BOOTH. [_. . and discovering it._] But do let us keep to the subject.
BEATRICE. [_with flattering sincerity._] Certainly, Booth. And there is
hardly any subject that I wouldn't ask your advice about. But upon this
. . do let me know better. Hugh and I will be happier apart.
BOOTH. [_obstinately._] Why?
BEATRICE. [_with resolute patience, having vented a little sigh._] Hugh
finds that my opinions distress him. And I have at last lost patience
with Hugh.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has been trying to follow this through her
spectacles._] What does Beatrice say?
BOOTH. [_translating into a loud sing-song._] That she wishes to leave
her husband because she has lost patience!
MRS. VOYSEY. [_with considerable acrimony._] Then you must be a very
ill-tempered woman. Hugh has a sweet nature.
HUGH. [_shouting self-consciously._] Nonsense, mother.
BEATRICE. [_shouting good-humouredly._] I quite agree with you, mother.
[_she continues to her husband in an even just tone._] You have a sweet
nature, Hugh, and it is most difficult to get angry with you. I have
been seven years working up to it. But now that I am angry, I shall
never get pleased again.
_The Major returns to his subject, refreshed by a moment's repose._
BOOTH. How has he failed in his duty? Tell us. I'm not bigoted in his
favour. I know your faults, Hugh.
_He wags his head at_ HUGH, _who writhes with irritation_.
HUGH. Why can't you leave them alone . . leave us alone?
BEATRICE. I'd state my case against Hugh, if I thought he'd retaliate.
HUGH. [_desperately rounding on his brother._] If I tell you, you won't
understand. You understand nothing! Beatrice is angry with me because I
won't prostitute my art to make money.
BOOTH. [_glancing at his wife._] Please don't use metaphors of that
sort.
BEATRICE. [_reasonably._] Yes, I think Hugh ought to earn more money.
BOOTH. [_quite pleased to be getting along at last._] Well, why doesn't
he?
HUGH. I don't want money.
BOOTH. You can't say you don't want money any more than you can say you
don't want bread.
BEATRICE. [_as she breaks off her cotton._] It's when one has known what
it is to be a little short of both . .
_Now the Major spreads himself and begins to be very wise, while_ HUGH,
_to whom this is more intolerable than all, can only clutch his hair_.
BOOTH. You know I never considered Art a very good profession for you,
Hugh. And you won't even stick to one department of it. It's a
profession that gets people into very bad habits, I consider. Couldn't
you take up something else? You could still do those wood-cuts in your
spare time to amuse yourself.
HUGH. [_commenting on this with two deliberate shouts of simulated
mirth._] Ha! Ha!
BOOTH. [_sublimely superior._] Well, it wouldn't much matter if you
didn't do them at all!
BEATRICE. [_subtly._] Booth, there speaks the true critic.
BOOTH. [_deprecating any title to omniscience._] Well, I don't pretend
to know much about Art but--
HUGH. It would matter to me. There speaks the artist.
BEATRICE. The arrogance of the artist!
HUGH. We have a right to be arrogant.
BEATRICE. Good workmen are humble.
HUGH. And look to their wages.
BEATRICE. Well, I'm only a workman.
_With that she breaks the contact of this quiet deadly hopeless little
quarrel by turning her head away. The Major, who has given it most
friendly attention, comments . ._
BOOTH. Of course! Quite so! I'm sure all that is a very interesting
difference of opinion.
MRS. VOYSEY _leaves her armchair for her favourite station at the dining
table_.
MRS. VOYSEY. Booth is the only one of you that I can hear at all
distinctly. But if you two foolish young people think you want to
separate . . try it. You'll soon come back to each other and be glad to.
People can't fight against Nature for long. And marriage is a natural
state . . once you're married.
BOOTH. [_with intense approval._] Quite right, Mother.
MRS. VOYSEY. I know.
