MR. VOYSEY. I never advise greedy children; I let 'em overeat 'emselves
and take the consequences--
ALICE. [_shaking a finger._] Uncle Trench, you've been in the garden
without a hat after playing billiards in that hot room.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. We had to give up . . my wrist was bad. They've
started pool.
BEATRICE. Is Booth going to play?
MR. VOYSEY. We left him instructing Ethel how to hold a cue.
BEATRICE. Perhaps I can finish my letter.
_Off she goes._ ALICE _is idly following with a little paper her hand
has fallen on behind the clock_.
MR. VOYSEY. Don't run away, my dear.
ALICE. I'm taking this to Auntie . . Notes and Queries . . she wants it.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Damn . . this gravel's stuck to my shoe.
MR. VOYSEY. That's a new made path.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now don't you think it's too early to have put in
those plants?
MR. VOYSEY. No, we're getting frost at night already.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I should have kept that bed a good ten feet further
from the tree.
MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense, the tree's to the north of it. This room's cold.
Why don't they keep the fire up! [_He proceeds to put coals on it._]
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You were too hot in that billiard room. You know,
Voysey . . about those Alguazils?
MR. VOYSEY. [_through the rattling of the coals._] What?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_trying to pierce the din._] Those Alguazils.
MR. VOYSEY _with surprising inconsequence points a finger at the silk
handkerchief across_ MR. BOOTH'S _shirt front_.
MR. VOYSEY. What d'you put your handkerchief there for?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Measure of precau--[_at that moment he sneezes._] Damn
it . . if you've given me a chill dragging me round your infernal
garden--
MR. VOYSEY. [_slapping him on the back._] You're an old crock.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in Egypt. [_He
returns to his subject._] And if you think seriously, that I ought to
sell out of the Alguazils before I go . . ? [_He looks with childlike
enquiry at his friend, who is apparently yawning slightly._] Why can't
you take them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney or
whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad.
_At this moment_ PHOEBE, _the middle aged parlour-maid comes in, tray in
hand. Like an expert fisherman_ MR. VOYSEY _once more lets loose the
thread of the conversation_.
MR. VOYSEY. D'you want to clear?
PHOEBE. It doesn't matter, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. No, go on . . go on.
_So_ MARY, _the young housemaid, comes in as well, and the two start to
clear the table. All of which fidgets poor_ MR. BOOTH _considerably. He
sits shrivelled up in the armchair by the fire; and now_ MR. VOYSEY
_attends to him_.
MR. VOYSEY. What d'you want with high interest at all . . you never
spend half your income?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I like to feel that my money is doing some good in the
world. These mines are very useful things and forty two per cent is
pleasing.
MR. VOYSEY. You're an old gambler.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_propitiatingly._] Ah, but then I've you to advise
me. I always do as you tell me in the end, now you can't deny that.
MR. VOYSEY. The man who don't know must trust in the man who does! [_He
yawns again._]
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_modestly insisting._] There's five thousand in
Alguazils--what else could we put it into?
MR. VOYSEY. I can get you something at four and a half.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, Lord . . that's nothing.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sudden serious friendliness._] I wish, my dear
George, you'd invest more on your own account. You know--what with one
thing and the other--I've got control of practically all you have in the
world. I might be playing old Harry with it for all you know.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_overflowing with confidence._] My dear feller . . if
I'm satisfied! Ah, my friend, what'll happen to your firm when you
depart this life! . . not before my time, I hope, though.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little frown._] What d'ye mean?
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward's no use.
MR. VOYSEY. I beg your pardon . . very sound in business.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. May be . . but I tell you he's no use. Too many
principles, as I said just now. Men have confidence in a personality,
not in principles. Where would you be without the confidence of your
clients?
MR. VOYSEY. [_candidly._] True!
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. He'll never gain that.
MR. VOYSEY. I fear you dislike Edward.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with pleasant frankness._] Yes, I do.
