AGNES. One must take care that the regret lasts no longer than a
moment. Have you seen your uncle?
LUCAS. A glimpse. He hadn't long risen.
AGNES. He adds sluggishness to other vices, then?
LUCAS. [Lighting a cigarette.] He greeted me through six inches of open
door. His toilet has its mysteries.
AGNES. A stormy interview?
LUCAS. The reverse. He grasped my hand warmly, declared I looked the
picture of health, and said it was evident I had been most admirably
nursed.
AGNES. [Frowning.] That's a strange utterance. But he's an eccentric,
isn't he?
LUCAS. No man has ever been quite satisfied as to whether his oddities
are ingrained or affected.
AGNES. No man. What about women?
LUCAS. Ho! They have had opportunities of closer observation.
AGNES. Hah! And they report--?
LUCAS. Nothing. They become curiously reticent.
AGNES. [Scornfully, as she is cutting a thread.] These noblemen!
LUCAS. [Taking a packet of letters from his pocket.] Finally, he
presented me with these, expressed a hope that he'd see much of me
during the week, and dismissed me with a fervent God bless you!
AGNES. [Surprised.] He remains here, then?
LUCAS. It seems so.
AGNES. What are those, dear?
LUCAS. The Duke has made himself the bearer of some letters, from
friends. I've only glanced at them: reproaches--appeals--
AGNES. Yes, I understand.
[He sits looking through the letters impatiently, then tearing them up
and throwing the pieces upon the table.]
LUCAS. Lord Warminster--my godfather: "My dear boy, for God's sake--!"
[Tearing up the letter and reading another.] Sir Charles Littlecote:
"Your brilliant future . . . blasted . . ." [Another letter.] Lord Froom:
"Promise of a useful political career unfulfilled . . . cannot an old
friend . . . ?" [Another letter.] Edith Heytesbury. I didn't notice a
woman had honoured me. [In an undertone.] Edie--![Slipping the letter
into his pocket and opening another.] Jack Brophy: "Your great career--"
Major Leete: "Your career--" [Destroying the rest of the letters
without reading them.] My career! my career! That's the chorus,
evidently. Well, there goes my career! [She lays her work aside and
goes to him.]
AGNES. Your career? [Pointing to the destroyed letters.] True that one
is over. But there's the other, you know--ours.
LUCAS. [Touching her hand.] Yes, yes, Still, it's just a little
saddening, the saying good-bye--[disturbing the scraps of paper]--to
all this.
AGNES. Saddening, dear? Why, this political career of yours--think
what it would have been at best? Accident of birth sent you to the
wrong side of the House; influence of family would always have kept you
there.
LUCAS. [Partly to himself.] But I made my mark. I did make my mark.
AGNES. Supporting the Party that retards; the Party that preserves for
the rich, palters with the poor. [Pointing to the letters again.] Oh,
there's not much to mourn for there!
LUCAS. Still, it was--success.
AGNES. Success!
LUCAS. I was talked about, written about, as a Coming Man--the Coming
Man!
AGNES. How many "coming men" has one known? Where on earth do they all
go to?
LUCAS. Ah, yes, but I allowed for the failure, and carefully set myself
to discover the causes of them. And, as I put my fingers upon the
causes and examined them, I congratulated myself and said "Well, I
haven't that weak point in my armour, or that;" and Agnes, at last I
was fool enough to imagine I had no weak point, none whatever.
AGNES. It was weak enough to believe that.
LUCAS. I couldn't foresee that I was doomed to pay the price all
nervous men pay for success; that the greater my success became, the
more cancer-like grew the fear of never being able to continue it, to
excel it; that the triumph of today was always to be the torture of
tomorrow! Oh, Agnes, the agony of success to a nervous, sensitive man;
the dismal apprehension that fills his life and gives each victory a
voice to cry out "Hear, hear! Bravo, bravo, bravo! But this is to be
your last--you'll never overtop it!" Ha, yes! I soon found out the
weak spot in my armour--the need of constant encouragement, constant
reminder of my powers; [taking her hand] the need of that subtle
sympathy which a sacrificing, unselfish woman alone possesses the
secret of. [Rising.] Well, my very weakness might have been a source of
greatness if, three years ago, it had been to such a woman that I had
bound myself--a woman of your disposition; instead of to--! Ah! [She
lays her hand upon his arm soothingly.]
LUCAS. Yes, yes. [Taking her in his arms.] I know I have such a
companion now.