ROBERT [mildly sarcastic]. You don't say!
BISHOP. And then again, Itrust—I say Itrust—I am not impervious to the more sacred obligations involved; but . . .
[He gropes blindly for bread.]
ROBERT. I allus notice that sort of 'igh talk ends with a "but" . . .
BISHOP. Naturally, I should like to learn a little, beforehand, of your brother'sviews. From what I gather, they are not altogether likely to coincide with my own. Of course, he is an idealist, a dreamer. Now, under these circumstances, perhaps . . .
Eh, what— Oh! Bless my soul!
[MANSON has been offering him bread for some time. He has just tumbled to the fact of his presence. He rises.]
My—my Brother from Benares, I presume?
ROBERT. What,mypal,'isbrother! Oh, Je'oshaphat!
BISHOP. Ten thousand pardons! Really, my eyesight is deplorable!Delighted to meet you! . . .
I was just observing to our charming host that—er— Humph! . . .
Bless me! Now whatwasI . . .
MANSON. Something about your sacred obligations, I believe.
BISHOP. May I trouble you again?
[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.]
ROBERT. That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole, comride!
MANSON [through the trumpet]. Your sacred obligations.
BISHOP. Precisely, precisely! Er— Shall we sit?
[They do so. The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin. MANSON, failing him, the spirit begins to work within himself.]
Well—er—-speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother, I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously—as I am sure you do. The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an overwhelming responsibility. To begin with, it—it costs quite a lot. Doesn't it?
MANSON. It does: quite a lot.
BISHOP. Hm, yes—yes! . . . You mentionedSacred obligationsjust now, and I think that on the whole I am inclined to agree with you. It is an admirable way of putting it. We must awaken people to a sense of theirsacred obligations. This is a work in which everybody can do something: the rich man can give of the abundance with which it has pleased Providence specially to favour him: the poor man with his slender savings need have no fear for the poverty of his gift— Let him give all: it will be accepted. Those of us who, like yourself, my dear brother—and I say it in all modesty, perhaps _my_self—are in possession of the endowments of learning, of influence, of authority—we can lend ournamesto the good work. As you say so very beautifully:sacred obligations.
By-the-way, I don't think I quite caught your views as to the probable cost. Eh, what do you think?
MANSON. I think that should depend upon the obligations; and then, of course, the sacredness might count for something.
BISHOP. Yes, yes, we've discussed all that. But bringing it down to apracticalbasis: how much could we manage with?
MANSON. What do you say to—everything you have?
BISHOP. My dear sir, I'm not talking about myself!
MANSON. Well—everything the others have?
BISHOP. My dear sir, they're not fools! Do discuss the matter like a man of the world!
MANSON.God's not watching: let's give as little, and grab as much as we can!
BISHOP. Ssh! My dear brother! Remember who's present! [He glances toward Robert.] However . . . [Coughs.] We will return to this later. I begin to understand you.
ROBERT. Yus: you think you do!
BISHOP. At the same time, I do think we ought to come to some general understanding; we must count the cost. Now, from all accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in India—not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited would be either possible or desirable in this country—oh, no! Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without the aid of expensive buildings! However, I should like to hear your views. How did you manage it?
MANSON. Sacrifice.
BISHOP. Of course, of course; butpractically. They say it's an enormous concern!
MANSON. So it is.
BISHOP. Well, what would such an establishment as that represent?In round numbers, now?
MANSON [calmly]. Numberless millions.
BISHOP. Numberless mil . . . ! [He drops his fork.] My dear sir, absurd! . . . Why, the place must be a palace—fit for a king!
MANSON. It is!
BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that one man alone, on his own naked credit, could obtain numberless millions for such an object as that? How could you possibly get them together?
MANSON. They came freely from every quarter of the world.
BISHOP. On the security of your own name alone?
MANSON. No other, I assure you.
BISHOP. For Heaven's sake, tell me all about it! What sort of a place is it?
MANSON [seriously]. Are you quite sure you can hear?
BISHOP. Perhaps your voice isnotquite so clear as it was.However . . .
[He wipes the inside of the ear-trumpet, and fixes it afresh.]
Now! Tell me about your church.
[During the following speech the BISHOP is occupied with his own thoughts: after the first few words he makes no attempt at listening: indeed, the trumpet goes down to the table again in no time. On the other hand, ROBERT, at first apathetic, gradually awakens to the keenest interest in what MANSON says.]
MANSON [very simply]. I am afraid you may not consider it an altogether substantial concern. It has to be seen in a certain way, under certain conditions. Some people neverseeit at all. You must understand, this is no dead pile of stones and unmeaning timber.It is a living thing.
BISHOP [in a hoarse whisper, self-engrossed]. Numberless millions!
MANSON. When you enter it you hear a sound—a sound as of some mighty poem chanted. Listen long enough, and you will learn that it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music of men's souls—that is, if you have ears. If you have eyes, you will presently see the church itself—a looming mystery of many shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome. The work of no ordinary builder!
BISHOP [trumpet down]. On the security of one man's name!
MANSON. The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes: the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of the world. It is yet building—building and built upon. Sometimes the work goes forward in deep darkness: sometimes in blinding light: now beneath the burden of unutterable anguish: now to the tune of a great laughter and heroic shoutings like the cry of thunder. [Softer.] Sometimes, in the silence of the night-time, one may hear the tiny hammerings of the comrades at work up in the dome—the comrades that have climbed ahead.
