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PLAYS: PLEASANT 
 AND UNPLEASANT 
 
PLAYS: PLEASANl' AND UN- 
 PLEASANT • BY BERNARD 
 SHAW • THE FIRST VOLUME, 
 CONTAINING THE THREE 
 UNPLEASANT PLAYS 
 
 BRENTANO'S • NEW YORK 
 MCMVI 
 

 LIBRASY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received i 
 
 OtC so 1905 
 
 Copyrifirnt Entry 
 
 Copyright, 1898, by Herbert S. Stone f Co, 
 
 Copyright, 1905, by Brentano^s 
 
 THE TROW PRESS • NEW YORK 
 
PREFACE 
 
 MAINLY ABOUT MYSELF 
 
 A HERE is an old saying that if a man has not fallen in 
 love before forty_, he had better not fall in love after. I 
 long ago perceived that this rule applied to many other 
 matters as well : for example_, to the writing of plays ; 
 and I made a rough memorandum for my own guidance 
 that unless I could produce at least half a dozen plays 
 before I was forty^ I had better let playwriting alone. 
 It was not so easy to comply with this provision as might 
 be supposed. Not that I lacked the dramatist's gift. 
 As far as that is concerned^ I have encountered no limit 
 but my own laziness to my power of conjuring up im- 
 aginary people in imaginary places^ and making up 
 stories about them in the natural scenic form which has 
 given rise to that curious human institution^ the theatre. 
 But in order to obtain a livelihood by my gift^ I must 
 have conjured so as to interest not only my own imagi- 
 nation_, but that of at least some seventy or a hundred 
 thousand contemporary London playgoers. To fulfil 
 this condition was hopelessly out of my power. I had 
 no taste for what is called popular art^ no respect for 
 popular morality^ no belief in popular religion^ no ad- 
 miration for popular heroics. As an Irishman I could 
 pretend to patriotism neither for the country I had aban- 
 doned nor the country that had ruined it. As a humane 
 person I detested violence and slaughter^ whether in war^ 
 sporty or the butcher's yard. I was a Socialist^ detesting 
 our anarchical scramble for money^ and believing in 
 
vi Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 equality as the only possible permanent basis of social 
 organization^ discipline^ subordination^ good manners^ 
 and selection of fit persons for high functions. Fash- 
 ionable life^ though open on very specially indulgent 
 terms to unencumbered "brilliant" persons (*' brill- 
 iancy " was my speciality)^ I could not endure^ even if 
 I had not feared the demoralizing effect of its wicked 
 wastefulness^ its impenitent robbery of the poor^ and its 
 vulgarity on a character which required looking after 
 <as much as my own. I was neither a sceptic nor a cynic 
 in these matters: I simply understood life differently 
 from the average respectable man; and as I certainly 
 enjoyed myself more — mostly in ways which would have 
 made him unbearably miserable — I was not splenetic 
 over our variance. 
 
 Judge then^ how impossible it was for me to write 
 fiction that should delight the public. In my nonage I 
 had tried to obtain a foothold in literature by writing 
 novels_, and did actually produce ^ve long works in that 
 form without getting further than an encouraging com- 
 pliment or two from the most dignified of the London 
 and American publishers^ who unanimously declined to 
 venture their capital upon me. Now it is clear that a 
 novel cannot be too bad to be worth publishing^ provided 
 it is a novel at all^ and not merely an ineptitude. It 
 certainly is possible for a novel to be too good to be 
 worth publishing; but I pledge my credit as a critic that 
 this was not the case with mine. I might have explained 
 the matter by saying with Whately^ " These silly people 
 don't know their own silly business '' ; and indeed^ when 
 these novels of mine did subsequently blunder int® type 
 to fill up gaps in Socialist magazines financed by gener- 
 ous friends^ one or two specimens took shallow root lil^ 
 weeds^ and trip me up from time to time to this da3^ 
 But I was convinced that the publishers* view was com- 
 mercially sound by getting just then a clue to my real 
 condition from a friend of mine^ a physician who had 
 
Preface vii 
 
 devoted himself specially to ophthalmic surgery. He 
 tested my eyesight one evenings and informed me that it 
 was quite uninteresting to him because it was " normal/' 
 I naturally took this to mean that it was like everybody 
 else's; but he rejected this construction as paradoxical^ 
 and hastened to explain to me that I was an exceptional 
 and highly fortunate person optically^ *' normal '' sight 
 conferring the power of seeing things accurately^ and 
 being enjoyed by only about ten per cent of the popula- 
 tion^ the remaining ninety per cent being abnormal. I 
 immediately perceived the explanation of my want of 
 success in fiction. My mind's eye, like my body's^ was 
 '* normal '' : it saw things differently from other people's 
 eyes^ and saw them better. 
 
 This revelation produced ^a considerable effect on me. 
 At first it struck me that I might live by selling my works 
 to the ten per cent who were like myself ; but a moment's 
 reflection showed me that these would all be as penniless 
 as myself^ and that we could not live by^ so to speak^ 
 taking in one another's washing. How to earn my bread 
 by my pen was then the problem. Had I been a prac- 
 tical common-sense moneyloving Englishman^ the matter 
 would have been easy enough: I should have put on a 
 pair of abnormal spectacles and aberred my vision to 
 the liking of the ninety per cent of potential bookbuyers. 
 But I was so prodigiously self-satisfied with my supe- 
 riority^ so flattered by my abnormal normality^ that the 
 resource of hypocrisy never occurred to me. Better 
 see rightly on a pound a week than squint on a million. 
 The question was_, how to get the pound a week. The 
 matter^ once I gave up writing novels^ was not so very 
 difficult. Every despot must have one disloyal subject 
 to keep him sane. Even Louis the Eleventh had to tol- 
 erate his confessor^ standing for the eternal against the 
 temporal throne. Democracy has now handed the scep- 
 tre of the despot to the sovereign people; but they^ too, 
 must have their confessor, whom they call Critic. Criti- 
 
viii Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 cism is not only medicinally salutary: it has positive 
 popular attractions in its cruelty^ its gladiatorship^ and 
 the gratification its attacks on the great give to envy, 
 and its praises to enthusiasm. It may say things which 
 many would like to say, but dare not, and indeed for 
 want of skill could not even if they durst. Its icono- 
 clasms, seditions, and blasphemies, if well turned, tickle 
 those whom they shock; so that the critic adds the privi- 
 leges of the court jester to those of the confessor. Gar- 
 rick, had he called Dr. Johnson Punch, would have 
 spoken profoundly and wittily, whereas Dr. Johnson, in 
 hurling that epithet at him, was but picking up the 
 cheapest sneer an actor is subject to. 
 
 It was as Punch, then, that I emerged from obscurity. 
 All I had to do was to open my normal eyes, and with my 
 utmost literary skill put the case exactly as it struck me, 
 or describe the thing exactly as I saw it, to be applauded 
 as the most humorously extravagant paradoxer in Lon- 
 don. The only reproach with which I became familiar 
 was the everlasting " Why can you not be serious " ? Soon 
 my privileges were enormous and my wealth immense. I 
 had a prominent place reserved for me on a prominent 
 journal every week to say my say as if I were the most 
 important person in the kingdom. My pleasing toil was 
 to inspect all the works of fine art that the capital of 
 the world can attract to its exhibitions, its opera house, 
 its concerts and its theatres. The classes patiently read 
 my essays : the masses patiently listened to my harangues. 
 I enjoyed the immunities of impecuniosity with the op- 
 portunities of a millionaire. If ever there was a man 
 without a grievance, I was that man. 
 
 But alas ! the world grew younger as I grew older: its 
 vision cleared as mine dimmed: it began to read with the 
 naked eye the writing on the wall which now began to 
 remind me that age of spectacles was overtaking me. 
 My opportunities were still there: nay, they multiplied 
 tenfold; but the strength and youth to cope with them 
 
Preface ix 
 
 began to f ail^ and to need eking out with the shifty cun- 
 ning of experience. I had to shirk the platform; to 
 economize my health; even to take holidays. In my 
 weekly columns^ which I once filled from a Fortunatus 
 well that never ran dry or lost its sparkle so long as I 
 pumped hard enough^ I began to repeat myself ; to fall 
 into a style which^ to my great perils was recognized 
 as at least partly serious ; to find the pump tiring me and 
 the water lower in the well; and^ worst symptom of all^ 
 to reflect with little tremors on the fact that my magic 
 wealth could not^ like the money for which other men 
 threw it away^ be stored up against my old age. The 
 younger generation^ reared in an enlightenment unknown 
 to my childhood^ came knocking at the door too: I 
 glanced back at my old columns and realized that I had 
 timidly botched at thirty what newer men — Rudyard 
 Kiplings^ Max Beerbohms^ Laurence Irvings and their 
 contemporaries — do now with gay confidence in their 
 cradles. I listened to their vigorous knocks with exul- 
 tation for the race^ with penurious alarm for my own 
 old age. When I talked to this generation_, it called me 
 Mister^ and^ with its frank^ charming humanity^ re- 
 spected me as one who had done good work in my time. 
 Mr. Pinero wrote a long play to show that people of 
 my age were on the shelf; and I laughed at him with 
 the wrong side of my mouth. 
 