_She resumes the Nineteenth Century. The Major, to the despair of
everybody, makes yet another start; trying oratory this time._
BOOTH. My own opinion is, Beatrice and Hugh, that you don't realise the
meaning of the word marriage. I don't call myself a religious man . .
but dash it all, you were married in church! . . And you then entered
upon an awful compact! . . Surely . . as a woman, Beatrice . . the
religious point of it ought to appeal to you. Good Lord, suppose
everybody were to carry on like this! And have you considered, Beatrice,
that . . whether you're right or whether you're wrong . . if you desert
Hugh, you cut yourself off from the Family.
BEATRICE. [_with the sweetest of smiles._] That will distress me
terribly.
BOOTH. [_not doubting her for a moment._] Of course.
HUGH _flings up his head and finds relief at last in many words_.
HUGH. I wish to Heaven I'd ever been able to cut myself off from the
family! Look at Trenchard.
BOOTH. [_gobbling a little at this unexpected attack._] I do not forgive
Trenchard for quarreling with and deserting our father.
HUGH. Trenchard quarreled because that was his only way of escape.
BOOTH. Escape from what?
HUGH. From tyranny! . . from hypocrisy! . . from boredom! . . from his
Happy English Home!
BEATRICE. [_kindly._] Hugh . . Hugh . . it's no use.
BOOTH. [_attempting sarcasm._] Speak so that Mother can hear you!
_But_ HUGH _isn't to be stopped now_.
HUGH. Why are we all dull, cubbish, uneducated, hopelessly middle-class
. . that is hopelessly out of date.
BOOTH. [_taking this as very personal._] Cubbish!
HUGH. . . Because it's the middle-class ideal that you should respect
your parents . . live with them . . think with them . . grow like them.
Natural affection and gratitude! That's what's expected, isn't it?
BOOTH. [_not to be obliterated._] Certainly.
HUGH. Keep your children ignorant of all that you don't know, penniless
except for your good pleasure, dependent on you for permission to
breathe freely . . and be sure that their gratitude will be most
disinterested, and affection very natural. If your father's a drunkard
or poor; then perhaps you get free and can form an opinion or two of
your own . . and can love him or hate him as he deserves. But our father
and mother were models. They did their duty by us . . and taught us
ours. Trenchard escaped, as I say. You took to the Army . . so of course
you've never discovered how behind the times you are. [_the Major is
stupent._] I tried to express myself in art . . and found there was
nothing to express . . I'd been so well brought up. D'you blame me if I
wander about in search of a soul of some sort? And Honor--
BOOTH. [_disputing savagely._] Honor is very happy at home. Everyone
loves her.
HUGH. [_with fierce sarcasm._] Yes . . what do we call her? Mother's
right hand! I wonder they bothered to give her a name. By the time
little Ethel came they were tired of training children . . [_his voice
loses its sting; he doesn't complete this sentence._]
BEATRICE. Poor little Ethel . .
BOOTH. Poor Ethel!
_They speak as one speaks of the dead, and so the wrangling stops. Then_
EDWARD _interposes quietly_.
EDWARD. Yes, Hugh, if we'd been poor . .
HUGH. I haven't spoken of your fate, Edward. That's too shameful.
EDWARD. . . We should at least have learnt how to spend money.
BOOTH. [_pathetically._] Really, Edward, need you attack me?
HUGH. Well . . you're so proud of representing the family!
BOOTH. And may I ask what we're discussing now?
BEATRICE. Yes, Edward. I knew how to get the greatest possible
happiness out of a five pound note years before I had one.
EDWARD. The first man who saved a sovereign has made a prisoner of me.
BOOTH. [_determined to capture the conversation again._] Has made a . . ?
EDWARD. Will make . . if you understand that better, Booth.