[There is a short silence, broken only by the champing jaws of theBISHOP, who has resumed his sausages. ROBERT speaks first.]
ROBERT [slowly]. I think I begin to understand you, comride: especially that bit abaht . . . [his eyes stray upwards] . . . the 'ammerins' an' the—the harches—an' . . . Humph! I'm only an 'og! . . .
S'pose there's no drain 'ands wanted in that there church o' yours?
MANSON. Drains are a very important question there at present.
ROBERT. Why, I'd be cussin' over every stinkin' pipe I laid.
MANSON. I should make that a condition, comrade.
ROBERT [rising, he pulls off the cassock; goes to fire for his coat: returns: drags it on]. I don't know! Things 'av' got in a bit of a muck with me! I'm rather like a drain-pipe myself.
[With sudden inspiration]. There's one thing Icando!
MANSON. What's that?
ROBERT. Renahnce ole Beelzebub an' all 'is bloomin' wirks! 'And us that brarss-band!
[He alludes to the ear-trumpet. MANSON obeying, ROBERT jabs it into the ear of the BISHOP, who seems quite surprised.]
'Ere! 'Av' you ever 'eard of 'ell?
BISHOP. Of what?
ROBERT. 'Ell. [Spelling.] H, E, double L, 'ell.
BISHOP. Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to!
ROBERT. Then, go there! Aymen . . .
Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes!
[He goes out through the main door, repentant.]
BISHOP. The scoundrel! Did you hear what he said? I shall certainly report him to his bishop!
MANSON. I don't think I should.Hisbishop doesn't mind a little plain speech now and again.
BISHOP. A little plain speech! Do you think it's right for a clergyman to—to direct me to perdition?
MANSON. I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you your—direction is not a clergyman. He's a scavenger.
BISHOP. A scavenger!
MANSON. Yes—looks after drains.
BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to breakfast with a common working-man?
MANSON. Yes; have you never done that before?
BISHOP. My dear sir, whatever do you take me for?
MANSON. A bishop of God's church.
BISHOP. Precisely! Is ityourcustom to breakfast with working-men?
MANSON. Every morning. You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself, once.
BISHOP. You? . . .
MANSON. Yes—a long time ago, though: people have forgotten.
BISHOP. But, my dear brother, I am perfectly sure you never told people to go to . . .
MANSON. Oh yes, quite frequently: it would shock you to learn the language I really did use. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it might be advisable to drop the subject at this point.
BISHOP [emphatically]. I most certainly agree with you there! After all, it is a digression from the purpose for which we are here! . . . Let me see, then: where were we? . . . Oh yes, I remember— Although, by the way, it was very ill-advised of you to speak your mind so openly in that man's presence! However . . .
To resume our—how shall I call it ?—our—little understanding, eh?
MANSON. That describes it most accurately.
BISHOP. Now, you said,Let's give as little, and grab as much as we can. Of course, that is a playful way of putting it; but between ourselves, it expresses my sentiments exactly.
MANSON. I knew that when I said it.
BISHOP [delighted]. My dear brother, your comprehension makes my heart warm. I trust our relations may always remain as warm.
MANSON. Oh, warmer, warmer!
BISHOP. Very well then, to business! I tell you, candidly, I agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless generosity! If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice for it! Why shouldwedo anything?
I am sure you will appreciate my candour?
MANSON. At its full value. Go on.
BISHOP. At the same time, there is no reason why we should throw cold water upon the project. On the contrary, we might promote it, encourage it, even lend it the influence of our patronage and our names.But on one understanding!
MANSON. And that?
BISHOP. That it is extended—imperialised, so to speak: that it is made the vehicle of a much vaster, of a much more momentous project behind it!
MANSON. You interest me intensely. Explain.
BISHOP. I will.
[He looks around to assure himself that they are alone.]
There is in existence a society, a very influential society, in which I happen to have an interest—very great interest. Hm! I am one of the directors.
I may say that it is already very well established, financially; but it is always open to consider the—extension of its influence in that way.
MANSON. And the name of the society?
BISHOP. Rather long, but I trust explicit. It is called "TheSociety for the Promotion and Preservation of Emoluments for theHigher Clergy."
MANSON. I do not seem to have heard itnamedbefore.
BISHOP. Well, no: its movements have always been characterised by a certain modesty. It is an invisible society, so to speak; but I can assure you its principles are very clearly understood—among the parties most concerned.
MANSON. And your project?
BISHOP. Affiliate the subsidiary question of the building of theChurch, with the larger interests of the Society.
MANSON. Yes, but since people have already refused to subscribe to the more trivial project . . .
BISHOP. They have not been properly approached. My dear sir, in order to awaken public generosity, It is necessary to act like men of the world:we must have names. People will subscribe to any amount, if you can only get the right names.
That Is whereyoucome in.
MANSON. I! Do you propose to place my name at the head of your—prospectus?
BISHOP. My dear sir, invaluable! Didn't you say yourself that you brought in numberless millions, on your own credit, out there in India? Why shouldn't you do the same in England? Think of your reputation, your achievements, your name for sanctity— Not a word, sir: Imeanit! . . . Why, there's no end to the amount it would bring in: it would mean billions!
Well, what do you say?
MAMSON [slowly]. Let us clearly understand one another. I am to lend you my name—just my name—and you are to do all the rest.
BISHOP [quickly]. Oh yes: I'dratheryou kept out of the business negotiations!
MANSON. It is rather a dangerous name to play with!
