At TREBELL'S again; later, the same evening.
_His room is in darkness but for the flicker the fire makes and the
streaks of moonlight between the curtains. The door is open, though, and
you see the light of the lamp on the stairs. You hear his footstep too.
On his way he stops to draw back the curtains of the passage-way window;
the moonlight makes his face look very pale. Then he serves the curtains
of his own window the same; flings it open, moreover, and stands looking
out. Something below draws his attention. After leaning over the balcony
with a short_ "Hullo" _he goes quickly downstairs again. In a minute_
WEDGECROFT _comes up_. TREBELL _follows, pausing by the door a moment to
light up the room_. WEDGECROFT _is radiant_.
TREBELL. [_With a twist of his mouth._] Promised, has he?
WEDGECROFT. Suddenly broke out as we walked along, that he liked the
look of you and that men must stand by one another nowadays against
these women. Then he said good-night and walked away.
TREBELL. Back to Ireland and the thirteenth century.
WEDGECROFT. After to-morrow.
TREBELL. [_Taking all the meaning of to-morrow._] Yes. Are you in for
perjury, too?
WEDGECROFT. [_His thankfulness checked a little._] No . . not exactly.
TREBELL _walks away from him_.
TREBELL. It's a pity the truth isn't to be told, I think. I suppose the
verdict will be murder.
WEDGECROFT. They won't catch the man.
TREBELL. You don't mean . . me.
WEDGECROFT. No, no . . my dear fellow.
TREBELL. You might, you know. But nobody seems to see this thing as I
see it. If I were on that jury I'd say murder too and accuse . . so many
circumstances, Gilbert, that we should go home . . and look in the
cupboards. What a lumber of opinions we inherit and keep!
WEDGECROFT. [_Humouring him._] Ought we to burn the house down?
TREBELL. Rules and regulations for the preservation of rubbish are the
laws of England . . and I was adding to their number.
WEDGECROFT. And so you shall . . to the applause of a grateful country.
TREBELL. [_Studying his friend's kindly encouraging face._] Gilbert, it
is not so much that you're an incorrigible optimist . . but why do you
subdue your mind to flatter people into cheerfulness?
WEDGECROFT. I'm a doctor, my friend.
TREBELL. You're a part of our tendency to keep things alive by hook or
by crook . . not a spark but must be carefully blown upon. The world's
old and tired; it dreads extinction. I think I disapprove . . I think
I've more faith.
WEDGECROFT. [_Scolding him._] Nonsense . . you've the instinct to
preserve your life as everyone else has . . and I'm here to show you
how.
TREBELL. [_Beyond the reach of his kindness._] I assure you that these
two days while you've been fussing around O'Connell--bless your kind
heart--I've been waiting events, indifferent enough to understand his
indifference.
WEDGECROFT. Not indifferent.
TREBELL. Lifeless enough already, then. [_Suddenly a thought strikes
him._] D'you think it was Horsham and his little committee persuaded
O'Connell?
WEDGECROFT. On the contrary.
TREBELL. So you need not have let them into the secret?
WEDGECROFT. No.
TREBELL. Think of that.
_He almost laughs; but_ WEDGECROFT _goes on quite innocently_.
WEDGECROFT. Yes . . I'm sorry.
TREBELL. Upsetting their moral digestion for nothing.
WEDGECROFT. But when O'Connell wouldn't listen to us we had to rope in
the important people.
TREBELL. With their united wisdom. [_Then he breaks away again into
great bitterness._] No . . what do they make of this woman's death? I
saw them in that room, Gilbert, like men seen through the wrong end of a
telescope. D'you think if the little affair with Nature . . her offence
and mine against the conveniences of civilization . . had ended in my
death too . . then they'd have stopped to wonder at the misuse and waste
of the only force there is in the world . . come to think of it, there
is no other . . than this desire for expression . . in words . . or
through children. Would they have thought of that and stopped whispering
about the scandal?
_Through this_ WEDGECROFT _has watched him very gravely_.
WEDGECROFT. Trebell . . if the inquest to-morrow had put you out of
action . .
TREBELL. Should I have grown a beard and travelled abroad and after ten
years timidly tried to climb my way back into politics? When public
opinion takes its heel from your face it keeps it for your finger-tips.
After twenty years to be forgiven by your more broad-minded friends and
tolerated as a dotard by a new generation. . .