 It was at this bitter moment that my fellow citizens^ 
 who had previously repudiated all my offers of political 
 service_, contemptuously allowed me to become a vestry- 
 man — me^ the author of '* Widowers' Houses '' ! Then^ 
 like any other harmless useful creature^ I took the first 
 step rearward. Up to that fateful day I had never 
 stopped pumping to spoon up the spilt drops of my well 
 into bottles. Time enough for that when the well was 
 empty. But now I listened to the voice of the publisher 
 for the first time since he had refused to listen to me. 
 I turned over my articles again; but to serve up the 
 
X Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 weekly paper of five years ago as a novelty — no: I had 
 not yet fallen so low^ though I see that degradation 
 looming before me as an agricultural laborer sees the 
 workhouse. So I said " I will begin with small sins: I 
 will publish my plays." 
 
 How! you will cry — plays! What plays? Let me 
 explain. 
 
 One of the worst privations of life in London for per- 
 sons of intellectual and artistic interests is the want of 
 a suitable theatre. The existing popular drama of the 
 day is quite out of the question for cultivated people 
 who are accustomed to use their brains. I am fond of 
 the theatre^ and am^ as intelligent readers of this preface 
 will have observed^ myself a bit of an actor. Conse- 
 quently^ when I found myself coming across projects 
 of all sorts for the foundation of a theatre which should 
 be to the newly gathered intellectual harvest of the nine- 
 teenth century what Shakespear's theatre was to the har- 
 vest of the Renascence^ I was warmly interested. But 
 it soon appeared that the languid demand of a small 
 and uppish class for a form of entertainment which it 
 had become thoroughly accustomed to do without could 
 never provide the intense energy necessary for the estab- 
 lishment of the New Theatre (we of course called every- 
 thing advanced "the New": vide ''The Philanderer/' 
 page 118 of this volume). That energy could only be 
 supplied by the genius of the actor and manager finding 
 in the masterpieces of the New Drama its characteristic 
 and necessary mode of expression^ and revealing their 
 fascination to the public. Clearly the way to begin was 
 to pick up a masterpiece or two. Masterpieces^ how- 
 ever^ do not grow on the bushes. The New Theatre 
 would never have come into existence but for the plays of 
 Ibsen^ just as the Bayreuth Festival Playhouse would 
 never have come into existence but for Wagner's Nibe- 
 lungen tetralogy. Every attempt to extend the reper- 
 tory proved that it is the drama that makes the theatre 
 
Preface 
 
 XI 
 
 and not the theatre the drama. Not that this needed 
 fresh proofs since the whole difficulty had arisen throiigli 
 the drama of the day being written for the theatres in- 
 stead of from its own inner necessity. Stilly a thing 
 that nobody believes cannot be proved too often. 
 
 Ibsen^ then^ was the hero of the new departure. It 
 was in 1889 that the first really effective blow was struck 
 by the production of " A Doll's House '' by Mr. Charles 
 Charrington and Miss Janet Achurch. Whilst they were 
 taking that epoch making play round the worlds Mr. 
 Grein followed up the campaign in London with hh 
 '' Independent Theatre." It got on its feet by producinp; 
 Ibsen's "Ghosts"; but its search for native dramatic 
 masterpieces^ pursued by Mr. Grein with the ardor and 
 innocence of a foreigner^ was so complete a failure that 
 at the end of 1892 he had not produced a single original 
 piece of any magnitude by an English author. In this 
 humiliating national emergency^ I proposed to Mr. Grein 
 that he should boldly announce a play by me. Being 
 an extraordinarily sanguine and enterprising man^ he 
 took this step without hesitation. I then raked out^ 
 from my dustiest pile of discarded and rejected manu- 
 scripts^ two acts of a play I had begun in 1885^ shortly 
 after the close of my novel writing period^ in collab- 
 oration with my friend Mr. William Archer. 
 
 Mr. Archer has himself described how I proved the 
 most impossible of collaborators. Laying violent hands 
 on his thoroughly planned scheme for a sympathetically 
 romantic '* well made play " of the type then in vogue, 
 I perversely distorted it into a grotesquely realistic ex- 
 posure of slum landlordism^ municipal jobbery^ and the 
 pecuniary and matrimonial ties between it and the pleas- 
 ant people of " independent " incomes who imagine that 
 such sordid matters do not touch their own lives. The 
 result was most horribly incongruous; for though I took 
 my theme seriously enough^ I did not then take the 
 theatre more seriously, though I took it more seriously 
 
xii Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 than it took itself. The farcical trivialities in which I 
 followed the fashion of the times^ some flagrant but 
 artistic and amusing examples of which may be studied 
 in Mr. Pinero's ** Hobby Horse^'* written a year later 
 and now familiar in the repertory of Mr. John Hare^ 
 became silly and irritating beyond all endurance when 
 intruded upon a subj ect of such depth^ reality^ and force 
 as that into which I had plunged my drama. Mr. 
 Archer^ perceiving that I had played the fool both with 
 his plan and my own theme^ promptly disowned me; 
 and the project^ which neither of us had much at hearty 
 was dropped^ leaving me with two abortive acts of an 
 unfinished and condemned play. Exhuming this as 
 aforesaid seven years later^ I saw that the very quali- 
 ties which had made it impossible for ordinary com- 
 mercial purposes in 1885^ might be exactly those needed 
 by the Independent Theatre in 1892. So I completed 
 it by a third act; gave it the far-fetched mock-Scriptural 
 title of " Widowers' Houses " ; and handed it over to 
 Mr. Grein^ who launched it at the public in the Royalty 
 Theatre with all its original tomfooleries on its head. 
 It made a sensation out of all proportion to its merits 
 or even its demerits; and I at once became infamous as 
 a dramatist. The first performance was sufficiently ex- 
 citing: the Socialists and Independents applauded me 
 furiously on principle; the ordinary play-going first- 
 nighters hooted me frantically on the same ground; I, 
 being at that time in some practice as what is impolitely 
 called a mob-orator^ made a speech before the curtain; 
 the newspapers discussed the play for a whole fortnight 
 not only in the ordinary theatrical notices and criticisms^ 
 but in leading articles and letters; and finally the text 
 of the play was published with an introduction by Mr. 
 Grein^ an amusing account by Mr. Archer of the original 
 collaboration^ and a long preface and several elaborate 
 controversial appendices in the author's most energeti- 
 cally egotistical fighting style. The volume^ forming 
 
Preface 
 
 Xlll 
 
 number one of the Independent Theatre series of plays^ 
 is still extant^ a curious relic of that nine days wonder; 
 and as it contains the original text of the play with all 
 its silly pleasantries^ I can recommend it to collectors of 
 quarto Hamlets^ and of all those scarce and superseded 
 early editions which the unfortunate author would so 
 gladly annihilate if he could. 
 
 I had not achieved a success; but I had provoked an 
 uproar; and the sensation was so agreeable that I re- 
 solved to try again. In the following year^ 1893^ when 
 the discussion about Ibsenism^ " the New Woman," and 
 the like, was at its height, I wrote for the Independent 
 Theatre the topical comedy called " The Philanderer.*' 
 But even before I finished it, it was apparent that its 
 demands on the most expert and delicate sort of acting 
 — high comedy acting — went quite beyond the resources 
 then at the disposal of Mr. Grein. I had written a part 
 which nobody but Mr. Charles Wyndham could act in 
 a play which was impossible at the Criterion Theatre — 
 a feat comparable to the building of Robinson Crusoe's 
 first boat. I immediately threw it aside, and, returning 
 to the vein I had worked in " Widowers' Houses," wrote 
 a third play, " Mrs. Warren's Profession," on a social 
 subject of tremendous force. That force justified itself 
 in spite of the inexperience of the playwright. The 
 play was everything that the Independent Theatre could 
 desire — rather more, if anything, than it bargained for. 
 But at this point I came upon the obstacle that makes 
 dramatic authorship intolerable in England to writers 
 accustomed to the freedom of the Press. I mean, of 
 course, the Censorship. 
 