MR. VOYSEY. That's a pity.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with a flattering smile._] Well, he's not his father
and never will be. What's the time?
MR. VOYSEY. [_with inappropriate thoughtfulness._] Twenty to ten.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I must be trotting.
MR. VOYSEY. It's very early.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, and I've not said a word to Mrs. Voysey . .
_As he goes to the door he meets_ EDWARD, _who comes in apparently
looking for his father; at any rate catches his eye immediately, while_
MR. BOOTH _obliviously continues_.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you stroll round home with me?
MR. VOYSEY. I can't.
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_mildly surprised at the short reply._] Well, good
night. Good night, Edward.
_He trots away._
MR. VOYSEY. Leave the rest of the table, Phoebe.
PHOEBE. Yes, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. You can come back in ten minutes.
PHOEBE _and_ MARY _depart and the door is closed. Alone with his son_
MR. VOYSEY _does not move; his face grows a little keener, that's all_.
MR. VOYSEY. Well, Edward?
EDWARD _starts to move restlessly about, like a cowed animal in a cage;
silently for a moment or two. Then when he speaks, his voice is toneless
and he doesn't look at his father._
EDWARD. I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, to drop with me
all these protestations about putting the firm's affairs straight, and
all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . .
what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some
time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got
used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've
used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up
and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving
Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my
own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's
account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about
half the sum you've spent on us would have put things rightfirm's
affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I
see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen
yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered
from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't
been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce
your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten
thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd
it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was
probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous
to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would
have put things right.
MR. VOYSEY. No, it would not.
EDWARD. [_appealing for the truth._] Oh . . at some time or other!
MR. VOYSEY. Well, if there have been good times there have been bad
times. At present the three hundred a year I'm to allow your sister is
going to be rather a pull.
EDWARD. Three hundred a year . . and yet you've never attempted to put a
single account straight. Since it isn't lunacy, sir . . I can only
conclude that you enjoy being in this position.
MR. VOYSEY. I have put accounts absolutely straight . . at the winding
up of a trust for instance . . at great inconvenience too. And to all
appearances they've been above suspicion. What's the object of all this
rodomontade, Edward?
EDWARD. If I'm to remain in the firm, it had better be with a very clear
understanding of things as they are.
MR. VOYSEY. [_firmly, not too anxiously._] Then you do remain?
EDWARD. [_in a very low voice._] Yes, I remain.
MR. VOYSEY. [_quite gravely._] That's wise of you . . I'm very glad.
[_and he is silent for a moment._] And now we needn't discuss the
impractical side of it any more.
EDWARD. But I want to make one condition. And I want some information.
MR. VOYSEY. [_his sudden cheerfulness relapsing again._] Well?
EDWARD. Of course no one has ever discovered . . and no one suspects
this state of things?
MR. VOYSEY. Peacey knows.
EDWARD. Peacey!
MR. VOYSEY. His father found out.
EDWARD. Oh. Does he draw hush money?
MR. VOYSEY. [_curling a little at the word._] It is my custom to make a
little present every Christmas. Not a cheque . . notes in an envelope.
[_He becomes benevolent._] I don't grudge the money . . Peacey's a
devoted fellow.
EDWARD. Naturally this would be a heavily taxed industry. [_then he
smiles at his vision of the mild old clerk._] Peacey! There's another
thing I want to ask, sir. Have you ever under stress of circumstances
done worse than just make use of a client's capital? You boasted to me
yesterday that no one had ever suffered in pocket because of you. Is
that absolutely true?
MR. VOYSEY _draws himself up, dignified and magniloquent_.
MR. VOYSEY. My dear Edward, for the future my mind is open to you, you
can discover for yourself how matters stand to-day. But I decline to
gratify your curiosity as to what is over and done with.
EDWARD. [_with entire comprehension._] Thank you, sir. The condition I
wish to make is that we should really do what we have pretended to be
doing . . try and put the accounts straight.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little polite shrug._] I've no doubt you'll prove
an abler man of business than I.