BISHOP, I take that responsibility entirely upon myself!
MANSON. And when all's over and done with, what are we going to gain out of the transaction?
BISHOP. We shall have to come to some private settlement between ourselves.
MANSON. When?
BISHOP. Oh, hereafter.
MANSON. Hereafter, then.
[Enter AUNTIE and VICAR by door to right.]
AUNTIE [off]. Leave him to me, William! I'll soon settle the matter! [Entering.] The man must be possessed of some evil spirit! . . .
Why—it's my brother James! . . .
[MANSON has risen, and is now the butler once more. He speaks into the ear-trumpet.]
MANSON. Your sister and the vicar, my lord.
BISHOP [behind table, rising]. Ah! Well, Martha!—No, no, no, if you please! [He restrains her approach.] Observe the retribution of an unchastened will. You have never seen my face for sixteen years! However, like a cloud, I blot out your transgressions from this hour!
And so this is your husband ?—Not a word, sir; not a single word!—the sausages were delicious, and your place has been most agreeably occupied by your brother!
VICAR. My brother! Then you . . . What do you mean?
BISHOP [testily]. I mean what I say, sir! Your brother,mybrother,ourbrother here, of course, our Oriental brother!
AUNTIE. James, you are making a mistake: this is our new butler—ourIndianbutler.
BISHOP. Your Indian—WHAT?
[He stands cogitating horribly until the end of the act, facing towards MANSON.]
AUNTIE. What has made him like this? He seems possessed!
MANSON. He is! . . .
I have just been having some trouble withanotherdevil, ma'am.
AUNTIE. Meaning, of course . . . What has become of him?
MANSON [with his eye].Heis cast out forever.
AUNTIE. Where is he now?
MANSON. He walks through dry places seeking—[he probes her soul]—otherhabitations.
AUNTIE. Manson! This is your doing! Oh, you have saved us!
MANSON. I am trying to, ma'am; but, God knows, you make it rather difficult!
[A change comes over her face, as the curtain slowly falls.]
As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged; but attention now centres in the Bishop, who appears to be struggling apoplectically for speech.
BISHOP [bursting]. Before we proceed a step further, I have a most extraordinary request to make! The fact is, you interrupted me in the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . . that is to say, with your . . . in short, with that person standing over there! My request is, that I be permitted a few minutes further conversation with him—alone, and at once!
ALL. ) With Manson! . . .MANSON. ) With me! . . .
BISHOP. Not a word! I know my request will appear singular—most singular! But I assure you it is most necessary. The peace, the security of a human soul depends upon it! Come, sir! Where shall we go?
MANSON. Have I your permission, ma'am
AUNTIE. Certainly; but it is most extraordinary!
MANSON [crossing]. Then I think this way, my lord, in the drawing-room . . . [He leads the way.]
BISHOP [following]. And you may be sure, my good fellow, I will give anything—I say, anything—to remedy your misapprehensions! Hm!
[They go into the drawing-room, right, MANSON holding the door for the other to pass.]
VICAR. Martha! It's no use! I can't do it!
AUNTIE [preoccupied]. Can't do what, William?
VICAR. Behave towards that man like a Christian! He stirs some nameless devil like murder in my heart! I want to clutch him by the throat, as I would some noisome beast, and strangle him!
AUNTIE [slowly]. He is greatly changed!
VICAR. It is you who have changed, Martha. You see him now with different eyes.
AUNTIE. Do I? I wonder! . . .
VICAR. After all, why should we invite him here? Why should we be civil to him? What possible kinship can there be between us? As for his filthy money—how did he scrape it together? How did he come by it? . . .
AUNTIE. Yes, William, that's true, but the opportunity of turning it to God's service . . .
VICAR. Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church whose every stone is reeking with the bloody sweat and anguish of the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to despair? Shall we base God's altar in the bones of harlots, plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves?
AUNTIE. Why will you exaggerate, my dear?—It is not as bad as that. Why don't you compose yourself and try and be contented and—and happy?
VICAR. How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I breathe?
AUNTIE. You are not always like this, dear! . . .
VICAR. Happy! How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I have made him!
AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking ofyou! Think of our love, William—our great and beautiful love! Isn't that something to make you happy?
VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love?
AUNTIE. Oh, William, youknow. . .
VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world like Satan, to slay men's souls?
AUNTIE. Oh, now you're exaggerating again! What do you mean?
VICAR. I mean my brother Robert! What has love done for him?
AUNTIE. Oh, Robert, Robert—I'm sick to death of Robert! Why can't you think of yourself?
VICAR. Well, I will! What has love done for me?
AUNTIE. William! . . .
[The slightest pause. The scene takes on another complexion.]
VICAR. Do you remember that day when I first came to you and told you of my love? Did I lie to you? Did I try to hide things? Did I despise my birth? Didyou?
AUNTIE. No, no, William, I loved you: I told you so.
VICAR. Did you mind the severance from your family because of me?
AUNTIE. Didn't I always say that I was proud to be able to give up so much for you, William? . . .
VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for me, what followed?
AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you see?Youwere not made to live out your life in any little odd hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful preacher— All this required position, influence, social prestige. You don't think I was ambitious for myself: it was for you.
VICAR. Forme—yes! And how do you imagine I have benefited by all your scheming, your contriving, your compromising, your . . .
AUNTIE. In the way I willed! I am glad of it! I worked for that—and I won! . . .
Well, what are you troubling about now?