 In 1737^ the greatest dramatist, with the single excep- 
 tion of Shakespear, produced by England between the 
 Middle Ages and the nineteenth century — Henry Field- 
 ing — devoted his genius to the task of exposing and 
 destroying parliamentary corruption, then at its height. 
 Walpole, unable to govern without corruption, promptly 
 
xiv Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 gagged the stage by a censorship which is in full force 
 at the present moment. Fielding^ driven out of the trade 
 of Moliere and Aristophanes^ took to that of Cervantes; 
 and since then the English novel has been one of the 
 glories of literature^ whilst the English drama has been 
 its disgrace. The extinguisher which Walpole dropped 
 on Fielding descends on me in the form of the Queen's 
 Reader of Plays^ a gentleman who robs^ insults^ and 
 suppresses me as irresistibly as if he were the Tsar of 
 Russia and I the meanest of his subjects. The robbery 
 takes the form of making me pay him two guineas for 
 reading every play of mine that exceeds one act in 
 length. I do not want him to read it (at least officially: 
 personally he is welcome) : on the contrary^ I strenu- 
 ously resent that impertinence on his part. But I must 
 submit in order to obtain from him an insolent and in- 
 sufferable document^ which I cannot read without boil- 
 ing of the bloody certifying that in his opinion — his 
 opinion ! — my play '* does not in its general tendency 
 contain anything immoral or otherwise improper for the 
 stage," and that the Lord Chamberlain therefore " al- 
 lows " its performance (confound his impudence!). In 
 spite of this document he still retains his right, as an 
 ordinary citizen, to prosecute me, or instigate some other 
 citizen to prosecute me, for an outrage on public morals 
 if he should change his mind later on. Besides, if he 
 really protects the public against my immorality, why 
 does not the public pay him for the service } The police- 
 man does not look to the thief for his wages, but to the 
 honest man whom he protects against the thief. And 
 yet, if I refuse to pay, this tyrant can practically ruin 
 any manager who produces my play in defiance of him. 
 If, having been paid, he is afraid to license the play: 
 that is, if he is more afraid of the clamor of the oppo- 
 nents of my opinions than of their supporters, then he 
 can suppress it, and impose a mulct of .£50 on every- 
 body who takes part in a representation of it, from 
 
Preface xv 
 
 the gasman to the principal tragedian. And there is 
 no getting rid of him. Since he lives^ not at the expense 
 of the taxpayer^ but by blackmailing the author^ no 
 political party would gain ten votes by abolishing him. 
 Private political influence cannot touch him; for such 
 private influence^ moving only at the promptings of indi- 
 vidual benevolence to individuals^ makes nice little places 
 to job nice little people into instead of doing away with 
 them. Nay^ I myself^ though I know that the Queen's 
 Reader of Plays is necessarily an odious and mischievous 
 official^ and that I myself^ if I were appointed to his post 
 (which I shall probably apply for some day)^ could no 
 more help being odious and mischievous than a ramrod 
 could if it were stuck into the wheels of a steam engine, 
 am loth to stir up the question lest the Press, having 
 now lost all tradition of liberty, and being able to con- 
 ceive no alternative to a Queen's Reader of Plays but 
 a County Council's Reader or some other sevenheaded 
 devil to replace the oneheaded one, should make the 
 remedy worse than the disease. Thus I cling to the 
 Censorship as many Radicals cling to the House of 
 Lords or the Throne, or as domineering women marry 
 weak and amiable men who only desire a quiet life and 
 whose judgment nobody respects, rather than masterful 
 men. Until the nation is prepared to establish Freedom 
 of The Stage on the same terms as we now enjoy Freedom 
 of The Press, by allowing the dramatist and manager to 
 perform anything they please and take the consequence 
 as authors and editors do, I shall cherish the court reader 
 as the apple of my eye. I once thought of organizing 
 a Petition of Right from all the managers and authors 
 to the Prime Minister; but as it was obvious that nine 
 out of ten of these victims of oppression, far from dar- 
 ing to offend their despot, would promptly extol him 
 as the most salutary of English institutions, and spread 
 themselves with unctions flattery on the perfectly irrele- 
 vant question of his estimable personal character, I 
 
xvi Pluys, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 abandoned the notion. What is more_, many of them_, in 
 taking this eourse_, would be pursuing a sound business 
 policy^ since the managers and authors to whom the 
 existing system has brought success have not only no 
 incentive to change it for another which would expose 
 them to wider competition^ but have for the most part 
 the greatest dread of the " New " ideas which the abo- 
 lition of the Censorship would let loose on the stage. 
 And so long live the Queen's Reader of Plays ! 
 
 In 1893 the obnoxious post was occupied by a gentle- 
 man^ now deceased_, whose ideas had in the course of 
 nature become quite obsolete. He was openly hostile 
 to the New movement^ and declared before a Royal Com- 
 mission his honest belief that the reputation of Ibsen 
 in England was a spurious product of a system of puf- 
 fery initiated by Mr. William Archer with the corrupt 
 object of profiting by translations of his works. In 
 dealing with him Mr. Grein was at a heavy disadvantage. 
 Without a license ** Mrs. Warren's Profession " could 
 only be performed in some building not a theatre^ and 
 therefore not subject to reprisals from the Lord Cham- 
 berlain. The audience would have to be invited as guests 
 only; so that the support of the public paying money 
 at the doors^ a support with which the Independent 
 Theatre could not afford to dispense^ was out of the 
 question. To apply for a license was to court a prac- 
 tically certain refusal^ entailing the <£50 penalty on all 
 concerned in any subsequent performance whatever. 
 The deadlock was complete. The play was ready; the 
 Independent Theatre was ready; two actresses^ Mrs. 
 Theodore Wright and Miss Janet Achurch^ whose crea- 
 tions of Mrs. Alving in ** Ghosts " and Nora in " A 
 Doll's House " had stamped them as the best in the 
 new style in England^ were ready; but the mere exist- 
 ence of the Censorship^ without any action or knowledge 
 of the play on its part^ was sufficient to paralyse all 
 these forces. So I threw " Mrs. Warren's Profession^" 
 
Preface xvii 
 
 too, aside, and, like another Fielding, closed my career 
 as playwright in ordinary to the Independent Theatre. 
 Fortunately, though the Stage is bound, the Press is 
 free. And even if the Stage were freed, none the less 
 would it be necessary to publish plays as well as per- 
 form them. Had the two performances of ** Widowers' 
 Houses " achieved by Mr. Grein been multiplied by fifty 
 — nay, had " The Philanderer '' and '' Mrs. Warren's 
 Profession " been so adapted to the taste of the general 
 public as to have run as long as " Charlie's Aunt," they 
 would still have remained mere titles to those who either 
 dwell out of reach of a theatre, or, as a matter of habit, 
 prejudice, comfort, health or age, abstain altogether from 
 playgoing. And then there are the people who have 
 a really high standard of dramatic work; who read with 
 delight all the classic dramatists, from Eschylus to 
 Ibsen, but who only go to the theatre on the rare occa- 
 sions when they are offered a play by an author whose 
 work they have already learnt to value as literature, or 
 a performance by an actor of the first rank. Even our 
 habitual playgoers would be found, on investigation, to 
 have no true habit of playgoing. If on any night at 
 the busiest part of the theatrical season in London, the 
 audiences were cordoned by the police and examined 
 individually as to their views on the subject, there would 
 probably not be a single house owning native among 
 them who would not conceive a visit to the theatre, or 
 indeed to any public assembly, artistic or political, as 
 an exceptional way of spending an evening, the normal 
 English way being to sit in separate families in separate 
 rooms in separate houses, each person silently occupied 
 with a book, a paper, or a game of halma, cut off equally 
 from the blessings of society and solitude. The result 
 is that you may make the acquaintance of a thousand 
 streets of middle-class English families without coming 
 on a trace of any consciousness of citizenship, or any 
 artistic cultivation of the senses. The condition of the 
 
xviii Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 men is bad enough^ in spite of their daily escape into 
 the city^ because they carry the exclusive and unsocial 
 habits of '' the home " with them into the wider world 
 of their business. Although they are natural_, amiable^ 
 and companionable enough^ they are^ by home trainings 
 so incredibly ill-mannered^ that not even their business 
 interests in welcoming a possible customer in every in- 
 quirer^ can correct their habit of treating everybody 
 who has not been '* introduced " as a stranger and in- 
 truder. The women^ who have not even the city to 
 educate them^ are much worse: they are positively unfit 
 for civilized intercourse — graceless_, ignorant^ narrow- 
 minded to a quite appalling degree. Even in public 
 places homebred people cannot be taught to understand 
 that the right they are themselves exercising is a com- 
 mon right. Whether they are in a second-class railway 
 carriage or in a churchy they receive every additional 
 fellow-passenger or worshipper as a Chinaman receives 
 the *' foreign devil " who has forced him to open his 
 ports. 
 
