose good family.

RIDGEON. Diagnose artistic genius, B. B. Thats what saves his
self-respect.

SIR PATRICK. The world is made like that. The decent fellows are
always being lectured and put out of countenance by the snobs.

B. B. [altogether refusing to accept this] _I_ am not out of
countenance. I should like, by Jupiter, to see the man who could
put me out of countenance. [Jennifer comes in]. Ah, Mrs.
Dubedat! And how are we to-day?

MRS DUBEDAT [shaking hands with him] Thank you all so much for
coming. [She shakes Walpole's hand]. Thank you, Sir Patrick [she
shakes Sir Patrick's]. Oh, life has been worth living since I
have known you. Since Richmond I have not known a moment's fear.
And it used to be nothing but fear. Wont you sit down and tell me
the result of the consultation?

WALPOLE. I'll go, if you dont mind, Mrs. Dubedat. I have an
appointment. Before I go, let me say that I am quite agreed with
my colleagues here as to the character of the case. As to the
cause and the remedy, thats not my business: I'm only a surgeon;
and these gentlemen are physicians and will advise you. I may
have my own views: in fact I HAVE them; and they are perfectly
well known to my colleagues. If I am needed--and needed I shall
be finally--they know where to find me; and I am always at your
service. So for to-day, good-bye. [He goes out, leaving Jennifer
much puzzled by his unexpected withdrawal and formal manner].

SIR PATRICK. I also will ask you to excuse me, Mrs Dubedat.

RIDGEON [anxiously] Are you going?

SIR PATRICK. Yes: I can be of no use here; and I must be getting
back. As you know, maam, I'm not in practice now; and I shall not
be in charge of the case. It rests between Sir Colenso Ridgeon
and Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington. They know my opinion. Good
afternoon to you, maam. [He bows and makes for the door].

MRS DUBEDAT [detaining him] Theres nothing wrong, is there? You
dont think Louis is worse, do you?

SIR PATRICK. No: he's not worse. Just the same as at Richmond.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, thank you: you frightened me. Excuse me.

SIR PATRICK. Dont mention it, maam. [He goes out].

B. B. Now, Mrs Dubedat, if I am to take the patient in hand--

MRS DUBEDAT [apprehensively, with a glance at Ridgeon] You! But I
thought that Sir Colenso--

B. B. [beaming with the conviction that he is giving her a most
gratifying surprise] My dear lady, your husband shall have Me.

MRS DUBEDAT. But--

B. B. Not a word: it is a pleasure to me, for your sake.
Sir Colenso Ridgeon will be in his proper place, in the
bacteriological laboratory. _I_ shall be in my proper place, at
the bedside. Your husband shall be treated exactly as if he were
a member of the royal family. [Mrs Dubedat, uneasy, again is
about to protest]. No gratitude: it would embarrass me, I assure
you. Now, may I ask whether you are particularly tied to these
apartments. Of course, the motor has annihilated distance; but I
confess that if you were rather nearer to me, it would be a
little more convenient.

MRS DUBEDAT. You see, this studio and flat are self-contained. I
have suffered so much in lodgings. The servants are so
frightfully dishonest.

B. B. Ah ! Are they? Are they? Dear me!

MRS DUBEDAT. I was never accustomed to lock things up. And I
missed so many small sums. At last a dreadful thing happened. I
missed a five-pound note. It was traced to the housemaid; and she
actually said Louis had given it to her. And he wouldnt let me do
anything: he is so sensitive that these things drive him mad.

B. B. Ah--hm--ha--yes--say no more, Mrs. Dubedat: you shall not
move. If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must come
to the mountain. Now I must be off. I will write and make an
appointment. We shall begin stimulating the phagocytes on--on--
probably on Tuesday next; but I will let you know. Depend on me;
dont fret; eat regularly; sleep well; keep your spirits up; keep
the patient cheerful; hope for the best; no tonic like a charming
woman; no medicine like cheerfulness; no resource like science;
goodbye, good-bye, good-bye. [Having shaken hands--she being too
overwhelmed to speak--he goes out, stopping to say to Ridgeon] On
Tuesday morning send me down a tube of some really stiff anti-
toxin. Any kind will do. Dont forget. Good-bye, Colly. [He goes
out.]

RIDGEON. You look quite discouraged again. [She is almost in
tears]. What's the matter? Are you disappointed?

MRS DUBEDAT. I know I ought to be very grateful. Believe me, I am
very grateful. But--but--

RIDGEON. Well?

hills DUBEDAT. I had set my heart YOUR curing Louis.

RIDGEON. Well, Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington--

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, I know, I know. It is a great privilege to have
him. But oh, I wish it had been you. I know it's unreasonable; I
cant explain; but I had such a strong instinct that you would
cure him. I dont I cant feel the same about Sir Ralph. You
promised me. Why did you give Louis up?

RIDGEON. I explained to you. I cannot take another case.

MRS DUBEDAT. But at Richmond?

RIDGEON. At Richmond I thought I could make room for one more
case. But my old friend Dr Blenkinsop claimed that place. His
lung is attacked.

MRS DUBEDAT [attaching no importance whatever to Blenkinsop] Do
you mean that elderly man--that rather--

RIDGEON [sternly] I mean the gentleman that dined with us: an
excellent and honest man, whose life is as valuable as anyone
else's. I have arranged that I shall take his case, and that Sir
Ralph Bloomfield Bonington shall take Mr Dubedat's.

MRS DUBEDAT [turning indignantly on him] I see what it is. Oh! it
is envious, mean, cruel. And I thought that you would be above
such a thing.

RIDGEON. What do you mean?

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, do you think I dont know? do you think it has
never happened before? Why does everybody turn against him? Can
you not forgive him for being superior to you? for being
cleverer? for being braver? for being a great artist?

RIDGEON. Yes: I can forgive him for all that.

MRS DUBEDAT. Well, have you anything to say against him? I have
challenged everyone who has turned against him--challenged them
face to face to tell me any wrong thing he has done, any ignoble
thought he has uttered. They have always confessed that they
could not tell me one. I challenge you now. What do you accuse
him of?

RIDGEON. I am like all the rest. Face to face, I cannot tell you
one thing against him.

MRS DUBEDAT [not satisfied] But your manner is changed. And you
have broken your promise to me to make room for him as your
patient.

RIDGEON. I think you are a little unreasonable. You have had the
very best medical advice in London for him; and his case has been
taken in hand by a leader of the profession. Surely--

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, it is so cruel to keep telling me that. It seems
all right; and it puts me in the wrong. But I am not in the
wrong. I have faith in you; and I have no faith in the others. We
have seen so many doctors: I have come to know at last when they
are only talking and can do nothing. It is different with you. I
feel that you know. You must listen to me, doctor. [With sudden
misgiving] Am I offending you by calling you doctor instead of
remembering your title?