WEDGECROFT. Nonsense. What age are you now . . forty-six . .
forty-seven?
TREBELL. Well . . let's instance a good man. Gladstone had done his best
work by sixty-five. Then he began to be popular. Think of his last years
of oratory.
_He has gone to his table and now very methodically starts to tidy his
papers_, WEDGECROFT _still watching him_.
WEDGECROFT. You'd have had to thank Heaven for a little that there were
more lives than one to lead.
TREBELL. That's another of your faults, Gilbert . . it's a comfort just
now to enumerate them. You're an anarchist . . a kingdom to yourself.
You make little treaties with Truth and with Beauty, and what can
disturb you? I'm a part of the machine I believe in. If my life as I've
made it is to be cut short . . the rest of me shall walk out of the
world and slam the door . . with the noise of a pistol shot.
WEDGECROFT. [_Concealing some uneasiness._] Then I'm glad it's not to be
cut short. You and your cabinet rank and your disestablishment bill!
TREBELL _starts to enjoy his secret_.
TREBELL. Yes . . our minds have been much relieved within the last half
hour, haven't they?
WEDGECROFT. I scribbled Horsham a note in a messenger office and sent it
as soon as O'Connell had left me.
TREBELL. He'd be glad to get that.
WEDGECROFT. He has been most kind about the whole thing.
TREBELL. Oh, he means well.
WEDGECROFT. [_Following up his fancied advantage._] But, my friend . .
suicide whilst of unsound mind would never have done . . The hackneyed
verdict hits the truth, you know.
TREBELL. You think so?
WEDGECROFT. I don't say there aren't excuses enough in this miserable
world, but fundamentally . . no sane person will destroy life.
TREBELL. [_His thoughts shifting their plane._] Was she so very mad? I'm
not thinking of her own death.
WEDGECROFT. Don't brood, Trebell. Your mind isn't healthy yet about her
and--
TREBELL. And my child.
_Even_ WEDGECROFT'S _kindness is at fault before the solemnity of this_.
WEDGECROFT. Is that how you're thinking of it?
TREBELL. How else? It's very inexplicable . . this sense of fatherhood.
[_The eyes of his mind travel down--what vista of possibilities. Then he
shakes himself free._] Let's drop the subject. To finish the list of
shortcomings, you're a bit of an artist too . . therefore I don't think
you'll understand.
WEDGECROFT. [_Successfully decoyed into argument._] Surely an artist is
a man who understands.
TREBELL. Everything about life, but not life itself. That's where art
fails a man.
WEDGECROFT. That's where everything but living fails a man. [_Drifting
into introspection himself._] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and
I've written a book . . but I'm barren. [_Then the healthy mind
re-asserts itself._] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children . .
and marry and intermarry. And we're peopling the world . . not badly.
TREBELL. Well . . either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so
big that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two
points of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes
the last use made of life.
_There is a tone of menace in this which recalls_ WEDGECROFT _to the
present trouble_.
WEDGECROFT. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice . . or the use of it.
TREBELL. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he
think so now? . . not he.
WEDGECROFT. You mean if they'd had to throw you over?
_Once again_ TREBELL _looks up with that secretive smile_.
TREBELL. Yes . . if they'd had to.
WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow,
Horsham would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot
yourself after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you
so-called strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to
come out to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you
pistols by post, requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham
would grieve over ten dinner-tables in succession and then return to his
philosophy. One really mustn't waste a life trying to shock polite
politicians. There'd even be a suspicion of swagger in it.
TREBELL. Quite so . . the bomb that's thrown at their feet must be
something otherwise worthless.
FRANCES _comes in quickly, evidently in search of her brother. Though
she has not been crying, her eyes are wide with grief._
FRANCES. Oh, Henry . . I'm so glad you're still up. [_She notices_
WEDGECROFT.] How d'you do, Doctor?
TREBELL. [_Doubling his mask of indifference._] Meistersinger's over
early.
FRANCES. Is it?
TREBELL. Not much past twelve yet.
FRANCES. [_The little gibe lost on her._] It was Tristan to-night. I'm
quite upset. I heard just as I was coming away . . Amy O'Connell's dead.
[_Both men hold their breath._ TREBELL _is the first to find control of
his and give the cue_.]