BOOTH. I don't understand it at all. [_they leave him the field._] And
why for no earthly reason we must suddenly open up a--a street, which is
very painful . . I really cannot see. One never knows who may be
listening. [_he glances most uneasily towards the door and drops his
voice._] In that unhappy business, Edward, you very wisely did what we
all felt to be your duty. I'm sure we all hope you have succeeded in
your endeavours. But the least we can do now in respect to our poor
father's memory is to bury the matter in--in decent oblivion. And please
. . please don't talk of prison. I thought you'd given up that idea long
ago. [_having dismissed that subject unopposed, he takes a long
breath._] Now we will return to the original subject of discussion.
Hugh, this question of a separation--
_Past all patience_, HUGH _jumps up and flings his chair back to its
place_.
HUGH. Beatrice and I mean to separate. And nothing you may say will
prevent us. The only difficulty in the way is money. Can we command
enough to live apart comfortably?
BOOTH. Well?
HUGH. Well . . we can't.
BOOTH. Well?
HUGH. So we can't separate.
BOOTH. [_speaking with bewilderment._] Then what in Heaven's name have
we been discussing it for?
HUGH. I haven't discussed it! I don't want to discuss it! Why can't you
mind your own business? Now I'll go back to the billiard room and my
book.
_He is gone before the poor Major can recover his lost breath._
BOOTH. [_as he does recover it._] I am not an impatient man . . but
really . . [_and then words fail him._]
BEATRICE. [_commenting calmly._] Of course Hugh was a spoilt child. They
grow to hate their parents sooner than others. He still cries for what
he wants. That makes him a wearisome companion.
BOOTH. [_very sulky now._] You married him with your eyes open, I
suppose?
BEATRICE. How few women marry with their eyes open!
BOOTH. You have never made the best of Hugh.
BEATRICE. I have spared him that indignity.
BOOTH. [_vindictively._] I am very glad that you can't separate.
BEATRICE. As soon as I'm reasonably sure of earning an income I shall
walk off from him.
_The Major revives._
BOOTH. You will do nothing of the sort, Beatrice.
BEATRICE. [_unruffled._] How will you stop me, Booth?
BOOTH. I shall tell Hugh he must command you to stay.
BEATRICE. [_with a little smile._] Now that might make a difference. It
was one of the illusions of my girlhood that I should love a man who
would master me.
BOOTH. Hugh must assert himself.
_He begins to walk about, giving some indication of how it should be
done._ BEATRICE'S _smile has vanished_.
BEATRICE. Don't think I've enjoyed taking the lead in everything
throughout my married life. But someone had to plan and scheme and be
foreseeing . . we weren't sparrows or lilies of the field . . someone
had to get up and do something. [_she becomes conscious of his
strutting and smiles rather mischievously._] Ah . . if I'd married you,
Booth!
BOOTH'S _face grows beatific_.
BOOTH. Well, I must own to thinking that I am a masterful man . . that
is the duty of every man to be so. [_he adds forgivingly._] Poor old
Hugh!
BEATRICE. [_unable to resist temptation._] If I'd tried to leave you,
Booth, you'd have whipped me . . wouldn't you?
BOOTH. [_ecstatically complacent._] Ha . . well . . !
BEATRICE. Do say yes. Think how it'll frighten Emily.
_The Major strokes his moustache and is most friendly._
BOOTH. Hugh's been a worry to me all my life. And now as Head of the
Family . . Well, I suppose I'd better go and give the dear old chap
another talking to. I quite see your point of view, Beatrice.
BEATRICE. Why disturb him at his book?
MAJOR BOOTH _leaves them, squaring his shoulders as becomes a lord of
creation. The two sisters-in-law go on with their work silently for a
moment; then_ BEATRICE _adds_ . .
BEATRICE. Do you find Booth difficult to manage, Emily?
EMILY. [_putting down her knitting to consider the matter._] No. It's
best to allow him to talk himself out. When he's done that he'll often
come to me for advice. I let him get his own way as much as possible . .
or think he's getting it. Otherwise he becomes so depressed.
BEATRICE. [_quietly amused._] Edward shouldn't hear this. What has he to
do with women's secrets?
EDWARD. I won't tell . . and I'm a bachelor.