RIDGEON. Nonsense. I AM a doctor. But mind you, dont call Walpole
one.

MRS DUBEBAT. I dont care about Mr Walpole: it is you who must
befriend me. Oh, will you please sit down and listen to me just
for a few minutes. [He assents with a grave inclination, and sits
on the sofa. She sits on the easel chair] Thank you. I wont keep
you long; but I must tell you the whole truth. Listen. I know
Louis as nobody else in the world knows him or ever can know him.
I am his wife. I know he has little faults: impatiences,
sensitivenesses, even little selfishnesses that are too trivial
for him to notice. I know that he sometimes shocks people about
money because he is so utterly above it, and cant understand the
value ordinary people set on it. Tell me: did he--did he borrow
any money from you?

RIDGEON. He asked me for some once.

MRS DUBEDAT [tears again in her eyes] Oh, I am so sorry--so
sorry. But he will never do it again: I pledge you my word for
that. He has given me his promise: here in this room just before
you came; and he is incapable of breaking his word. That was his
only real weakness; and now it is conquered and done with for
ever.

RIDGEON. Was that really his only weakness?

MRS DUBEDAT. He is perhaps sometimes weak about women, because
they adore him so, and are always laying traps for him. And of
course when he says he doesnt believe in morality, ordinary pious
people think he must be wicked. You can understand, cant you, how
all this starts a great deal of gossip about him, and gets
repeated until even good friends get set against him?

RIDGEON. Yes: I understand.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, if you only knew the other side of him as I do!
Do you know, doctor, that if Louis honored himself by a really
bad action, I should kill myself.

RIDGEON. Come! dont exaggerate.

MRS DUBEDAT. I should. You don't understand that, you east
country people.

RIDGEON. You did not see much of the world in Cornwall, did you?

MRS DUBEDAT [naively] Oh yes. I saw a great deal every day of the
beauty of the world--more than you ever see here in London. But I
saw very few people, if that is what you mean. I was an only
child.

RIDGEON. That explains a good deal.

MRS DUBEDAT. I had a great many dreams; but at last they all came
to one dream.

RIDGEON [with half a sigh] Yes, the usual dream.

MRS DUBEDAT [surprised] Is it usual?

RIDGEON. As I guess. You havnt yet told me what it was.

MRS DUBEDAT. I didn't want to waste myself. I could do nothing
myself; but I had a little property and I could help with it. I
had even a little beauty: dont think me vain for knowing it. I
always had a terrible struggle with poverty and neglect at first.
My dream was to save one of them from that, and bring some charm
and happiness into his life. I prayed Heaven to send me one. I
firmly believe that Louis was guided to me in answer to my
prayer. He was no more like the other men I had met than the
Thames Embankment is like our Cornish coasts. He saw everything
that I saw, and drew it for me. He understood everything. He came
to me like a child. Only fancy, doctor: he never even wanted to
marry me: he never thought of the things other men think of! I
had to propose it myself. Then he said he had no money. When I
told him I had some, he said "Oh, all right," just like a boy. He
is still like that, quite unspoiled, a man in his thoughts, a
great poet and artist in his dreams, and a child in his ways. I
gave him myself and all I had that he might grow to his full
height with plenty of sunshine. If I lost faith in him, it would
mean the wreck and failure of my life. I should go back to
Cornwall and die. I could show you the very cliff I should jump
off. You must cure him: you must make him quite well again for
me. I know that you can do it and that nobody else can. I implore
you not to refuse what I am going to ask you to do. Take Louis
yourself; and let Sir Ralph cure Dr Blenkinsop.

RIDGEON [slowly] Mrs Dubedat: do you really believe in my
knowledge and skill as you say you do?

MRS DUBEDAT. Absolutely. I do not give my trust by halves.

RIDGEON. I know that. Well, I am going to test you--hard. Will
you believe me when I tell you that I understand what you have
just told me; that I have no desire but to serve you in the most
faithful friendship; and that your hero must be preserved to you.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh forgive me. Forgive what I said. You will
preserve him to me.

RIDGEON. At all hazards. [She kisses his hand. He rises hastily].
No: you have not heard the rest. [She rises too]. You must
believe me when I tell you that the one chance of preserving the
hero lies in Louis being in the care of Sir Ralph.

MRS DUBEDAT [firmly] You say so: I have no more doubt: I believe
you. Thank you.

RIDGEON. Good-bye. [She takes his hand]. I hope this will be a
lasting friendship.

MRS DUBEDAT. It will. My friendships end only with death.

RIDGEON. Death ends everything, doesnt it? Goodbye.

With a sigh and a look of pity at her which she does not
understand, he goes.



ACT IV

The studio. The easel is pushed back to the wall. Cardinal Death,
holding his scythe and hour-glass like a sceptre and globe, sits
on the throne. On the hat-stand hang the hats of Sir Patrick and
Bloomfield Bonington. Walpole, just come in, is hanging up his
beside them. There is a knock. He opens the door and finds
Ridgeon there.

WALPOLE. Hallo, Ridgeon!

They come into the middle of the room together, taking off their
gloves.

RIDGEON. Whats the matter! Have you been sent for, too?

WALPOLE. Weve all been sent for. Ive only just come: I havnt seen
him yet. The charwoman says that old Paddy Cullen has been here
with B. B. for the last half-hour. [Sir Patrick, with bad news in
his face, enters from the inner room]. Well: whats up?

SIR PATRICK. Go in and see. B. B. is in there with him.

Walpole goes. Ridgeon is about to follow him; but Sir Patrick
stops him with a look.

RIDGEON. What has happened?

SIR PATRICK. Do you remember Jane Marsh's arm?

RIDGEON. Is that whats happened?

SIR PATRICK. Thats whats happened. His lung has gone like Jane's
arm. I never saw such a case. He has got through three months
galloping consumption in three days.

RIDGEON. B. B. got in on the negative phase.

SIR PATRICK. Negative or positive, the lad's done for. He wont
last out the afternoon. He'll go suddenly: Ive often seen it.

RIDGEON. So long as he goes before his wife finds him out, I dont
care. I fully expected this.

SIR PATRICK [drily] It's a little hard on a lad to be killed
because his wife has too high an opinion of him. Fortunately few
of us are in any danger of that.

Sir Ralph comes from the inner room and hastens between them,
humanely concerned, but professionally elate and communicative.