EDWARD. One by one.
MR. VOYSEY. Which one will you begin with?
EDWARD. I shall begin, Father, by halving the salary I draw from the
firm.
MR. VOYSEY. I see . . Retrenchment and Reform.
EDWARD. And I think you cannot give Ethel this five thousand pounds
dowry.
MR. VOYSEY. [_shortly, with one of the quick twists of his eye._] I have
given my word to Denis.
EDWARD. The money isn't yours to give.
MR. VOYSEY. [_in an indignant crescendo._] I should not dream of
depriving Ethel of what, as my daughter, she has every right to expect.
I am surprised at your suggesting such a thing.
EDWARD. [_pale and firm._] I'm set on this, Father.
MR. VOYSEY. Don't be such a fool, Edward. What would it look like . .
suddenly to refuse without rhyme or reason? What would old Tregoning
think?
EDWARD. [_distressed._] You could give them a reason.
MR. VOYSEY. Perhaps you'll invent one.
EDWARD. If need be, Ethel should be told the truth.
MR. VOYSEY. What!
EDWARD. I know it would hurt her.
MR. VOYSEY. And Denis told too, I suppose?
EDWARD. Father, it is my duty to do whatever is necessary to prevent
this.
MR. VOYSEY. It'll be necessary to tell the nearest policeman. It is my
duty to pay no more attention to these scruples of yours than a nurse
pays to her child's tantrums. Understand, Edward, I don't want to force
you to continue my partner. Come with me gladly or don't come at all.
EDWARD. [_dully._] It is my duty to be of what use I can to you, sir.
Father, I want to save you if I can.
_He flashes into this exclamation of almost broken-hearted affection._
MR. VOYSEY _looks at his son for a moment and his lip quivers. Then he
steels himself._
MR. VOYSEY. Thank you! I have saved myself quite satisfactorily for the
last thirty years, and you must please believe that by this time I know
my own business best.
EDWARD. [_hopelessly._] Let the money come some other way. How is your
own income regulated?
MR. VOYSEY. I have a bank balance and a cheque book, haven't I? I spend
what I think well to spend. What's the use of earmarking this or that as
my own? You say none of it is my own. I might say it's all my own. I
think I've earned it.
EDWARD. [_anger coming on him._] That's what I can't forgive. If you'd
lived poor . . if you'd really devoted your skill to your clients' good
and not to your aggrandisement . . then, even though things were only as
they are now, I could have been proud of you. But, Father, own the truth
to me, at least . . that's my due from you, considering how I'm placed
by all you've done. Didn't you simply seize this opportunity as a means
to your own end, to your own enriching?
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sledge hammer irony._] Certainly. I sat that
morning in my father's office, studying the helmet of the policeman in
the street below, and thinking what a glorious path I had happened on to
wealth and honour and renown. [_Then he begins to bully_ EDWARD _in the
kindliest way._] My dear boy, you evidently haven't begun to grasp the
A. B. C. of my position. What has carried me to victory? The confidence
of my clients. What has earned that confidence? A decent life, my
integrity, my brains? No, my reputation for wealth . . that, and nothing
else. Business now-a-days is run on the lines of the confidence trick.
What makes old George Booth so glad to trust me with every penny he
possesses? Not affection . . he's never cared for anything in his life
but his collection of prints. No; he imagines that I have as big a stake
in the country, as he calls it, as he has and he's perfectly happy.
EDWARD. [_stupefied, helpless._] So he's involved!
MR. VOYSEY. Of course he's involved, and he's always after high interest
too . . it's little one makes out of him. But there's a further question
here, Edward. Should I have had confidence in myself, if I'd remained a
poor man? No, I should not. You must either be the master of money or
its servant. And if one is not opulent in one's daily life one loses
that wonderful . . financier's touch. One must be confident oneself . .
and I saw from the first that I must inspire confidence. My whole public
and private life has tended to that. All my surroundings . . you and
your brothers and sisters that I have brought into, and up, and put out
in the world so worthily . . you in your turn inspire confidence.
