FRANCES. Henry ... this is dreadful about that poor little woman.
TREBELL. An unwelcome baby was arriving. She got some quack to kill her.
_These exact words are like a blow in the face to her, from which,
being a woman of brave common sense, she does not shrink._
TREBELL. What do you say to that?
_She walks away from him, thinking painfully._
FRANCES. She had never had a child. There's the common-place thing to
say.... Ungrateful little fool! But....
TREBELL. If you had been in her place?
FRANCES. [_Subtly._] I have never made the mistake of marrying. She grew
frightened, I suppose. Not just physically frightened. How can a man
understand?
TREBELL. The fear of life ... do you think it was ... which is the beginning
of all evil?
FRANCES. A woman must choose what her interpretation of life is to be ... as
a man must too in his way ... as you and I have chosen, Henry.
TREBELL. [_Asking from real interest in her._] Was yours a deliberate choice
and do you never regret it?
FRANCES. [_Very simply and clearly._] Perhaps one does nothing quite
deliberately and for a definite reason. My state has its compensations ...
if one doesn't value them too highly. I've travelled in thought over all
this question. You mustn't blame a woman for wishing not to bear children.
But ... well, if one doesn't like the fruit one mustn't cultivate the
flower. And I suppose that saying condemns poor Amy ... condemned her to
death ... [_Then her face hardens as she concentrates her meaning._] and
brands most men as ... let's unsentimentally call it illogical, doesn't it?
_He takes the thrust in silence._
TREBELL. Did you notice the light in my window as you came in?
FRANCES. Yes ... in both as I got out of the cab. Do you want the curtains
drawn back?
TREBELL. Yes ... don't touch them.
_He has thrown himself into his chair by the fire. She lapses into
thought again._
FRANCES. Poor little woman.
TREBELL. [_In deep anger._] Well, if women will be little and poor....
_She goes to him and slips an arm over his shoulder._
FRANCES. What is it you're worried about ... if a mere sister may ask?
TREBELL. [_Into the fire._] I want to think. I haven't thought for years.
FRANCES. Why, you have done nothing else.
TREBELL. I've been working out problems in legal and political algebra.
FRANCES. You want to think of yourself.
TREBELL. Yes.
FRANCES. [_Gentle and ironic._] Have you ever, for one moment, thought in
that sense of anyone else?
TREBELL. Is that a complaint?
FRANCES. The first in ten years' housekeeping.
TREBELL. No, I never have ... but I've never thought selfishly either.
FRANCES. That's a paradox I don't quite understand.
TREBELL. Until women do they'll remain where they are ... and what they are.
FRANCES. Oh, I know you hate us.
TREBELL. Yes, dear sister, I'm afraid I do. And I hate your influence on men
... compromise, tenderness, pity, lack of purpose. Women don't know the
values of things, not even their own value.
_For a moment she studies him, wonderingly._
FRANCES. I'll take up the counter-accusation to-morrow. Now I'm tired and
I'm going to bed. If I may insult you by mothering you, so should you. You
look tired and I've seldom seen you.
TREBELL. I'm waiting up for a message.
FRANCES. So late?
TREBELL. It's a matter of life and death.
FRANCES. Are you joking?
TREBELL. Yes. If you want to spoil me find me a book to read.
FRANCES. What will you have?
TREBELL. Huckleberry Finn. It's on a top shelf towards the end somewhere ...
or should be.
_She finds the book. On her way back with it she stops and shivers._
FRANCES. I don't think I shall sleep to-night. Poor Amy O'Connell!
TREBELL. [_Curiously._] Are you afraid of death?
FRANCES. [_With humorous stoicism._] It will be the end of me, perhaps.
_She gives him the book, with its red cover; the '86 edition, a boy's
friend evidently. He fingers it familiarly._
TREBELL. Thank you. Mark Twain's a jolly fellow. He has courage ... comic
courage. That's what's wanted. Nothing stands against it. You be-little
yourself by laughing ... then all this world and the last and the next grow
little too ... and so you grow great again. Switch off some light, will you?
FRANCES. [_Clicking off all but his reading lamp._] So?
TREBELL. Thanks. Good night, Frankie.
_She turns at the door, with a glad smile._
FRANCES. Good night. When did you last use that nursery name?
_Then she goes, leaving him still fingering the book, but looking into
the fire and far beyond. Behind him through the open window one sees
how cold and clear the night is._
* * * * *
_At eight in the morning he is still here. His lamp is out, the fire
is out and the book laid aside. The white morning light penetrates
every crevice of the room and shows every line on_ TREBELL'S _face.
The spirit of the man is strained past all reason. The door opens
suddenly and_ FRANCES _comes in, troubled, nervous. Interrupted in her
dressing, she has put on some wrap or other._
FRANCES. Henry ... Simpson says you've not been to bed all night.
_He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness_--
TREBELL. No. Good morning.
FRANCES. Oh, my dear ... what is wrong?
TREBELL. The message hasn't come ... and I've been thinking.
FRANCES. Why don't you tell me? [_He turns his head away._] I think you
haven't the right to torture me.
TREBELL. Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to face.
SIMPSON, _the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the
morning's letters._ FRANCES _rounds on her irritably._
FRANCES. What is it, Simpson?
MAID. The letters, Ma'am.