B. B. Ah, here you are, Ridgeon. Paddy's told you, of course.

RIDGEON. Yes.

B. B. It's an enormously interesting case. You know, Colly, by
Jupiter, if I didnt know as a matter of scientific fact that I'd
been stimulating the phagocytes, I should say I'd been
stimulating the other things. What is the explanation of it, Sir
Patrick? How do you account for it, Ridgeon? Have we over-
stimulated the phagocytes? Have they not only eaten up the
bacilli, but attacked and destroyed the red corpuscles as well? a
possibility suggested by the patient's pallor. Nay, have they
finally begun to prey on the lungs themselves? Or on one another?
I shall write a paper about this case.

Walpole comes back, very serious, even shocked. He comes between
B. B. and Ridgeon.

WALPOLE. Whew! B. B.: youve done it this time.

B. B. What do you mean?

WALPOLE. Killed him. The worst case of neglected blood-poisoning
I ever saw. It's too late now to do anything. He'd die under the
anaesthetic.

B. B. [offended] Killed! Really, Walpole, if your monomania were
not well known, I should take such an expession very seriously.

SIR PATRICK. Come come! When youve both killed as many people as
I have in my time youll feel humble enough about it. Come and
look at him, Colly.

Ridgeon and Sir Patrick go into the inner room.

WALPOLE. I apologize, B. B. But it's blood-poisoning.

B. B. [recovering his irresistible good nature] My dear Walpole,
everything is blood-poisoning. But upon my soul, I shall not use
any of that stuff of Ridgeon's again. What made me so sensitive
about what you said just now is that, strictly between ourselves,
Ridgeon cooked our young friend's goose.

Jennifer, worried and distressed, but always gentle, comes
between them from the inner room. She wears a nurse's apron.

MRS. DUBEDAT. Sir Ralph: what am I to do? That man who insisted
on seeing me, and sent in word that business was important to
Louis, is a newspaper man. A paragraph appeared in the paper this
morning saying that Louis is seriously ill; and this man wants to
interview him about it. How can people be so brutally callous?

WALPOLE [moving vengefully towards the door] You just leave me to
deal with him!

MRS DUBEDAT [stopping him] But Louis insists on seeing him: he
almost began to cry about it. And he says he cant bear his room
any longer. He says he wants to [she struggles with a sob]--to
die in his studio. Sir Patrick says let him have his way: it can
do no harm. What shall we do?

B B. [encouragingly] Why, follow Sir Patrick's excellent advice,
of course. As he says, it can do him no harm; and it will no
doubt do him good--a great deal of good. He will be much the
better for it.

MRS DUBEDAT [a little cheered] Will you bring the man up here, Mr
Walpole, and tell him that he may see Louis, but that he mustnt
exhaust him by talking? [Walpole nods and goes out by the outer
door]. Sir Ralph, dont be angry with me; but Louis will die if he
stays here. I must take him to Cornwall. He will recover there.

B. B. [brightening wonderfully, as if Dubedat were already saved]
Cornwall! The very place for him! Wonderful for the lungs. Stupid
of me not to think of it before. You are his best physician after
all, dear lady. An inspiration! Cornwall: of course, yes, yes,
yes.

MRS DUBEDAT [comforted and touched] You are so kind, Sir Ralph.
But dont give me much or I shall cry; and Louis cant bear that.

B. B. [gently putting his protecting arm round her shoulders]
Then let us come back to him and help to carry him in. Cornwall!
of course, of course. The very thing! [They go together into the
bedroom].

Walpole returns with The Newspaper Man, a cheerful, affable young
man who is disabled for ordinary business pursuits by a
congenital erroneousness which renders him incapable of
describing accurately anything he sees, or understanding or
reporting accurately anything he hears. As the only employment in
which these defects do not matter is journalism (for a newspaper,
not having to act on its description and reports, but only to
sell them to idly curious people, has nothing but honor to lose
by inaccuracy and unveracity), he has perforce become a
journalist, and has to keep up an air of high spirits through a
daily struggle with his own illiteracy and the precariousness of
his employment. He has a note-book, and ocasionally attempts to
make a note; but as he cannot write shorthand, and does not write
with ease in any hand, he generally gives it up as a bad job
before he succeeds in finishing a sentence.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [looking round and making indecisive attempts
at notes] This is the studio, I suppose.

WALPOLE. Yes.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [wittily] Where he has his models, eh?

WALPOLE [grimly irresponsive] No doubt.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Cubicle, you said it was?

WALPOLE. Yes, tubercle.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Which way do you spell it: is it c-u-b-i-c-a-l
or c-l-e?

WALPOLE. Tubercle, man, not cubical. [Spelling it for him] T-u-b-
e-r-c-l-e.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Oh! tubercle. Some disease, I suppose. I
thought he had consumption. Are you one of the family or the
doctor?

WALPOLE. I'm neither one nor the other. I am Mister Cutler
Walpole. Put that down. Then put down Sir Colenso Ridgeon.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Pigeon?

WALPOLE. Ridgeon. [Contemptuously snatching his book] Here: youd
better let me write the names down for you: youre sure to get
them wrong. That comes of belonging to an illiterate profession,
with no qualifications and no public register. [He writes the
particulars].

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Oh, I say: you have got your knife into us,
havnt you?

WALPOLE [vindictively] I wish I had: I'd make a better man of
you. Now attend. [Shewing him the book] These are the names of
the three doctors. This is the patient. This is the address. This
is the name of the disease. [He shuts the book with a snap which
makes the journalist blink, and returns it to him]. Mr Dubedat
will be brought in here presently. He wants to see you because he
doesnt know how bad he is. We'll allow you to wait a few minutes
to humor him; but if you talk to him, out you go. He may die at
any moment.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [interested] Is he as bad as that? I say: I am
in luck to-day. Would you mind letting me photograph you? [He
produces a camera]. Could you have a lancet or something in your
hand?

WALPOLE. Put it up. If you want my photograph you can get it in
Baker Street in any of the series of celebrities.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. But theyll want to be paid. If you wouldnt
mind [fingering the camera]--?

WALPOLE. I would. Put it up, I tell you. Sit down there and be
quiet.

