FANNY'S FIRST PLAY BY BERNARD SHAW 1911 This text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays"Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets", "Fanny's First Play", andthe essay "A Treatise on Parents and Children". Notes on the editing: Italicized text is delimited with underlines("_ _"). Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text. Shawintentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard system. Forexample, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe), "Dr. " is givenas "Dr" (without a period at the end), and "Shakespeare" is given as"Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). Where several characters in the playare speaking at once, I have indicated it with vertical bars ("|"). Thepound (currency) symbol has been replaced by the word "pounds". PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY Fanny's First Play, being but a potboiler, needs no preface. But itslesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded. Mere morality, or thesubstitution of custom for conscience was once accounted a shameful andcynical thing: people talked of right and wrong, of honor and dishonor, of sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of morality andimmorality. The word morality, if we met it in the Bible, would surpriseus as much as the word telephone or motor car. Nowadays we do not seemto know that there is any other test of conduct except morality; andthe result is that the young had better have their souls awakened bydisgrace, capture by the police, and a month's hard labor, than driftalong from their cradles to their graves doing what other people do forno other reason than that other people do it, and knowing nothing ofgood and evil, of courage and cowardice, or indeed anything but how tokeep hunger and concupiscence and fashionable dressing within the boundsof good taste except when their excesses can be concealed. Is it anywonder that I am driven to offer to young people in our suburbs thedesperate advice: Do something that will get you into trouble? Butplease do not suppose that I defend a state of things which makes suchadvice the best that can be given under the circumstances, or that I donot know how difficult it is to find out a way of getting into troublethat will combine loss of respectability with integrity of self-respectand reasonable consideration for other peoples' feelings and interestson every point except their dread of losing their own respectability. But when there's a will there's a way. I hate to see dead people walkingabout: it is unnatural. And our respectable middle class people are allas dead as mutton. Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I have delivered on themthe judgment of her God. The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction to this play underthe names of Trotter, Vaughan, and Gunn will forgive me: in fact MrTrotter forgave me beforehand, and assisted the make-up by which MrClaude King so successfully simulated his personal appearance. Thecritics whom I did not introduce were somewhat hurt, as I should havebeen myself under the same circumstances; but I had not room for themall; so I can only apologize and assure them that I meant no disrespect. The concealment of the authorship, if a _secret de Polichinelle_ can besaid to involve concealment, was a necessary part of the play. In so faras it was effectual, it operated as a measure of relief to those criticsand playgoers who are so obsessed by my strained legendary reputationthat they approach my plays in a condition which is really one ofderangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play of mine as anythingbut a trap baited with paradoxes, and designed to compass their ethicalperversion and intellectual confusion. If it were possible, I should putforward all my plays anonymously, or hire some less disturbing person, as Bacon is said to have hired Shakespear, to father my plays for me. Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time at the LittleTheatre in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, April19th 1911. FANNY'S FIRST PLAY INDUCTION _The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence Towers, the property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form a stagefor a private theatrical performance. A footman in grandiose Spanishlivery enters before the curtain, on its O. P. Side. _ FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savoyard comes in:a middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat. He issurprised to find nobody to receive him. So is the Footman]. Oh, begpardon, sir: I thought the Count was here. He was when I took up yourname. He must have gone through the stage into the library. This way, sir. [He moves towards the division in the middle of the curtains]. SAVOYARD. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When does the play begin?Half-past eight? FOOTMAN. Nine, sir. SAVOYARD. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my wife at the Georgethat it's not until nine? FOOTMAN. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir? SAVOYARD. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget. THE FOOTMAN. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The Count comes in throughthe curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. [Announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard, sir. [He withdraws]. COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied elegancea hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake hands with hisvisitor] Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly recollected that allthe bookcases in the library were locked--in fact theyve never beenopened since we came from Venice--and as our literary guests willprobably use the library a good deal, I just ran in to unlockeverything. SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose theres asmoking room? THE COUNT. My study is available. An old-fashioned house, youunderstand. Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard? SAVOYARD. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his host's obsoletecostume, continues] I had no idea you were going to appear in the pieceyourself. THE COUNT. I am not. I wear this costume because--well, perhaps I hadbetter explain the position, if it interests you. SAVOYARD. Certainly. THE COUNT. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in yourworld. I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word. I'mnot really an Englishman: my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life inItaly--in Venice mostly--my very title is a foreign one: I am a Count ofthe Holy Roman Empire. SAVOYARD. Where's that? THE COUNT. At present, nowhere, except as a memory and an ideal. [Savoyard inclines his head respectfully to the ideal]. But I am byno means an idealogue. I am not content with beautiful dreams: I wantbeautiful realities. SAVOYARD. Hear, hear! I'm all with you there--when you can get them. THE COUNT. Why not get them? The difficulty is not that there are nobeautiful realities, Mr Savoyard: the difficulty is that so few ofus know them when we see them. We have inherited from the past a vasttreasure of beauty--of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of painting, of sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite fashions indress, in furniture, in domestic decoration. We can contemplate thesetreasures. We can reproduce many of them. We can buy a few inimitableoriginals. We can shut out the nineteenth century-- SAVOYARD. [correcting him] The twentieth. THE COUNT. To me the century I shut out will always be the nineteenthcentury, just as your national anthem will always be God Save the Queen, no matter how many kings may succeed. I found England befouled withindustrialism: well, I did what Byron did: I simply refused to live init. You remember Byron's words: "I am sure my bones would not rest in anEnglish grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believethe thought would drive me mad on my deathbed could I suppose that anyof my friends would be base enough to convey my carcase back to hersoil. I would not even feed her worms if I could help it. " SAVOYARD. Did Byron say that? THE COUNT. He did, sir. SAVOYARD. It dont sound like him. I saw a good deal of him at one time. THE COUNT. You! But how is that possible? You are too young. SAVOYARD. I was quite a lad, of course. But I had a job in the originalproduction of Our Boys. THE COUNT. My dear sir, not that Byron. Lord Byron, the poet. SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were talking of theByron. So you prefer living abroad? THE COUNT. I find England ugly and Philistine. Well, I dont live in it. I find modern houses ugly. I dont live in them: I have a palace on thegrand canal. I find modern clothes prosaic. I dont wear them, except, ofcourse, in the street. My ears are offended by the Cockney twang: I keepout of hearing of it and speak and listen to Italian. I find Beethoven'smusic coarse and restless, and Wagner's senseless and detestable. I donot listen to them. I listen to Cimarosa, to Pergolesi, to Gluck andMozart. Nothing simpler, sir. SAVOYARD. It's all right when you can afford it. THE COUNT. Afford it! My dear Mr Savoyard, if you are a man with a senseof beauty you can make an earthly paradise for yourself in Venice on1500 pounds a year, whilst our wretched vulgar industrial millionairesare spending twenty thousand on the amusements of billiard markers. Iassure you I am a poor man according to modern ideas. But I have neverhad anything less than the very best that life has produced. It is mygood fortune to have a beautiful and lovable daughter; and that girl, sir, has never seen an ugly sight or heard an ugly sound that I couldspare her; and she has certainly never worn an ugly dress or tastedcoarse food or bad wine in her life. She has lived in a palace; and herperambulator was a gondola. Now you know the sort of people we are, MrSavoyard. You can imagine how we feel here. SAVOYARD. Rather out of it, eh? THE COUNT. Out of it, sir! Out of what? SAVOYARD. Well, out of everything. THE COUNT. Out of soot and fog and mud and east wind; out of vulgarityand ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, superstition and stupidity. Out ofall this, and in the sunshine, in the enchanted region of which greatartists alone have had the secret, in the sacred footsteps of Byron, ofShelley, of the Brownings, of Turner and Ruskin. Dont you envy me, MrSavoyard? SAVOYARD. Some of us must live in England, you know, just to keep theplace going. Besides--though, mind you, I dont say it isnt all rightfrom the high art point of view and all that--three weeks of it woulddrive me melancholy mad. However, I'm glad you told me, because itexplains why it is you dont seem to know your way about much in England. I hope, by the way, that everything has given satisfaction to yourdaughter. THE COUNT. She seems quite satisfied. She tells me that the actors yousent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice peopleto work with. I understand she had some difficulties at the firstrehearsals with the gentleman you call the producer, because he hadntread the play; but the moment he found out what it was all abouteverything went smoothly. SAVOYARD. Havnt you seen the rehearsals? THE COUNT. Oh no. I havnt been allowed even to meet any of the company. All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman [Savoyard is ratherscandalized]: I asked her not to have an English hero. That is all Iknow. [Ruefully] I havnt been consulted even about the costumes, thoughthere, I think, I could have been some use. SAVOYARD. [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes. THE COUNT. [seriously shocked] What! No costumes! Do you mean to say itis a modern play? SAVOYARD. I dont know: I didnt read it. I handed it to BillyBurjoyce--the producer, you know--and left it to him to select thecompany and so on. But I should have had to order the costumes if therehad been any. There wernt. THE COUNT. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand. Shehas taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in beautifulcostumes. I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what you are aboutto see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau. Theheroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a dainty Harlequin, her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet who hoodwinks thefather and brings about the happiness of the lovers a grotesque butperfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or Sganarelle. SAVOYARD. I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman willmake five. Thats why you wanted five men in the company. THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly, silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade ofa nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it afterall but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius ofGrimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the existenceof such a thing. I refer to the graceful and charming fantasies of theItalian and French stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are rot. Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy Burjoycetold me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, andhad seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been away in Venice allthe time. THE COUNT. Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that twoyears ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge. Cambridge was my own University; and though of course there were nowomen there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of theeighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be atCambridge. About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether Iwished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of course I saidyes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that shehad written a play, and that the present she wanted was a privateperformance of it with real actors and real critics. SAVOYARD. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was easy enough to engagea company for a private performance: it's done often enough. But thenotion of having critics was new. I hardly knew how to set about it. They dont expect private engagements; and so they have no agents. Besides, I didnt know what to offer them. I knew that they were cheaperthan actors, because they get long engagements: forty years sometimes;but thats no rule for a single job. Then theres such a lot of them: onfirst nights they run away with all your stalls: you cant find a decentplace for your own mother. It would have cost a fortune to bring thelot. THE COUNT. Of course I never dreamt of having them all. Only a fewfirst-rate representative men. SAVOYARD. Just so. All you want is a few sample opinions. Out of ahundred notices you wont find more than four at the outside that sayanything different. Well, Ive got just the right four for you. And whatdo you think it has cost me? THE COUNT. [shrugging his shoulders] I cannot guess. SAVOYARD. Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give Flawner Bannal ten. He wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it, becauseif we hadnt had him we might just as well have had nobody at all. THE COUNT. But what about the others, if Mr Flannel-- SAVOYARD. [shocked] Flawner Bannal. THE COUNT. --if Mr Bannal got the whole ten? SAVOYARD. Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class sort of thing, thefirst man I went for was Trotter. THE COUNT. Oh indeed. I am very glad you have secured Mr Trotter. I haveread his Playful Impressions. SAVOYARD. Well, I was rather in a funk about him. Hes not exactly whatI call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off at first. But when Iexplained and told him your daughter-- THE COUNT. [interrupting in alarm] You did not say that the play was byher, I hope? SAVOYARD. No: thats been kept a dead secret. I just said your daughterhas asked for a real play with a real author and a real critic and allthe rest of it. The moment I mentioned the daughter I had him. He hasa daughter of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment! Offered to come just toplease her! Quite human. I was surprised. THE COUNT. Extremely kind of him. SAVOYARD. Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as thedrama: and you said you thought there would be music. I told him Trotterwould feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird. Then Ithought youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that go for thenewest things and swear theyre oldfashioned. So I nailed Gilbert Gunn. The four will give you a representative team. By the way [looking at hiswatch] theyll be here presently. THE COUNT. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hintsabout them that would help me to make a little conversation with them?I am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might unwittinglysay something tactless. SAVOYARD. Well, let me see. As you dont like English people, I dont knowthat youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English: neverhappy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so unnecessarily wellthat everybody there spots him as an Englishman the moment he openshis mouth. Very witty and all that. Pretends to turn up his nose atthe theatre and says people make too much fuss about art [the Count isextremely indignant]. But thats only his modesty, because art is his ownline, you understand. Mind you dont chaff him about Aristotle. THE COUNT. Why should I chaff him about Aristotle? SAVOYARD. Well, I dont know; but its one of the recognized ways ofchaffing him. However, youll get on with him all right: hes a man ofthe world and a man of sense. The one youll have to be careful about isVaughan. THE COUNT. In what way, may I ask? SAVOYARD. Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and if you joke withhim he'll think youre insulting him on purpose. Mind: it's not that hedoesnt see a joke: he does; and it hurts him. A comedy scene makes himsore all over: he goes away black and blue, and pitches into the playfor all hes worth. THE COUNT. But surely that is a very serious defect in a man of hisprofession? SAVOYARD. Yes it is, and no mistake. But Vaughan is honest, and dontcare a brass farthing what he says, or whether it pleases anybody ornot; and you must have one man of that sort to say the things thatnobody else will say. THE COUNT. It seems to me to carry the principle of division of labortoo far, this keeping of the honesty and the other qualities in separatecompartments. What is Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask? SAVOYARD. Gunn is one of the intellectuals. THE COUNT. But arnt they all intellectuals? SAVOYARD. Lord! no: heaven forbid! You must be careful what you sayabout that: I shouldnt like anyone to call me an Intellectual: I dontthink any Englishman would! They dont count really, you know; butstill it's rather the thing to have them. Gunn is one of the youngintellectuals: he writes plays himself. Hes useful because he pitchesinto the older intellectuals who are standing in his way. But you maytake it from me that none of these chaps really matter. Flawner Bannal'syour man. Bannal really represents the British playgoer. When he likesa thing, you may take your oath there are a hundred thousand people inLondon thatll like it if they can only be got to know about it. Besides, Bannal's knowledge of the theatre is an inside knowledge. We know him;and he knows us. He knows the ropes: he knows his way about: he knowswhat hes talking about. THE COUNT. [with a little sigh] Age and experience, I suppose? SAVOYARD. Age! I should put him at twenty at the very outside, myself. It's not an old man's job after all, is it? Bannal may not ride theliterary high horse like Trotter and the rest; but I'd take his opinionbefore any other in London. Hes the man in the street; and thats whatyou want. THE COUNT. I am almost sorry you didnt give the gentleman his fullterms. I should not have grudged the fifty guineas for a sound opinion. He may feel shabbily treated. SAVOYARD. Well, let him. It was a bit of side, his asking fifty. Afterall, what is he? Only a pressman. Jolly good business for him to earnten guineas: hes done the same job often enough for half a quid, Iexpect. _Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, excited andnervous. A girl of nineteen in a dress synchronous with her father's. _ FANNY. Papa, papa, the critics have come. And one of them has a cockedhat and sword like a-- [she notices Savoyard] Oh, I beg your pardon. THE COUNT. This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my dear. FANNY. [shaking hands] How do you do? SAVOYARD. Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Dowda. The cocked hat is allright. Trotter is a member of the new Academic Committee. He inducedthem to go in for a uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him towear it. THE FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, Mr Gunn, Mr FlawnerBannal. [The four critics enter. Trotter wears a diplomatic dress, withsword and three-cornered hat. His age is about 50. Vaughan is 40. Gunnis 30. Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike the others. They can beclassed at sight as professional men: Bannal is obviously one of thoseunemployables of the business class who manage to pick up a living by asort of courage which gives him cheerfulness, conviviality, andbounce, and is helped out positively by a slight turn for writing, andnegatively by a comfortable ignorance and lack of intuition which hidesfrom him all the dangers and disgraces that keep men of finer perceptionin check. The Count approaches them hospitably]. SAVOYARD. Count O'Dowda, gentlemen. Mr Trotter. TROTTER. [looking at the Count's costume] Have I the pleasure of meetinga confrere? THE COUNT. No, sir: I have no right to my costume except the right of alover of the arts to dress myself handsomely. You are most welcome, MrTrotter. [Trotter bows in the French manner]. SAVOYARD. Mr Vaughan. THE COUNT. How do you do, Mr Vaughan? VAUGHAN. Quite well, thanks. SAVOYARD. Mr Gunn. THE COUNT. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Gunn. GUNN. Very pleased. SAVOYARD. Mr Flawner Bannal. THE COUNT. Very kind of you to come, Mr Bannal. BANNAL. Dont mention it. THE COUNT. Gentlemen, my daughter. [They all bow]. We are very greatlyindebted to you, gentlemen, for so kindly indulging her whim. [Thedressing bell sounds. The Count looks at his watch]. Ah! The dressingbell, gentlemen. As our play begins at nine, I have had to put forwardthe dinner hour a little. May I shew you to your rooms? [He goes out, followed by all the men, except Trotter, who, going last, is detained byFanny]. FANNY. Mr Trotter: I want to say something to you about this play. TROTTER. No: thats forbidden. You must not attempt to _souffler_ thecritic. FANNY. Oh, I would not for the world try to influence your opinion. TROTTER. But you do: you are influencing me very shockingly. You inviteme to this charming house, where I'm about to enjoy a charming dinner. And just before the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming young lady tobe talked to about the play. How can you expect me to be impartial? Godforbid that I should set up to be a judge, or do more than record animpression; but my impressions can be influenced; and in this case youreinfluencing them shamelessly all the time. FANNY. Dont make me more nervous than I am already, Mr Trotter. If youknew how I feel! TROTTER. Naturally: your first party: your first appearance in Englandas hostess. But youre doing it beautifully. Dont be afraid. Every_nuance_ is perfect. FANNY. It's so kind of you to say so, Mr Trotter. But that isnt whatsthe matter. The truth is, this play is going to give my father adreadful shock. TROTTER. Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say. Half the youngladies in London spend their evenings making their fathers take them toplays that are not fit for elderly people to see. FANNY. Oh, I know all about that; but you cant understand what it meansto Papa. Youre not so innocent as he is. TROTTER. [remonstrating] My dear young lady-- FANNY. I dont mean morally innocent: everybody who reads your articlesknows youre as innocent as a lamb. TROTTER. What! FANNY. Yes, Mr Trotter: Ive seen a good deal of life since I came toEngland; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby: a dear, good, well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a weelamb in a world of wolves. Cambridge is not what it was in my father'stime. TROTTER. Well, I must say! FANNY. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge FabianSociety. TROTTER. Classifications? I dont understand. FANNY. We classify our aunts into different sorts. And one of the sortsis the "I must says. " TROTTER. I withdraw "I must say. " I substitute "Blame my cats!" No: Isubstitute "Blame my kittens!" Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I sayagain in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens. Impertinent little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess what is onyour conscience. This play to which you have lured me is one of those inwhich members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers in the artof milking ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your father. Well, I hope it will. And if he consults me about it I shall recommend him tosmack you soundly and pack you off to bed. FANNY. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter;but it doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much more conscious of what youreally are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you thoroughlyat Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you? TROTTER. I-- FANNY. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me. TROTTER. Trottering! FANNY. Thats what we call it at Cambridge. TROTTER. If it were not so obviously a stage _cliche_, I should say DamnCambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. And now let me warn you. Ifyoure going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you may coaxme. If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, I'll treatyou as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man. FANNY. [adoringly] But how few men are your intellectual equals, MrTrotter! TROTTER. I'm getting the worst of this. FANNY. Oh no. Why do you say that? TROTTER. May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently? FANNY. What does it matter? We're both ready. I havnt told you yet whatI want you to do for me. TROTTER. Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except outof pure magnanimity. What is it? FANNY. I dont mind this play shocking my father morally. It's good forhim to be shocked morally. It's all that the young can do for the old, to shock them and keep them up to date. But I know that this play willshock him artistically; and that terrifies me. No moral considerationcould make a breach between us: he would forgive me for anything of thatkind sooner or later; but he never gives way on a point of art. I darentlet him know that I love Beethoven and Wagner; and as to Strauss, if heheard three bars of Elektra, it'd part us for ever. Now what I want youto do is this. If hes very angry--if he hates the play, because it's amodern play--will you tell him that it's not my fault; that its styleand construction, and so forth, are considered the very highest artnowadays; that the author wrote it in the proper way for repertorytheatres of the most superior kind--you know the kind of plays I mean? TROTTER. [emphatically] I think I know the sort of entertainments youmean. But please do not beg a vital question by calling them plays. Idont pretend to be an authority; but I have at least established thefact that these productions, whatever else they may be, are certainlynot plays. FANNY. The authors dont say they are. TROTTER. [warmly] I am aware that one author, who is, I blush to say, apersonal friend of mine, resorts freely to the dastardly subterfuge ofcalling them conversations, discussions, and so forth, with the expressobject of evading criticism. But I'm not to be disarmed by such tricks. I say they are not plays. Dialogues, if you will. Exhibitions ofcharacter, perhaps: especially the character of the author. Fictions, possibly, though a little decent reticence as to introducing actualpersons, and thus violating the sanctity of private life, might not beamiss. But plays, no. I say NO. Not plays. If you will not concede thispoint I cant continue our conversation. I take this seriously. It's amatter of principle. I must ask you, Miss O'Dowda, before we go a stepfurther, Do you or do you not claim that these works are plays? FANNY. I assure you I dont. TROTTER. Not in any sense of the word? FANNY. Not in any sense of the word. I loathe plays. TROTTER. [disappointed] That last remark destroys all the value of youradmission. You admire these--these theatrical nondescripts? You enjoythem? FANNY. Dont you? TROTTER. Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose Iprefer popular melodramas? Have I not written most appreciative noticesof them? But I say theyre not plays. Theyre not plays. I cant consent toremain in this house another minute if anything remotely resembling themis to be foisted on me as a play. FANNY. I fully admit that theyre not plays. I only want you to tell myfather that plays are not plays nowadays--not in your sense of the word. TROTTER. Ah, there you go again! In my sense of the word! You believethat my criticism is merely a personal impression; that-- FANNY. You always said it was. TROTTER. Pardon me: not on this point. If you had been classicallyeducated-- FANNY. But I have. TROTTER. Pooh! Cambridge! If you had been educated at Oxford, youwould know that the definition of a play has been settled exactly andscientifically for two thousand two hundred and sixty years. When I saythat these entertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense ofthe word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the immortalStagirite. FANNY. Who is the Stagirite? TROTTER. [shocked] You dont know who the Stagirite was? FANNY. Sorry. Never heard of him. TROTTER. And this is Cambridge education! Well, my dear young lady, I'mdelighted to find theres something you don't know; and I shant spoil youby dispelling an ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly becoming toyour age and sex. So we'll leave it at that. FANNY. But you will promise to tell my father that lots of peoplewrite plays just like this one--that I havnt selected it out of mereheartlessness? TROTTER. I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to your father aboutthe play until Ive seen the play. But I'll tell you what I shall say tohim about you. I shall say that youre a very foolish young lady; thatyouve got into a very questionable set; and that the sooner he takes youaway from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, the better. FANNY. It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a heavy father. InCambridge we regard you as a _bel esprit_, a wit, an Irresponsible, aParisian Immoralist, _tres chic_. TROTTER. I! FANNY. Theres quite a Trotter set. TROTTER. Well, upon my word! FANNY. They go in for adventures and call you Aramis. TROTTER. They wouldnt dare! FANNY. You always make such delicious fun of the serious people. Your_insouciance_-- TROTTER. [frantic] Stop talking French to me: it's not a proper languagefor a young girl. Great heavens! how is it possible that a few innocentpleasantries should be so frightfully misunderstood? Ive tried all mylife to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and kindly. Ive lived ablameless life. Ive supported the Censorship in the face of ridiculeand insult. And now I'm told that I'm a centre of Immoralism! of ModernMinxism! a trifler with the most sacred subjects! a Nietzschean!!perhaps a Shavian!!! FANNY. Do you mean you are really on the serious side, Mr Trotter? TROTTER. Of course I'm on the serious side. How dare you ask me such aquestion? FANNY. Then why dont you play for it? TROTTER. I do play for it--short, of course, of making myselfridiculous. FANNY. What! not make yourself ridiculous for the sake of a good cause!Oh, Mr Trotter. Thats _vieux jeu_. TROTTER. [shouting at her] Dont talk French. I will not allow it. FANNY. But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out of date. TheCambridge Fabian Society-- TROTTER. I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society to me. FANNY. Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without making yourselfridiculous. " TROTTER. Skate! What has that to do with it? FANNY. Thats not all. It goes on, "The ice of life is slippery. " TROTTER. Ice of life indeed! You should be eating penny ices andenjoying yourself. I wont hear another word. _The Count returns. _ THE COUNT. We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my dear. Have you beendetaining Mr Trotter all this time? TROTTER. I'm so sorry. I must have just a little brush up: I [He hurriesout]. THE COUNT. My dear, you should be in the drawing-room. You should nothave kept him here. FANNY. I know. Dont scold me: I had something important to say to him. THE COUNT. I shall ask him to take you in to dinner. FANNY. Yes, papa. Oh, I hope it will go off well. THE COUNT. Yes, love, of course it will. Come along. FANNY. Just one thing, papa, whilst we're alone. Who was the Stagirite? THE COUNT. The Stagirite? Do you mean to say you dont know? FANNY. Havnt the least notion. THE COUNT. The Stagirite was Aristotle. By the way, dont mention him toMr Trotter. _They go to the dining-room. _ THE PLAY ACT I _In the dining-room of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly lady sits atbreakfast reading the newspaper. Her chair is at the end of the oblongdining-table furthest from the fire. There is an empty chair at theother end. The fireplace is behind this chair; and the door is next thefireplace, between it and the corner. An arm-chair stands beside thecoal-scuttle. In the middle of the back wall is the sideboard, parallelto the table. The rest of the furniture is mostly dining-room chairs, ranged against the walls, and including a baby rocking-chair on thelady's side of the room. The lady is a placid person. Her husband, MrRobin Gilbey, not at all placid, bursts violently into the room with aletter in his hand. _ GILBEY. [grinding his teeth] This is a nice thing. This is a b---- MRS GILBEY. [cutting him short] Leave it at that, please. Whatever itis, bad language wont make it better. GILBEY. [bitterly] Yes, put me in the wrong as usual. Take your boy'spart against me. [He flings himself into the empty chair opposite her]. MRS GILBEY. When he does anything right, hes your son. When he doesanything wrong hes mine. Have you any news of him? GILBEY. Ive a good mind not to tell you. MRS GILBEY. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. Thats a comfort, at allevents. GILBEY. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at the bottom of theriver for all you care. [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and pacesthe room distractedly]. MRS GILBEY. Then what have you got in your hand? GILBEY. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. From New York. Dropping us. Cutting us. [Turning fiercely on her] Thats a nice thing, isnt it? MRS GILBEY. What for? GILBEY. [flinging away towards his chair] How do _I_ know what for? MRS GILBEY. What does he say? GILBEY. [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles] This iswhat he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The news about Bobby had to follow meacross the Atlantic: it did not reach me until to-day. I am afraid heis incorrigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels that this lastescapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think, myself, that Bobbyought to be made to feel that such scrapes involve a certain degree ofreprobation. " "As you may imagine"! And we know no more about it thanthe babe unborn. MRS GILBEY. What else does he say? GILBEY. "I think my brother must have been just a little to blamehimself; so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressiveformality, forgive Bobby later on; but for the present I think it hadbetter be understood that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longeron visiting terms. As ever, yours sincerely. " [His agitation masters himagain] Thats a nice slap in the face to get from a man in his position!This is what your son has brought on me. MRS GILBEY. Well, I think it's rather a nice letter. He as good as tellsyou hes only letting on to be offended for Bobby's good. GILBEY. Oh, very well: have the letter framed and hang it up over themantelpiece as a testimonial. MRS GILBEY. Dont talk nonsense, Rob. You ought to be thankful to knowthat the boy is alive after his disappearing like that for nearly aweek. GILBEY. Nearly a week! A fortnight, you mean. Wheres your feelings, woman? It was fourteen days yesterday. MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if the boy was inprison. GILBEY. How do you know hes not in prison? It's got on my nerves so, that I'd believe even that. MRS GILBEY. Dont talk silly, Rob. Bobby might get into a scrape like anyother lad; but he'd never do anything low. _Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver. He is a ratherlow-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good appearance and address, and iron self-command. _ JUGGINS. [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey] Lady wishes to see MrBobby's parents, sir. GILBEY. [pointing to Mrs Gilbey] Theres Mr Bobby's parent. I disown him. JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey]. MRS GILBEY. You mustnt mind what your master says, Juggins: he doesntmean it. [She takes the card and reads it]. Well, I never! GILBEY. Whats up now? MRS GILBEY. [reading] "Miss D. Delaney. Darling Dora. " Just likethat--in brackets. What sort of person, Juggins? GILBEY. Whats her address? MRS GILBEY. The West Circular Road. Is that a respectable address, Juggins? JUGGINS. A great many most respectable people live in the West CircularRoad, madam; but the address is not a guarantee of respectability. GILBEY. So it's come to that with him, has it? MRS GILBEY. Dont jump to conclusions, Rob. How do you know? [To Juggins]Is she a lady, Juggins? You know what I mean. JUGGINS. In the sense in which you are using the word, no, madam. MRS GILBEY. I'd better try what I can get out of her. [To Juggins] Shewher up. You dont mind, do you, Rob? GILBEY. So long as you dont flounce out and leave me alone with her. [Herises and plants himself on the hearth-rug]. _Juggins goes out. _ MRS GILBEY. I wonder what she wants, Rob? GILBEY. If she wants money, she shant have it. Not a farthing. A nicething, everybody seeing her on our doorstep! If it wasnt that she maytell us something about the lad, I'd have Juggins put the hussy into thestreet. JUGGINS. [returning and announcing] Miss Delaney. [He waits for expressorders before placing a chair for this visitor]. _Miss Delaney comes in. She is a young lady of hilarious disposition, very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes. She is so affable andconfidential that it is very difficult to keep her at a distance by anyprocess short of flinging her out of the house. _ DORA. [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into the middleof the room] How d'ye do, both. I'm a friend of Bobby's. He told me allabout you once, in a moment of confidence. Of course he never let on whohe was at the police court. GILBEY. Police court! MRS GILBEY. [looking apprehensively at Juggins] Tch--! Juggins: a chair. DORA. Oh, Ive let it out, have I! [Contemplating Juggins approvingly ashe places a chair for her between the table and the sideboard] Buthes the right sort: I can see that. [Buttonholing him] You wont let ondownstairs, old man, will you? JUGGINS. The family can rely on my absolute discretion. [He withdraws]. DORA. [sitting down genteelly] I dont know what youll say to me: youknow I really have no right to come here; but then what was I to do? Youknow Holy Joe, Bobby's tutor, dont you? But of course you do. GILBEY. [with dignity] I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the brother ofMonsignor Grenfell, if it is of him you are speaking. DORA. [wide-eyed and much amused] No!!! You dont tell me that old geezerhas a brother a Monsignor! And youre Catholics! And I never knew it, though Ive known Bobby ever so long! But of course the last thing youfind out about a person is their religion, isnt it? MRS GILBEY. We're not Catholics. But when the Samuelses got anArchdeacon's son to form their boy's mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobbyought to have a chance too. And the Monsignor is a customer. Mr Gilbeyconsulted him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother of his that wasmore sinned against than sinning. GILBEY. [on tenderhooks] She dont want to hear about that, Maria. [ToDora] Whats your business? DORA. I'm afraid it was all my fault. GILBEY. What was all your fault? I'm half distracted. I dont know whathas happened to the boy: hes been lost these fourteen days-- MRS GILBEY. A fortnight, Rob. GILBEY. --and not a word have we heard of him since. MRS GILBEY. Dont fuss, Rob. GILBEY. [yelling] I will fuss. Youve no feeling. You dont care whatbecomes of the lad. [He sits down savagely]. DORA. [soothingly] Youve been anxious about him. Of course. Howthoughtless of me not to begin by telling you hes quite safe. Indeed hesin the safest place in the world, as one may say: safe under lock andkey. GILBEY. [horrified, pitiable] Oh my-- [his breath fails him]. Do youmean that when he was in the police court he was in the dock? Oh, Maria!Oh, great Lord! What has he done? What has he got for it? [Desperate]Will you tell me or will you see me go mad on my own carpet? DORA. [sweetly] Yes, old dear-- MRS GILBEY. [starting at the familiarity] Well! DORA. [continuing] I'll tell you: but dont you worry: hes all right. Icame out myself this morning: there was such a crowd! and a band! theythought I was a suffragette: only fancy! You see it was like this. HolyJoe got talking about how he'd been a champion sprinter at college. MRS GILBEY. A what? DORA. A sprinter. He said he was the fastest hundred yards runner inEngland. We were all in the old cowshed that night. MRS GILBEY. What old cowshed? GILBEY. [groaning] Oh, get on. Get on. DORA. Oh, of course you wouldnt know. How silly of me! It's a rathergo-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney. We call it the old cowshed. MRS GILBEY. Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music halls? DORA. No. Bobby takes him. But Holy Joe likes it: fairly laps it up likea kitten, poor old dear. Well, Bobby says to me, "Darling--" MRS GILBEY. [placidly] Why does he call you Darling? DORA. Oh, everybody calls me Darling: it's a sort of name Ive got. Darling Dora, you know. Well, he says, "Darling, if you can get Holy Joeto sprint a hundred yards, I'll stand you that squiffer with the goldkeys. " MRS GILBEY. Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face [Gilbey clutchesat his hair in his impatience]. DORA. Well, what would he call him? After all, Holy Joe is Holy Joe; andboys will be boys. MRS GILBEY. Whats a squiffer? DORA. Oh, of course: excuse my vulgarity: a concertina. Theres one ina shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, with gold keys and Russia leatherbellows; and Bobby knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt afford it, poor lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me. GILBEY. Maria: if you keep interrupting with silly questions, I shall goout of my senses. Heres the boy in gaol and me disgraced for ever; andall you care to know is what a squiffer is. DORA. Well, remember it has gold keys. The man wouldnt take a penny lessthan 15 pounds for it. It was a presentation one. GILBEY. [shouting at her] Wheres my son? Whats happened to my son? Willyou tell me that, and stop cackling about your squiffer? DORA. Oh, aint we impatient! Well, it does you credit, old dear. And youneednt fuss: theres no disgrace. Bobby behaved like a perfect gentleman. Besides, it was all my fault. I'll own it: I took too much champagne. Iwas not what you might call drunk; but I was bright, and a little beyondmyself; and--I'll confess it--I wanted to shew off before Bobby, becausehe was a bit taken by a woman on the stage; and she was pretending to begame for anything. You see youve brought Bobby up too strict; and whenhe gets loose theres no holding him. He does enjoy life more than anylad I ever met. GILBEY. Never you mind how hes been brought up: thats my business. Tellme how hes been brought down: thats yours. MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob. DORA. I'm coming to it, old dear: dont you be so headstrong. Well, itwas a beautiful moonlight night; and we couldnt get a cab on the nod; sowe started to walk, very jolly, you know: arm in arm, and dancing along, singing and all that. When we came into Jamaica Square, there was ayoung copper on point duty at the corner. I says to Bob: "Dearie boy: isit a bargain about the squiffer if I make Joe sprint for you?" "Anythingyou like, darling, " says he: "I love you. " I put on my best companymanners and stepped up to the copper. "If you please, sir, " says I, "canyou direct me to Carrickmines Square?" I was so genteel, and talked sosweet, that he fell to it like a bird. "I never heard of any such Squarein these parts, " he says. "Then, " says I, "what a very silly littleofficer you must be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that knockedit over his eyes, and did a bunk. MRS GILBEY. Did a what? DORA. A bunk. Holy Joe did one too all right: he sprinted faster than heever did in college, I bet, the old dear. He got clean off, too. Just ashe was overtaking me half-way down the square, we heard the whistle; andat the sound of it he drew away like a streak of lightning; and thatwas the last I saw of him. I was copped in the Dock Road myself: rottenluck, wasn't it? I tried the innocent and genteel and all the rest; butBobby's hat done me in. GILBEY. And what happened to the boy? DORA. Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper! He thought thecopper would see the joke, poor lamb. He was arguing about it when thetwo that took me came along to find out what the whistle was for, andbrought me with them. Of course I swore I'd never seen him before inmy life; but there he was in my hat and I in his. The cops were veryspiteful and laid it on for all they were worth: drunk and disorderlyand assaulting the police and all that. I got fourteen days without theoption, because you see--well, the fact is, I'd done it before, and beenwarned. Bobby was a first offender and had the option; but the dear boyhad no money left and wouldnt give you away by telling his name; andanyhow he couldnt have brought himself to buy himself off and leave methere; so hes doing his time. Well, it was two forty shillingses; andIve only twenty-eight shillings in the world. If I pawn my clothes Ishant be able to earn any more. So I cant pay the fine and get him out;but if youll stand 3 pounds I'll stand one; and thatll do it. If youdlike to be very kind and nice you could pay the lot; but I cant denythat it was my fault; so I wont press you. GILBEY. [heart-broken] My son in gaol! DORA. Oh, cheer up, old dear: it wont hurt him: look at me afterfourteen days of it; I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet. Youmustnt let it prey on your mind. GILBEY. The disgrace of it will kill me. And it will leave a mark on himto the end of his life. DORA. Not a bit of it. Dont you be afraid: Ive educated Bobby a bit: hesnot the mollycoddle he was when you had him in hand. MRS GILBEY. Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle. They wanted him to goin for singlestick at the Young Men's Christian Association; but, ofcourse, I couldnt allow that: he might have had his eye knocked out. GILBEY. [to Dora, angrily] Listen here, you. DORA. Oh, aint we cross! GILBEY. I want none of your gaiety here. This is a respectablehousehold. Youve gone and got my poor innocent boy into trouble. It'sthe like of you thats the ruin of the like of him. DORA. So you always say, you old dears. But you know better. Bobby cameto me: I didnt come to him. GILBEY. Would he have gone if you hadnt been there for him to go to?Tell me that. You know why he went to you, I suppose? DORA. [charitably] It was dull for him at home, poor lad, wasnt it? MRS GILBEY. Oh no. I'm at home on first Thursdays. And we have theKnoxes to dinner every Friday. Margaret Knox and Bobby are as good asengaged. Mr Knox is my husband's partner. Mrs Knox is very religious;but shes quite cheerful. We dine with them on Tuesdays. So thats twoevenings pleasure every week. GILBEY. [almost in tears] We done what we could for the boy. Short ofletting him go into temptations of all sorts, he can do what he likes. What more does he want? DORA. Well, old dear, he wants me; and thats about the long and short ofit. And I must say youre not very nice to me about it. Ive talked to himlike a mother, and tried my best to keep him straight; but I dont denyI like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit giddy when we'relighthearted. Him and me is a pair, I'm afraid. GILBEY. Dont talk foolishness, girl. How could you and he be a pair, youbeing what you are, and he brought up as he has been, with the exampleof a religious woman like Mrs Knox before his eyes? I cant understandhow he could bring himself to be seen in the street with you. [Pityinghimself] I havnt deserved this. Ive done my duty as a father. Ive kepthim sheltered. [Angry with her] Creatures like you that take advantageof a child's innocence ought to be whipped through the streets. DORA. Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady to lose my temper;and I dont think Bobby would like me to tell you what I think of you;for when I start giving people a bit of my mind I sometimes use languagethats beneath me. But I tell you once for all I must have the money toget Bobby out; and if you wont fork out, I'll hunt up Holy Joe. He mightget it off his brother, the Monsignor. GILBEY. You mind your own concerns. My solicitor will do what is right. I'll not have you paying my son's fine as if you were anything to him. DORA. Thats right. Youll get him out today, wont you? GILBEY. It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it? DORA. I'd like to know when theyll let him out. GILBEY. You would, would you? Youre going to meet him at the prisondoor. DORA. Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of alady? GILBEY. [bitterly] Oh yes: I know. Here! I must buy the lad's salvation, I suppose. How much will you take to clear out and let him go? DORA. [pitying him: quite nice about it] What good would that do, olddear? There are others, you know. GILBEY. Thats true. I must send the boy himself away. DORA. Where to? GILBEY. Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your like. DORA. Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old dear. I'm sorry for you: I really am, though you mightnt believe it; and Ithink your feelings do you real credit. But I cant give him up just tolet him fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I? GILBEY. [beside himself, rising] Wheres the police? Wheres theGovernment? Wheres the Church? Wheres respectability and right reason?Whats the good of them if I have to stand here and see you put my son inyour pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly out of gaol asa common drunk and disorderly? Whats the world coming to? DORA. It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear? _Mr Gilbey rushes from the room, distracted. _ MRS GILBEY. [unruffled] Where did you buy that white lace? I want someto match a collaret of my own; and I cant get it at Perry and John's. DORA. Knagg and Pantle's: one and fourpence. It's machine hand-made. MRS GILBEY. I never give more than one and tuppence. But I suppose youreextravagant by nature. My sister Martha was just like that. Pay anythingshe was asked. DORA. Whats tuppence to you, Mrs Bobby, after all? MRS GILBEY. [correcting her] Mrs Gilbey. DORA. Of course, Mrs Gilbey. I am silly. MRS GILBEY. Bobby must have looked funny in your hat. Why did you changehats with him? DORA. I dont know. One does, you know. MRS GILBEY. I never did. The things people do! I cant understand them. Bobby never told me he was keeping company with you. His own mother! DORA. [overcome] Excuse me: I cant help smiling. _Juggins enters. _ JUGGINS. Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, madam. MRS GILBEY. Have you ever been in a police court, Juggins? JUGGINS. Yes, madam. MRS GILBEY [rather shocked] I hope you had not been exceeding, Juggins. JUGGINS. Yes, madam, I had. I exceeded the legal limit. MRS GILBEY. Oh, that! Why do they give a woman a fortnight for wearing aman's hat, and a man a month for wearing hers? JUGGINS. I didnt know that they did, madam. MRS GILBEY. It doesnt seem justice, does it, Juggins? JUGGINS. No, madam. MRS GILBEY [to Dora, rising] Well, good-bye. [Shaking her hand] Sopleased to have made your acquaintance. DORA. [standing up] Dont mention it. I'm sure it's most kind of you toreceive me at all. MRS GILBEY. I must go off now and order lunch. [She trots to the door]. What was it you called the concertina? DORA. A squiffer, dear. MRS GILBEY. [thoughtfully] A squiffer, of course. How funny! [She goesout]. DORA. [exploding into ecstasies of mirth] Oh my! isnt she an old love?How do you keep your face straight? JUGGINS. It is what I am paid for. DORA. [confidentially] Listen here, dear boy. Your name isnt Juggins. Nobody's name is Juggins. JUGGINS. My orders are, Miss Delaney, that you are not to be here whenMr Gilbey returns from Wormwood Scrubbs. DORA. That means telling me to mind my own business, doesnt it? Well, I'm off. Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling. [She kisses her hand to him andgoes]. ACT II _On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in herdrawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall. Anyoneplaced so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door on theright and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs Knox, whoseback is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the opposite sideof the room. The sofa is near the piano. There is a small table in themiddle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and albums on it, andchairs near it. _ _Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner, harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a softstoutish man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox hascoarse black hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving canwhiten. Mrs Knox is a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion, with thoughtful eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere ofpeace and some solemnity. She is surprised to see her husband at homeduring business hours. _ MRS KNOX. What brings you home at this hour? Have you heard anything? KNOX. No. Have you? MRS KNOX. No. Whats the matter? KNOX. [sitting down on the sofa] I believe Gilbey has found out. MRS KNOX. What makes you think that? KNOX. Well, I dont know: I didnt like to tell you: you have enoughto worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever sinceit happened. I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I wasdepending on him. But hes worse than me. Hes not looking after anything;and he keeps out of my way. His manner's not natural. He hasnt asked usto dinner; and hes never said a word about our not asking him todinner, after all these years when weve dined every week as regular asclockwork. It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop me socially. Well, why should he do that if he hasnt heard? MRS KNOX. I wonder! Bobby hasnt been near us either: thats what I cantmake out. KNOX. Oh, thats nothing. I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall withher aunt. MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Jo! [She takes her handkerchief from thewriting-table and cries a little]. KNOX. Well, I got to tell lies, aint I? You wont. Somebody's got to tellem. MRS KNOX. [putting away her handkerchief] It only ends in our notknowing what to believe. Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton forthe sea air. Theres something queer about that. Gilbey would neverlet the boy loose by himself among the temptations of a gay place likeBrighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington HighStreet the very day she told me. KNOX. If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby andMargaret, and all over between us and them. MRS KNOX. It's all over between us and everybody. When a girl runs awayfrom home like that, people know what to think of her and her parents. KNOX. She had a happy, respectable home--everything-- MRS KNOX. [interrupting him] Theres no use going over it all again, Jo. If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy anywhere. Youdbetter go back to the shop and try to keep your mind off it. KNOX. [rising restlessly] I cant. I keep fancying everybody knows it andis sniggering about it. I'm at peace nowhere but here. It's a comfort tobe with you. It's a torment to be with other people. MRS KNOX. [going to him and drawing her arm through his] There, Jo, there! I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could. But it cant be. God's work must go on from day to day, no matter what comes. We mustface our trouble and bear it. KNOX. [wandering to the window arm in arm with her] Just look at thepeople in the street, going up and down as if nothing had happened. Itseems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care. MRS KNOX. If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking upat us. You shouldnt keep thinking about it. KNOX. I know I shouldnt. You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm sureI'm glad it comforts you. But it doesnt come to me that way. Ive workedhard to get a position and be respectable. Ive turned many a girl out ofthe shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres my own daughtergone for a fortnight without word or sign, except a telegram to say shesnot dead and that we're not to worry about her. MRS KNOX. [suddenly pointing to the street] Jo, look! KNOX. Margaret! With a man! MRS KNOX. Run down, Jo, quick. Catch her: save her. KNOX. [lingering] Shes shaking bands with him: shes coming across to thedoor. MRS KNOX. [energetically] Do as I tell you. Catch the man before hes outof sight. _Knox rushes from the room. Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly fromthe window. Then she throws up the sash and leans out. Margaret Knoxcomes in, flustered and annoyed. She is a strong, springy girl ofeighteen, with large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily resolutemanner, even peremptory on occasions like the present, when she isannoyed. _ MARGARET. Mother. Mother. _Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter. _ MRS KNOX. [sternly] Well, miss? MARGARET. Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene inthe street. He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away mydaughter" loud enough for all the people to hear. Everybody stopped. Weshall have a crowd round the house. Do do something to stop him. _Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer. _ MARGARET. Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry--so ashamed. Mother:this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me. MonsieurDuvallet: my mother. [Duvallet bows]. KNOX. A Frenchman! It only needed this. MARGARET. [much annoyed] Father: do please be commonly civil to agentleman who has been of the greatest service to me. What will he thinkof us? DUVALLET. [debonair] But it's very natural. I understand Mr Knox'sfeelings perfectly. [He speaks English better than Knox, having learntit on both sides of the Atlantic]. KNOX. If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize. But I want to knowwhere my daughter has been for the last fortnight. DUVALLET. She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place. KNOX. Will you tell me what place? I can judge for myself how safe itwas. MARGARET. Holloway Gaol. Was that safe enough? KNOX AND MRS KNOX. Holloway Gaol! KNOX. Youve joined the Suffragets! MARGARET. No. I wish I had. I could have had the same experience inbetter company. Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet. [She sits betweenthe table and the sofa. Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the other side ofthe table. Knox remains standing in the middle of the room]. DUVALLET. [sitting down on the sofa] It was nothing. An adventure. Nothing. MARGARET. [obdurately] Drunk and assaulting the police! Forty shillingsor a month! MRS KNOX. Margaret! Who accused you of such a thing? MARGARET. The policeman I assaulted. KNOX. You mean to say that you did it! MARGARET. I did. I had that satisfaction at all events. I knocked two ofhis teeth out. KNOX. And you sit there coolly and tell me this! MARGARET. Well, where do you want me to sit? Whats the use of sayingthings like that? KNOX. My daughter in Holloway Gaol! MARGARET. All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters. Really, father, you must make up your mind to it. If you had sat in that cellfor fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would understand thatI'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying to persuadeyourself that it cant be real. These things really do happen to realpeople every day; and you read about them in the papers and think it'sall right. Well, theyve happened to me: thats all. KNOX. [feeble-forcible] But they shouldnt have happened to you. Dont youknow that? MARGARET. They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose. But they do. [Rising impatiently] And really I'd rather go out and assault anotherpoliceman and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and round itlike this. If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn me out: thesooner I go the better. DUVALLET. [rising quickly] That is impossible, mademoiselle. Your fatherhas his position to consider. To turn his daughter out of doors wouldruin him socially. KNOX. Oh, youve put her up to that, have you? And where did you come in, may I ask? DUVALLET. I came in at your invitation--at your amiable insistence, infact, not at my own. But you need have no anxiety on my account. Iwas concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your daughter'sincarceration. I got a fortnight without the option of a fine on theridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the policeman with myfist. I should have done so with pleasure had I known; but, as it was, I struck him on the ear with my boot--a magnificent _moulinet_, I mustsay--and was informed that I had been guilty of an act of cowardice, but that for the sake of the _entente cordiale_ I should be dealt withleniently. Yet Miss Knox, who used her fist, got a month, but with theoption of a fine. I did not know this until I was released, when myfirst act was to pay the fine. And here we are. MRS KNOX. You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo. KNOX. [reddening] Oh, certainly. [He takes out some money]. DUVALLET. Oh please! it does not matter. [Knox hands him twosovereigns]. If you insist-- [he pockets them] Thank you. MARGARET. I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet. DUVALLET. Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle? MARGARET. I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you dontmind. DUVALLET. Perfectly. Madame [bow]--Mademoiselle [bow]--Monsieur[bow]--[He goes out]. MRS KNOX. Dont ring, Jo. See the gentleman out yourself. _Knox hastily sees Duvallet out. Mother and daughter sit lookingforlornly at one another without saying a word. Mrs Knox slowly sitsdown. Margaret follows her example. They look at one another again. MrKnox returns. _ KNOX. [shortly and sternly] Amelia: this is your job. [To Margaret] Ileave you to your mother. I shall have my own say in the matter when Ihear what you have to say to her. [He goes out, solemn and offended]. MARGARET. [with a bitter little laugh] Just what the Suffraget said tome in Holloway. He throws the job on you. MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Margaret! MARGARET. You know it's true. MRS KNOX. Margaret: if youre going to be hardened about it, theres nouse my saying anything. MARGARET. I'm not hardened, mother. But I cant talk nonsense aboutit. You see, it's all real to me. Ive suffered it. Ive been shoved andbullied. Ive had my arms twisted. Ive been made scream with pain inother ways. Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other poorwretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a cellar. Andthe only difference between me and the others was that I hit back. YesI did. And I did worse. I wasnt ladylike. I cursed. I called names. Iheard words that I didnt even know that I knew, coming out of my mouthjust as if somebody else had spoken them. The policeman repeated themin court. The magistrate said he could hardly believe it. The policemanheld out his hand with his two teeth in it that I knocked out. I saidit was all right; that I had heard myself using those words quitedistinctly; and that I had taken the good conduct prize for three yearsrunning at school. The poor old gentleman put me back for the missionaryto find out who I was, and to ascertain the state of my mind. I wouldnttell, of course, for your sakes at home here; and I wouldnt say I wassorry, or apologize to the policeman, or compensate him or anything ofthat sort. I wasnt sorry. The one thing that gave me any satisfactionwas getting in that smack on his mouth; and I said so. So the missionaryreported that I seemed hardened and that no doubt I would tell who I wasafter a day in prison. Then I was sentenced. So now you see I'm not abit the sort of girl you thought me. I'm not a bit the sort of girl Ithought myself. And I dont know what sort of person you really are, orwhat sort of person father really is. I wonder what he would say or doif he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm with one handand rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the other. He couldntwhirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down by a gloriouskick on the helmet. Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought we'd havebeaten them. MRS KNOX. But how did it all begin? MARGARET. Oh, I dont know. It was boat-race night, they said. MRS KNOX. Boat-race night! But what had you to do with the boat race?You went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall with youraunt. She put you into the bus that passes the door. What made you getout of the bus? MARGARET. I dont know. The meeting got on my nerves, somehow. It was thesinging, I suppose: you know I love singing a good swinging hymn; and Ifelt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had been singingso wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to heaven. I wantedmore music--more happiness--more life. I wanted some comrade who feltas I did. I felt exalted: it seemed mean to be afraid of anything:after all, what could anyone do to me against my will? I suppose I wasa little mad: at all events, I got out of the bus at Piccadilly Circus, because there was a lot of light and excitement there. I walked toLeicester Square; and went into a great theatre. MRS KNOX. [horrified] A theatre! MARGARET. Yes. Lots of other women were going in alone. I had to payfive shillings. MRS KNOX. [aghast] Five shillings! MARGARET. [apologetically] It was a lot. It was very stuffy; and I didntlike the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying themselves;but the stage was splendid and the music lovely. I saw that Frenchman, Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking a cigarette. Heseemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike. I went and stoodbeside him, hoping he would speak to me. MRS KNOX. [gasps] Margaret! MARGARET. [continuing] He did, just as if he had known me for years. We got on together like old friends. He asked me would I have somechampagne; and I said it would cost too much, but that I would giveanything for a dance. I longed to join the people on the stage and dancewith them: one of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever saw. He toldme he had come there to see her, and that when it was over we could gosomewhere where there was dancing. So we went to a place where there wasa band in a gallery and the floor cleared for dancing. Very few peopledanced: the women only wanted to shew off their dresses; but we dancedand danced until a lot of them joined in. We got quite reckless; and wehad champagne after all. I never enjoyed anything so much. But at lastit got spoilt by the Oxford and Cambridge students up for the boat race. They got drunk; and they began to smash things; and the police came in. Then it was quite horrible. The students fought with the police; andthe police suddenly got quite brutal, and began to throw everybodydownstairs. They attacked the women, who were not doing anything, andtreated them just as roughly as they had treated the students. Duvalletgot indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was shoving a womanthough she was going quietly as fast as she could. The policeman flungthe woman through the door and then turned on Duvallet. It was then thatDuvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the policeman down. And then three policemen rushed at him and carried him out by the armsand legs face downwards. Two more attacked me and gave me a shove to thedoor. That quite maddened me. I just got in one good bang on the mouthof one of them. All the rest was dreadful. I was rushed through thestreets to the police station. They kicked me with their knees; theytwisted my arms; they taunted and insulted me; they called me vilenames; and I told them what I thought of them, and provoked them to dotheir worst. Theres one good thing about being hard hurt: it makes yousleep. I slept in that filthy cell with all the other drunks sounderthan I should have slept at home. I cant describe how I felt nextmorning: it was hideous; but the police were quite jolly; and everybodysaid it was a bit of English fun, and talked about last year's boat-racenight when it had been a great deal worse. I was black and blue and sickand wretched. But the strange thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm notsorry. And I dont feel that I did anything wrong, really. [She risesand stretches her arms with a large liberating breath] Now that it's allover I'm rather proud of it; though I know now that I'm not a lady; butwhether thats because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's reallya lady except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont know. [She throwsherself into a corner of the sofa]. MRS KNOX. [lost in wonder] But how could you bring yourself to do it, Margaret? I'm not blaming you: I only want to know. How could you bringyourself to do it? MARGARET. I cant tell you. I dont understand it myself. The prayermeeting set me free, somehow. I should never have done it if it were notfor the prayer meeting. MRS KNOX. [deeply horrified] Oh, dont say such a thing as that. I knowthat prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me when Itold you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil. MARGARET. Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set freefor evil as well as good. As father says, you cant have anything bothways at once. When I was at home and at school I was what you call good;but I wasnt free. And when I got free I was what most people would callnot good. But I see no harm in what I did; though I see plenty in whatother people did to me. MRS KNOX. I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance. MARGARET. Oh no. [She sits down again at the table]. I'm a heroine ofreality, if you can call me a heroine at all. And reality is prettybrutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it. Yet it's gloriousall the same. It's so real and satisfactory. MRS KNOX. I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret. I dont like yourtalking to me in that tone. MARGARET. It's no use, mother. I dont care for you and Papa any theless; but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again. Ivemade a sort of descent into hell-- MRS KNOX. Margaret! Such a word! MARGARET. You should have heard all the words that were flying roundthat night. You should mix a little with people who dont know anyother words. But when I said that about a descent into hell I was notswearing. I was in earnest, like a preacher. MRS KNOX. A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice. MARGARET. I know: the tone that shews they dont mean anything real tohim. They usent to mean anything real to me. Now hell is as real to meas a turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that. Anyhow, Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth doing butredeeming people from it. MRS KNOX. They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it. MARGARET. Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it? Youdont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist theirarms. Whats the good of pretending? Thats all our respectability is, pretending, pretending, pretending. Thank heaven Ive had it knocked outof me once for all! MRS KNOX. [greatly agitated] Margaret: dont talk like that. I cant bearto hear you talking wickedly. I can bear to hear the children of thisworld talking vainly and foolishly in the language of this world. Butwhen I hear you justifying your wickedness in the words of grace, it'stoo horrible: it sounds like the devil making fun of religion. Ive triedto bring you up to learn the happiness of religion. Ive waited for youto find out that happiness is within ourselves and doesnt come fromoutward pleasures. Ive prayed oftener than you think that you might beenlightened. But if all my hopes and all my prayers are to come to this, that you mix up my very words and thoughts with the promptings of thedevil, then I dont know what I shall do: I dont indeed: itll kill me. MARGARET. You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you didntwant me to be enlightened. If the truth were known, I suspect we allwant our prayers to be answered only by halves: the agreeable halves. Your prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother. Youve got more thanyou bargained for in the way of enlightenment. I shall never be the sameagain. I shall never speak in the old way again. Ive been set free fromthis silly little hole of a house and all its pretences. I know now thatI am stronger than you and Papa. I havnt found that happiness of yoursthat is within yourself; but Ive found strength. For good or evil I amset free; and none of the things that used to hold me can hold me now. _Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense. _ KNOX. How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia? Do youthink I'm made of iron? Whats the girl done? What are we going to do? MRS KNOX. Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours. I cant even prayfor her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for. KNOX. Dont talk nonsense, woman: is this a time for praying? Doesanybody know? Thats what we have to consider now. If only we can keep itdark, I don't care for anything else. MARGARET. Dont hope for that, father. Mind: I'll tell everybody. Itought to be told. It must be told. KNOX. Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house thisinstant. MARGARET. I'm quite ready. [She takes her hat and turns to the door]. KNOX. [throwing himself in front of it] Here! where are you going? MRS KNOX. [rising] You mustnt turn her out, Jo! I'll go with her if shegoes. KNOX. Who wants to turn her out? But is she going to ruin us? To leteverybody know of her disgrace and shame? To tear me down from theposition Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard struggling? MARGARET. Yes: I'm going to tear it all down. It stands between us andeverything. I'll tell everybody. KNOX. Magsy, my child: dont bring down your father's hairs with sorrowto the grave. Theres only one thing I care about in the world: to keepthis dark. I'm your father. I ask you here on my knees--in the dust, soto speak--not to let it out. MARGARET. I'll tell everybody. _Knox collapses in despair. Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot. Margaretstands inflexible. _ ACT III _Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table is not laid: itis draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an exercise-book, andschool-books on it. Bobby Gilbey is in the arm-chair, crouching overthe fire, reading an illustrated paper. He is a pretty youth, of verysuburban gentility, strong and manly enough by nature, but untrained andunsatisfactory, his parents having imagined that domestic restrictionis what they call "bringing up. " He has learnt nothing from it except ahabit of evading it by deceit. _ _He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins answersthe bell. _ BOBBY. Juggins. JUGGINS. Sir? BOBBY. [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed! JUGGINS. [cheerfully] Not at all, sir. BOBBY. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man. JUGGINS. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you sir;and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain. BOBBY. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it? JUGGINS. No, sir. BOBBY. Ive been talking to Dora about you. JUGGINS. Indeed, sir? BOBBY. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have themanners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadnt any manners. Anyhow, your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in my set. JUGGINS. They would be, sir. BOBBY. You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject ofDora's notion, I suppose. JUGGINS. No, sir. BOBBY. [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over thearm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman] It was part of yourbargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it? JUGGINS. Yes, sir. BOBBY. Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an engagementto a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise or behavinglike a regular cad? JUGGINS. No, sir. You cant get out of an engagement without behavinglike a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it. BOBBY. But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dontreally care for her. JUGGINS. Women dont always marry for happiness, sir. They often marrybecause they wish to be married women and not old maids. BOBBY. Then what am I to do? JUGGINS. Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad. BOBBY. [Jumping up] Well, I wont marry her: thats flat. What would youdo if you were in my place? JUGGINS. I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil myengagement. BOBBY. But youd have to make some excuse, you know. I want to give it agentlemanly turn: to say I'm not worthy of her, or something like that. JUGGINS. That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite the contrary. BOBBY. I dont see that at all. Do you mean that it's not exactly true? JUGGINS. Not at all, sir. BOBBY. I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been. That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been ratherexceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I canever be of anyone else. You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of agirl's feelings. JUGGINS. If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her. Ifyou hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get creditfor considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare them. Shewont like it. And it will start an argument, of which you will get theworse. BOBBY. But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her. JUGGINS. Probably she never supposed you were, sir. BOBBY. Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist. JUGGINS. [preparing to go] Anything else, sir? BOBBY. [querulously] You havnt been much use. [He wanders disconsolatelyacross the room]. You generally put me up to the correct way of doingthings. JUGGINS. I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting. It's notcorrect in itself. BOBBY. [hopefully] I'll tell you what. I'll say I cant hold her to anengagement with a man whos been in quod. Thatll do it. [He seats himselfon the table, relieved and confident]. JUGGINS. Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny herself the romanticluxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the form ofdoing something agreeable. Shes almost sure to say that your misfortunewill draw her closer to you. BOBBY. What a nuisance! I dont know what to do. You know, Juggins, yourcool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark Hill. JUGGINS. I daresay not, sir. No doubt youd prefer to make it look likean act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke her tobreak the engagement herself. Both plans have been tried repeatedly, butnever with success, as far as my knowledge goes. BOBBY. You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law. You know, in my class you have to wrap up things a bit. Denmark Hill isn'tCamberwell, you know. JUGGINS. I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the higheryou go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and thatonly tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere. Thats a mistake. Trampsare often shameless; but theyre never sincere. Swells--if I may use thatconvenient name for the upper classes--play much more with their cardson the table. If you tell the young lady that you want to jilt her, andshe calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction may leave much tobe desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if you say youre notworthy. BOBBY. Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins. The girl isnt ascullery-maid. I want to do it delicately. JUGGINS. A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist inthat line. --Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell. [He goes out]. _Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comesoff the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goesreluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. Juggins returns. _ JUGGINS. [announcing] Miss Knox. _Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws. _ MARGARET. Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination, Bobby? Youll never pass. BOBBY. [rising] No: I was just writing to you. MARGARET. What about? BOBBY. Oh, nothing. At least-- How are you? MARGARET. [passing round the other end of the table and putting down onit a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag] Quite well, thank you. How did you enjoy Brighton? BOBBY. Brighton! I wasnt at-- Oh yes, of course. Oh, pretty well. Isyour aunt all right? MARGARET. My aunt! I suppose so. I havent seen her for a month. BOBBY. I thought you were down staying with her. MARGARET. Oh! was that what they told you? BOBBY. Yes. Why? Werent you really? MARGARET. No. Ive something to tell you. Sit down and lets becomfortable. _She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and puts his armwearily round her waist. _ MARGARET. You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby. Suppose we get offduty for the day, just to see what it's like. BOBBY. Off duty? What do you mean? MARGARET. You know very well what I mean. Bobby: did you ever care onelittle scrap for me in that sort of way? Dont funk answering: _I_ dontcare a bit for you--that way. BOBBY. [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your pardon, I'm sure. Ithought you did. MARGARET. Well, did you? Come! Dont be mean. Ive owned up. You can putit all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more than Ido. BOBBY. You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars. MARGARET. Yes. BOBBY. Well, it's not that I dont care for you: in fact, no girl canever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so muchtogether that it feels more like brother and sister than--well, than theother thing, doesnt it? MARGARET. Just so. How did you find out the difference? BOBBY. [blushing] Oh, I say! MARGARET. I found out from a Frenchman. BOBBY. Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his consternation]. MARGARET. Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? You know you must havelearnt it from somebody. BOBBY. Not a Frenchwoman. Shes quite a nice woman. But shes been ratherunfortunate. The daughter of a clergyman. MARGARET. [startled] Oh, Bobby! That sort of woman! BOBBY. What sort of woman? MARGARET. You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do you, you silly boy? It's a stock joke. BOBBY. Do you mean to say you dont believe me? MARGARET. No: I mean to say I dont believe her. BOBBY. [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table besideher]. What do you know about her? What do you know about all this sortof thing? MARGARET. What sort of thing, Bobby? BOBBY. Well, about life. MARGARET. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasnt at my aunt's. All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean. BOBBY. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better tell you: youre bound tofind out sooner or later. [He begins his confession humbly, avoidingher gaze]. Meg: it's rather awful: youll think me no end of a beast. Ivebeen in prison. MARGARET. You! BOBBY. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police. MARGARET. Do you mean to say that you--oh! this is a let-down for me. [She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at theend of it furthest from the hearth]. BOBBY. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that. I waswriting to you to break it off. [He also descends from the table andmakes slowly for the hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter. MARGARET. Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk andassaulting the police? How long were you in? BOBBY. A fortnight. MARGARET. Thats what I was in for. BOBBY. What are you talking about? In where? MARGARET. In quod. BOBBY. But I'm serious: I'm not rotting. Really and truly-- MARGARET. What did you do to the copper? BOBBY. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated grossly. I onlylaughed at him. MARGARET. [jumping up, triumphant] Ive beaten you hollow. I knockedout two of his teeth. Ive got one of them. He sold it to me for tenshillings. BOBBY. Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you I'm not rotting. [Hesits down in the armchair, rather sulkily]. MARGARET. [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him] AndI tell you I'm not either. Look! Heres a report of it. The daily papersare no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid. [She sits on the armof the chair]. See! [Reading]: "Hardened at Eighteen. A quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her name"--thats me. BOBBY. [pausing a moment in his perusal] Do you mean to say that youwent on the loose out of pure devilment? MARGARET. I did no harm. I went to see a lovely dance. I picked up anice man and went to have a dance myself. I cant imagine anything moreinnocent and more happy. All the bad part was done by other people:they did it out of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here we are, twogaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever. Isnt it a relief? BOBBY. [rising stiffly] But you know, it's not the same for a girl. Aman may do things a woman maynt. [He stands on the hearthrug with hisback to the fire]. MARGARET. Are you scandalized, Bobby? BOBBY. Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg? I neverthought you were that sort of girl. MARGARET. [rising indignantly] I'm not. You mustnt pretend to think that_I_'m a clergyman's daughter, Bobby. BOBBY. I wish you wouldnt chaff about that. Dont forget the row you gotinto for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back on himquickly]--a footman! And what about the Frenchman? MARGARET. [facing him again] I know nothing about the Frenchman exceptthat hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like the hand ofa clock and knock a policeman down with it. He was in Wormwood Scrubbswith you. I was in Holloway. BOBBY. It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bitthick, you know. MARGARET. Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison? BOBBY. [hastily] No. I never said that. It might even give a woman agreater claim on a man. Any girl, if she were thoughtless and a biton, perhaps, might get into a scrape. Anyone who really understood hercharacter could see there was no harm in it. But youre not the larkysort. At least you usent to be. MARGARET. I'm not; and I never will be. [She walks straight up to him]. I didnt do it for a lark, Bob: I did it out of the very depths of mynature. I did it because I'm that sort of person. I did it in one of myreligious fits. I'm hardened at eighteen, as they say. So what about thematch, now? BOBBY. Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg. Of courseit would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or anything ofthat sort. I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and I dont pretendto. I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as long as it isunderstood that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go on the loose onprinciple; to talk about religion in connection with it; to--to--well, Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say. I hope youre not in earnestwhen you talk that way. MARGARET. Bobby: youre no good. No good to me, anyhow. BOBBY. [huffed] I'm sorry, Miss Knox. MARGARET. Goodbye, Mr Gilbey. [She turns on her heel and goes tothe other end of the table]. I suppose you wont introduce me to theclergyman's daughter. BOBBY. I dont think she'd like it. There are limits, after all. [He sitsdown at the table, as if to to resume work at his books: a hint to herto go]. MARGARET. [on her way to the door] Ring the bell, Bobby; and tellJuggins to shew me out. BOBBY. [reddening] I'm not a cad, Meg. MARGARET. [coming to the table] Then do something nice to prevent usfeeling mean about this afterwards. Youd better kiss me. You neednt everdo it again. BOBBY. If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you. MARGARET. Oh, it'd be no fun. If I wanted what you call fun, I shouldask the Frenchman to kiss me--or Juggins. BOBBY. [rising and retreating to the hearth] Oh, dont be disgusting, Meg. Dont be low. MARGARET. [determinedly, preparing to use force] Now, I'll make youkiss me, just to punish you. [She seizes his wrist; pulls him off hisbalance; and gets her arm round his neck]. BOBBY. No. Stop. Leave go, will you. _Juggins appears at the door. _ JUGGINS. Miss Delaney, Sir. [Dora comes in. Juggins goes out. Margarethastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the room. ] DORA. [through the door, to the departing Juggins] Well, you are aJuggins to shew me up when theres company. [To Margaret and Bobby] It'sall right, dear: all right, old man: I'll wait in Juggins's pantry tilyoure disengaged. MARGARET. Dont you know me? DORA. [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her veryattentively] Why, it's never No. 406! MARGARET. Yes it is. DORA. Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform. How didyou get out? You were doing a month, wernt you? MARGARET. My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself. DORA. A real gentleman! [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring open-mouthed]Look at him. He cant take it in. BOBBY. I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg. But when itcomes to talking about blokes and all that--well! MARGARET. Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it. It's anotherbarrier broken down. BOBBY. It's not so much the language, Meg. But I think [he looks at Doraand stops]. MARGARET. [suddenly dangerous] What do you think, Bobby? DORA. He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie. It does himcredit: he always was a gentleman, you know. MARGARET. Does him credit! To insult you like that! Bobby: say that thatwasnt what you meant. BOBBY. I didnt say it was. MARGARET. Well, deny that it was. BOBBY. No. I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think it'snot quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her. DORA. Of course it isnt, old man. [To Margaret] I'll just trot off andcome back in half an hour. You two can make it up together. I'm reallynot fit company for you, dearie: I couldnt live up to you. [She turns togo]. MARGARET. Stop. Do you believe he could live up to me? DORA. Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and arespectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself. Ihave a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some. MARGARET. You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's behavinglike a skunk. BOBBY. [much ruffled] Nice language that! DORA. Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep uptheir respectability. But you cant blame them for that, can you? Ivemet Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead. I wontpretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear? MARGARET. And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him incountenance. Well, I shant: not if my whole family were there. ButI'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat you properly. [To Bobby, with athreatening move in his direction] I'll educate you, you young beast. BOBBY. [furious, meeting her half way] Who are you calling a youngbeast? MARGARET. You. DORA. [peacemaking] Now, dearies! BOBBY. If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly wellclouted. MARGARET. If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be thebeginning of a collection. DORA. Now, loveys, be good. _Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue atMargaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended countenance abox on the cheek. He hurls himself her. They wrestle. _ BOBBY. Cat! I'll teach you. MARGARET. Pig! Beast! [She forces him backwards on the table]. Now whereare you? DORA. [calling] Juggins, Juggins. Theyll murder one another. JUGGINS. [throwing open the door, and announcing] Monsieur Duvallet. _Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence. Thecombatants separate by the whole width of the room. Juggins withdraws. _ DUVALLET. I fear I derange you. MARGARET. Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: Monsieur Duvalletwill think I'm always fighting. DUVALLET. Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling. Admirable, Miss Knox. The athletic young Englishwoman is an example to all Europe. [Indicating Bobby] Your instructor, no doubt. Monsieur-- [he bows]. BOBBY. [bowing awkwardly] How d'y' do? MARGARET. [to Bobby] I'm so sorry, Bobby: I asked Monsieur Duvalletto call for me here; and I forgot to tell you. [Introducing] MonsieurDuvallet: Miss Four hundred and seven. Mr Bobby Gilbey. [Duvallet bows]. I really dont know how to explain our relationships. Bobby and I arelike brother and sister. DUVALLET. Perfectly. I noticed it. MARGARET. Bobby and Miss--Miss---- DORA. Delaney, dear. [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to realfriends. MARGARET. Bobby and Dora are--are--well, not brother and sister. DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension] Perfectly. MARGARET. Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison. You dont mind, do you? DUVALLET. No, naturally. _I_ have spent the last fortnight in prison. _The conversation drops. Margaret renews it with an effort. _ MARGARET. Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison. DUVALLET. Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement. DORA. _Trop merci_, as they say in Boulogne. No call to be stiff withone another, have we? _Juggins comes in. _ JUGGINS. Beg pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the street. DORA. Let me absquatulate [making for the door]. JUGGINS. If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better stepinto my pantry and leave afterwards. DORA. Right oh! [She bursts into song] Hide me in the meat safe til thecop goes by. Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh. [She goesout on tiptoe]. MARGARET. I wont stay here if she has to hide. I'll keep her company inthe pantry. [She follows Dora]. BOBBY. Lets all go. We cant have any fun with the Mar here. I say, Juggins: you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you? JUGGINS. Certainly, sir. BOBBY. Right. Say nothing to my mother. You dont mind, Mr. Doovalley, doyou? DUVALLET. I shall be charmed. BOBBY. Right you are. Come along. [At the door] Oh, by the way, Juggins, fetch down that concertina from my room, will you? JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him to the door]. You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely _comme ilfaut_? DUVALLET. Perfectly. But the other? JUGGINS. The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately describedin your native idiom as a daughter of joy. DUVALLET. It is what I thought. These English domestic interiors arevery interesting. [He goes out, followed by Juggins]. _Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in. They take their accustomed places:he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table. _ MRS GILBEY. Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob? GILBEY. No, I didnt. And I dont want to smell it. Dont you go lookingfor trouble, Maria. MRS GILBEY. [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere] Shes been here. [Gilbey rings the bell]. What are you ringing for? Are you going to ask? GILBEY. No, I'm not going to ask. Juggins said this morning he wanted tospeak to me. If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not going to ask;and dont you either. [Juggins appears at the door]. You said you wantedto say something to me. JUGGINS. When it would be convenient to you, sir. GILBEY. Well, what is it? MRS GILBEY. Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea. GILBEY. He knows that. [He sits down. Then, to Juggins] What is it? JUGGINS. [advancing to the middle of the table] Would it inconvenienceyou, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice? GILBEY. [taken aback] What! Why? Aint you satisfied? JUGGINS. Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better myself, Iassure you. GILBEY. Well, what do you want to leave for, then? Do you want to worseyourself? JUGGINS. No, sir. Ive been well treated in your most comfortableestablishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbeywere to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction. GILBEY. [paternally] Now you listen to me, Juggins. I'm an older manthan you. Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh. Dontget too big for your boots. Youre like all servants nowadays: you thinkyouve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a dozen jobs. But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated here. In bed everynight before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on Mrs Gilbey'sday once a month; and no other manservant to interfere with you. It maybe a bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of adventure. Take myadvice: think over it. You suit me; and I'm prepared to make it suit youif youre dissatisfied--in reason, you know. JUGGINS. I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private reasons-- GILBEY. [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug indudgeon] Oh, I know. Very well: go. The sooner the better. MRS GILBEY. Oh, not until we're suited. He must stay his month. GILBEY. [sarcastic] Do you want to lose him his character, Maria? Doyou think I dont see what it is? We're prison folk now. Weve been in thepolice court. [To Juggins] Well, I suppose you know your own businessbest. I take your notice: you can go when your month is up, or sooner, if you like. JUGGINS. Believe me, sir-- GILBEY. Thats enough: I dont want any excuses. I dont blame you. You cango downstairs now, if youve nothing else to trouble me about. JUGGINS. I really cant leave it at that, sir. I assure you Ive noobjection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison. You may do six monthsyourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me. I'mleaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement, andfeels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets overit. GILBEY. And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend yoursavings in comforting him? Have some sense, man: how can you afford suchthings? JUGGINS. My brother can afford to keep me, sir. The truth is, he objectsto my being in service. GILBEY. Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him? Dontdo it, Juggins: pay your own way like an honest lad; and dont eat yourbrother's bread while youre able to earn your own. JUGGINS. There is sound sense in that, sir. But unfortunately it isa tradition in my family that the younger brothers should spunge to aconsiderable extent on the eldest. GILBEY. Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man. JUGGINS. A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent one. GILBEY. Radical! What do you mean? Dont you begin to take liberties, Juggins, now that you know we're loth to part with you. Your brotherisnt a duke, you know. JUGGINS. Unfortunately, he is, sir. GILBEY. | What! | | | _together_ | | MRS GILBEY. | Juggins! | JUGGINS. Excuse me, sir: the bell. [He goes out]. GILBEY. [overwhelmed] Maria: did you understand him to say his brotherwas a duke? MRS GILBEY. Fancy his condescending! Perhaps if youd offer to raise hiswages and treat him as one of the family, he'd stay. GILBEY. And have my own servant above me! Not me. Whats the world comingto? Heres Bobby and-- JUGGINS. [entering and announcing] Mr and Mrs Knox. _The Knoxes come in. Juggins takes two chairs from the wall and placesthem at the table, between the host and hostess. Then he withdraws. _ MRS GILBEY. [to Mrs Knox] How are you, dear? MRS KNOX. Nicely, thank you. Good evening, Mr Gilbey. [They shake hands;and she takes the chair nearest Mrs Gilbey. Mr Knox takes the otherchair]. GILBEY. [sitting down] I was just saying, Knox, What is the world comingto? KNOX. [appealing to his wife] What was I saying myself only thismorning? MRS KNOX. This is a strange time. I was never one to talk about the endof the world; but look at the things that have happened! KNOX. Earthquakes! GILBEY. San Francisco! MRS GILBEY. Jamaica! KNOX. Martinique! GILBEY. Messina! MRS GILBEY. The plague in China! MRS KNOX. The floods in France! GILBEY. My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs! KNOX. Margaret in Holloway! GILBEY. And now my footman tells me his brother's a duke! KNOX. | No! | MRS KNOX. | Whats that? GILBEY. Just before he let you in. A duke! Here has everything beenrespectable from the beginning of the world, as you may say, to thepresent day; and all of a sudden everything is turned upside down. MRS KNOX. It's like in the book of Revelations. But I do say that unlesspeople have happiness within themselves, all the earthquakes, all thefloods, and all the prisons in the world cant make them really happy. KNOX. It isnt alone the curious things that are happening, but theunnatural way people are taking them. Why, theres Margaret been inprison, and she hasnt time to go to all the invitations shes had frompeople that never asked her before. GILBEY. I never knew we could live without being respectable. MRS GILBEY. Oh, Rob, what a thing to say! Who says we're notrespectable? GILBEY. Well, it's not what I call respectable to have your children inand out of gaol. KNOX. Oh come, Gilbey! we're not tramps because weve had, as it were, anaccident. GILBEY. It's no use, Knox: look it in the face. Did I ever tell you myfather drank? KNOX. No. But I knew it. Simmons told me. GILBEY. Yes: he never could keep his mouth quiet: he told me your auntwas a kleptomaniac. MRS KNOX. It wasnt true, Mr Gilbey. She used to pick up handkerchiefs ifshe saw them lying about; but you might trust her with untold silver. GILBEY. My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller. My father used to say to me:Rob, he says, dont you ever have a weakness. If you find one getting ahold on you, make a merit of it, he says. Your Uncle Phil doesnt likespirits; and he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of the Blue RibbonCommittee. I do like spirits; and I make a merit of it, and I'm the KingCockatoo of the Convivial Cockatoos. Never put yourself in the wrong, hesays. I used to boast about what a good boy Bobby was. Now I swank aboutwhat a dog he is; and it pleases people just as well. What a world itis! KNOX. It turned my blood cold at first to hear Margaret telling peopleabout Holloway; but it goes down better than her singing used to. MRS KNOX. I never thought she sang right after all those lessons we paidfor. GILBEY. Lord, Knox, it was lucky you and me got let in together. I tellyou straight, if it hadnt been for Bobby's disgrace, I'd have broke upthe firm. KNOX. I shouldnt have blamed you: I'd have done the same only forMargaret. Too much straightlacedness narrows a man's mind. Talkingof that, what about those hygienic corset advertisements that Vines &Jackson want us to put in the window? I told Vines they werent decentand we couldnt shew them in our shop. I was pretty high with him. Butwhat am I to say to him now if he comes and throws this business in ourteeth? GILBEY. Oh, put em in. We may as well go it a bit now. MRS GILBEY. Youve been going it quite far enough, Rob. [To Mrs Knox] Hewont get up in the mornings now: he that was always out of bed at sevento the tick! MRS KNOX. You hear that, Jo? [To Mrs Gilbey] Hes taken to whisky andsoda. A pint a week! And the beer the same as before! KNOX. Oh, dont preach, old girl. MRS KNOX. [To Mrs Gilbey] Thats a new name hes got for me. [to Knox] Itell you, Jo, this doesnt sit well on you. You may call it preaching ifyou like; but it's the truth for all that. I say that if youve happinesswithin yourself, you dont need to seek it outside, spending money ondrink and theatres and bad company, and being miserable after all. Youcan sit at home and be happy; and you can work and be happy. If you havethat in you, the spirit will set you free to do what you want and guideyou to do right. But if you havent got it, then youd best be respectableand stick to the ways that are marked out for you; for youve nothingelse to keep you straight. KNOX. [angrily] And is a man never to have a bit of fun? See whats comeof it with your daughter! She was to be content with your happinessthat youre always talking about; and how did the spirit guide her? Toa month's hard for being drunk and assaulting the police. Did _I_ everassault the police? MRS KNOX. You wouldnt have the courage. I dont blame the girl. MRS GILBEY. | Oh, Maria! What are you saying? | GILBEY. | What! And you so pious! MRS KNOX. She went where the spirit guided her. And what harm there wasin it she knew nothing about. GILBEY. Oh, come, Mrs Knox! Girls are not so innocent as all that. MRS KNOX. I dont say she was ignorant. But I do say that she didnt knowwhat we know: I mean the way certain temptations get a sudden hold thatno goodness nor self-control is any use against. She was saved fromthat, and had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no earthly protectionthat did that. But dont think, you two men, that youll be protected ifyou make what she did an excuse to go and do as youd like to do if itwasnt for fear of losing your characters. The spirit wont guide you, because it isnt in you; and it never had been: not in either of you. GILBEY. [with ironic humility] I'm sure I'm obliged to you for your goodopinion, Mrs Knox. MRS KNOX. Well, I will say for you, Mr Gilbey, that youre better than myman here. Hes a bitter hard heathen, is my Jo, God help me! [She beginsto cry quietly]. KNOX. Now, dont take on like that, Amelia. You know I always give in toyou that you were right about religion. But one of us had to think ofother things, or we'd have starved, we and the child. MRS KNOX. How do you know youd have starved? All the other things mighthave been added unto you. GILBEY. Come, Mrs Knox, dont tell me Knox is a sinner. I know better. I'm sure youd be the first to be sorry if anything was to happen to him. KNOX. [bitterly to his wife] Youve always had some grudge against me;and nobody but yourself can understand what it is. MRS KNOX. I wanted a man who had that happiness within himself. You mademe think you had it; but it was nothing but being in love with me. MRS GILBEY. And do you blame him for that? MRS KNOX. I blame nobody. But let him not think he can walk by his ownlight. I tell him that if he gives up being respectable he'll go rightdown to the bottom of the hill. He has no powers inside himself to keephim steady; so let him cling to the powers outside him. KNOX. [rising angrily] Who wants to give up being respectable? All thisfor a pint of whisky that lasted a week! How long would it have lastedSimmons, I wonder? MRS KNOX. [gently] Oh, well, say no more, Jo. I wont plague you aboutit. [He sits down]. You never did understand; and you never will. Hardlyanybody understands: even Margaret didnt til she went to prison. Shedoes now; and I shall have a companion in the house after all theselonely years. KNOX. [beginning to cry] I did all I could to make you happy. I neversaid a harsh word to you. GILBEY. [rising indignantly] What right have you to treat a man likethat? an honest respectable husband? as if he were dirt under your feet? KNOX. Let her alone, Gilbey. [Gilbey sits down, but mutinously]. MRS KNOX. Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and if it wasnt what Iwanted, that wasnt your fault. But I'd rather have you as you were thansince you took to whisky and soda. KNOX. I dont want any whisky and soda. I'll take the pledge if you like. MRS KNOX. No: you shall have your beer because you like it. The whiskywas only brag. And if you and me are to remain friends, Mr Gilbey, youllget up to-morrow morning at seven. GILBEY. [defiantly] Damme if I will! There! MRS KNOX. [with gentle pity] How do you know, Mr Gilbey, what youll doto-morrow morning? GILBEY. Why shouldnt I know? Are we children not to be let do what welike, and our own sons and daughters kicking their heels all over theplace? [To Knox] I was never one to interfere between man and wife, Knox; but if Maria started ordering me about like that-- MRS GILBEY. Now dont be naughty, Rob. You know you mustnt set yourselfup against religion? GILBEY. Whos setting himself up against religion? MRS KNOX. It doesnt matter whether you set yourself up against it ornot, Mr. Gilbey. If it sets itself up against you, youll have to go theappointed way: it's no use quarrelling about it with me that am as greata sinner as yourself. GILBEY. Oh, indeed! And who told you I was a sinner? MRS GILBEY. Now, Rob, you know we are all sinners. What else isreligion? GILBEY. I say nothing against religion. I suppose were all sinners, ina manner of speaking; but I dont like to have it thrown at me as if I'dreally done anything. MRS GILBEY. Mrs Knox is speaking for your good, Rob. GILBEY. Well, I dont like to be spoken to for my good. Would anybodylike it? MRS KNOX. Dont take offence where none is meant, Mr Gilbey. Talk aboutsomething else. No good ever comes of arguing about such things amongthe like of us. KNOX. The like of us! Are you throwing it in our teeth that your peoplewere in the wholesale and thought Knox and Gilbey wasnt good enough foryou? MRS KNOX. No, Jo: you know I'm not. What better were my people thanyours, for all their pride? But Ive noticed it all my life: we'reignorant. We dont really know whats right and whats wrong. We're allright as long as things go on the way they always did. We bring ourchildren up just as we were brought up; and we go to church or chapeljust as our parents did; and we say what everybody says; and it goeson all right until something out of the way happens: theres a familyquarrel, or one of the children goes wrong, or a father takes to drink, or an aunt goes mad, or one of us finds ourselves doing somethingwe never thought we'd want to do. And then you know what happens:complaints and quarrels and huff and offence and bad language and badtemper and regular bewilderment as if Satan possessed us all. We findout then that with all our respectability and piety, weve no realreligion and no way of telling right from wrong. Weve nothing but ourhabits; and when theyre upset, where are we? Just like Peter in thestorm trying to walk on the water and finding he couldnt. MRS GILBEY. [piously] Aye! He found out, didnt he? GILBEY. [reverently] I never denied that youve a great intellect, MrsKnox-- MRS KNOX. Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you begin talking about myintellect. Give us some tea, Maria. Ive said my say; and Im sure I begthe company's pardon for being so long about it, and so disagreeable. MRS GILBEY. Ring, Rob. [Gilbey rings]. Stop. Juggins will think we'reringing for him. GILBEY. [appalled] It's too late. I rang before I thought of it. MRS GILBEY. Step down and apologize, Rob. KNOX. Is it him that you said was brother to a-- _Juggins comes in with the tea-tray. All rise. He takes the tray to Mrs. Gilbey. _ GILBEY. I didnt mean to ask you to do this, Mr Juggins. I wasnt thinkingwhen I rang. MRS GILBEY. [trying to take the tray from him] Let me, Juggins. JUGGINS. Please sit down, madam. Allow me to discharge my duties just asusual, sir. I assure you that is the correct thing. [They sit down, illat ease, whilst he places the tray on the table. He then goes out forthe curate]. KNOX. [lowering his voice] Is this all right, Gilbey? Anybody may be theson of a duke, you know. Is he legitimate? GILBEY. Good lord! I never thought of that. _Juggins returns with the cakes. They regard him with suspicion. _ GILBEY. [whispering to Knox] You ask him. KNOX. [to Juggins] Just a word with you, my man. Was your mother marriedto your father? JUGGINS. I believe so, sir. I cant say from personal knowledge. It wasbefore my time. GILBEY. Well, but look here you know--[he hesitates]. JUGGINS. Yes, sir? KNOX. I know whatll clinch it, Gilbey. You leave it to me. [To Juggins]Was your mother the duchess? JUGGINS. Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir, I assure you. [To Mrs Gilbey]That is the milk, madam. [She has mistaken the jugs]. This is the water. _They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment. _ MRS KNOX. What did I tell you? Heres something out of the commonhappening with a servant; and we none of us know how to behave. JUGGINS. It's quite simple, madam. I'm a footman, and should be treatedas a footman. [He proceeds calmly with his duties, handing round cups oftea as Mrs Knox fills them]. _Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the company. _ MRS GILBEY. Whats that noise? Is Master Bobby at home? I heard hislaugh. MRS KNOX. I'm sure I heard Margaret's. GILBEY. Not a bit of it. It was that woman. JUGGINS. I can explain, sir. I must ask you to excuse the liberty; butI'm entertaining a small party to tea in my pantry. MRS GILBEY. But youre not entertaining Master Bobby? JUGGINS. Yes, madam. GILBEY. Who's with him? JUGGINS. Miss Knox, sir. GILBEY. Miss Knox! Are you sure? Is there anyone else? JUGGINS. Only a French marine officer, sir, and--er--Miss Delaney. [Heplaces Gilbey's tea on the table before him]. The lady that called aboutMaster Bobby, sir. KNOX. Do you mean to say theyre having a party all to themselvesdownstairs, and we having a party up here and knowing nothing about it? JUGGINS. Yes, sir. I have to do a good deal of entertaining in thepantry for Master Bobby, sir. GILBEY. Well, this is a nice state of things! KNOX. Whats the meaning of it? What do they do it for? JUGGINS. To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think. MRS GILBEY. Enjoy themselves! Did ever anybody hear of such a thing? GILBEY. Knox's daughter shewn into my pantry! KNOX. Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a footman-- [Suddenlyrealizing that the footman is offering him cake. ] She doesnt knowabout--about His Grace, you know. MRS GILBEY. Perhaps she does. Does she, Mr Juggins? JUGGINS. The other lady suspects me, madam. They call me Rudolph, or theLong Lost Heir. MRS GILBEY. It's a much nicer name than Juggins. I think I'll call youby it, if you dont mind. JUGGINS. Not at all, madam. _Roars of merriment from below. _ GILBEY. Go and tell them to stop laughing. What right have they to makea noise like that? JUGGINS. I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir. But the Frenchgentleman always sets them off again. KNOX. Do you mean to tell me that my daughter laughs at a Frenchman'sjokes? GILBEY. We all know what French jokes are. JUGGINS. Believe me: you do not, sir. The noise this afternoon has allbeen because the Frenchman said that the cat had whooping cough. MRS GILBEY. [laughing heartily] Well, I never! GILBEY. Dont be a fool, Maria. Look here, Knox: we cant let this go on. People cant be allowed to behave like this. KNOX. Just what I say. _A concertina adds its music to the revelry. _ MRS GILBEY. [excited] Thats the squiffer. Hes bought it for her. GILBEY. Well, of all the scandalous-- [Redoubled laughter from below]. KNOX. I'll put a stop to this. [He goes out to the landing and shouts]Margaret! [Sudden dead silence]. Margaret, I say! MARGARET'S VOICE. Yes, father. Shall we all come up? We're dying to. KNOX. Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like wild Indians. DORA'S VOICE [screaming] Oh! oh! oh! Dont Bobby. Now--oh! [In headlongflight she dashes into and right across the room, breathless, andslightly abashed by the company]. I beg your pardon, Mrs Gilbey, forcoming in like that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby, hepretends it's a cat biting my ankles; and I just must scream. _Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently in highspirits. Bobby places himself near his father, on the hearthrug, andpresently slips down into the arm-chair. _ MARGARET. How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey? [She posts herself behind hermother]. _Duvallet comes in behaving himself perfectly. Knox follows. _ MARGARET. Oh--let me introduce. My friend Lieutenant Duvallet. MrsGilbey. Mr Gilbey. [Duvallet bows and sits down on Mr Knox's left, Juggins placing a chair for him]. DORA. Now, Bobby: introduce me: theres a dear. BOBBY. [a little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his spirits]Miss Delaney: Mr and Mrs Knox. [Knox, as he resumes his seat, acknowledges the introduction suspiciously. Mrs Knox bows gravely, looking keenly at Dora and taking her measure without prejudice]. DORA. Pleased to meet you. [Juggins places the baby rocking-chair forher on Mrs Gilbey's right, opposite Mrs Knox]. Thank you. [She sitsand turns to Mrs Gilbey] Bobby's given me the squiffer. [To the companygenerally] Do you know what theyve been doing downstairs? [She goes offinto ecstasies of mirth]. Youd never guess. Theyve been trying to teachme table manners. The Lieutenant and Rudolph say I'm a regular pig. I'msure I never knew there was anything wrong with me. But live and learn[to Gilbey] eh, old dear? JUGGINS. Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney. [He retires to the endof the sideboard nearest the door]. DORA. Oh get out! I must call a man something. He doesnt mind: do you, Charlie? MRS GILBEY. His name isnt Charlie. DORA. Excuse me. I call everybody Charlie. JUGGINS. You mustnt. DORA. Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold my tonguealtogether; and then how sorry youd be! Lord, how I do run on! Dont mindme, Mrs Gilbey. KNOX. What I want to know is, whats to be the end of this? It's notfor me to interfere between you and your son, Gilbey: he knows his ownintentions best, no doubt, and perhaps has told them to you. But Ivemy daughter to look after; and it's my duty as a parent to have a clearunderstanding about her. No good is ever done by beating about the bush. I ask Lieutenant--well, I dont speak French; and I cant pronounce thename-- MARGARET. Mr Duvallet, father. KNOX. I ask Mr Doovalley what his intentions are. MARGARET. Oh father: how can you? DUVALLET. I'm afraid my knowledge of English is not enough tounderstand. Intentions? How? MARGARET. He wants to know will you marry me. MRS GILBEY. | What a thing to say! | KNOX. | Silence, miss. | DORA. | Well, thats straight, aint it? DUVALLET. But I am married already. I have two daughters. KNOX. [rising, virtuously indignant] You sit there after carrying onwith my daughter, and tell me coolly youre married. MARGARET. Papa: you really must not tell people that they sit there. [Hesits down again sulkily]. DUVALLET. Pardon. Carrying on? What does that mean? MARGARET. It means-- KNOX. [violently] Hold your tongue, you shameless young hussy. Dont youdare say what it means. DUVALLET. [shrugging his shoulders] What does it mean, Rudolph? MRS KNOX. If it's not proper for her to say, it's not proper for a manto say, either. Mr Doovalley: youre a married man with daughters. Wouldyou let them go about with a stranger, as you are to us, without wantingto know whether he intended to behave honorably? DUVALLET. Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls. That is verydifferent. It would not be correct for a French girl to go about aloneand speak to men as English and American girls do. That is why Iso immensely admire the English people. You are so free--sounprejudiced--your women are so brave and frank--their minds are so--howdo you say?--wholesome. I intend to have my daughters educated inEngland. Nowhere else in the world but in England could I have met ata Variety Theatre a charming young lady of perfect respectability, andenjoyed a dance with her at a public dancing saloon. And where else arewomen trained to box and knock out the teeth of policemen as a protestagainst injustice and violence? [Rising, with immense elan] Yourdaughter, madam, is superb. Your country is a model to the rest ofEurope. If you were a Frenchman, stifled with prudery, hypocrisy andthe tyranny of the family and the home, you would understand howan enlightened Frenchman admires and envies your freedom, yourbroadmindedness, and the fact that home life can hardly be said to existin England. You have made an end of the despotism of the parent; thefamily council is unknown to you; everywhere in these islands one canenjoy the exhilarating, the soul-liberating spectacle of men quarrellingwith their brothers, defying their fathers, refusing to speak to theirmothers. In France we are not men: we are only sons--grown-up children. Here one is a human being--an end in himself. Oh, Mrs Knox, if only yourmilitary genius were equal to your moral genius--if that conquest ofEurope by France which inaugurated the new age after the Revolution hadonly been an English conquest, how much more enlightened the world wouldhave been now! We, alas, can only fight. France is unconquerable. Weimpose our narrow ideas, our prejudices, our obsolete institutions, our insufferable pedantry on the world by brute force--by that stupidquality of military heroism which shews how little we have evolved fromthe savage: nay, from the beast. We can charge like bulls; we can springon our foes like gamecocks; when we are overpowered by reason, we candie fighting like rats. And we are foolish enough to be proud of it! Whyshould we be? Does the bull progress? Can you civilize the gamecock? Isthere any future for the rat? We cant even fight intelligently: when welose battles, it is because we have not sense enough to know when we arebeaten. At Waterloo, had we known when we were beaten, we should haveretreated; tried another plan; and won the battle. But no: we were toopigheaded to admit that there is anything impossible to a Frenchman: wewere quite satisfied when our Marshals had six horses shot under them, and our stupid old grognards died fighting rather than surrenderlike reasonable beings. Think of your great Wellington: think of hisinspiring words, when the lady asked him whether British soldiers everran away. "All soldiers run away, madam, " he said; "but if there aresupports for them to fall back on it does not matter. " Think of yourillustrious Nelson, always beaten on land, always victorious at sea, where his men could not run away. You are not dazzled and misled byfalse ideals of patriotic enthusiasm: your honest and sensible statesmendemand for England a two-power standard, even a three-power standard, frankly admitting that it is wise to fight three to one: whilst we, fools and braggarts as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a hostin himself, and that when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he isguilty of an act of cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikesa woman. It is folly: it is nonsense: a Frenchman is not really strongerthan a German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman. Sir: if allFrenchwomen were like your daughter--if all Frenchmen had the goodsense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm judgment, the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true courage, which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are hardlyconscious of possessing them, France would become the greatest nation inthe world. MARGARET. Three cheers for old England! [She shakes hands with himwarmly]. BOBBY. Hurra-a-ay! And so say all of us. _Duvallet, having responded to Margaret's handshake with enthusiasm, kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping hisperspiring brow. _ GILBEY. Well, this sort of talk is above me. Can you make anything outof it, Knox? KNOX. The long and short of it seems to be that he cant lawfully marrymy daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her. DORA. I'm ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction. GILBEY. No you dont. Not if I know it. MRS KNOX. He ought to, Mr Gilbey. GILBEY. Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of it. Would you invite them to your house if he married her? MRS KNOX. He ought to marry her whether or no. BOBBY. I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox. GILBEY. Hold your tongue. Mind your own business. BOBBY. [wildly] If I'm not let marry her, I'll do something downrightdisgraceful. I'll enlist as a soldier. JUGGINS. That is not a disgrace, sir. BOBBY. Not for you, perhaps. But youre only a footman. I'm a gentleman. MRS GILBEY. Dont dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr Rudolph, Bobby. Forshame! JUGGINS. [coming forward to the middle of the table] It is notgentlemanly to regard the service of your country as disgraceful. It isgentlemanly to marry the lady you make love to. GILBEY. [aghast] My boy is to marry this woman and be a social outcast! JUGGINS. Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably condemned byrespectable society to spend the rest of their days in precisely thesort of company they seem to like best and be most at home in. KNOX. And my daughter? Whos to marry my daughter? JUGGINS. Your daughter, sir, will probably marry whoever she makes upher mind to marry. She is a lady of very determined character. KNOX. Yes: if he'd have her with her character gone. But who would?Youre the brother of a duke. Would-- BOBBY. | Whats that? | MARGARET. | Juggins a duke? | DUVALLET. | _Comment!_ | DORA. | What did I tell you? KNOX. Yes: the brother of a duke: thats what he is. [To Juggins] Well, would you marry her? JUGGINS. I was about to propose that solution of your problem, Mr Knox. MRS GILBEY. | Well I never! | KNOX. | D'ye mean it? | MRS KNOX. | Marry Margaret! JUGGINS. [continuing] As an idle younger son, unable to support myself, or even to remain in the Guards in competition with the grandsons ofAmerican millionaires, I could not have aspired to Miss Knox's hand. Butas a sober, honest, and industrious domestic servant, who has, I trust, given satisfaction to his employer [he bows to Mr Gilbey] I feel I am aman with a character. It is for Miss Knox to decide. MARGARET. I got into a frightful row once for admiring you, Rudolph. JUGGINS. I should have got into an equally frightful row myself, Miss, had I betrayed my admiration for you. I looked forward to those weeklydinners. MRS KNOX. But why did a gentleman like you stoop to be a footman? DORA. He stooped to conquer. MARGARET. Shut up, Dora: I want to hear. JUGGINS. I will explain; but only Mrs Knox will understand. I onceinsulted a servant--rashly; for he was a sincere Christian. He rebukedme for trifling with a girl of his own class. I told him to rememberwhat he was, and to whom he was speaking. He said God would remember. Idischarged him on the spot. GILBEY. Very properly. KNOX. What right had he to mention such a thing to you? MRS GILBEY. What are servants coming to? MRS KNOX. Did it come true, what he said? JUGGINS. It stuck like a poisoned arrow. It rankled for months. Then Igave in. I apprenticed myself to an old butler of ours who kept a hotel. He taught me my present business, and got me a place as footman with MrGilbey. If ever I meet that man again I shall be able to look him in theface. MRS KNOX. Margaret: it's not on account of the duke: dukes are vanities. But take my advice and take him. MARGARET. [slipping her arm through his] I have loved Juggins since thefirst day I beheld him. I felt instinctively he had been in the Guards. May he walk out with me, Mr Gilbey? KNOX. Dont be vulgar, girl. Remember your new position. [To Juggins] Isuppose youre serious about this, Mr--Mr Rudolph? JUGGINS. I propose, with your permission, to begin keeping company thisafternoon, if Mrs Gilbey can spare me. GILBEY. [in a gust of envy, to Bobby] Itll be long enough before youllmarry the sister of a duke, you young good-for-nothing. DORA. Dont fret, old dear. Rudolph will teach me high-class manners. Icall it quite a happy ending: dont you, lieutenant? DUVALLET. In France it would be impossible. But here--ah! [kissing hishand] la belle Angleterre! EPILOGUE _Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats. _ THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold youropinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have believedit. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art? Is itagreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is itdelicate? Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I speakfrom a wounded heart. There are private reasons for my discomposure. This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches and menaces to allof us who are parents. TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing hasamusing passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence. THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist. [Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat, making a noise like a pheasant]. You see hundreds of plays every year. But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before, the effectof this play is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been what peoplecall an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit. [Vaughan isshocked]. Love beautifies every romance and justifies every audacity. [Bannal assents gravely]. But there are reticences which everybodyshould respect. There are decencies too subtle to be put into words, without which human society would be unbearable. People could nottalk to one another as those people talk. No child could speak to itsparent--no girl could speak to a youth--no human creature could teardown the veils-- [Appealing to Vaughan, who is on his left flank, withGunn between them] Could they, sir? VAUGHAN. Well, I dont see that. THE COUNT. You dont see it! dont feel it! [To Gunn] Sir: I appeal toyou. GUNN. [with studied weariness] It seems to me the most ordinary sort ofold-fashioned Ibsenite drivel. THE COUNT [turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him andBannal] Mr Trotter: will you tell me that you are not amazed, outraged, revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by every wordof this play, every tone, every implication; that you did not sit thereshrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might come next? TROTTER. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind ofthing by the yard. THE COUNT. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return. Imust believe what you tell me. I perceive that you are not agitated, not surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes, gentlemen, horror--horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to you, ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little younger thanmyself. Sir: if young people spoke to me like that, I should die ofshame: I could not face it. I must go back. The world has passed me byand left me. Accept the apologies of an elderly and no doubt ridiculousadmirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was still some beautyin the world and some delicate grace in family life. But I promised mydaughter your opinion; and I must keep my word. Gentlemen: you arethe choice and master spirits of this age: you walk through it withoutbewilderment and face its strange products without dismay. Pray deliveryour verdict. Mr Bannal: you know that it is the custom at a CourtMartial for the youngest officer present to deliver his judgment first;so that he may not be influenced by the authority of his elders. You arethe youngest. What is your opinion of the play? BANNAL. Well, whos it by? THE COUNT. That is a secret for the present. BANNAL. You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I dontknow who the author is, do you? THE COUNT. Why not? BANNAL. Why not! Why not!! Suppose you had to write about a play byPinero and one by Jones! Would you say exactly the same thing aboutthem? THE COUNT. I presume not. BANNAL. Then how could you write about them until you knew which wasPinero and which was Jones? Besides, what sort of play is this? thatswhat I want to know. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce ora melodrama? Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight payingstuff? GUNN. Cant you tell from seeing it? BANNAL. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to takeit? Is it serious, or is it spoof? If the author knows what his playis, let him tell us what it is. If he doesnt, he cant complain if I dontknow either. _I_'m not the author. THE COUNT. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats a simple question. BANNAL. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a good author, it's agood play, naturally. That stands to reason. Who is the author? Tell methat; and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth. THE COUNT. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name. The author desires that the play should be judged on its merits. BANNAL. But what merits can it have except the author's merits? Whowould you say it's by, Gunn? GUNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a rotten old-fashioneddomestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets. The hero's a navallieutenant. All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants. The heroinegets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into trouble, thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as hard as shecan. Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father when hes goingto put her out of the house, and says she'll go too. Then theres thecomic relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic shopkeeper's wife, thecomic footman who turns out to be a duke in disguise, and the youngscapegrace who gives the author his excuse for dragging in a fast youngwoman. All as old and stale as a fried fish shop on a winter morning. THE COUNT. But-- GUNN [interrupting him] I know what youre going to say, Count. Youregoing to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new andunusual and original. The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who cracks upthe English and runs down the French: the hackneyed old Shaw touch. The characters are second-rate middle class, instead of being dukes andmillionaires. The heroine gets kicked through the mud: real mud. Theresno plot. All the old stage conventions and puppets without the oldingenuity and the old enjoyment. And a feeble air of intellectualpretentiousness kept up all through to persuade you that if the authorhasnt written a good play it's because hes too clever to stoop toanything so commonplace. And you three experienced men have sat throughall this, and cant tell me who wrote it! Why, the play bears theauthor's signature in every line. BANNAL. Who? GUNN. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey is straight out ofThe Madras House. BANNAL. Poor old Barker! VAUGHAN. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the difference in style? BANNAL. No. VAUGHAN. [contemptuously] Do you know what style is? BANNAL. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style. But it's notmy style--since you ask me. VAUGHAN. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play. To begin with, it's intensely disagreeable. Therefore it's not by Barrie, in spite ofthe footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He was an earl, you may remember. You notice, too, the author's offensive habit ofsaying silly things that have no real sense in them when you come toexamine them, just to set all the fools in the house giggling. Then whatdoes it all come to? An attempt to expose the supposed hypocrisy ofthe Puritan middle class in England: people just as good as the author, anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable improper female: the MrsTanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if you cant recognize the author ofthat, youve mistaken your professions: thats all I have to say. BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch thatGunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw. GUNN. Rubbish! VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor asthis play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow thatbeneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she reallyloves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly provedthat Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion. BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I alwayssay that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart. GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heartand brain--Shakespear would have called it liver and wits--is reallyschoolboyish. Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer. Evensuch a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been ashamed ofit. Heart and brain, indeed! VAUGHAN. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. Youre decadent. GUNN. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian word! VAUGHAN. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in thisplay were quite distinguishable from one another. That proves it's notby Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself: mere puppets stuckup to spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them seem different. BANNAL. There can be no doubt of that: everybody knows it. But Shawdoesnt write his plays as plays. All he wants to do is to insulteverybody all round and set us talking about him. TROTTER. [wearily] And naturally, here we are all talking about him. Forheaven's sake, let us change the subject. VAUGHAN. Still, my articles about Shaw-- GUNN. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive always told you about Shawis-- BANNAL. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chuck it. If you want to knowmy opinion about Shaw-- TROTTER. | No, please, we dont. | | | VAUGHAN. | Shut your head, Bannal. | [yelling] | | GUNN. | Oh, do drop it. | _The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies from thecentre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan. _ BANNAL. [sulkily] Oh, very well. Sorry I spoke, I'm sure. TROTTER. | Shaw-- | | | [beginning again VAUGHAN. | Shaw-- | simultaneously] | | GUNN. | Shaw-- | _They are cut short by the entry of Fanny through the curtains. She isalmost in tears. _ FANNY. [coming between Trotter and Gunn] I'm so sorry, gentlemen. And itwas such a success when I read it to the Cambridge Fabian Society! TROTTER. Miss O'Dowda: I was about to tell these gentlemen what Iguessed before the curtain rose: that you are the author of the play. [General amazement and consternation]. FANNY. And you all think it beastly. You hate it. You think I'm aconceited idiot, and that I shall never be able to write anythingdecent. _She is almost weeping. A wave of sympathy carries away the critics. _ VAUGHAN. No, no. Why, I was just saying that it must have been writtenby Pinero. Didnt I, Gunn? FANNY. [enormously flattered] Really? TROTTER. I thought Pinero was much too popular for the Cambridge FabianSociety. FANNY. Oh yes, of course; but still--Oh, did you really say that, MrVaughan? GUNN. I owe you an apology, Miss O'Dowda. I said it was by Barker. FANNY. [radiant] Granville Barker! Oh, you couldnt really have thoughtit so fine as that. BANNAL. _I_ said Bernard Shaw. FANNY. Oh, of course it would be a little like Bernard Shaw. The Fabiantouch, you know. BANNAL. [coming to her encouragingly] A jolly good little play, MissO'Dowda. Mind: I dont say it's like one of Shakespear's--Hamlet or TheLady of Lyons, you know--but still, a firstrate little bit of work. [Heshakes her hand]. GUNN. [following Bannal's example] I also, Miss O'Dowda. Capital. Charming. [He shakes hands]. VAUGHAN [with maudlin solemnity] Only be true to yourself, Miss O'Dowda. Keep serious. Give up making silly jokes. Sustain the note of passion. And youll do great things. FANNY. You think I have a future? TROTTER. You have a past, Miss O'Dowda. FANNY. [looking apprehensively at her father] Sh-sh-sh! THE COUNT. A past! What do you mean, Mr Trotter? TROTTER. [to Fanny] You cant deceive me. That bit about the police wasreal. Youre a Suffraget, Miss O'Dowda. You were on that Deputation. THE COUNT. Fanny: is this true? FANNY. It is. I did a month with Lady Constance Lytton; and I'm prouderof it than I ever was of anything or ever shall be again. TROTTER. Is that any reason why you should stuff naughty plays down mythroat? FANNY. Yes: itll teach you what it feels like to be forcibly fed. THE COUNT. She will never return to Venice. I feel now as I felt whenthe Campanile fell. _Savoyard comes in through the curtains. _ SAVOYARD. [to the Count] Would you mind coming to say a word ofcongratulation to the company? Theyre rather upset at having had nocurtain call. THE COUNT. Certainly, certainly. I'm afraid Ive been rather remiss. Letus go on the stage, gentlemen. _The curtains are drawn, revealing the last scene of the play and theactors on the stage. The Count, Savoyard, the critics, and Fanny jointhem, shaking hands and congratulating. _ THE COUNT. Whatever we may think of the play, gentlemen, I'm sure youwill agree with me that there can be only one opinion about the acting. THE CRITICS. Hear, hear! [They start the applause]. AYOT ST. LAWRENCE, March 1911.