EMILY. [_solemnly as she takes up her knitting again._] Do you really
mean to leave Hugh?
BEATRICE. [_slightly impatient._] Emily, I've said so.
_They are joined by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who comes in gaily_.
ALICE. What's Booth shouting about in the billiard room?
EMILY. [_pained._] On Christmas Eve, too!
BEATRICE. Don't you take any interest in my matrimonial affairs?
MRS. VOYSEY _shuts up the Nineteenth Century and removes her
spectacles_.
MRS. VOYSEY. That's a very interesting article. The Chinese Empire must
be in a shocking state! Is it ten o'clock yet?
EDWARD. Past.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_as_ EDWARD _is behind her_.] Can anyone see the clock?
ALICE. It's past ten, Auntie.
MRS. VOYSEY. Then I think I'll go to my room.
EMILY. Shall I come and look after you, Mother?
MRS. VOYSEY. If you'd find Honor for me, Emily.
EMILY _goes in search of the harmless necessary_ HONOR _and_ MRS. VOYSEY
_begins her nightly chant of departure_.
MRS. VOYSEY. Good night, Alice. Good night, Edward.
EDWARD. Good night, Mother.
MRS. VOYSEY. [_with sudden severity._] I'm not pleased with you,
Beatrice.
BEATRICE. I'm sorry, Mother.
_But without waiting to be answered the old lady has sailed out of the
room._ BEATRICE, EDWARD, _and_ ALICE _are attuned to each other enough
to be able to talk with ease_.
BEATRICE. Hugh is right about his family. It'll never make any new life
for itself.
EDWARD. There are Booth's children.
BEATRICE. Poor little devils!
ALICE. [_judicially._] Emily is an excellent mother.
BEATRICE. Yes . . they'll grow up good men and women. And one will go
into the Army and one into the Navy and one into the Church . . and
perhaps one to the Devil and the Colonies. They'll serve their country
and govern it and help to keep it like themselves . . dull and
respectable . . hopelessly middle-class. [_she puts down her work now
and elevates an oratorical fist._] Genius and Poverty may exist in
England, if they'll hide their heads. For show days we've our
aristocracy. But never let us forget, gentlemen, that it is the plain
solid middle-class man who has made us . . what we are.
EDWARD. [_in sympathetic derision._] Hear hear . . ! and cries of bravo!
BEATRICE. Now, that is out of my book . . the next one. [_she takes up
her work again._] You know, Edward . . without wishing to open up
Painful Streets . . however scandalous it has been, your father left you
a man's work to do.
EDWARD. [_his face cloudy._] An outlaw's!
BEATRICE. [_whimsical, after a moment._] I meant that. At all events
you've not had to be your father's right arm . . or the instrument of
justice . . or a representative of the people . . or anything second
hand of that sort, have you?
EDWARD. [_with sudden excitement._] Do you know what I discovered the
other day about [_he nods at the portrait._] . . him?
BEATRICE. [_enquiring calmly._] Innocence or guilt?
EDWARD. He saved his firm once . . that was true. A most capable piece
of heroism. Then, fifteen years afterwards . . he started again.
BEATRICE. [_greatly interested._] Did he now?
EDWARD. One can't believe it was merely through weakness . .
BEATRICE. [_with artistic enthusiasm._] Of course not. He was a great
financier . . a man of imagination. He had to find scope for his
abilities or die. He despised these fat little clients living so snugly
on their unearned incomes . . and put them and their money to the best
use he could.
EDWARD. [_shaking his head solemnly._] That's all a fine phrase for
robbery.
BEATRICE _turns her clever face to him and begins to follow up her
subject keenly_.
BEATRICE. My dear Edward . . I understand you've been robbing your rich
clients for the benefit of the poor ones?
ALICE. [_who hasn't missed a word._] That's true.
EDWARD. [_gently._] Well . . we're all a bit in debt to the poor, aren't
we?