The Newspaper Man quickly sits down on the piano stool as
Dubedat, in an invalid's chair, is wheeled in by Mrs Dubedat and
Sir Ralph. They place the chair between the dais and the sofa,
where the easel stood before. Louis is not changed as a robust
man would be; and he is not scared. His eyes look larger; and he
is so weak physically that he can hardly move, lying on his
cushions, with complete languor; but his mind is active; it is
making the most of his condition, finding voluptuousness in
languor and drama in death. They are all impressed, in spite of
themselves, except Ridgeon, who is implacable. B.B. is entirely
sympathetic and forgiving. Ridgeon follows the chair with a tray
of milk and stimulants. Sir Patrick, who accompanies him, takes
the tea-table from the corner and places it behind the chair for
the tray. B. B. takes the easel chair and places it for Jennifer
at Dubedat's side, next the dais, from which the lay figure ogles
the dying artist. B. B. then returns to Dubedat's left. Jennifer
sits. Walpole sits down on the edge of the dais. Ridgeon stands
near him.

LOUIS [blissfully] Thats happiness! To be in a  studio!
Happiness!

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear. Sir Patrick says you may stay here as
long as you like.

LOUIS. Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, my darling.

LOUIS. Is the newspaper man here?

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [glibly] Yes, Mr Dubedat: I'm here, at your
service. I represent the press. I thought you might like to let
us have a few words about--about--er--well, a few words on your
illness, and your plans for the season.

LOUIS. My plans for the season are very simple. I'm going to die.

MRS DUBEDAT [tortured] Louis--dearest--

LOUIS. My darling: I'm very weak and tired. Dont put on me the
horrible strain of pretending that I dont know. Ive been lying
there listening to the doctors--laughing to myself. They know.
Dearest: dont cry. It makes you ugly; and I cant bear that. [She
dries her eyes and recovers herself with a proud effort]. I want
you to promise me something.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, yes: you know I will. [Imploringly] Only, my
love, my love, dont talk: it will waste your strength.

LOUIS. No: it will only use it up. Ridgeon: give me something to
keep me going for a few minutes--one of your confounded anti-
toxins, if you dont mind. I have some things to say before I go.

RIDGEON [looking at Sir Patrick] I suppose it can do no harm? [He
pours out some spirit, and is about to add soda water when Sir
Patrick corrects him].

SIR PATRICK. In milk. Dont set him coughing.

LOUIS [after drinking] Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear.

LOUIS. If theres one thing I hate more than another, it's a
widow. Promise me that youll never be a widow.

MRS DUBEDAT. My dear, what do you mean?

LOUIS. I want you to look beautiful. I want people to see in your
eyes that you were married to me. The people in Italy used to
point at Dante and say "There goes the man who has been in hell."
I want them to point at you and say "There goes a woman who has
been in heaven." It has been heaven, darling, hasnt it--
sometimes?

MRs DUBEDAT. Oh yes, yes. Always, always.

LOUIS. If you wear black and cry, people will say "Look at that
miserable woman: her husband made her miserable."

MRS DUBEDAT. No, never. You are the light and the blessing of my
life. I never lived until I knew you.

LOUIS [his eyes glistening] Then you must always wear beautiful
dresses and splendid magic jewels. Think of all the wonderful
pictures I shall never paint.

[She wins a terrible victory over a sob] Well, you must be
transfigured with all the beauty of those pictures. Men must get
such dreams from seeing you as they never could get from any
daubing with paints and brushes. Painters must paint you as they
never painted any mortal woman before. There must be a great
tradition of beauty, a great atmosphere of wonder and romance.
That is what men must always think of when they think of me.
That is the sort of immortality I want. You can make that for me,
Jennifer. There are lots of things you dont understand that every
woman in the street understands; but you can understand that and
do it as nobody else can. Promise me that immortality. Promise me
you will not make a little hell of crape and crying and
undertaker's horrors and withering flowers and all that vulgar
rubbish.

MRS DUBEDAT. I promise. But all that is far off, dear. You are to
come to Cornwall with me and get well. Sir Ralph says so.

LOUIS. Poor old B. B.

B. B. [affected to tears, turns away and whispers to Sir Patrick]
Poor fellow! Brain going.

LOUIS. Sir Patrick's there, isn't he?

SIR PATRICK. Yes, yes. I'm here.

LOUIS. Sit down, wont you? It's a shame to keep you standing
about.

SIR PATRICK. Yes, Yes. Thank you. All right.

LOUIS. Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear.

LOUIS [with a strange look of delight] Do you remember the
burning bush?

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, Yes. Oh, my dear, how it strains my heart to
remember it now!

LOUIS. Does it? It fills me with joy. Tell them about it.

MRS DUBEDAT. It was nothing--only that once in my old Cornish
home we lit the first fire of the winter; and when we looked
through the window we saw the flames dancing in a bush in the
garden.

LOUIS. Such a color! Garnet color. Waving like silk. Liquid
lovely flame flowing up through the bay leaves, and not burning
them. Well, I shall be a flame like that. I'm sorry to disappoint
the poor little worms; but the last of me shall be the flame in
the burning bush. Whenever you see the flame, Jennifer, that will
be me. Promise me that I shall be burnt.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, if I might be with you, Louis!

LOUIS. No: you must always be in the garden when the bush flames.
You are my hold on the world: you are my immortality. Promise.

MRS DUBEDAT. I'm listening. I shall not forget. You know that I
promise.

LOUIS. Well, thats about all; except that you are to hang my
pictures at the one-man show. I can trust your eye. You wont let
anyone else touch them.

MRS DUBEDAT. You can trust me.

LOUIS. Then theres nothing more to worry about, is there? Give me
some more of that milk. I'm fearfully tired; but if I stop
talking I shant begin again. [Sir Ralph gives him a drink. He
takes it and looks up quaintly]. I say, B. B., do you think
anything would stop you talking?

B. B. [almost unmanned] He confuses me with you, Paddy. Poor
fellow! Poor fellow!

LOUIS [musing] I used to be awfully afraid of death; but now it's
come I have no fear; and I'm perfectly happy. Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear?

LOUIS. I'll tell you a secret. I used to think that our marriage
was all an affectation, and that I'd break loose and run away
some day. But now that I'm going to be broken loose whether I
like it or not, I'm perfectly fond of you, and perfectly
satisfied because I'm going to live as part of you and not as my
troublesome self.

MRS DUBEDAT [heartbroken] Stay with me, Louis. Oh, dont leave me,
dearest.

LOUIS. Not that I'm selfish. With all my faults I dont think Ive
ever been really selfish. No artist can: Art is too large for
that. You will marry again, Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, how can you, Louis?

LOUIS [insisting childishly] Yes, because people who have found
marriage happy always marry again. Ah, I shant be jealous.
[Slyly.] But dont talk to the other fellow too much about me: he
wont like it. [Almost chuckling] I shall be your lover all the
time; but it will be a secret from him, poor devil!