TREBELL. Yes . . Wedgecroft has just told me.
FRANCES. She was only taken ill last week . . it's so extraordinary.
[_She remembers the doctor._] Oh . . have you been attending her?
WEDGECROFT. Yes.
FRANCES. I hear there's to be an inquest.
WEDGECROFT. Yes.
FRANCES. But what has been the matter?
TREBELL. [_Sharply forestalling any answer._] You'll know to-morrow.
FRANCES. [_The little snub almost bewildering her._] Anything private? I
mean . .
TREBELL. No . . I'll tell you. Don't make Gilbert repeat a story twice . .
He's tired with a good day's work.
WEDGECROFT. Yes . . I'll be getting away.
FRANCES _never heeds this flash of a further meaning between the two
men_.
FRANCES. And I meant to have gone to see her to-day. Was the end very
sudden? Did her husband arrive in time?
WEDGECROFT. Yes.
FRANCES. They didn't get on . . he'll be frightfully upset.
TREBELL _resists a hideous temptation to laugh_.
WEDGECROFT. Good night, Trebell.
TREBELL. Good night, Gilbert. Many thanks.
_There is enough of a caress in_ TREBELL'S _tone to turn_ FRANCES
_towards their friend, a little remorseful for treating him so casually,
now as always_.
FRANCES. He's always thanking you. You're always doing things for him.
WEDGECROFT. Good night. [_Seeing the tears in her eyes._] Oh, don't
grieve.
FRANCES. One shouldn't be sorry when people die, I know. But she liked
me more than I liked her. . [_This time_ TREBELL _does laugh,
silently_.] . . so I somehow feel in her debt and unable to pay now.
TREBELL. [_An edge on his voice._] Yes . . people keep on dying at all
sorts of ages, in all sorts of ways. But we seem never to get used to it
. . narrow-minded as we are.
WEDGECROFT. Don't you talk nonsense.
TREBELL. [_One note sharper yet._] One should occasionally test one's
sanity by doing so. If we lived in the logical world we like to believe
in, I could also prove that black was white. As it is . . there are more
ways of killing a cat than hanging it.
WEDGECROFT. Had I better give you a sleeping draught?
FRANCES. Are you doctoring him for once? Henry, have you at last managed
to overwork yourself?
TREBELL. No . . I started the evening by a charming little dinner at the
Van Meyer's . . sat next to Miss Grace Cutler, who is writing a _vie
intime_ of Louis Quinze and engaged me with anecdotes of the same.
FRANCES. A champion of her sex, whom I do not like.
WEDGECROFT. She's writing such a book to prove that women are equal to
anything.
_He goes towards the door and_ FRANCES _goes with him_. TREBELL _never
turns his head_.
TREBELL. I shall not come and open the door for you . . but mind you
shut it.
FRANCES _comes back_.
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.
TREBELL _is on his feet at that_.
TREBELL. Ah . . I want them.
FRANCES. [_Taking the letters composedly enough._] Thank you.
SIMPSON _departs and_ TREBELL _comes to her for his letters. She looks
at him with baffled affection._
FRANCES. Can I do nothing? Oh, Henry!
TREBELL. Help me to open my letters.
FRANCES. Don't you leave them to Mr. Kent?
TREBELL. Not this morning.
FRANCES. But there are so many.
TREBELL. [_For the first time lifting his voice from its dull
monotony._] What a busy man I was.
FRANCES. Henry . . you're a little mad.
TREBELL. Do you find me so? That's interesting.
FRANCES. [_With the ghost of a smile._] Well . . maddening.
_By this time he is sitting at his table; she near him watching
closely. They halve the considerable post and start to open it._
TREBELL. We arrange them in three piles . . personal . . political . .
and preposterous.
FRANCES. This is an invitation . . the Anglican League.
TREBELL. I can't go.
_She looks sideways at him as he goes on mechanically tearing the
envelopes._
FRANCES. I heard you come upstairs about two o'clock.
TREBELL. That was to dip my head in water. Then I made an instinctive
attempt to go to bed . . got my tie off even.
FRANCES. [_Her anxiety breaking out._] If you'd tell me that you're only
ill . . .
TREBELL. [_Forbiddingly commonplace._] What's that letter? Don't fuss . .
and remember that abnormal conduct is sometimes quite rational.