 In proportion as this horrible domestic institution is 
 broken up by the active social circulation of the upper 
 classes in their own orbit^ or its stagnant isolation made 
 impossible by the overcrowding of the working classes^ 
 manners improve enormously. In the middle classes 
 themselves the revolt of a single clever daughter (nobody 
 has yet done justice to the modern clever English- 
 woman's loathing of the very word " home ")^ and her 
 insistence on qualifying herself for an independent 
 working life^ humanizes her whole family in an aston- 
 ishingly short time; and the formation of a habit of 
 going to the suburban theatre once a week^ or to the 
 Monday Popular Concerts^ or both, very perceptibly 
 ameliorates its manners. But none of these breaches 
 in the Englishman's castle-house can be made without 
 a cannonade of books and pianoforte music. The books 
 and music cannot be kept out, because they alone can 
 
Preface xix 
 
 make the hideous boredom of the hearth bearable. If 
 its victims may not live real lives^ they may at least read 
 about imaginary ones^ and perhaps learn from them to 
 doubt whether a class that not only submit to home lif e^ 
 but actually values itself on it^ is really a class worth 
 belonging to. For the sake of the unhappy prisoners 
 of the home^ then^ let my plays be printed as well as 
 acted. 
 
 But the dramatic author has reasons for publishing 
 his plays which would hold good even if English fam- 
 ilies went to the theatre as regularly as they take in 
 the newspaper. A perfectly adequate and successful 
 stage representation of a play requires a combination 
 of circumstances so extraordinarily fortunate that I 
 doubt whether it has ever occurred in the history of the 
 world. Take the case of the most successful English 
 dramatist of the first rank^ Shakespear. Although he 
 wrote three centuries ago^ he still holds his own so well 
 that it is not impossible to meet old playgoers who have 
 witnessed public performances of more than thirty out 
 of his thirty-seven reputed plays^ a dozen of them fairly 
 often^ and half a dozen over and over again. I myself^ 
 though I have by no means availed myself of all my 
 opportunities^ have seen twenty-three of his plays pub- 
 licly acted. But if I had not read them as well as seen 
 them acted^ I should have not merely an incomplete^ but 
 a violently distorted and falsified impression of them. 
 It is only within the last few years that some of our 
 younger actor-managers have been struck with the idea^ 
 quite novel in their profession^ of giving Shakespear's 
 plays as he wrote them^ instead of using them as a 
 cuckoo uses a sparrow's nest. In spite of the success 
 of these experiments^ the stage is still dominated by 
 Gar rick's conviction that the manager and actor must 
 adapt Shakespear's plays to the modern stage by a 
 process which no doubt presents itself to the adapter's 
 mind as one of masterly amelioration^ but which must 
 
XX Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 necessarily be mainly one of debasement and mutilation 
 whenever^ as occasionally happens^ the adapter is infe- 
 rior to the author. The living author can protect him- 
 self against this extremity of misrepresentation; but the 
 more unquestioned is his authority on the stage, and the 
 more friendly and willing the co-operation of the man- 
 ager and the company, the more completely does he get 
 convinced of the impossibility of achieving an authentic 
 representation of his piece as well as an effective and 
 successful one. It is quite possible for a piece to enjoy 
 the most sensational success on the basis of a complete 
 misunderstanding of its philosophy: indeed, it is not too 
 much to say that it is only by a capacity for succeeding 
 in spite of its philosophy that a dramatic work of serious 
 poetic import can become popular. In the case of the 
 first part of Goethe's '' Faust " we have this frankly 
 avowed by the extraction from the great original of 
 popular entertainments like Gounod's opera or the Ly- 
 ceum version, in which the poetry and philosophy is 
 replaced by romance, which is the recognized spurious 
 substitute for both and is absolutely destructive of them. 
 But the same thing occurs even when a drama is per- 
 formed without omission or alteration by actors who are 
 enthusiastic disciples of the author. I have seen some 
 remarkably sympathetic stage interpretations of poetic 
 drama, from the achievements of Mr. Charles Charring- 
 ton with Ibsen, and Mr. Lugne Poe with Maeterlinck, 
 under the least expensive conditions, to those of the 
 Wagner Festival Playhouse at Bayreuth with the most 
 expensive; and I have frequently assured readers of 
 Ibsen and Maeterlinck, and pianoforte students of Wag- 
 ner, that they can never fully appreciate the dramatic 
 force of their works without sensing them in the theatre. 
 But I have never found an acquaintance with a dramatist 
 founded on the theatre alone, or with a composer founded 
 on the concert room alone, a really intimate and accurate 
 one. The very originality and genius of the performers 
 
Preface 
 
 XXI 
 
 conflicts with the originality and genius of the author. 
 Imagine^ for example,, Shakespear confronted with Sir 
 Henry Irving at a rehearsal of " The Merchant of 
 Venice/' or Sheridan with Miss Ada Rehan at one of 
 ** The School for Scandal." One can easily imagine the 
 speeches that might pass on such occasions. For exam- 
 ple : "As I look at your playing^ Sir Henry^ I seem to 
 see Israel mourning the Captivity and crying * How long^ 
 oh Lord^ how long ' ? but I do not see my Shylock^ whom 
 I designed as a money-lender of strong feelings oper- 
 ating through an entirely commercial intellect. But 
 pray don't alter your conception^ which will be abun- 
 dantly profitable to us both.'' Or " My dear Miss Rehan, 
 let me congratulate you on a piece of tragic acting which 
 has made me ashamed of the triviality of my play, and 
 obliterated Sir Peter Teazle from my consciousness, 
 though I meant him to be the hero of the scene. I fore- 
 see an enormous success for both of us in this fortunate 
 misrepresentation of my intention." Even if the author 
 had nothing to gain pecuniarily by conniving at the 
 glorification of his play by the performer, the actor's 
 excess of power would still carry its own authority and 
 win the sympathy of the author's histrionic instinct, un- 
 less he were a Realist of fanatical integrity. And that 
 would not save him either ; for his attempts to make pow- 
 erful actors do less than their utmost would be as impos- 
 sible as his attempts to make feeble ones do more. 
 
 In short, the fact that a skilfully written play is 
 infinitely more adaptable to all sorts of acting than ordi- 
 nary acting is to all sorts of plays (the actual conditions 
 thus exactly reversing the desirable ones) finally drives 
 the author to the conclusion that his own view of his 
 work can only be conveyed by himself. And since he 
 cannot act the play single-handed even when he is a 
 trained actor, he must fall back on his powers of liter- 
 ary expression, as other poets and fictionists do. So 
 far, this has hardly been seriously attempted by drama- 
 
xxii Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 tists. Of Shakespear's plays we have not even complete 
 prompt copies: the folio gives us hardly anything but 
 the bare lines. What would we not give for the copy 
 of Hamlet used by Shakespear at rehearsal^ with the 
 original ''business" scrawled by the prompter's pencil? 
 And if we had in addition the descriptive directions 
 which the author gave on the stage — above all^ the char- 
 acter sketches^ however brief^ by which he tried to con- 
 vey to the actor the sort of person he meant him to 
 incarnate^ what a light they would shed^ not only on 
 the play^ but on the history of the sixteenth century! 
 Well^ we should have had all this and much more if 
 Shakespear^ instead of having merely to bring his plays 
 to the point necessary to provide his company with mem- 
 oranda for an effective performance_, had also had to 
 prepare them for publication in competition with fiction 
 as elaborate as that of Balzac^ for instance. It is for 
 want of this process of elaboration that Shakespear, un- 
 surpassed as poet, storyteller, character draughtsman, 
 humorist, and rhetorician, has left us no intellectually 
 coherent drama, and could not afford to pursue a genu- 
 inely scientific method in his studies of character and 
 society, though in such unpopular plays as All's 
 Well, Measure for Measure, and T r o i 1 u s 
 and Cressida, we find him ready and willing to 
 start at the nineteenth century if the seventeenth would 
 only let him. 
 
 Such literary treatment is ten times more necessary 
 to a modern author than it is to Shakespear, because in 
 his time the acting of plays was very imperfectly dif- 
 ferentiated from the declamation of verses; and descrip- 
 tive or narrative recitation did what is now done by 
 scenery and " business." Anyone reading the mere dia- 
 logue of an Elizabethan play understands all but half 
 a dozen unimportant lines of it without difficulty, whilst 
 many modern plays, highly successful on the stage, are 
 not merely unreadable but positively unintelligible with- 
 
Preface xxiii 
 
 out the stage business. The extreme instance is a pure 
 pantomime^ like " L'Enfant Prodigue/' in which the dia- 
 logue, though it exists, is not spoken. If a dramatic 
 author were to publish a pantomime, it is clear that he 
 could only make it intelligible to a reader by giving him 
 the words which the pantomimist is supposed to be utter- 
 ing. Now it is not a whit less impossible to make a 
 modern practical stage play intelligible to a reader by 
 dialogue alone, than to make a pantomime intelligible 
 without it. 
 