SIR PATRICK. Come! youve talked enough. Try to rest awhile.

LOUIS [wearily] Yes: I'm fearfully tired; but I shall have a long
rest presently. I have something to say to you fellows. Youre all
there, arnt you? I'm too weak to see anything but Jennifer's
bosom. That promises rest.

RIDGEON. We are all here.

LOUIS [startled] That voice sounded devilish. Take care,
Ridgeon: my ears hear things that other people's cant. Ive been
thinking--thinking. I'm cleverer than you imagine.

SIR PATRICK [whispering to Ridgeon] Youve got on his nerves,
Colly. Slip out quietly.

RIDGEON [apart to Sir Patrick] Would you deprive the dying actor
of his audience?

LOUIS [his face lighting up faintly with mischievous glee] I
heard that, Ridgeon. That was good. Jennifer dear: be kind to
Ridgeon always; because he was the last man who amused me.

RIDGEON [relentless] Was I?

LOUIS. But it's not true. It's you who are still on the stage.
I'm half way home already.

MRS DUBEDAT [to Ridgeon] What did you say?

LOUIS [answering for him] Nothing, dear. Only one of those
little secrets that men keep among themselves. Well, all you
chaps have thought pretty hard things of me, and said them.

B. B. [quite overcome] No, no, Dubedat. Not at all.

LOUIS. Yes, you have. I know what you all think of me. Dont
imagine I'm sore about it. I forgive you.

WALPOLE [involuntarily] Well, damn me! [Ashamed] I beg your
pardon.

LOUIS. That was old Walpole, I know. Don't grieve, Walpole. I'm
perfectly happy. I'm not in pain. I don't want to live. Ive
escaped from myself. I'm in heaven, immortal in the heart of my
beautiful Jennifer. I'm not afraid, and not ashamed.
[Reflectively, puzzling it out for himself weakly] I know that in
an accidental sort of way, struggling through the unreal part of
life, I havnt always been able to live up to my ideal. But in my
own real world I have never done anything wrong, never denied my
faith, never been untrue to myself. Ive been threatened and
blackmailed and insulted and starved. But Ive played the game.
Ive fought the good fight. And now it's all over, theres an
indescribable peace. [He feebly folds his hands and utters his
creed] I believe in Michael Angelo, Velasquez, and Rembrandt; in
the might of design, the mystery of color, the redemption of all
things by Beauty everlasting, and the message of Art that has
made these hands blessed. Amen. Amen. [He closes his eyes and
lies still].

MRS DUBEDAT [breathless] Louis: are you--

Walpole rises and comes quickly to see whether he is dead.

LOUIS. Not yet, dear. Very nearly, but not yet. I should like to
rest my head on your bosom; only it would tire you.

MRS DUBEDAT. No, no, no, darling: how could you tire me? [She
lifts him so that he lies on her bosom].

LOUIS. Thats good. Thats real.

MRS DUBEDAT. Dont spare me, dear. Indeed, indeed you will not
tire me. Lean on me with all your weight.

LOUIS [with a sudden half return of his normal strength and
comfort] Jinny Gwinny: I think I shall recover after all. [Sir
Patrick looks significantly at Ridgeon, mutely warning him that
this is the end].

MRS DUBEDAT [hopefully] Yes, yes: you shall.

LOUIS. Because I suddenly want to sleep. Just an ordinary sleep.

MRS DUBEDAT [rocking him] Yes, dear. Sleep. [He seems to go to
sleep. Walpole makes another movement. She protests]. Sh--sh:
please dont disturb him. [His lips move]. What did you say, dear?
[In great distress] I cant listen without moving him. [His lips
move again; Walpole bends down and listens].

WALPOLE. He wants to know is the newspaper man here.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [excited; for he has been enjoying himself
enormously] Yes, Mr Dubedat. Here I am.

Walpole raises his hand warningly to silence him. Sir Ralph sits
down quietly on the sofa and frankly buries his face in his
handkerchief.

MRS DUBEDAT [with great relief] Oh thats right, dear: dont spare
me: lean with all your weight on me. Now you are really resting.

Sir Patrick quickly comes forward and feels Louis's pulse; then
takes him by the shoulders.

SIR PATRICK. Let me put him back on the pillow, maam. He will be
better so.

MRS DUBEDAT [piteously] Oh no, please, please, doctor. He is not
tiring me; and he will be so hurt when he wakes if he finds I
have put him away.

SIR PATRICK. He will never wake again. [He takes the body from
her and replaces it in the chair. Ridgeon, unmoved, lets down the
back and makes a bier of it].

MRS DUBEDAT [who has unexpectedly sprung to her feet, and stands
dry-eyed and stately] Was that death?

WALPOLE. Yes.

MRS DUBEDAT [with complete dignity] Will you wait for me a
moment? I will come back. [She goes out].

WALPOLE. Ought we to follow her? Is she in her right senses?

SIR PATRICK [with quiet conviction]. Yes. Shes all right. Leave
her alone. She'll come back.

RIDGEON [callously] Let us get this thing out of the way before
she comes.

B. B. [rising, shocked] My dear Colly! The poor lad! He died
splendidly.

SIR PATRICK. Aye! that is how the wicked die.

      For there are no bands in their death;
      But their strength is firm:
      They are not in trouble as other men.

No matter: its not for us to judge. Hes in another world now.

WALPOLE. Borrowing his first five-pound note there, probably.

RIDGEON. I said the other day that the most tragic thing in the
world is a sick doctor. I was wrong. The most tragic thing in the
world is a man of genius who is not also a man of honor.

Ridgeon and Walpole wheel the chair into the recess.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [to Sir Ralph] I thought it shewed a very nice
feeling, his being so particular about his wife going into proper
mourning for him and making her promise never to marry again.

B. B. [impressively] Mrs Dubedat is not in a position to carry
the interview any further. Neither are we.

SIR PATRICK. Good afternoon to you.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Mrs. Dubedat said she was coming back.

B. B. After you have gone.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Do you think she would give me a few words on
How It Feels to be a Widow? Rather a good title for an article,
isnt it?

B. B. Young man: if you wait until Mrs Dubedat comes back, you
will be able to write an article on How It Feels to be Turned Out
of the House.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [unconvinced] You think she'd rather not--

B. B. [cutting him short] Good day to you. [Giving him a
visiting-card] Mind you get my name correctly. Good day.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Good day. Thank you. [Vaguely trying to read
the card] Mr--

B. B. No, not Mister. This is your hat, I think [giving it to
him]. Gloves? No, of course: no gloves. Good day to you. [He
edges him out at last; shuts the door on him; and returns to Sir
Patrick as Ridgeon and Walpole come back from the recess, Walpole
crossing the room to the hat-stand, and Ridgeon coming between
Sir Ralph and Sir Patrick]. Poor fellow! Poor young
fellow! How well he died! I feel a better man, really.