FRANCES _returns to her task with misty eyes_.
FRANCES. It's from somebody whose son can't get into something.
TREBELL. The third heap . . Kent's . . the preposterous. [_Talking on
with steady monotony._] But I saw it would not do to interrupt that
logical train of thought which reached definition about half past six. I
had then been gleaning until you came in.
FRANCES. [_Turning the neat little note in her hand._] This is from Lord
Horsham. He writes his name small at the bottom of the envelope.
TREBELL. [_Without a tremor._] Ah . . give it me.
_He opens this as he has opened the others, carefully putting the
envelope to one side._ FRANCES _has ceased for the moment to watch him_.
FRANCES. That's Cousin Robert's handwriting. [_She puts a square
envelope at his hand._] Is a letter marked private from the Education
Office political or personal?
_By this he has read_ HORSHAM'S _letter twice. So he tears it up and
speaks very coldly._
TREBELL. Either. It doesn't matter.
_In the silence her fears return._
FRANCES. Henry, it's a foolish idea . . I suppose I have it because I
hardly slept for thinking of her. Your trouble is nothing to do with Amy
O'Connell, is it?
TREBELL. [_His voice strangled in his throat._] Her child should have
been my child too.
FRANCES. [_Her eyes open, the whole landscape of her mind suddenly
clear._] Oh, I . . no, I didn't think so . . but. . .
TREBELL. [_Dealing his second blow as remorselessly as dealt to him._]
Also I'm not joining the new Cabinet, my dear sister.
FRANCES. [_Her thoughts rushing now to the present--the future._] Not!
Because of . . ? Do people know? Will they . ? You didn't . . ?
_As mechanically as ever he has taken up_ COUSIN ROBERT'S _letter and,
in some sense, read it. Now he recapitulates, meaninglessly, that his
voice may just deaden her pain and his own._
TREBELL. Robert says . . that we've not been to see them for some time . .
but that now I'm a greater man than ever I must be very busy. The
vicarage has been painted and papered throughout and looks much fresher.
Mary sends you her love and hopes you have no return of the rheumatism.
And he would like to send me the proof sheets of his critical commentary
on First Timothy . . for my alien eye might possibly detect some logical
lapses. Need he repeat to me his thankfulness at my new attitude upon
Disestablishment . . or assure me again that I have his prayers. Could
we not go and stay there only for a few days? Possibly his opinion--
_She has borne this cruel kindness as long as she can and she breaks
out . ._
FRANCES. Oh . . don't . . don't!
_He falls from his seeming callousness to the very blankness of
despair._
TREBELL. No, we'll leave that . . and the rest . . and everything.
_Her agony passes._
FRANCES. What do you mean to do?
TREBELL. There's to be no public scandal.
FRANCES. Why has Lord Horsham thrown you over then . . or hasn't that
anything to do with it?
TREBELL. It has to do with it.
FRANCES. [_Lifting her voice; some tone returning to it._] Unconsciously
. . I've known for years that this sort of thing might happen to you.
TREBELL. Why?
FRANCES. Power over men and women and contempt for them! Do you think
they don't take their revenge sooner or later?
TREBELL. Much good may it do them!
FRANCES. Human nature turns against you . . by instinct . . in
self-defence.
TREBELL. And my own human-nature!
FRANCES. [_Shocked into great pity, by his half articulate pain._] Yes . .
you must have loved her, Henry . . in some odd way. I'm sorry for you
both.
TREBELL. I'm hating her now . . as a man can only hate his own silliest
vices.
FRANCES. [_Flashing into defence._] That's wrong of you. If you thought
of her only as a pretty little fool . . Bearing your child . . all her
womanly life belonged to you . . and for that time there was no other
sort of life in her. So she became what you thought her.
TREBELL. That's not true.
FRANCES. It's true enough . . it's true of men towards women. You can't
think of them through generations as one thing and then suddenly find
them another.
TREBELL. [_Hammering at his fixed idea._] She should have brought that
child into the world.
FRANCES. You didn't love her enough!
TREBELL. I didn't love her at all.
FRANCES. Then why should she value your gift?
TREBELL. For its own sake.
FRANCES. [_Turning away._] It's hopeless . . you don't understand.
TREBELL. [_Helpless; almost like a deserted child._] I've been trying to
. . all through the night.