 Obvious as this is, the presentation of plays through 
 the literary medium has not yet become an art; and the 
 result is that it is very difficult to induce the English 
 public to buy and read plays. Indeed, why should they, 
 when they find nothing in them except a bald dialogue, 
 with a few carpenter's and costumier's directions as to 
 the heroine's father having a grey beard, and the draw- 
 ing-room having three doors on the right, two doors 
 and an entrance through the conservatory on the left, 
 and a French window in the middle.^ It is astonishing 
 to me that Ibsen, who devotes two years to the produc- 
 tion of a three act play, the extraordinary quality of 
 which depends on a mastery of character and situation 
 which can only be achieved by working out a good deal 
 of the family and personal history of the individuals 
 represented, should nevertheless give the reading public 
 very little more than the technical memorandum required 
 by the carpenter, the gasman, and the prompter. Who 
 will deny that the result is a needless obscurity as to 
 points which are easily explicable? Ibsen, interrogated 
 as to his meaning, replies, " What I have said, I have 
 said." Precisely; but the point is that what he hasn't 
 said, he hasn't said. There are perhaps people (though 
 I doubt it, not being one of them myself) to whom Ib- 
 sen's plays, as they stand, speak sufficiently for them- 
 selves. There are certainly others who could not under- 
 stand them at any terms. Granting that on both these 
 
xxiv Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 classes further explanations would be thrown away^ is 
 nothing to be done for the vast majority to whom a word 
 of explanation makes all the difference? 
 
 Finally^ may I put in a plea for the actors them- 
 selves? Born actors have a susceptibility to dramatic 
 emotion which enables them to seize the moods of their 
 parts intuitively. But to expect them to be intuitive as 
 to intellectual meaning and circumstantial conditions as 
 well^ is to demand powers of divination from them: one 
 might as well expect the Astronomer Royal to tell the 
 time in a catacomb. And yet the actor generally finds 
 his part full of emotional directions which he could sup- 
 ply as well or better than the author^ whilst he is left 
 quite in the dark as to the political^ religious^ or social 
 beliefs and circumstances under which the character is 
 supposed to be acting. Definite conceptions of these are 
 always implicit in the best plays^ and are often the key 
 to their appropriate rendering; but most actors are so 
 accustomed to do without them that they would object to 
 being troubled with them^ although it is only by such 
 educative trouble that ^an actor's profession can place 
 him on the level of the lawyer^ the physician^ the church- 
 man^ and the statesman. Even as it is^ Shylock as a Jew 
 and usurer^ Othello as a Moor and a soldier^ Caesar^ Cleo- 
 patra and Anthony^ as figures in defined political cir- 
 cumstances^ are enormously easier for the actor than the 
 countless heroes as to whom nothing is ever known except 
 that they wear nice clothes^ love the heroine, baffle the 
 villain, and live happily ever after. 
 
 The case, then, is overwhelming for printing and pub- 
 lishing not only the dialogue of plays, but for a serious 
 effort to convey their full content to the reader. This 
 means the institution of a new art ; and I daresay that 
 before these volumes are ten years old, the attempt that 
 it makes in this direction will be left far behind, and 
 that the customary, brief, and unreadable scene specifica- 
 tion at the head of an act will by then have expanded into 
 
Preface xxv 
 
 a chapter^ or even a series of chapters^ each longer than 
 the act itself^ and no less interesting and indispensable. 
 No doubt one result of this will be the production of 
 works of a mixture of kinds^ part narrative_, part homily, 
 part description, part dialogue, and (possibly) part 
 drama — works that can be read, but not acted. I have 
 no objection to such works; but my own aim has been 
 that of the practical dramatist; if anything my eye has 
 been too much on the stage, though I have tried to put 
 down nothing that is irrelevant to the actor's perform- 
 ance or the audience's comprehension of the play. I 
 have of course been compelled to omit some things that 
 a stage representation could convey, simply because the 
 art of letters, though highly developed grammatically, 
 is still in its infancy as a technical speech notation : for 
 example, there are fifty ways of saying Yes, and five 
 himdred of saying No, but only one way of writing 
 them down. Even the use of spaced letters instead of 
 italics for underlining, though familiar to foreign read- 
 ers, will have to be learned by the English public before 
 it becomes effective. But if my. readers do their fair 
 share of the work, I daresay they will understand nearly 
 as much of the plays as I do myself. 
 
 Finally, a word as to why I have labeled the three 
 plays in this first volume Unpleasant. The reason is 
 pretty obvious ; their dramatic power is used to force the 
 spectator to face unpleasant facts. No doubt all plays 
 which deal sincerely with humanity must wound the mon- 
 strous conceit which it is the business of romance to 
 flatter. But here we are confronted, not only with the 
 comedy and tragedy of individual character and des- 
 tiny, but with those social horrors which arise from the 
 fact that the average homebred Englishman, no matter 
 however honorable and goodnatured he may be in his 
 private capacity, is, as a citizen, a wretched creature 
 who, whilst clamoring for a gratuitous millennium, will 
 shut his eyes to the most villainous abuses if the remedy 
 
xxvi Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 threatens to add another penny in the pound to the rates 
 and taxes which he has to be half cheated, half coerced 
 into paying. In " Widowers' Houses " I have shewn 
 middle class respectability and younger son gentility 
 fattening on the poverty of the slum as flies fatten on 
 filth. That is not a pleasant theme. In " The Philan- 
 derer " I have shewn the grotesque relations between 
 men and women which have arisen under marriage laws 
 which represent to some of us a political necessity (espe- 
 cially for other people)^ to some a divine ordinance^ to 
 some a romantic ideal^ to some a domestic profession 
 for women_, and to some that worst of blundering abomi- 
 nations^ an institution which society has outgrown but 
 not modified^ and which ** advanced " individuals are 
 therefore forced to evade. The scene with which " The 
 Philanderer '' opens^ the atmosphere in which it pro- 
 ceeds_, and the marriage with which it ends^ are^ for the 
 intellectually and artistically conscious classes in mod- 
 ern society^ typical ; and it will hardly be denied, I think, 
 that they are unpleasant. In ** Mrs. Warren's Profes- 
 sion " I have gone straight at the fact that, as Mrs. 
 Warren puts it, '' the only way for a woman to provide 
 for herself decently is for her to be good to some man 
 that can afford to be good to her." There are some 
 questions on which I am, like most Socialists, an extreme 
 Individualist. I believe that any society which desires 
 to found itself on a high standard of integrity of char- 
 acter in its units should organize itself in such a fashion 
 as to make it possible too for all men and all women to 
 maintain themselves in reasonable comfort by their in- 
 dustry without selling their affections and their convic- 
 tions. At present we not only condemn women as a sex 
 to attach themselves to *' breadwinners,'' licitly or illic- 
 itly, on pain of heavy privation and disadvantage; but 
 we have great prostitute classes of men: for instance, 
 dramatists and journalists, to whom I myself belong, 
 not to mention the legions of lawyers, doctors, clergy- 
 
Preface xxvii 
 
 men^ and platform politicians who are daily using their 
 highest faculties to belie their real sentiments: a sin 
 compared to which that of a woman who sells the use of 
 her person for a few hours is too venial to be worth 
 mentioning; for rich men without conviction are more 
 dangerous in modern society than poor women without 
 chastity. Hardly a pleasant subject this! 
 
 I must^ however^ warn my readers that my attacks 
 are directed against themselves^ not against my stage 
 figures. They can not too thoroughly understand that 
 the guilt of defective social organization does not lie 
 alone on the people who actually work the commercial 
 makeshifts which the defects make inevitable^ and who 
 often^ like Sartorius and Mrs. Warren^ display valuable 
 executive capacities and even high moral virtues in their 
 administration^ but with the whole body of citizens whose 
 public opinion^ public action^ and public contribution as 
 ratepayers alone can replace Sartorius's slums with de- 
 cent dwellings^ Charteris's intrigues with reasonable 
 marriage contracts^ and Mrs. Warren's profession with 
 honorable industries guarded by a humane industrial 
 code and a " moral minimum " wage. 
 
 How I came^ later on^ to write plays which, dealing 
 less with the crimes of society, and more with its roman- 
 tic follies, and with the struggles of individuals against 
 those follies, may be called, by contrast. Pleasant, is a 
 story which I shall tell on resuming this discourse for the 
 edification of the readers of the second volume. 
 
 (To be continued in our next.) 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 In a wood near Lucca^ three centuries ago_, there hved 
 a holy man^ whose life diffused an odor of sanctity. He 
 had withdrawn from the world because he feared that its 
 contamination would prejudice his chances of salvation. 
 To him came many penitents^ to be shriven^ and^ after the 
 manner of penitents^ they told him stories of other people's 
 transgressions^ and these stories were adorned with even a 
 greater wealth of circumstantial detail than the recitals of 
 their own offences. 
 
 The holy man was filled with righteous indignation and 
 resolved to go forth and denounce a sinful generation. He 
 went to Lucca, and in his unworldliness did not content 
 himself with denunciation of abstract wickedness. He 
 called Giacomo and Giovanni by name, and told on the 
 highways and byways the grisly rosary of their sins. 
 