SIR PATRICK. When youre as old as I am, youll know that it
matters very little how a man dies. What matters is, how he
lives. Every fool that runs his nose against a bullet is a hero
nowadays, because he dies for his country. Why dont he live for
it to some purpose?

B. B. No, please, Paddy: dont be hard on the poor lad. Not now,
not now. After all, was he so bad? He had only two failings:
money and women. Well, let us be honest. Tell the truth, Paddy.
Dont be hypocritical, Ridgeon. Throw off the mask, Walpole. Are
these two matters so well arranged at present that a disregard of
the usual arrangements indicates real depravity?

WALPOLE. I dont mind his disregarding the usual arrangements.
Confound the usual arrangements! To a man of science theyre
beneath contempt both as to money and women. What I mind is his
disregarding everything except his own pocket and his own fancy.
He didn't disregard the usual arrangements when they paid
him. Did he give us his pictures for nothing? Do you suppose he'd
have hesitated to blackmail me if I'd compromised myself with his
wife? Not he.

SIR PATRICK. Dont waste your time wrangling over him. A
blackguard's a blackguard; an honest man's an honest man; and
neither of them will ever be at a loss for a religion or a
morality to prove that their ways are the right ways. It's the
same with nations, the same with professions, the same all the
world over and always will be.

B. B. Ah, well, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Still, de mortuis nil
nisi bonum. He died extremely well, remarkably well. He has set
us an example: let us endeavor to follow it rather than harp on
the weaknesses that have perished with him. I think it is
Shakespear who says that the good that most men do lives after
them: the evil lies interred with their bones. Yes: interred with
their bones. Believe me, Paddy, we are all mortal. It is the
common lot, Ridgeon. Say what you will, Walpole, Nature's debt
must be paid. If tis not to-day, twill be to-morrow.

     To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
     After life's fitful fever they sleep well
     And like this insubstantial bourne from which
     No traveller returns
     Leave not a wrack behind.

Walpole is about to speak, but B. B., suddenly and
vehemently proceeding, extinguishes him.

     Out, out, brief candle:
     For nothing canst thou to damnation add
     The readiness is all.

WALPOLE [gently; for B. B.'s feeling, absurdly expressed as it
is, is too sincere and humane to be ridiculed] Yes, B. B. Death
makes people go on like that. I dont know why it should; but it
does. By the way, what are we going to do? Ought we to clear out;
or had we better wait and see whether Mrs Dubedat will come back?

SIR PATRICK. I think we'd better go. We can tell the charwoman
what to do.

They take their hats and go to the door.

MRS DUBEDAT [coming from the inner door wonderfully and
beautifully dressed, and radiant, carrying a great piece of
purple silk, handsomely embroidered, over her arm] I'm so sorry
to have kept you waiting.

SIR PATRICK }  [amazed, all   { Dont mention it, madam.
B.B.        }   together      { Not at all, not at all.
RIDGEON     }   in a confused { By no means.
WALPOLE     }   murmur]       { It doesnt matter in the least.

MRS. DUBEDAT [coming to them] I felt that I must shake hands with
his friends once before we part to-day. We have shared together a
great privilege and a great happiness. I dont think we can ever
think of ourselves ordinary people again. We have had a wonderful
experience; and that gives us a common faith, a common ideal,
that nobody else can quite have. Life will always be beautiful to
us: death will always be beautiful to us. May we shake hands on
that?

SIR PATRICK [shaking hands] Remember: all letters had better be
left to your solicitor. Let him open everything and settle
everything. Thats the law, you know.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, thank you: I didnt know. [Sir Patrick goes].

WALPOLE. Good-bye. I blame myself: I should have insisted on
operating. [He goes].

B.B. I will send the proper people: they will know it to do: you
shall have no trouble. Good-bye, my dear lady. [He goes].

RIDGEON. Good-bye. [He offers his hand].

MRS DUBEDAT [drawing back with gentle majesty] I said his
friends, Sir Colenso. [He bows and goes].

She unfolds the great piece of silk, and goes into the recess to
cover her dead.



ACT V

One of the smaller Bond Street Picture Galleries. The entrance is
from a picture shop. Nearly in the middle of the gallery there is
a writing-table, at which the Secretary, fashionably dressed,
sits with his back to the entrance, correcting catalogue proofs.
Some copies of a new book are on the desk, also the Secretary's
shining hat and a couple of magnifying glasses. At the side, on
his left, a little behind him, is a small door marked PRIVATE.
Near the same side is a cushioned bench parallel to the walls,
which are covered with Dubedat's works. Two screens, also covered
with drawings, stand near the corners right and left of the
entrance.

Jennifer, beautifully dressed and apparently very happy and
prosperous, comes into the gallery through the private door.

JENNIFER. Have the catalogues come yet, Mr Danby?

THE SECRETARY. Not yet.

JENNIFER. What a shame! It's a quarter past: the private view
will begin in less than half an hour.

THE SECRETARY. I think I'd better run over to the printers to
hurry them up.

JENNIFER. Oh, if you would be so good, Mr Danby. I'll take your
place while youre away.

THE SECRETARY. If anyone should come before the time dont take
any notice. The commissionaire wont let anyone through unless he
knows him. We have a few people who like to come before the
crowd--people who really buy; and of course we're glad to see
them. Have you seen the notices in Brush and Crayon and in The
Easel?

JENNIFER [indignantly] Yes: most disgraceful. They write quite
patronizingly, as if they were Mr Dubedat's superiors. After all
the cigars and sandwiches they had from us on the press day, and
all they drank, I really think it is infamous that they should
write like that. I hope you have not sent them tickets for to-
day.

THE SECRETARY. Oh, they wont come again: theres no lunch to-day.
The advance copies of your book have come. [He indicates the new
books].

JENNIFER [pouncing on a copy, wildly excited] Give it to me. Oh!
excuse me a moment [she runs away with it through the private
door].

The Secretary takes a mirror from his drawer and smartens himself
before going out. Ridgeon comes in.

RIDGEON. Good morning. May I look round, as well, before the
doors open?

THE SECRETARY. Certainly, Sir Colenso. I'm sorry catalogues have
not come: I'm just going to see about them. Heres my own list, if
you dont mind.

RIDGEON. Thanks. Whats this? [He takes up one the new books].