FRANCES. [_Turning back enlightened a little._] That's more the trouble
then than the Cabinet question?
_He shakes himself to his feet and begins to pace the room; his keenness
coming back to him, his brow knitting again with the delight of
thought._
TREBELL. Oh . . as to me against the world . . I'm fortified with comic
courage. [_Then turning on her like any examining professor._] Now which
do you believe . . that Man is the reformer, or that the Time brings
forth such men as it needs and lobster-like can grow another claw?
FRANCES. [_Watching this new mood carefully._] I believe that you'll be
missed from Lord Horsham's Cabinet.
TREBELL. The hand-made statesman and his hand-made measure! They were
out of place in that pretty Tory garden. Those men are the natural
growth of the time. Am I?
FRANCES. Just as much. And wasn't your bill going to be such a good
piece of work? That can't be thrown away . . wasted.
TREBELL. Can one impose a clever idea upon men and women? I wonder.
FRANCES. That rather begs the question of your very existence, doesn't
it?
_He comes to a standstill._
TREBELL. I know.
_His voice shows her that meaning in her words and beyond it a threat.
She goes to him, suddenly shaking with fear._
FRANCES. Henry, I didn't mean that.
TREBELL. You think I've a mind to put an end to that same?
FRANCES. [_Belittling her fright._] No . . for how unreasonable. . .
TREBELL. In view of my promising past. I've stood for success, Fanny; I
still stand for success. I could still do more outside the Cabinet than
the rest of them, inside, will do. But suddenly I've a feeling the work
would be barren. [_His eyes shift beyond her; beyond the room._] What is
it in your thoughts and actions which makes them bear fruit? Something
that the roughest peasant may have in common with the best of us
intellectual men . . something that a dog might have. It isn't
successful cleverness.
_She stands . . his trouble beyond her reach._
FRANCES. Come now . . you've done very well with your life.
TREBELL. Do you know how empty I feel of all virtue at this moment?
_He leaves her. She must bring him back to the plane on which she can
help him._
FRANCES. We must think what's best to be done . . now . . and for the
future.
TREBELL. Why, I could go on earning useless money at the Bar . . think
how nice that would be. I could blackmail the next judgeship out of
Horsham. I think I could even smash his Disestablishment Bill . . and
perhaps get into the next Liberal Cabinet and start my own all over
again, with necessary modifications. I shan't do any such things.
FRANCES. No one knows about you and poor Amy?
TREBELL. Half a dozen friends. Shall I offer to give evidence at the
inquest this morning?
FRANCES. [_With a little shiver._] They'll say bad enough things about
her without your blackening her good name.
_Without warning, his anger and anguish break out again._
TREBELL. All she had . . all there is left of her! She was a nothingness
. . silly . . vain. And I gave her this power over me!
_He is beaten, exhausted. Now she goes to him, motherlike._
FRANCES. My dear, listen to me for a little. Consider that as a sorrow
and put it behind you. And think now . . whatever love there may be
between us has neither hatred nor jealousy in it, has it, Henry? Since
I'm not a mistress or a friend but just the likest fellow-creature to
you . . perhaps.
TREBELL. [_Putting out his hand for hers._] Yes, my sister. What I've
wanted to feel for vague humanity has been what I should have felt for
you . . if you'd ever made a single demand on me.
_She puts her arms round him; able to speak._
FRANCES. Let's go away somewhere . . I'll make demands. I need
refreshing as much as you. My joy of life has been withered in me . .
oh, for a long time now. We must kiss the earth again . . take interest
in common things, common people. There's so much of the world we don't
know. There's air to breathe everywhere. Think of the flowers in a Tyrol
valley in the early spring. One can walk for days, not hurrying, as soon
as the passes are open. And the people are kind. There's Italy . .
there's Russia full of simple folk. When we've learned to be friends
with them we shall both feel so much better.
TREBELL. [_Shaking his head, unmoved._] My dear sister . . I should be
bored to death. The life contemplative and peripatetic would literally
bore me into a living death.
FRANCES. [_Letting it be a fairy tale._] Is your mother the Wide World
nothing to you? Can't you open your heart like a child again?