 The sense of humor of these Middle Age Tuscans was 
 rudimentary. They believed in their sins and doubtless 
 enjoyed them. They sinned out of a superabundant vital- 
 ity, not, as in later days, to mitigate the ennui of a crushing 
 satiety. They paid to the efficacy of the holy man's ex- 
 hortations the tribute of stoning him to death, thereby 
 crowning his career with the halo of unmistakable martyr- 
 dom. Had he lived in a later day he might have chosen 
 the drama as the vehicle of his denunciation and have been 
 overwhelmed with royalties instead of stones. 
 
 Bernard Shaw has done his best to provoke the martyr's 
 euthanasia, so far with no result but to attract a large 
 measure of attention and little comprehension. Socialist, 
 humanitarian, and radical, he has run the gamut of what 
 
XXX Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 the age dubs fads, because the arguments advanced for each 
 are unanswerable, and the race is nothing if not illogical. 
 
 The world insists upon regarding as a humorist the man 
 who says irrefutable things that hurt. The king's jester 
 was the only man in the kingdom who dared talk treason, 
 and he was regarded as a fool because it would have been 
 dangerous to admit his sanity. In our day, when the many- 
 headed Demos is king, the man must be insane who per- 
 sistently flouts him. It has become impolite to knock 
 down him who reproaches us with our sins. We grin a 
 ghastly smile when charged with being thieves and liars, 
 and say, ^^ In sooth, the man is a humorist ! otherwise 
 politeness would prevent his making such preposterous 
 statements," but all the while we are ill at ease. Of the 
 laughing philosopher it is written, "He was the most 
 learned thinker of his age." Doubtless this qualification 
 gained for Democritus the epithet by which he is best 
 known to us. For, to understand everything, is to laugh 
 at everything, if we would not weep. 
 
 And so, in the parlance of the day, the man Shaw is a 
 humorist. Scarcely do we say satirist, because that would 
 be to admit some justification for his ironies. He turns 
 everything topsy-turvy, say the friends of the status quo — 
 his world is like the house of upside-down, where visitors 
 walk on the ceilings, and chairs and tables hang from the 
 floor above their heads, and the distorting mirrors invert 
 the spectators. But is it really so .^ Is not rather the 
 animus of the accusation that the personages are so real 
 that we dare not admit their identity } Divested of the 
 conventional attributes with which men garb themselves, 
 how many would recognize their own personalities if some 
 magician were to conjure up a soul-reflector ? When 
 Nathan stood before David, the king was genuinely sur- 
 prised to learn that the baseness which he had condemned 
 was his own. Judged by the conduct and standards of the 
 age, the most exquisitely humorous discourse ever delivered 
 is the Sermon on the Mount, 
 
Introduction xxxi 
 
 Bernard Shaw is of Irish birth^ and his work shows that 
 extraordinary power of analysis and criticism which seems 
 to attain its highest expression in the Celtic temperament. 
 Nature demands compensations^ and the races that cradle 
 the most ardent believers bring forth the most profound 
 sceptics. For scepticism which is sincere is the road to 
 faith. Only lovers of truth will take the trouble to test 
 the reality of what usually passes by that name. Nowhere 
 in Shaw's plays do we find him tilting vv ith worthy insti- 
 tutions. Around the stem of many of the noblest aspira- 
 tions of the race the gravest errors have rooted and grown, 
 and good and bad have been so intertwined that people 
 say : ^^ Yes, we know that this system is wrong, but we can- 
 not change it, because to do so would be to destroy the 
 good in which it has become embedded." 
 
 The preface to the ^^ Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant '' 
 is one of the most brilliant contributions to modern analytic 
 literature. No one can read it without a sense of having 
 been in touch with a personality of vivid interest and of 
 immense force. In it frankness is carried to the r^^ 
 power, and the characterization of our social ills is devel- 
 oped with an intensity of feeling of which we have few 
 examples. 
 
 In ^^ Widowers* Houses," a play as yet unacted on the 
 American boards, the subject of the exploitation of the poor 
 of the great cities is thrown upon the screen with a clearness 
 of projection which leaves no room for misunderstanding. 
 The young physician who hesitates to accept the dowry of 
 his Jlancee because of the odious methods of its accumula- 
 tion, falters, weakens, and finally succumbs as soon as he 
 finds his own income has an equally meretricious basis. 
 
 SartoritiSy the ghoul who fattens upon the living graves 
 of the destitute, is limned masterfully ; in comparison, the 
 rascally agent who does his dirty work, takes on some 
 aspects of decency. And Blanche^ the flower growing on 
 this dunghill of corruption, is the natural product of her en- 
 vironment. Public opinion has only lately come to realize 
 
xxxii Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant 
 
 the problem involved in ^^ tainted money/' but this play, 
 written sixteen years ago, brings home this moot question 
 into the very heart of the family relations. A less consci- 
 entious or more squeamish author might have shown the 
 young people rising superior to the temptation of an easy 
 living at the cost of principle. But would it have been 
 consistent? Do we gather grapes of thorns or figs of 
 thistles } Harry and Blanche are the natural products of 
 their environment, and consummate their sordid, fleshly 
 union without a vestige of illusion as to baseness of their 
 motives. 
 
 In the ^^Philanderer," which is true comedy even to the 
 nuptial denouement, the social relations of men and women 
 are subjected to a process that can only be described as 
 vivisection. Under the guise of an Ibsen club the charac- 
 ters are thrown together in such associations as remove the 
 last rags of conventional concealment from their mutual 
 attitudes. It particularly satirizes the unwillingness to 
 abide by the rigors of the game, felt by those who advocate 
 advanced ideas as long as they consist with their desires, 
 but who would revive the old conventions when the issue 
 goes against them. 
 
 The concluding play of the first volume ^' Mrs. Warren's 
 Profession," has had the distinction of being the most dis- 
 cussed theatrical work of many years. It was unreservedly 
 condemned by a number of prominent citizens of both sexes 
 who had not read it, and by civic authorities who could not 
 understand it even if they had. 
 
 It may be said that it contains one of the most moral 
 lessons ever prepared for the theatre. No man or woman 
 can read it without feeling that it has accomplished its 
 manifest purpose of driving home the real responsibility 
 for the existence of Mrs. Warren's profession. Polyandry, 
 always much more unnatural than polygamy, in its strict 
 sense never exists to any great extent save where economic 
 conditions compel it. Those who palter with the evil, and 
 profess a desire more or less sincere for its extinction, must 
 
Introduction xxxiii 
 
 seek the explanation of its existence elsewhere than in 
 passion or vice. It is the most conventional profession in 
 the worlds and Mrs. Warren is the one really conventional 
 person in the play. Her standards of conduct^ her belief 
 in her maternal prerogatives,, her insistence upon continu- 
 ing the w^ork which she is used to^ all are thoroughly in 
 accord with the shibboleths of the day. 
 
 In the three ^^ Unpleasant Plays/' dealing with economic^ 
 social, and moral relations, Shaw has delivered the most 
 direct blow yet levelled by the stage against the cowardice 
 of social compromise. Up to this time he has done little to 
 suggest the order which shall succeed. Let those who re- 
 gard his work as negligible because they consider it humor- 
 ous remember that laughter may be the presage of the 
 social earthquake. A change is coming, whether soon or 
 late — a revolution, whether orderly or destructive — and 
 Bernard Shaw is its Voltaire. 
 
 M. 
 
WIDOWERS' HOUSES 
 
 
WIDOWERS' HOUSES 
 
 ACT I 
 
 In the garden restaurant of a hotel at Remagen on 
 the Rhine, on a fine afternoon in August. Tables and 
 chairs under the trees. The gate leading from the gar- 
 den to the riverside is on the left. The hotel is on the 
 right. It has a wooden annexe with an entrance marked 
 Table d'Hote. A waiter is in attendance. 
 
 A couple of English tourists come out of the hotel. 
 The younger. Dr. Harry Trench, is about 24^ stoutly 
 built, thick in the neck, with close-cropped and black 
 hair, with undignified medical student manners, frank, 
 hasty, rather boyish. The other, Mr. William de Burgh 
 Cokane, is older — probably over 40^ possibly 50 — an ill- 
 nourished, scanty-haired gentleman, with affected man- 
 ners, fidgety, touchy, and constitutionally ridiculous in 
 uncompassionate eyes. 
 
 Cokane (ow the threshold of the hotel, calling per- 
 emptorily to the waiter^. Two beers for us out here. 
 {The waiter goes for the beer. Cokane comes down into 
 the garden.) We have got the room with the best view 
 in the hotel^ Harry^ thanks to my tact. We'll leave in 
 the morning and do Mainz and Frankfurt. There is 
 a very graceful female statue in the private house of a 
 nobleman in Frankfurt — also a zoo. Next day^ Nurem- 
 berg! finest collection of instruments of torture in the 
 world. 
 