EDWARD. Not our worth, not our abilities, nor our virtues, but the fact
that we travel first class and ride in hansoms.
MR. VOYSEY. [_impatiently._] Well, I haven't organised Society upon a
basis of wealth.
EDWARD. Is every single person who trusts you involved in your system?
MR. VOYSEY. What new hole are you finding to pick in my conduct?
EDWARD. My mind travelled naturally from George Booth with his big
income to old Nursie with her savings which she brought you to invest.
You've let those be, at least.
MR. VOYSEY. I never troubled to invest them . . it wasn't worth while.
EDWARD. Father!
MR. VOYSEY. D'you know what she brought me? . . five hundred pounds.
EDWARD. That's damnable.
MR. VOYSEY. Indeed. I give her seventy five pounds a year for it. Would
you like to take charge of that account, Edward? I'll give you five
hundred to invest to-morrow.
EDWARD, _hopelessly beaten, falls into an almost comic state of
despair_.
EDWARD. My dear Father, putting every moral question aside . . it's all
very well your playing Robin Hood in this magnificent manner; but have
you given a moment's thought to the sort of inheritance you'll be
leaving me?
MR. VOYSEY. [_pleased for the first time._] Ah! That is a question you
have every right to ask.
EDWARD. If you died to-morrow could we pay eight shillings in the pound
. . or seventeen . . or five? Do you know?
MR. VOYSEY. And my answer is, that by your help I have every intention,
when I die, of leaving a will behind me of property to you all running
into six figures. D'you think I've given my life and my talents to this
money making for a less result than that? I'm fond of you all . . and I
want you to be proud of me . . and I mean that the name of Voysey shall
be carried high in the world by my children and grandchildren. Don't you
be afraid, Edward. Ah, you lack experience, my boy . . you're not full
grown yet . . your impulses are a bit chaotic. You emotionalise over
your work, and you reason about your emotions. You must sort yourself.
You must realise that money making is one thing, and religion another,
and family-life a third . . and that if we apply our energies
whole-heartedly to each of these in turn, and realise that different
laws govern each, that there is a different end to be served, a
different ideal to be striven for in each,--
_His coherence is saved by the sudden appearance of his wife, who comes
round the door smiling benignly. Not in the least put out, in fact a
little relieved, he greets her with an affectionate shout, for she is
very deaf._
MR. VOYSEY. Hullo, Mother!
MRS. VOYSEY. Oh, there you are, Trench. I've been deserted.
MR. VOYSEY. George Booth gone?
MRS. VOYSEY. Are you talking business? Perhaps you don't want me.
MR. VOYSEY. No, no . . no business.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has not looked for his answer._] I suppose the others
are in the billiard room.
MR. VOYSEY. [_vociferously._] We're not talking business, old lady.
EDWARD. I'll be off, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_genial as usual._] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with
you in the morning.
EDWARD. No, thank you, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow.
EDWARD. Good-night, Mother.
MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up
affectionately_.
MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired.
EDWARD. No, I'm not.
MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say?
EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear.
_He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._
MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy.
_Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is
a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid
describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never
measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and
size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an
indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving,
healthy. That is her history._
MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd
taken a chill walking round the garden.
MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right.
MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have?
MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No.
MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on?
MR. VOYSEY. Nothing.
MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite
feverish.
MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench.
HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of
putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her
bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's
shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._
HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish
clearing?
MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._]
Now who's careless!
PHOEBE _comes into the room_.
HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr.
Hugh.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected
the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your
Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.
HONOR. Papa!
MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me
some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.
HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey?
And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work
goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.
_Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at
the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and
Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump
cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to
soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers
it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY
_stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_.
MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell
family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather
Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where
the taint crept in.
MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself
putting in all those strawberry plants.
MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_
HUGH _and plants it on the table_.
MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I
believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You
must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting.
There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where
was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._]