TREBELL. No, neither to the beauty of Nature nor the particular human
animals that are always called a part of it. I don't even see them with
your eyes. I'm a son of the anger of Man at men's foolishness, and
unless I've that to feed upon . . .! [_Now he looks at her, as if for
the first time wanting to explain himself, and his voice changes._]
Don't you know that when a man cuts himself shaving, he swears? When he
loses a seat in the Cabinet he turns inward for comfort . . and if he
only finds there a spirit which should have been born, but is dead . .
what's to be done then?
FRANCES. [_In a whisper._] You mustn't think of that woman. . .
TREBELL. I've reasoned my way through life. . .
FRANCES. I see how awful it is to have the double blow fall.
TREBELL. [_The wave of his agony rising again._] But here's something in
me which no knowledge touches . . some feeling . . some power which
should be the beginning of new strength. But it has been killed in me
unborn before I had learnt to understand . . and that's killing me.
FRANCES. [_Crying out._] Why . . why did no woman teach you to be
gentle? Why did you never believe in any woman? Perhaps even I am to
blame. . .
TREBELL. The little fool, the little fool . . why did she kill my child?
What did it matter what I thought her? We were committed together to
that one thing. Do you think I didn't know that I was heartless and that
she was socially in the wrong? But what did Nature care for that? And
Nature has broken us.
FRANCES. [_Clinging to him as he beats the air._] Not you. She's dead,
poor girl . . but not you.
TREBELL. Yes . . that's the mystery no one need believe till he has
dipped in it. The man bears the child in his soul as the woman carries
it in her body.
_There is silence between them, till she speaks low and tonelessly,
never loosing his hand._
FRANCES. Henry, I want your promise that you'll go on living till . .
till . .
TREBELL. Don't cry, Fanny, that's very foolish.
FRANCES. Till you've learnt to look at all this calmly. Then I can trust
you.
TREBELL _smiles, not at all grimly_.
TREBELL. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a
shock if I shot myself . . it would make them think about things.
FRANCES. [_With one catch of wretched laughter._] Oh, my dear, if
shooting's wanted . . shoot them. Or I'll do it for you.
_He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand
still grasping his._
TREBELL. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night . . our lives
are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and
dying for others. The first is easy . . it's a way out of boredom. To
make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal
resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure
and certain hope that it really doesn't matter . . that God is
infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after
our death than men do while we live?
FRANCES. I want your promise, Henry.
TREBELL. You know I never make promises . . it's taking oneself too
seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too.
I've upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better
go and finish dressing? [_She doesn't move._] My dear . . you don't
propose to hold my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I
still could jump out of a window.
FRANCES. I'll trust you, Henry.
_She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final grip
she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently than
ever._
TREBELL. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it?
FRANCES. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice
through the years that remain. [_Instinctively she rectifies some little
untidiness in the room._] What fools they are to think they can run that
government without you!
TREBELL. Horsham will do his best. [_Then, as for the second time she
reaches the door._] Don't take away my razors, will you? I only use them
for shaving.
FRANCES. [_Almost blushing._] I half meant to . . I'm sorry. After all,
Henry, just because they are forgetting in personal feelings what's best
for the country . . it's your duty not to. You'll stand by and do what
you can, won't you?
TREBELL. [_His queer smile returning, in contrast to her seriousness._]
Disestablishment. It's a very interesting problem. I must think it out.
FRANCES. [_Really puzzled._] What do you mean?
_He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her.
His smile changes into a graver gladness._
TREBELL. Something has happened . . in spite of me. My heart's clean
again. I'm ready for fresh adventures.
FRANCES. [_With a nod and answering gladness._] That's right.
_So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move.
When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries them
carefully into_ WALTER KENT'S _room and arranges them as carefully on
his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then with a sudden
movement bangs the door._
_Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full of
light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open, showing
you_ KENT'S _door still closed. At the big writing table in_ TREBELL'S
_chair sits_ WEDGECROFT, _pale and grave, intent on finishing a letter_.
FRANCES _comes to find him. For a moment she leans on the table
silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a broken woman. When she
speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly._
FRANCES. Lord Horsham is in the drawing room . . and I can't see him, I
really can't. He has come to say he is sorry . . and I should tell him
that it is his fault, partly. I know I should . . and I don't want to.
Won't you go in? What are you writing?
WEDGECROFT, _with his physicianly pre-occupation, can attend,
understand, sympathise, without looking up at her_.