VICAR [slowly]. I am thinking of the fact that there has been no child to bless our marriage, Martha—that is, no child of our very own, no child whose love we have not stolen.
AUNTIE. My dear . . .
VICAR. We have spoken about it sometimes, haven't we? Or, rather—notspoken!
AUNTIE. William, why will you think of these things?
VICAR. In those first days, dearest, I brought you two children of our own to cherish, little unborn souls crying for you to mother them— You have fostered only the one. That one is called the Scholar. Shall I tell you the name of the other?
AUNTIE [after a moment]. Yes . . .
VICAR. I hardly know: I hardly dare to name him, but perhaps it was—the Saint.
AUNTIE. What I have done, William, has been done for love of you—you only—you only in the world!
VICAR. Yes: that's what Imean!
[The thought troubles her for a moment; then she paces up and down in agitated rebellion.]
AUNTIE. No! I can't believe it! I can't think that love is as wrong as you say!
VICAR. Love is a spirit of many shapes and shadows: a spirit of fire and darkness—a minister of heaven and hell: Sometimes I think the very damned know love—in a way. It can inform men's souls with the gladness of high archangels, or possess them with the despair of devils!
[She suddenly stands still, struck by the echo in his last phrase.]
Yes?
AUNTIE. I was wondering . . .
Wondering what Manson meant just now.
VICAR. When?
AUNTIE. When he spoke about your brother Robert.
VICAR. I think he made it clear. He said we were—rid of him forever!
AUNTIE [thoughtfully]. Ye-es . . .
William, I begin to fear that man.
VICAR. Whom—Robert?
AUNTIE. No, Manson.
[Re-enter MANSON from door, right. He carries a five-pound note in his hand.]
MANSON. His lordship will be glad to see you.
AUNTIE. Very well, Manson. Why, what have you there?
MANSON. A remedy for misapprehension, ma'am.
AUNTIE. It's a five-pound note.
MANSON. Yes.
AUNTIE. Come, William.
[She goes to the drawing-room door, her head anxiously turned towards MANSON.]
VICAR [at the door]. What are we going to do, Martha?
AUNTIE. I don't know: God help me, I can't see the way!
[They both go out, MANSON watching them. He then moves up to the fire, and burns the five-pound note. He watches the flames leap up as he speaks.]
MANSON.Thou givest thy mouth to evil, and thy tongue frameth deceit. Thou sittest and speakest against thy brother: thou slanderest thine own mother's son. These things hast thou done, and I kept silence: thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself: but I will reprove thee, and set them in order before thine eyes. [Footnote: Psalms 1. 19-21]
[He comes down to the middle of the room. MARY enters eagerly.Seeing him alone, she gives a little cry of gladness.]
MARY. Oh, how jolly! Where are they?
MANSON. In the next room.
MARY. Ah! AH!
[She comes to his out-stretched arms. He folds her to his heart, facing the audience.]
[Looking up into his face.] Isn't it a great secret? What shall I call you, now we are alone?
MANSON. Ssh! They may hear you!
MARY. If I whisper . . .
MANSON. They are very near! . . .
[Disengaging himself.] I must be about my business. Is this the bell to the kitchen?
MARY. Yes. Let me help you.
[MANSON having rung the bell, they begin to remove the breakfast things. MARY employs herself with the crumb-scoop.]
If auntie and uncle could see me now! If they only knew! I've kept the secret: I've told nobody! . . .
These will do for the birds. Look, I'll take them now. [She throws the crumbs out of the French windows.] Poor little mites! [She returns to the table.]
MANSON. You are fond of the birds?
MARY. Just love them! Don't you?
MANSON, They are my very good friends. Now, take the cassock.Fold it up and put it on the chair.
[ROGERS enters whilst he gives this command.]
ROGERS. Well, I'm . . .
'Owever, it's no business of mine!
MARY [brightly]. What's up with you, Rogers?
ROGERS [with reservation]. Nuthin', miss. [He fetches the tray.]
MARY. Then why look so solemn?
ROGERS [lugubriously]. Ain't lookin' solemn, miss.
MANSON. Hold up the tray, Rogers.
ROGERS.Am'oldin' it up, Mr. Manson. MARY [loading him up].I'm sure there is something the matter!
ROGERS. Well, since you arsk me, miss, it's the goin's on in this 'ouse! I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and improbabilities in my life! I shall 'av' to give in my notice!
MARY. Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful! Why?
MANSON. Now the cloth, Mary . . .
ROGERS. Cos why?That'swhy!—What you're doin' now! I likes people to keep their proper stytion! I was brought up middle-clarss myself, an' taught to be'ave myself before my betters!—No offence to you, Mr. Manson! [He says this with a jib, belying his words.]
MARY. Nonsense, Rogers! I like helping.
ROGERS. My poor farver taught me. 'E led a godly, righteous, an' sober life. 'E was a grocer.
MANSON. Come, Rogers. Take them to the kitchen.
[ROGERS obeys with some asperity of mien. At the door he delivers a Parthian shot.]
ROGERS. If my poor farver could see what I've seen to-day, 'e would roll over in 'is grave!
[MANSON opens the door for him. He goes.]
MARY [gayly]. Isn't he funny? Just because his silly old father . . .
MANSON. Ssh! His father'sdead, Mary!
[There is a sudden pause. He comes down to her.]
Well, have you thought any more about . . .
MARY. About wishing?—Yes, lots.
MANSON. And have you? . . .