 Trench. All right. You look out the trains, will 
 
4 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 you ? {He takes out a Continental Bradshaw, and tosses 
 it on one of the tables.) 
 
 CoKANE {baulking himself in the act of sitting down). 
 Pah ! the seat is all dusty. These foreigners are deplor- 
 ably unclean in their habits. 
 
 Trench {buoyantly). Never mind: it don't matter, 
 old chappie. Buck up^ Billy, buck up. Enjoy yourself. 
 {He throws Cokane into the chair, and sits down oppo- 
 site him, taking out his pipe, and singing noisily) 
 
 Pass about the Rhine wine ; let it flow 
 Like a free and flowing river 
 
 CoKANE {scandalized). In the name of common de- 
 cency, Harry, will you remember that you are a gentle- 
 man and not a coster on Hampstead Heath on Bank 
 Holiday? Would you dream of behaving like this in 
 London ? 
 
 Trench. Oh, rot! I've come abroad to enjoy my- 
 self: so would you if you'd just passed an examination 
 after four years in the medical school and walking the 
 hospital. {Sings.) 
 
 CoKANE {rising). Trench: either you travel as a 
 gentleman, or you travel alone. This is what makes 
 Englishmen unpopular on the Continent. It may not 
 matter before the natives; but the people who came on 
 board the steamer at Coblentz are English. I have been 
 uneasy all the afternoon about what they must think of 
 us. Look at our appearance. 
 
 Trench. What is the matter with our appearance? 
 
 CoKANE. Neglige, my dear fellow, neglige. On the 
 steamboat a little neglige was quite en regie; but here, in 
 this hotel, some of them are sure to dress for dinner; 
 and you have nothing but that Norfolk jacket. How are 
 they to know that you are well connected if you do not 
 show it by your manners ? 
 
 Trench. Pooh! the steamboat people were the scum 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 5 
 
 of the earth — Americans and all sorts. They may go 
 hang themselves^ Billy. I shall not bother about them. 
 {He strikes a match, and proceeds to light his pipe,) 
 
 CoKANE. Do drop calling me Billy in public^ Trench. 
 My name is Cokane. I am sure they were persons of 
 consequence: you were struck with the distinguished 
 appearance of the father yourself. 
 
 Trench (sobered at once). What! those people. 
 {He blows out the match and puts up his pipe,) 
 
 CoKANE {following up his advantage triumphantly/), 
 Here^ Harry^ here — at this hotel. I recognized the 
 father's umbrella in the stand in the hall. 
 
 Trench {with a touch of genuine shame), I sup- 
 pose I ought to have brought a change. But a lot of 
 luggage is such a nuisance; and — {rising abruptly) — at 
 all events we can go and have a wash. {He turns to go 
 into the hotel, but stops in consternation, seeing some 
 people coming up to the riverside gate,) Oh, I say. 
 Here they are. 
 
 {A lady and gentleman, followed by a porter with 
 some light parcels, not luggage, but shop purchases, 
 come into the garden. They are apparently father and 
 daughter. The gentleman is 50^ tall, well preserved 
 and of upright carriage, with an incisive, domineering 
 utterance and imposing style, which, with his strong 
 aquiline nose and resolute clean-shaven mouth, give him 
 an air of importance. He wears a light grey frock-coat 
 with silk linings, a white hat, and a field-glass slung in 
 a new leather case. A self-made man, formidable to 
 servants, not easily accessible to any one. His daughter 
 is a well-dressed, well-fed, good-looking, strong-minded 
 young woman, presentahly ladylike, but still her father's 
 daughter. Nevertheless fresh and attractive, and none 
 the worse for being vital and energetic rather than deli- 
 cate and refined.) 
 
 CoKANE {quickly taking the arm of Trench, who is 
 staring as if transfixed). Recollect yourself^ Harry; 
 
6 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 presence of mind^ presence of mind! {He strolls with 
 him towards the hotel. The waiter comes out with the 
 heer,) Kellner: ceci-la est notre table. Est-ce-que 
 vous comprenez Fran9ais? 
 
 Waiter. Yes^ zare. All right,, zare. 
 
 The Gentleman (to his porter). Place those things 
 on that table. {The porter does not understand,) 
 
 Waiter {interposing), Zese zhentellmen are using 
 zis table^ zare. Would you mind 
 
 The Gentleman {severely). You should have told 
 me so before. {To Cokane, with fierce condescension,) 
 I regret the mistake sir. 
 
 Cokane. Don't mention it^ my dear sir; don't men- 
 tion it. Retain the place^ I beg. 
 
 The Gentleman {coldly turning his hack on him). 
 Thank you. {To the porter,) Place them on that 
 table. {The porter makes no movement until the gentle- 
 man points to the parcels and peremptorily raps the 
 table,) 
 
 Porter. Ja wohl^ gnadige Herr. {He puts down 
 the parcels.) 
 
 The Gentleman {taking out a handful of money). 
 Waiter. 
 
 Waiter {awestruck). Yes, zare. 
 
 The Gentleman. Tea. For two. Out here. 
 
 Waiter. Yes^ zare. {He goes into the hotel,) 
 
 {The gentleman selects a small coin from his handful 
 of money, and hands it to the porter, who receives it with 
 a submissive touch to his cap, and goes out, not daring to 
 speak. His daughter sits down and opens a parcel of 
 photographs. The gentleman takes out a Baedeker; 
 places a chair for himself ; and then, instead of sitting 
 down, looks truculently at Cokane, a^ if waiting for him 
 to take himself off, Cokane, not at all abashed, resumes 
 his place at the other table with an air of modest good 
 breeding, and calls to Trench, who is prowling irreso- 
 lutely in the background,) 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 7 
 
 CoKANE. Trench_, my dear fellow, your beer is wait- 
 ing for you. {He drinks,^ 
 
 Trench {glad of the excuse to come hack to his chair). 
 Thank you, Cokane. {He also drinks,) 
 
 CoKANE. By the way, Harry, I have often meant to 
 ask you — is Lady Roxdale your mother's sister or your 
 father's? {This shot tells immediately. The gentleman 
 is perceptibly interested,) 
 
 Trench. My mother's, of course. What put that 
 into your head.^ 
 
 Cokane. Nothing — I was just thinking — hm! She 
 will expect you to marry, Harry : a doctor ought to marry. 
 
 Trench. What has she got to do with it? 
 
 Cokane. A great deal, dear boy. She looks forward 
 to floating your wife in society in London. 
 
 Trench. What rot! 
 
 Cokane. Ah, you are young, dear boy: you are 
 young. You don't know the importance of these things 
 — apparently idle ceremonial trifles, really the springs 
 and wheels of a great aristocratic system. {The rvaiter 
 comes back with the tea things, rvhich he brings to the 
 gentleman's table, Cokane rises and addresses the gen- 
 tleman,) My dear sir, excuse my addressing you; but I 
 cannot help feeling that you prefer this table and that 
 we are in your way. 
 
 The Gentleman (^rac^iow^Z^). Thank you. Blanche, 
 this gentleman very kindly off*ers us his table, if you 
 would prefer it. 
 
 Blanche. Oh, thanks: it makes no difl^erence. 
 
 The Gentleman {to Cokane), We are fellow travel- 
 lers, I believe, sir. 
 
 Cokane. Fellow travellers and fellow countrymen. 
 Ah, we rarely feel the charm of our own tongue until it 
 reaches our ears under a foreign sky. You have no 
 doubt noticed that? 
 
 The Gentleman (a little puzzled), Hm! From a 
 romantic point of view, possibly, very possibly. As a 
 
8 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 matter of fact^ the sound of English makes me feel at 
 home; and I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad. 
 It is not precisely what one goes to the expense for. 
 (^He looks at Trench,) I think this gentleman travelled 
 with us also. 
 
 CoKANE {rising to act as master of the ceremonies. 
 The gentleman and Trench rise also). My valued 
 friend^ Dr. Trench. Trench^ my dear fellow^ allow me 
 to introduce you to — er — ? (^He looks enquiringly at 
 the gentleman, waiting for the name.) 
 
 The Gentleman. Permit me to shake your hand. 
 Dr. Trench. My name is Sartorius ; and I have the hon- 
 our of being known to Lady Roxdale, who is^ I believe, 
 a near relative of yours. Blanche. {She looks up,) 
 My friend Dr. Trench. (They horv.) 
 
 Trench. Perhaps I should introduce my friend Co- 
 kane to you, Mr. Sartorius — Mr. William de Burgh 
 Cokane. (Cokane makes an elaborate how, Sartorius 
 accepts it with dignity. The waiter meanwhile re-enters 
 with teapot, hot water, etc) 
 
 Sartorius (to the waiter). Two more cups. 
 
 Waiter. Yes, zare. {He goes hack into the hotel.) 
 
 Blanche. Do you take sugar, Mr. Cokane? 
 