BEATRICE. Quite so. And you don't possess and your father didn't possess
that innate sense of the sacredness of property . . . [_she enjoys that
phrase._] which alone can make a truly honest man. Nor did the man
possess it who picked my pocket last Friday week . . nor does the
tax-gatherer . . . nor do I. Your father's freedom from prejudice was
tempered by a taste for Power and Display. Yours is by Charity. But
that's all the difference I'll admit between you. Robbery! . . it's a
beautiful word.
EDWARD. [_a little pained by as much of this as he takes to be
serious._] I think he might have told me the truth.
BEATRICE. Perhaps he didn't know it! Would you have believed him?
EDWARD. Perhaps not. But I loved him.
BEATRICE _looks again at the gentle, earnest face_.
BEATRICE. After as well as before?
EDWARD. Yes. And not from mere force of habit either.
BEATRICE. [_with reverence in her voice now._] That should silence a
bench of judges. Well . . well . .
_Her sewing finished, she stuffs the things into her basket, gets up in
her abrupt unconventional way and goes without another word. Her brain
is busy with the Voysey Inheritance._ EDWARD _and_ ALICE _are left in
chairs by the fire, facing each other like an old domestic couple_.
EDWARD. Stay and speak to me.
ALICE. I want to. Something more serious has happened since dinner.
EDWARD. I'm glad you can see that.
ALICE. What is it?
EDWARD. [_with sudden exultation._] The smash has come . . and not by my
fault. Old George Booth--
ALICE. Has he been here?
EDWARD. Can you imagine it? That old man forced me into telling him the
truth. I told him to take what money of his there was, and prosecute. He
won't prosecute, but he bargains to take the money . . and further to
bleed us, sovereign by sovereign, as I earn sovereign by sovereign with
the sweat of my soul. I'll see him in his Christian Heaven first . . the
Jew!
ALICE. [_keeping her head._] You can't reason with him?
EDWARD. He thinks he has the whip hand and he means to use it. Also the
Vicar has been told . . who has told his wife. She knows how not to keep
a secret. The smash has come at last.
ALICE. So you're glad?
EDWARD. Thankful. My conscience is clear. I've done my best. [_then as
usual with him, his fervour collapses._] And oh, Alice . . has it been
worth doing?
ALICE. [_encouragingly._] Half a dozen people pulled out of the fire.
EDWARD. If only that isn't found out! I've bungled this job, Alice. I
feared all along I should. It was work for a strong man . . not for me.
ALICE. Work for a patient man.
EDWARD. You use kind words. But I've never shirked the truth about
myself. My father said mine was a weak nature. He knew.
ALICE. You have a religious nature.
EDWARD. [_surprised._] Oh no!
ALICE. [_proceeding to explain._] Therefore you're not fond of creeds
and ceremonies. Therefore . . as the good things of this wordly world
don't satisfy you, you shirk contact with it all you can. I understand
this temptation to neglect and despise practical things. But if one
yields to it one's character narrows and cheapens. That's a pity . . but
it's so.
EDWARD. [_his eyes far away._] D'you ever feel that there aren't enough
windows in a house?
ALICE. [_prosaically._] In this weather . . too many.
EDWARD. Well then . . in a house--especially in a big city--in my office
at work, then . . one is out of hearing of all the music of the world.
And when one does get back to Nature, instead of being all curves to her
roundness, one is all corners.
ALICE. [_smiling at him._] Yes, you love to think idly . . just as Hugh
does. You do it quite well, too. [_then briskly._] Edward, may I scold
you?
EDWARD. For that?
ALICE. Because of that. You're grown to be a sloven lately . .
deliberately letting yourself be unhappy.
EDWARD. Is happiness under one's control?