THE SECRETARY. Thats just come in. An advance copy of Mrs
Dubedat's Life of her late husband.

RIDGEON [reading the title] The Story of a King By His Wife. [He
looks at the portrait frontise]. Ay: there he is. You knew him
here, I suppose.

THE SECRETARY. Oh, we knew him. Better than she did, Sir Colenso,
in some ways, perhaps.

RIDGEON. So did I. [They look significantly at one another]. I'll
take a look round.

The Secretary puts on the shining hat and goes out. Ridgeon
begins looking at the pictures. Presently he comes back to the
table for a magnifying glass, and scrutinizes a drawing very
closely. He sighs; shakes his head, as if constrained to admit
the extraordinary fascination and merit of the work; then marks
the Secretary's list. Proceeding with his survey, he disappears
behind the screen. Jennifer comes back with her book. A look
round satisfies her that she is alone. She seats herself at the
table and admires the memoir--her first printed book--to her
heart's content. Ridgeon re-appears, face to the wall,
scrutinizing the drawings. After using his glass again, he steps
back to get a more distant view of one of the larger pictures.
She hastily closes the book at the sound; looks round; recognizes
him; and stares, petrified. He takes a further step back which
brings him nearer to her.

RIDGEON [shaking his head as before, ejaculates] Clever brute!
[She flushes as though he had struck her. He turns to put the
glass down on the desk, and finds himself face to face with her
intent gaze]. I beg your pardon. I thought I was alone.

JENNIFER [controlling herself, and speaking steadily and
meaningly] I am glad we have met, Sir Colenso Ridgeon. I met Dr
Blenkinsop yesterday. I congratulate you on a wonderful cure.

RIDGEON [can find no words; makes an embarrassed gesture of
assent after a moment's silence, and puts down the glass and the
Secretary's list on the table].

JENNIFER. He looked the picture of health and strength and
prosperity. [She looks for a moment at the walls, contrasting
Blenkinsop's fortune with the artist's fate].

RIDGEON [in low tones, still embarrassed] He has been fortunate.

JENNIFER. Very fortunate. His life has been spared.

RIDGEON. I mean that he has been made a Medical Officer of
Health. He cured the Chairman of the Borough Council very
successfully.

JENNIFER. With your medicines?

RIDGEON. No. I believe it was with a pound of ripe greengages.

JENNIFER [with deep gravity] Funny!

RIDGEON. Yes. Life does not cease to be funny when people die any
more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.

JENNIFER. Dr Blenkinsop said one very strange thing to me.

RIDGEON. What was that?

JENNIFER. He said that private practice in medicine ought to be
put down by law. When I asked him why, he said that private
doctors were ignorant licensed murderers.

RIDGEON. That is what the public doctor always thinks of the
private doctor. Well, Blenkinsop ought to know. He was a private
doctor long enough himself. Come! you have talked at me long
enough. Talk to me. You have something to reproach me with. There
is reproach in your face, in your voice: you are full of it. Out
with it.

JENNIFER. It is too late for reproaches now. When I turned and
saw you just now, I wondered how you could come here coolly to
look at his pictures. You answered the question. To you, he was
only a clever brute.

RIDGEON [quivering] Oh, dont. You know I did not know you were
here.

JENNIFER [raising her head a little with a quite gentle impulse
of pride] You think it only mattered because I heard it. As if it
could touch me, or touch him! Dont you see that what is really
dreadful is that to you living things have no souls.

RIDGEON [with a sceptical shrug] The soul is an organ I have not
come across in the course of my anatomical work.

JENNIFER. You know you would not dare to say such a silly thing
as that to anybody but a woman whose mind you despise. If you
dissected me you could not find my conscience. Do you think I
have got none?

RIDGEON. I have met people who had none.

JENNIFER. Clever brutes? Do you know, doctor, that some of the
dearest and most faithful friends I ever had were only brutes!
You would have vivisected them. The dearest and greatest of all
my friends had a sort of beauty and affectionateness that only
animals have. I hope you may never feel what I felt when I had to
put him into the hands of men who defend the torture of animals
because they are only brutes.

RIDGEON. Well, did you find us so very cruel, after all? They
tell me that though you have dropped me, you stay for weeks with
the Bloomfield Boningtons and the Walpoles. I think it must be
true, because they never mention you to me now.

JENNIFER. The animals in Sir Ralph's house are like spoiled
children. When Mr. Walpole had to take a splinter out of the
mastiff's paw, I had to hold the poor dog myself; and Mr Walpole
had to turn Sir Ralph out of the room. And Mrs. Walpole has to
tell the gardener not to kill wasps when Mr. Walpole is looking.
But there are doctors who are naturally cruel; and there are
others who get used to cruelty and are callous about it. They
blind themselves to the souls of animals; and that blinds them to
the souls of men and women. You made a dreadful mistake about
Louis; but you would not have made it if you had not trained
yourself to make the same mistake about dogs. You saw nothing in
them but dumb brutes; and so you could see nothing in him but a
clever brute.

RIDGEON [with sudden resolution] I made no mistake whatever about
him.

JENNIFER. Oh, doctor!

RIDGEON [obstinately] I made no mistake whatever about him.

JENNIFER. Have you forgotten that he died?

RIDGEON [with a sweep of his hand towards the pictures] He is not
dead. He is there. [Taking up the book] And there.

JENNIFER [springing up with blazing eyes] Put that down. How dare
you touch it?

Ridgeon, amazed at the fierceness of the outburst, puts it down
with a deprecatory shrug. She takes it up and looks at it as if
he had profaned a relic.

RIDGEON. I am very sorry. I see I had better go.

JENNIFER [putting the book down] I beg your pardon. I forgot
myself. But it is not yet--it is a private copy.

RIDGEON. But for me it would have been a very different book.

JENNIFER. But for you it would have been a longer one.

RIDGEON. You know then that I killed him?

JENNIFER [suddenly moved and softened] Oh, doctor, if you
acknowledge that--if you have confessed it to yourself--if you
realize what you have done, then there is forgiveness. I trusted
in your strength instinctively at first; then I thought I had
mistaken callousness for strength. Can you blame me? But if it
was really strength--if it was only such a mistake as we all make
sometimes--it will make me so happy to be friends with you again.

RIDGEON. I tell you I made no mistake. I cured Blenkinsop: was
there any mistake there?

JENNIFER. He recovered. Oh, dont be foolishly proud, doctor.
Confess to a failure, and save our friendship. Remember, Sir
Ralph gave Louis your medicine; and it made him worse.