MARY. I don't know what to think. You see, I never believed properly in wishing before. Wishing is a dreadfully difficult thing, when you really set about it, isn't it?
MANSON. Yes.
MARY. You see, ordinary things won't do: they're all wrong, somehow. You'd feel a bit of a sneak to wish for them, wouldn't you?
MANSON. Yes.
MARY. Even if you got them, you wouldn't care, after all. They'd all turn to dust and ashes in your hand.
That last bit is what Grannie Durden said.
MANSON. Who's she?
MARY. She's the poor old woman I've been having breakfast with. Do you know, she said a funny thing about wishing. I must tell you first that she's quite blind and very deaf— Well, she's been wishing ever so long to see and hear; and at last she says she can!
MANSON. What—see and hear? [He glances towards the drawing-room.]
MARY. Um! I must say, I didn't notice any difference myself; but that's what she said.
She agreed with you, that wishing was the only way; and if you didn't know how, then you had to keep on wishing to wish, until you could.
MANSON. And so . . .
MARY. Well, that's as far as I've got.
[ROGERS re-enters.]
MANSON. Yes, what is it, Rogers?
ROGERS. Cook's compliments, Mr. Manson, and might she make so bold as to request your presence in the kitchen, seein' as she's 'ad no orders for lunch yet. O' course, she says, it will do when you'vequitefinished any private business you may 'av' in the upper part of the 'ouse!
[He delivers this with distinct hauteur. MANSON, smiling, goes up to him and takes his head in his hands.]
MANSON. Why do you dislike me so, Rogers?
ROGERS [taken aback]. Me? Me dislike you, Mr. Manson?Oh no!
MANSON. Come along, little comrade.
[They go out like brothers, MANSON'S arm round the lad's shoulders.]
[MARY is left seated on the table, chuckling at the situation.Suddenly her face becomes serious again: she is lost in thought.After a while she speaks softly to herself.]
MARY. What have I needed most? What have I not had? . . . Oh! I know! . . .
[Her face flames with the sudden inspiration.]
And I never dreamed of it till now!
[ROBERT enters by the main door. The child turns round, and, seeing him, gives a startled little cry. They stand facing each other, silent. Presently ROBERT falters.]
ROBERT. Beg pawdon, miss: I . . .
MARY. Who are you? What are you doing here?
ROBERT. I'm . . .
I was goin' ter see what's—what's in that room . . .
MARY. If you do, I'll . . .
[She moves swiftly to the bell.]
ROBERT. It's a mistake, miss. P'r'aps I'd—I'd better tek my 'ook.
MARY. Stop! . . .
How dare you! Don't you know you're a very wicked man?
ROBERT. Me, miss?
MARY. Yes, you.
ROBERT. Yus, I know it.
MARY [trying to save the sinner]. That isn't the way to be happy, you know. Thieves are neverreallyhappy in their hearts.
ROBERT. Wot's that? . . .
Do you tike me for a thief, miss? You? . . .
[He advances to the table: she edges away.]
Why don't you arnser?
MARY. I had rather not say.
ROBERT. Cos why?
MARY. I don't want to be unkind.
[ROBERT sinks stricken into the chair behind him.]
ROBERT, Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd!
MARY [relenting]. Of course, if—if you're sorry, that makes a difference. Being sorry makes a lot of difference. Doesn't it?
ROBERT. Yus, a fat lot!
MARY. Only you must never give way to such a wicked temptation again. Oh, don't cry! [She goes to him.]
ROBERT. Oo is cryin'? I'm not cryin'—not a cryin' sort!On'y—you 'adn't no right to talk to me like that, miss.
MARY. Why, didn't you own . . .
ROBERT. No, I didn't. It was you as jumped down my throat, an' took up my words afore I got 'em out.
MARY. Oh: I'm sorry. Did I make a mistake?
ROBERT. Yus, miss—a whopper.
MARY. Then you're not a . . .
ROBERT.No, swelp me Gaw— [He pulls himself up.] I assure you, no. I'm a bit of a low un; but I never come so stinkin' low as that.
You thought I looked like one, all the same. Didn't yer, now?
MARY. Well, you see, I thought you said so; and then there's your . . .
ROBERT. I know! You don't like my mug. It ain't much of a mug to look at, is it? Sort of a physog for a thief, eh? See them lines?—Want to know what them stand for? That's drink, an' starvation, an' 'ard work, an' a damned lonely life.
MARY. Oh, you poor man!
ROBERT. Yus, miss, I am.
MARY. You mustn't say "damned," you know.
ROBERT. No, miss.
MARY.That'swicked, at any rate.
ROBERT. Yus, miss.
MARY. And you owned yourself that you drank. That's not very good, either.
ROBERT. No, miss.
MARY. So, you see, youarea little bit naughty, after all, aren't you?
ROBERT. Yus, miss.
MARY. Now, isn't it much nicer for you to try and look at things in this way? I'm sure you feel a great deal better already.
Do you know— Wait a moment . . .
[She resumes her seat, turning it towards him, the passion of salvation in her eyes.]
Do you know, I'd like to do you some good!
ROBERT. You, miss?
MARY. Yes, wouldn't you like me to?
ROBERT. You're the on'y person in the world I'd—I'd like to see try, miss.
MARY [glad in the consciousness of "being used"]. That's because you know I'm interested in you, that I mean it, that I'm not trying to think only of myself.
ROBERT [a little stupidly]. Aren't you, miss?