WEDGECROFT. Never mind. A necessary note . . to the Coroner's office.
Yes, I'll see Horsham.
FRANCES. I've managed to get the pistol out of his hand. Was that wrong
. . oughtn't I to have touched it?
WEDGECROFT. Of course you oughtn't. You must stay away from the room.
I'd better have locked the door.
FRANCES. [_Pitifully._] I'm sorry . . but I couldn't bear to see the
pistol in his hand. I won't go back. After all he's not there in the
room, is he? But how long do you think the spirit stays near the body . .
how long? When people die gently of age or weakness . . . But when
the spirit and body are so strong and knit together and all alive as
his . . .
WEDGECROFT. [_His hand on hers._] Hush . . hush.
FRANCES. His face is very eager . . as if it still could speak. I know
that.
MRS. FARRANT _comes through the open doorway_. FRANCES _hears her steps
and turning falls into her outstretched arms to cry there_.
FRANCES. Oh, Julia!
MRS. FARRANT. Oh my dear Fanny! I came with Cyril Horsham . . I don't
think Simpson even saw me.
FRANCES. I can't go in and talk to him.
MRS. FARRANT. He'll understand. But I heard you come in here . .
WEDGECROFT. I'll tell Horsham.
_He has finished and addressed his letter, so he goes out with it._
FRANCES _lifts her head. These two are in accord and can speak their
feelings without disguise or preparation._
FRANCES. Julia, Julia . . isn't it unbelievable?
MRS. FARRANT. I'd give . . oh, what wouldn't I give to have it undone!
FRANCES. I knew he meant to . . and yet I thought I had his promise. If
he really meant to . . I couldn't have stopped it, could I?
MRS. FARRANT. Walter sent to tell me and I sent round to . . .
FRANCES. Walter came soon after, I think. Julia, I was in my room . . it
was nearly breakfast time . . when I heard the shot. Oh . . don't you
think it was cruel of him?
MRS. FARRANT. He had a right to. We must remember that.
FRANCES. You say that easily of my brother . . you wouldn't say it of
your husband.
_They are apart by this._ JULIA FARRANT _goes to her gently_.
MRS. FARRANT. Fanny . . will it leave you so very lonely?
FRANCES. Yes . . lonelier than you can ever be. You have children. I'm
just beginning to realise. . .
MRS. FARRANT. [_Leading her from the mere selfishness of sorrow._]
There's loneliness of the spirit, too.
FRANCES. Ah, but once you've tasted the common joys of life . . once
you've proved all your rights as a man or woman . . .
MRS. FARRANT. Then there are subtler things to miss. As well be alone
like you, or dead like him, without them . . I sometimes think.
FRANCES. [_Responsive, lifted from egoism, reading her friend's mind._]
You demand much.
MRS. FARRANT. I wish that he had demanded much of any woman.
FRANCES. You know how this misery began? That poor little wretch . .
she's lying dead too. They're both dead together now. Do you think
they've met . . ?
JULIA _grips both her hands and speaks very steadily to help her friend
back to self control_.
MRS. FARRANT. George told me as soon as he was told. I tried to make him
understand my opinion, but he thought I was only shocked.
FRANCES. I was sorry for her. Now I can't forgive her either.
MRS. FARRANT. [_Angry, remorseful, rebellious._] When will men learn to
know one woman from another?
FRANCES. [_With answering bitterness._] When will all women care to be
one thing rather than the other?
_They are stopped by the sound of the opening of_ KENT'S _door_. WALTER
_comes from his room, some papers from his table held listlessly in one
hand. He is crying, undisguisedly, with a child's grief._
KENT. Oh . . am I in your way . . ?
FRANCES. I didn't know you were still here, Walter.
KENT. I've been going through the letters as usual. I don't know why,
I'm sure. They won't have to be answered now . . will they?
WEDGECROFT _comes back, grave and tense_.
WEDGECROFT. Horsham has gone. He thought perhaps you'd be staying with
Miss Trebell for a bit.
MRS. FARRANT. Yes, I shall be.
WEDGECROFT. I must go too . . it's nearly eleven.
FRANCES. To the =other= inquest?
_This stirs her two listeners to something of a shudder._
WEDGECROFT. Yes.
MRS. FARRANT. [_In a low voice._] It will make no difference now . . I
mean . . still nothing need come out? We needn't know why he . . why he
did it.