RIDGEON. I cant be your friend on false pretences. Something has
got me by the throat: the truth must come out. I used that
medicine myself on Blenkinsop. It did not make him worse. It is a
dangerous medicine: it cured Blenkinsop: it killed Louis Dubedat.
When I handle it, it cures. When another man handles it, it
kills--sometimes.

JENNIFER [naively: not yet taking it all in] Then why did you let
Sir Ralph give it to Louis?

RIDGEON. I'm going to tell you. I did it because I was in love
with you.

JENNIFER [innocently surprised] In lo-- You! elderly man!

RIDGEON [thunderstruck, raising his fists to heaven] Dubedat:
thou art avenged! [He drops his hands and collapses on the
bench]. I never thought of that. I suppose I appear to you a
ridiculous old fogey.

JENNIFER. But surely--I did not mean to offend you, indeed--but
you must be at least twenty years older than I am.

RIDGEON. Oh, quite. More, perhaps. In twenty years you will
understand how little difference that makes.

JENNIFER. But even so, how could you think that I--his wife--
could ever think of YOU--

RIDGEON [stopping her with a nervous waving of his fingers] Yes,
yes, yes, yes: I quite understand: you neednt rub it in.

JENNIFER. But--oh, it is only dawning on me now--I was so
surprised at first--do you dare to tell me that it was to gratify
a miserable jealousy that you deliberately--oh! oh! you murdered
him.

RIDGEON. I think I did. It really comes to that.

      Thou shalt not kill, but needst not strive
      Officiously to keep alive.

I suppose--yes: I killed him.

JENNIFER. And you tell me that! to my face! callously! You are
not afraid!

RIDGEON. I am a doctor: I have nothing to fear. It is not an
indictable offense to call in B. B. Perhaps it ought to be; but
it isnt.

JENNIFER. I did not mean that. I meant afraid of my taking the
law into my own hands, and killing you.

RIDGEON. I am so hopelessly idiotic about you that I should not
mind it a bit. You would always remember me if you did that.

JENNIFER. I shall remember you always as a little man who tried
to kill a great one.

RIDGEON. Pardon me. I succeeded.

JENNIFER [with quiet conviction] No. Doctors think they hold the
keys of life and death; but it is not their will that is
fulfilled. I dont believe you made any difference at all.

RIDGEON. Perhaps not. But I intended to.

JENNIFER [looking at him amazedly: not without pity] And you
tried to destroy that wonderful and beautiful life merely because
you grudged him a woman whom you could never have expected to
care for you!

RIDGEON. Who kissed my hands. Who believed in me. Who told me her
friendship lasted until death.

JENNIFER. And whom you were betraying.

RIDGEON. No. Whom I was saving.

JENNIFER [gently] Pray, doctor, from what?

RIDGEON. From making a terrible discovery. From having your life
laid waste.

JENNIFER. How?

RIDGEON. No matter. I have saved you. I have been the best friend
you ever had. You are happy. You are well. His works are an
imperishable joy and pride for you.

JENNIFER. And you think that is your doing. Oh doctor, doctor!
Sir Patrick is right: you do think you are a little god. How can
you be so silly? You did not paint those pictures which are my
imperishable joy and pride: you did not speak the words that will
always be heavenly music in my ears. I listen to them now
whenever I am tired or sad. That is why I am always happy.

RIDGEON. Yes, now that he is dead. Were you always happy when he
was alive?

JENNIFER [wounded] Oh, you are cruel, cruel. When he was alive I
did not know the greatness of my blessing. I worried meanly about
little things. I was unkind to him. I was unworthy of him.

RIDGEON [laughing bitterly] Ha!

JENNIFER. Dont insult me: dont blaspheme. [She snatches up the
book and presses it to her heart in a paroxysm of remorse,
exclaiming] Oh, my King of Men!

RIDGEON. King of Men! Oh, this is too monstrous, too grotesque.
We cruel doctors have kept the secret from you faithfully; but it
is like all secrets: it will not keep itself. The buried truth
germinates and breaks through to the light.

JENNIFER. What truth?

RIDGEON. What truth! Why, that Louis Dubedat, King of Men, was
the most entire and perfect scoundrel, the most miraculously mean
rascal, the most callously selfish blackguard that ever made a
wife miserable.

JENNIFER [unshaken: calm and lovely] He made his wife the
happiest woman in the world, doctor.

RIDGEON. No: by all thats true on earth, he made his WIDOW the
happiest woman in the world; but it was I who made her a widow.
And her happiness is my justification and my reward. Now you know
what I did and what I thought of him. Be as angry with me as you
like: at least you know me as I really am. If you ever come to
care for an elderly man, you will know what you are caring for.

JENNIFER [kind and quiet] I am not angry with you any more, Sir
Colenso. I knew quite well that you did not like Louis; but it is
not your fault: you dont understand: that is all. You never could
have believed in him. It is just like your not believing in my
religion: it is a sort of sixth sense that you have not got. And
[with a gentle reassuring movement towards him] dont think that
you have shocked me so dreadfully. I know quite well what you
mean by his selfishness. He sacrificed everything for his art. In
a certain sense he had even to sacrifice everybody--

RIDGEON. Everybody except himself. By keeping that back he lost
the right to sacrifice you, and gave me the right to sacrifice
him. Which I did.

JENNIFER [shaking her head, pitying his error] He was one of the
men who know what women know: that self-sacrifice is vain and
cowardly.

RIDGEON. Yes, when the sacrifice is rejected and thrown away. Not
when it becomes the food of godhead.

JENNIFER. I dont understand that. And I cant argue with you: you
are clever enough to puzzle me, but not to shake me. You are so
utterly, so wildly wrong; so incapable of appreciating Louis--

RIDGEON. Oh! [taking up the Secretary's list] I have marked five
pictures as sold to me.

JENNIFER. They will not be sold to you. Louis' creditors insisted
on selling them; but this is my birthday; and they were all
bought in for me this morning by my husband.

RIDGEON. By whom?!!!

JENNIFER. By my husband.

RIDGEON [gabbling and stuttering] What husband? Whose husband?
Which husband? Whom? how? what? Do you mean to say that you have
married again?

JENNIFER. Do you forget that Louis disliked widows, and that
people who have married happily once always marry again?

The Secretary returns with a pile of catalogues.

THE SECRETARY. Just got the first batch of catalogues in time.
The doors are open.

JENNIFER [to Ridgeon, politely] So glad you like the pictures,
Sir Colenso. Good morning.

RIDGEON. Good morning. [He goes towards the door; hesitates;
turns to say something more; gives it up as a bad job; and goes].



















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