MARY. No: we must always remember that there are other people in the world besides ourselves.
[This coincides with his experience: he says so.]
ROBERT. Yus, miss, there are.
MARY. Very well: now I'll see what I can do to help you.
ROBERT. Thank you, miss.
MARY. Now, don't you think, if you were reallyto wishvery hard, it would make things better for you?
ROBERT. I don't know what you mean, miss.
MARY. Well, it's like this: if you only wish very very hard, everything comes true.
ROBERT. WotIwant, ain't no use wishing for!
MARY. It doesn't matter what it is! Anything you like! It will all happen!
ROBERT. Blimey, wot's the good o' talkin'?
MARY. Oh, wouldn't you like to help to spin the fairy-tale?
ROBERT [roughly], I don't believe in no fairy-tales!
MARY. I do! I don't believe there's anything else in the world, if we only knew! And that's why I'm wishing! I'm wishing now! I'm wishing hard!
ROBERT [passionately]. So am I, Gawd 'elp me! But it's no use!
MARY. It is! It is! What are you wishing for?
ROBERT. Never you mind! Summat as impossible as—fairy-tales!
MARY. So's mine! That's what it has to be! Mine's the most impossible thing in the world!
ROBERT. Not more than mine!
MARY. What's yours?
ROBERT. What's yours?
MARY.I want my father!
[There is a second's pause.]
MARY. Your—what? . . .
ROBERT [brokenly]. My—daughter.
MARY. Oh! . . .
[She goes towards him: they face each other.]
[Softly.] Is she dead?
[He stands looking at her.]
Is she?
[He turns away from her.]
ROBERT. Fur as I am concerned—yus.
MARY. What do you mean?Isn'tshe dead?
ROBERT. She's alive, right enough.
MARY. Perhaps—perhaps she ran away? . . .
ROBERT. She got took.
MARY. How do you mean—gypsies?
ROBERT. Igive'er up. 'Ad to.
MARY. Why?
ROBERT. Look at me! . . .
That—an' the drink, an' the low wages, an' my ole woman dyin'! That's why I give 'er up.
MARY. Where is she now?
ROBERT. Never you mind. She's bein' looked arfter.
MARY. By whom?
ROBERT. By people as I've allus 'ated like poison!
MARY. Why, aren't they kind to her?
ROBERT. Yus: they've made 'er summat, as I couldn't 'a' done.
MARY. Then why do you hate them ?
ROBERT. I don't any longer. I 'ates myself, I 'ates the world I live in, I 'ates the bloomin' muck 'ole I've landed into!
MARY. Your wife's dead, you say?
ROBERT. Yus.
MARY. What would she think about it all?
ROBERT [hollowly, without variation]. I don't know: I don't know:I don't know.
[MARY sits down beside him.]
MARY [thoughtfully]. Isn't it strange—both our wishes alike! You want your little girl; and I, my father!
ROBERT. What sort of a . . .
MARY. Yes?
ROBERT. What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?
MARY. I don't know. I have never seen him.
ROBERT. Got no idea? Never—'eardtellof 'im?
MARY. Never.
ROBERT. 'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose? Wasn't particular worth while, eh?
MARY. It's not that. I've been selfish. I never thought anything about him until to-day.
ROBERT. What made you think of 'im—to-day?
MARY. I can't quite say. At least . . .
ROBERT. Mebbe 'e wrote—sent a telingram or summat, eh?—t' say as 'e was comin'?
MARY [quickly]. Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him.That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it?
ROBERT [after a moment]. Looks like it, don't it?
MARY. But I don't think he can be really selfish, after all.
ROBERT [with a ray of brightness]. Cos why?
MARY. Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and UncleJoshua.
[He looks at her curiously.]
ROBERT. Like your . . .
MARY. Yes—they're his brothers, you know.
This is Uncle William's house.
ROBERT. Yes, but what do you know about. . .
MARY. About Uncle Joshua? Well, I happen to know a good deal more than I can say. It's a secret.
ROBERT. S'pose yourUncle Williamspoke to you about 'im?
MARY. Well, yes. Uncle William spoke about him, too.
ROBERT. But never about your father?
MARY. Oh no, never.
ROBERT. Why, miss?
MARY [slowly]. I—don't—know.
ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e ain't—good enough—to be—to be the brother of your Uncle William—and— Uncle—Joshua—eh, miss?
MARY. Oh, I can't think that!
ROBERT. Why not, miss? Three good brothers in a family don't scarcely seem possible—not as families go—do they, miss?
MARY. You mustn't talk like that! A father must be much—much better than anybody else!
ROBERT. But s'pose, miss—s'pose 'e ain't . . .
MARY. He is! I know it! Why, that's what I'm wishing! . . .
ROBERT. P'r'aps it ain't altogether 'is fault, miss! . . .
MARY. Oh, don't! Don't. . .
ROBERT. Things may 'a' bin agin 'im, miss! . . .
MARY. Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . .
ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e's 'ad a 'ard life—a bitter 'ard life—same asI 'av', miss . . . [He breaks down.]
MARY. Ssh! Please! Please! . . .
I can quite understand: indeed, indeed, I can! I'm sorry—oh, so sorry for you. You are thinking of yourself and of your own little girl—the little girl who doesn't know what you have been telling me. Don't be miserable! I'm sure it will all turn out right in the end—things always do; far better than you dream! Only . . . don't take awaymylittle dream!
[She turns away her face. ROBERT rises heavily.]