ALICE. My friend, you shouldn't neglect your happiness any more than you
neglect to wash your face. Here has the squalour of your work been
making you poor. Because it was liable to be stopped at any moment
uncompleted . . why should that let your life be incomplete? Edward, for
the last eighteen months you've been more like a moral portent than a
man. You've not had a smile to throw to a friend . . or an opinion upon
any subject. You've dropped your Volunteering. [_he protests._] I know
there's something comic in volunteering . . though Heaven knows what it
is! I suppose you found it out of keeping with your unhappy fate. And
how slack you were in your politics last November. I don't believe you
even voted . .
EDWARD. [_contrite at this._] That was wrong of me!
ALICE. Yes, I expect a man to be a good citizen. And you don't even eat
properly.
_With that she completes the accusation and_ EDWARD _searches round for
a defence_.
EDWARD. Alice, it was always an effort with me to do all those things . .
and lately every effort has had to go to my work.
ALICE. You did them . . on principle.
EDWARD. Don't laugh at me.
ALICE. [_whispering the awful words._] Then truthfully, Edward, once
upon a time you were a bit of a prig.
EDWARD. [_with enough sense of humour to whisper back._] Was I?
ALICE. I'm afraid so! But the prig fell ill when your father died . .
and had to be buried in his grave. [_Then her voice rises stirringly._]
Oh, don't you see what a blessing this cursed work was meant to be to
you? Why must you stand stiff against it?
EDWARD. [_without a smile now._] But lately, Alice, I've hardly known
myself. Once or twice I've lost my temper . . I've been brutal.
ALICE. That's the best news in the world. There's your own wicked nature
coming out. That's what we've been waiting for . . that's what we want.
That's you.
EDWARD. [_still serious._] I'm sorry for it.
ALICE. Oh, Edward, be a little proud of poor humanity . . take your own
share in it gladly. It so discourages the rest of us if you don't.
_Suddenly he breaks down completely._
EDWARD. I can't let myself be glad and live. There's the future to think
of. And I'm so afraid of that. I must pretend I don't care . . even to
myself . . even to you.
ALICE. [_her mocking at an end._] What is it you fear most about the
future . . not just the obviously unpleasant things?
EDWARD. They'll put me in prison.
ALICE. Perhaps.
EDWARD. Who'll be the man who comes out?
ALICE. Yourself.
EDWARD. No, no! I'm a coward. I can't stand alone, it's too lonely. I
need affection . . I need friends. I cling to people that I don't care
for deeply . . just for the comfort of it. I've no home of my own. Every
house that welcomes me now I like to think of as something of a home.
And I know that this disgrace in store will leave me for a long time or
a short time . . homeless.
_There he sits shaken._ ALICE _waits a moment, not taking her eyes from
him; then speaks_.
ALICE. There's something else I want to scold you for. You've still
given up proposing to me. Certainly that shows a lack of courage . . and
of perseverance. Or is it the loss of what I always considered a very
laudable ambition?
EDWARD _is hardly able to trust his ears. Then he looks into her face
and his thankfulness frames itself into a single sentence._
EDWARD. Will you marry me?
ALICE. Yes, Edward.
_For a minute he just holds his breath with happiness. But he shakes
himself free of it, almost savagely._
EDWARD. No, no, no, we mustn't be stupid. I'm sorry I asked for that.
ALICE. [_with serene strength._] I'm glad that you want me. While I live
. . where I am will be Home.
EDWARD. [_struggling with himself._] No, it's too late. If you'd said
Yes before I came into my inheritance . . perhaps I shouldn't have
given myself to the work. So be glad that it's too late. I am.
ALICE. [_happily._] There was never any chance of my marrying you when
you were only a well-principled prig. I didn't want you . . and I don't
believe you really wanted me. Now you do. And you must always take what
you want.
EDWARD. [_turning to her again._] My dear, what have we to start life
upon . . to build our house upon? Poverty . . and prison for me.
ALICE. [_mischievous._] Edward, you seem to think that all the money in
the world was invested in your precious firm. I have four hundred a year
of my own. At least let that tempt you.
EDWARD _catches her in his arms with a momentary little burst of
passion_.
EDWARD. You're tempting me.