WEDGECROFT. When he talked to me last night, and I didn't know what he
was talking of. . .
FRANCES. He was waiting this morning for Lord Horsham's note. . .
MRS. FARRANT. [_In real alarm._] Oh, it wasn't because of the Cabinet
trouble . . you must persuade Cyril Horsham of that. You haven't told
him . . he's so dreadfully upset as it is. I've been swearing it had
nothing to do with that.
WEDGECROFT. [_Cutting her short, bitingly._] Has a time ever come to you
when it was easier to die than to go on living? Oh . . I told Lord
Horsham just what I thought.
_He leaves them, his own grief unexpressed._
FRANCES. [_Listlessly._] Does it matter why?
MRS. FARRANT. Need there be more suffering and reproaches? It's not as
if even grief would do any good. [_Suddenly with nervous caution._]
Walter, you don't know, do you?
WALTER _throws up his tear-marked face and a man's anger banishes the
boyish grief_.
WALTER. No, I don't know why he did it . . and I don't care. And grief
is no use. I'm angry . . just angry at the waste of a good man. Look at
the work undone . . think of it! Who is to do it! Oh . . the waste . . !
_"The Marrying of Ann Leete" was produced by the Stage Society at the
Royalty Theatre on the evening of January 26th, 1902._
Ann Leete _Miss Winifred Fraser_
Lord John Carp _Julian Royce_
George Leete _Kenneth Douglas_
Mr. Daniel Tatton _J. Malcolm Dunn_
Lady Cottesham _Miss Henrietta Watson_
Carnaby Leete _H. A. Saintsbury_
John Abud _C. M. Hallard_
The Rev. Dr. Remnant _Howard Sturge_
Mrs. Opie _Miss Helen Rous_
Dimmuck _George Trollope_
Mr. Tetgeen _A. E. George_
Lord Arthur Carp _Charles V. France_
Mr. Smallpeice _J. Y. F. Cooke_
Sir George Leete _Arthur Grenville_
Mr. Crowe _Sydney Paxton_
Lady Leete _Miss Bessie Page_
Mrs. George Leete _Miss Florence Neville_
The Rev. Mr. Tozer _Ivan Berlin_
Mr. Prestige _Howard Templeton_
Mrs. Prestige _Mrs. Gordon Gray_
_"The Voysey Inheritance" was first played at the Court Theatre, a
Vedrenne-Barker performance, on the afternoon of November 7th 1905._
Mr. Voysey _A. E. George_
Mrs. Voysey _Miss Florence Haydon_
Trenchard Voysey, K. C. _Eugene Mayeur_
Honor Voysey _Miss Geraldine Olliffe_
Major Booth Voysey _Charles Fulton_
Mrs. Booth Voysey _Miss Grace Edwin_
Christopher _Harry C. Duff_
Edward Voysey _Thalberg Corbett_
Hugh Voysey _Dennis Eadie_
Mrs. Hugh Voysey _Miss Henrietta Watson_
Ethel Voysey _Miss Alexandra Carlisle_
Denis Tregoning _Frederick Lloyd_
Alice Maitland _Miss Mabel Hackney_
Mr. Booth _O. B. Clarence_
The Rev. Evan Colpus _Edmund Gwenn_
Peacey _Trevor Lowe_
Phoebe _Miss Gwynneth Galton_
Mary _Mrs. Fordyce_
_"Waste" was produced by the Stage Society at the Imperial Theatre,
Westminster, on the evening of November 24th, 1907._
Lady Davenport _Miss Amy Coleman_
Walter Kent _Vernon Steel_
Mrs. Farrant _Miss Beryl Faber_
Miss Trebell _Miss Henrietta Watson_
Mrs. O'Connell _Miss Aimee De Burgh_
Lucy Davenport _Miss Dorothy Thomas_
George Farrant _Frederick Lloyd_
Russell Blackborough _A. Holmes-Gore_
A Footman _Allan Wade_
Henry Trebell _Granville Barker_
Simpson _Miss Mary Barton_
Gilbert Wedgecroft _Berte Thomas_
Lord Charles Cantelupe _Dennis Eadie_
The Earl of Horsham _Henry Vibart_
Edmunds _Trevor Lowe_
Justin O'Connell _J. Fisher White_