ROBERT. All right, miss—I won't: swelp me Gawd, I won't. Don't cry, miss. Don't, miss! Breaks my 'eart—after all you've done for me. I ort never to 'a' bin born—mekin' you cry! Thank you kindly, miss: thank you very kindly. I'll—I'll tek my 'ook.
MARY. Oh, but I'm so sorry foryou!
ROBERT. Thank you, miss.
MARY. I did so want to help you.
ROBERT. You 'av', miss.
MARY. Before you go, won't you tell me your name? Who are you?
I got no name worth speakin' of, miss: I'm—just the bloke wot's a-lookin' arter the drains.
Good-bye, miss.
[At the door, he turns.]
Sorry I used bad words, miss.
[She runs to him and offers her hand. He takes it.]
MARY. Good-bye,
ROBERT. Good-bye, miss.
[He goes out.]
[She shuts the door after him, and turns a wretched little face towards the audience as the curtain falls.]
As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. After a moment, Mary comes down to the settee, left, and buries her face in the cushions, weeping. Shortly, the handle of the drawing-room door is turned, and from within there emerges a murmur of voices, the Vicar's uppermost.
VICAR [within]. Very well, then, after you have finished your letters! . . .
[The voices continue confusedly: MARY rises quickly and goes into the garden.]
[The VICAR enters and goes to the mantel-piece weariedly: a moment later, AUNTIE.]
BISHOP [within], I shall only be about twenty minutes.
AUNTIE [entering]. All right, don't hurry, James: you have all the morning.
[She closes the door upon the BISHOP'S grunts, and comes, to the middle of the room.]
VICAR. Hm! When he has finished his letters!
AUNTIE. Yes, things seem to be shaping better than we thought,William. Perhaps we have a little misjudged him.
[He looks at her curiously.]
To think, my dear, that the rebuilding of the church is becoming possible at last! All your hopes, all your enthusiasms, about to be realised! Now, it only remains to gain your brother Joshua's approval and help, and the scheme is complete!
VICAR. Supposing he—doesn't approve of the scheme?
AUNTIE. My dear, he must approve: he will see the advantages at once. I think James made that perfectly clear! . . .
And then, look at the opportunities it creates foryou! Not only the church, William, the beautiful big church of your dreams, with the great spires and flashing crosses and glorious windows; but a much larger sphere of usefulness than you ever dared to dream! Think of your work, William, of your great gifts—even James had to acknowledge them, didn't he?—Think of the influence for good you will be able to wield! Ah! And then I shall see my beloved,himselfagain—No more worry, no more feverish nights and days, none of the wretched frets and fancies that have been troubling him all this morning; but the great Scholar and Saint again, the master of men's souls, the priest in the congregation!
VICAR. Suppose you try and forget me for a moment. Do you think you can?
AUNTIE. William, that's unkind! Of course I can't.
VICAR. It might mean the salvation of my soul.
AUNTIE. Oh, William! Now you're going to begin to worry again!
VICAR. Oh no: I'm quite calm. Your brother's powers of reasoning have left me philosophical. . . .
Tell me, are you quite sure that you have grasped the full meaning of his project?
AUNTIE. Of course! You think no one can understand a simple business dealing but men! Women are every bit as clever!
VICAR. Well, then, this project: what was it?
AUNTIE. James explained clearly enough: the affiliation of your brother's scheme with that of the society he mentioned.
VICAR. Yes—whatsociety?
AUNTIE.The Society for the Extension of Greater Usefulness among the Clergy. . . . It was an admirable suggestion—one that ought to appeal particularly to you. Haven't you always said, yourself, that if only you had enough money to . . .
VICAR. Did you happen to realise his explanation as to the constitution of the society?
AUNTIE. To tell the truth, I wasn't listening just then: I was thinking of you.
VICAR. Thefinancialpossibilities of the scheme—Did his eloquence on that point escape you?
AUNTIE. Figures always bore me, and James uses dreadfully long words.
VICAR. Did you hear nothing ofprofits?
AUNTIE. I only heard him say that you were to . . .
VICAR. Well, didn't it strike you that throughout the entire discussion he spoke rather like atradesman?
AUNTIE. My dear, you can't expect everybody to be an idealist!Remember, he's a practical man: he's a bishop.
VICAR. Didn't it strike you that there are some things in this world which are not to be bought atanyprice?
AUNTIE. My dear William, bricks and mortar require money: you can't run a society without funds!
VICAR. Yes, but what of flesh and blood? What of reputation?What of a man's name?
AUNTIE. Whatever do you mean now?
VICAR. Didn't his proposal practically amount to this: that we should turn my brother Joshua's name and reputation into a bogus Building Society, of which the funds were to be scraped together from all the naked bodies and the starving bellies of the world, whilstweand our thieving co-directors should collar all the swag?
AUNTIE. Now, that's exactly where I think you are so unjust! Didn't you yourself refuse, before he spoke a word, to let him put a penny of his own into the concern? I must say, you were unnecessarily rude to him about that, William!
VICAR. Yes, and didn't he jump at the suggestion!
AUNTIE. He offers to give his patronage, his influence, his time.All he asks of your brother is his bare name.
VICAR. Yes, and all he asks of me is simply my eloquence, my gift of words, my power of lying plausibly!
AUNTIE. William, he is offering you the opportunity of your life!
VICAR. Damnation take my life!
AUNTIE. William, why are you so violent?