_She did not resist, but nevertheless he breaks away from her,
disappointed with himself. She goes on, quietly, serenely._
ALICE. Am I? Am I playing upon your senses in any way? Am I a silly
child looking to you for protection in return for your favour? Shall I
hinder or help your life? If you don't think me your equal as woman to
man, we'll never speak of this again. But if you do . . look at me and
make your choice. To refuse me my work and happiness in life and to
cripple your own nature . . or to take my hand.
_She puts out her hand frankly, as a friend should. With only a second's
thought he, happy too now, takes it as frankly. Then she sits beside him
and quite cheerfully changes the subject._
ALICE. Now, referring to the subject of Mr. George Booth. What will he
do?
EDWARD. [_responsive though impatient._] He'll do nothing. I shall be
before him.
ALICE. What about his proposal?
EDWARD. That needs no answer.
ALICE. Yes, it does. I know the temptation to hit back at him
mock-heroically . . it's natural. Well, we'll consider it done. But he's
a silly old man and he doesn't know what he's talking about. I think we
can bargain with him to keep the firm going somehow . . and if we can we
must.
_At this_ EDWARD _makes a last attempt to abandon himself to his
troubles_.
EDWARD. No, Alice, no . . let it end here. It has done for me . . I'm
broken. And of course we can't be married . . that's absurd.
ALICE. [_with firmness enough for two._] We shall be married. And
nothing's broken . . except our pride and righteousness . . and several
other things we're better without. And now we must break our dignity in
to bargaining.
EDWARD. [_struggling in the toils of virtue._] But it'll be so useless.
Colpus'll be round in a day or two to make his conditions . . he'll tell
some intimate friend. They'll all come after their money like wasps
after honey. And if they know I won't lift a finger in my own defence . .
what sort of mercy will they have?
ALICE. [_triumphantly completing her case._] No, Edward, if you
surrender yourself entirely, you'll find them powerless against you. You
see, you had something to hope or fear from Mr. Booth . . you hoped in
your heart he'd end your trouble. But when you've conquered that last
little atom of the selfishness which gets in one's way, I think you'll
find you can do what you wish with these selfish men. [_and she adds
fervently._] Oh, it's a power so seldom used. But the man who is able,
and cares deeply, and yet has nothing to hope or fear is all powerful . .
even in little things.
EDWARD. Will nothing ever happen to set me free? Shall I never be able
to rest for a moment . . turn round and say I've succeeded or I've
failed?
ALICE. That isn't what matters.
EDWARD. If they could all meet and agree, they might syndicate
themselves and keep me at it for life.
ALICE. What more could you wish for?
EDWARD. Than that dreary round!
ALICE. My dear, the world must be put tidy. That's the work which
splendid criminals . . and others leave about for us poor commonplace
people to do.
EDWARD. [_with a little laugh._] And I don't believe in Heaven either.
ALICE. [_close to him._] But there's to be our life. What's wrong with
that?
EDWARD. My dear, when they put me in prison for swindling--[_he makes
the word sound its worst._]
ALICE. I think they won't. But if they are so stupid . . I must be very
careful.
EDWARD. Of what?
ALICE. To avoid false pride. I shall be foolishly proud of you.
EDWARD. It's good to be praised sometimes . . by you.
ALICE. My heart praises you. Good night.
EDWARD. Good night.
_She kisses his forehead. But he puts up his face like a child, so she
bends down and for the first time their lips meet. Then she steps back
from him, adding happily, with perhaps just a touch of shyness._
ALICE. Till to-morrow.
EDWARD. [_echoing in gratitude the hope and promise in her voice._] Till
to-morrow.
_She leaves him to sit there by the table for a few moments longer,
looking into his future, streaked as it is to be with trouble and joy.
As whose is not? From above . . from above the mantelpiece, that is to
say . . the face of the late_ MR. VOYSEY _seems to look down upon his
son not unkindly, though with that curious buccaneering twist of the
eyebrows which distinguished his countenance in life_.