VICAR. Because violence is the only way of coming to the truth between you and me!
AUNTIE [now thoroughly afraid]. What do you mean by the truth,William?
VICAR. I mean this: What is the building of this church to you? Are you so mightily interested in architecture, in clericalusefulness, in the furtherance of God's work?
AUNTIE. I am interested in your work, William. Do you take me for an atheist?
VICAR. No: far worse—for an idolater!
AUNTIE. William . . .
VICAR. What else but idolatry is this precious husband-worship you have set up in your heart—you and all the women of your kind? You barter away your own souls in the service of it: you build up your idols in the fashion of your own respectable desires: you struggle silently amongst yourselves, one against another, to push your own god foremost in the miserable little pantheon of prigs and hypocrites you have created!
AUNTIE [roused]. It is for your own good we do it!
VICAR. Our own good! What have you made of me? You have plucked me down from whatever native godhead I had by gift of heaven, and hewed and hacked me into the semblance of your own idolatrous imagination! By God, it shall go on no longer! If you have made me less than a man, at least I will prove myself to be a priest!
AUNTIE. Do you call it a priest's work to . . .
VICAR. It ismywork to deliver you and me from the bondage of lies! Can't you see, woman, that God and Mammon are about us, fighting for our souls?
AUNTIE [determinedly]. Listen to me, William, listen to me . . .
VICAR. I have listened to you too long!
AUNTIE. You would always take my counsel before . . .
VICAR. All that is done with! I am resolved to be a free man from this hour—free of lies, free of love if needs be, free even of you, free of everything that clogs and hinders me in the work I have to do! I will do my own deed, not yours!
AUNTIE [with deadly quietness]. If I were not certain of one thing, I could never forgive you for those cruel words: William, this is some madness of sin that has seized you: it is the temptation of the devil!
VICAR. It is the call of God!
AUNTIE [still calmly]. That's blasphemy, William! But I will save you—yes, I will—in spite of yourself. I am stronger than you.
[They look at each other steadily for a moment, neither yielding,]
VICAR. Then I accept the challenge! It is God and I against you,Martha!
AUNTIE. God and I againstyou, William.
VICAR. So now—for my work!
AUNTIE [quietly]. Yes: what are you going to do?
VICAR. Three things.
AUNTIE. Yes—and they? . . .
VICAR. Tell Mary everything: send for my brother, Robert: and then—answer that monster in there.
AUNTIE [fearfully]. William, you would never dare! . . .
VICAR. Look! . . .
[MARY re-enters from the garden.]
MARY. Auntie! Uncle! I want to speak to you at once—both of you!
VICAR. You are just in time: I wanted to speak toyouat once.
MARY. Is it important, uncle? Mine's dreadfully important.
VICAR. So is mine.
AUNTIE [quickly]. Let the child speak, William. Perhaps . . .
MARY. I hardly know how to begin. Perhaps it's only my cowardice.Perhaps it isn't really dreadful, after all . . .
AUNTIE [troubled]. Why, what are you thinking of, Mary?
MARY. It's about something we have never spoken of before; something I've never been told.
VICAR [searchingly]. Yes? . . .
AUNTIE [falteringly]. Yes? . . .
MARY. I want to know about my father.
[There is a short silence. The VICAR looks at AUNTIE.]
VICAR. Now: is God with you or me, Martha?
MARY. What do you mean by that? Is it very terrible, uncle?
[He stands silent, troubled. MARY crosses him, going to AUNTIE.]
Auntie . . .
AUNTIE. Don't ask me, child: I have nothing to tell you about your father.
MARY. Why, isn't he . . .
AUNTIE. I have nothing to tell you.
VICAR. I have.
AUNTIE. William! . . .
VICAR. I have, I say! Come, sit here, Mary.
[She sits to left of him, on the settee. AUNTIE is down stage on the other side of him.]
Now! What do you want to know about your father?
MARY [passionately]. Everything there is to know!
AUNTIE. William, this is brutal! . . .
VICAR. It ismy work, Martha!—God's work! Haven't I babbled in the pulpit long enough about fatherhood and brotherhood, that I should shirk His irony when He takes me at my word!
Now: what put this thought into your head to-day?
MARY. I don't know. I've been puzzling about something all the morning; but there was nothing clear. It only came clear a few minutes ago—just before I went into the garden. But I think it must have begun quite early—before breakfast, when I was talking to my—to Manson,
AUNTIE. Manson! . . .
MARY. And then, all of a sudden, as I was sitting there by the fireplace,it came—all in a flash, you understand! I found myself wishing for my father: wondering why I had never seen him: despising myself that I had never thought of him before.
VICAR. Well, what then?
MARY. I tried to picture him to myself. I imagined all that he must be. I thought of you. Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my life; but still—that wasn't quite like a father, was it? I thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in the world! He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good! I kept on saying it over and over to myself like a little song: he must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good! [Anxiously.] That's true of fathers, isn't it, uncle? Isn't it?
VICAR. A father ought to be all these things.
MARY. And then . . . then . . .
VICAR. Yes? . . .
MARY. I met a man, a poor miserable man—it still seems like a dream, the way I met him—and he said something dreadful to me, something that hurt me terribly. He seemed to think that my father—that perhaps my father—might be nothing of the sort!
AUNTIE. Why, who was he—the man?
MARY. He wouldn't tell me his name: I mistook him for a thief at first; but afterwards I felt very, very sorry for him. You see, his case was rather like my own.He was wishing for his little girl.