 CoKANE. Thank you. {To Sartorius.) This is really 
 too kind. Harry: bring your chair around. 
 
 Sartorius. You are very welcome. {Trench brings 
 his chair to the tea table; and they all sit round it. The 
 waiter returns with two more cups.) 
 
 Waiter. Table d'hote at 'alf past zix, zhentellmenn. 
 Anyzing else now, zare? 
 
 Sartorius. No. You can go. {The waiter goes.) 
 
 Cokane {very agreeably). Do you contemplate a 
 long stay here. Miss Sartorius? 
 
 Blanche. We were thinking of going on to Roland- 
 seek. Is it as nice as this place? 
 
 Cokane. Harry: the Baedeker. Thank you. {He 
 consults the index, and looks out Rolandseck.) 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 9 
 
 Blanche. Sugar^ Dr. Trench? 
 
 Trench. Thanks. (She hands him the cup, and 
 looks meaningly at him for an instant. He looks down 
 hastily^ and glances apprehensively at Sartorius, who is 
 preoccupied with a piece of bread and butter,) 
 
 CoKANE. Rolandseck appears to be an extremely in- 
 teresting place. (He reads.) *' It is one of the most 
 beautiful and frequented spots on the river^ and is sur- 
 rounded with numerous villas and pleasant gardens, 
 chiefly belonging to wealthy merchants from the Lower 
 Rhine, and extending along the wooded slopes at the 
 back of the village.*' 
 
 Blanche. That sounds civilized and comfortable. I 
 vote we go there. 
 
 Sartorius. Quite like our place at Surbiton, my dear. 
 
 Blanche. Quite. 
 
 CoKANE. You have a place down the river .^ Ah, I 
 envy you. 
 
 Sartorius. No: I have merely taken a furnished 
 villa at Surbiton for the summer. I live in Bedford 
 Square. I am a vestryman and must reside in the parish. 
 
 Blanche. Another cup, Mr. Cokane.^ 
 
 CoKANE. Thank you, no. (To Sartorius.) I pre- 
 sume you have been round this little place. Not much 
 to see here, except the AppoUinaris Church. 
 
 Sartorius (scandalized). The what! 
 
 CoKANE. The AppoUinaris Church. 
 
 Sartorius. A strange name to give a church. Very 
 continental, I must say. 
 
 CoKANE. Ah, yes, yes, yes. That is where our neigh- 
 bours fall short sometimes, Mr. Sartorius: taste — ^taste 
 is what they occasionally fail in. But in this instance 
 they are not to blame. The water is called after the 
 church, not the church after the water. 
 
 Sartorius (as if this were an extenuating circum- 
 stance, but not a complete excuse). I am glad to hear 
 it. Is the church a celebrated one? 
 
10 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 CoKANE. Baedeker stars it. 
 
 Sartorius {respectfully). Oh, in that case I should 
 like to see it. 
 
 CoKANE {reading), " erected in 1839 by Zwir- 
 
 ner^ the late eminent architect of the cathedral of Co- 
 logne_, at the expense of Count Furstenburg-Stammheim." 
 
 Sartorius {much impressed). We must certainly see 
 that^ Mr. Cokane. I had no idea that the architect of 
 Cologne cathedral lived so recently. 
 
 Blanche. Don't let us bother about any more 
 churches^ papa. They're all the same; and I'm tired to 
 death of them. 
 
 Sartorius. Well^ my dear^ if you think it sensible 
 to take a long and expensive journey to see what there 
 is to be seen^ and then go away without seeing it- 
 
 Blanche. Not this afternoon^ papa^ please., 
 
 Sartorius. My dear: I should like you to see every- 
 thing. It is part of your education 
 
 Blanche {rising, rvith a petulant sigh), Oh^ my 
 education. Very well^ very well: I suppose I must go 
 through with it. Are you comings Dr. Trench? {With 
 a grimace.) I'm sure the Johannis Church will be a 
 treat for you. 
 
 Cokane {laughing softly and archly). Ah, excellent, 
 excellent: very good, indeed. {Seriously,) But do you 
 know, Miss Sartorius, there actually are Johannis 
 churches here — several of them — as well as AppoUinaris 
 ones ? 
 
 Sartorius {sententiously taking out his field glass and 
 leading the rvay to the gate). There is many a true 
 word spoken in jest, Mr. Cokane. 
 
 Cokane {accompanying him). How true! How 
 true! {They go out together, ruminating profoundly, 
 Blanche makes no movement to follow them. She 
 watches them till they are safely out of sight, and then 
 posts herself before Trench, looking at him with an 
 enigmatic smile, which he returns with a half sheepish, 
 half conceited grin.) 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 11 
 
 Blanche. Well ! So you have done it at last. 
 
 Trench. Yes. At least Cokane's done it. I told 
 you he'd manage it. He's rather an ass in some ways; 
 but he has tremendous tact. 
 
 Blanche {contemptuously). Tact! That's not tact: 
 that's inquisitiveness. Inquisitive people always have a 
 lot of practice in getting into conversation with strangers. 
 Why didn't you speak to my father yourself on the boat? 
 You were ready enough to speak to me without any intro- 
 duction. 
 
 Trench. I didn't particularly want to talk to him. 
 
 Blanche. It didn't occur to you^ I suppose^ that you 
 put me in a false position by that. 
 
 Trench. Oh^ I don't see that^ exactly. Besides your 
 father isn't an easy man to tackle. Of course^ now that 
 I know him^ I see that he's pleasant enough; but then 
 you've got to know him firsts haven't you.^ 
 
 Blanche {impatiently). Everybody is afraid of 
 papa — -I'm sure I don't know why. {She sits down 
 again, pouting a little.) 
 
 Trench {tenderly), However^, it's all right now, 
 isn't it.^ {He sits near her,) 
 
 Blanche {sharply), I don't know. How should I.^ 
 You had no right to speak to me that day on board the 
 steamer. You thought I was alone_, because {with false 
 pathos) I had no mother with me. 
 
 Trench {protesting). Oh^ I say! Come! It was 
 you who spoke to me. Of course I was only too glad of 
 the chance; but on my word I shouldn't have moved an 
 eyelid if you hadn't given me a lead. 
 
 Blanche. I only asked you the name of a castle. 
 There was nothing unladylike in that. 
 
 Trench. Of course not. Why shouldn't you? 
 {With renewed tenderness,) But it's all right now, 
 isn't it? 
 
 Blanche {softly — looking subtly at him). Is it? 
 
 Trench {suddenly becoming shy), I — I suppose so. 
 
12 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 By the way, what about the AppoUinaris Church ? Your 
 father expects us to follow him, doesn't he? {He rises,) 
 
 Blanche (with suppressed resentment). Don't let 
 me detain you if you wish to see it. 
 
 Trench. Won't you come? 
 
 Blanche. No. (She turns her face away moodily,) 
 
 Trench (alarmed), I say: you're not offended, are 
 you? (She looks round at him for a moment with a 
 reproachful film on her eyes,) Blanche. (She bristles 
 instantly; overdoes it; and frightens him,) I beg your 
 
 pardon for calling you by your name; but I — er 
 
 (She corrects her mistake by softening her expression 
 eloquently. He responds with a gush,) You don't 
 mind, do you ? I felt sure you wouldn't somehow. Well, 
 look here. I have no idea how you will receive this: it 
 must seem horribly abrupt; but the circumstances do not 
 admit of — ^the fact is, my utter want of tact — (he floun- 
 ders more and more, unable to see that she can hardly 
 contain her eagerness,) Now, if it were Cokane 
 
 Blanche (impatiently), Cokane! 
 
 Trench (terrified). No, not Cokane. Though I 
 assure you I was only going to say about him that 
 
 Blanche. That he will be back presently with papa. 
 
 Trench (stupidly). Yes, they can't be very long now. 
 I hope I am not detaining you. 
 
 Blanche. I thought you were detaining me because 
 you had something to say. 
 
 Trench (totally unnerved). Not at all. At least 
 nothing very particular. That is, I am afraid you would 
 not think it very particular. Another time, perhaps 
 
 Blanche. What other time ? How do you know that 
 we shall ever meet again ? (Desperately,) Tell me now. 
 I want you to tell me now. 
 
 Trench. Well, I was thinking that if we could make 
 
 up our minds to — or not to — at least — er (He 
 
 breaks down,) 
 
 Blanche (giving him up as hopeless), I do not think 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 13 
 
 there is much danger of your making up your mind. 
 Dr. Trench. 
 
 Trench (stammering), I only thought (He 
 
 stops and looks at her piteously. She hesitates a mo- 
 ment, and then puts her hands into his rvith calculated 
 impulsiveness. He catches her in his arms rvith a cry 
 of relief,) Dear Blanche! I thought I should never 
 have said it. I believe I should have stood stuttering 
 here all day if you hadn't helped me out with it. 
 
 Blanche {trying to get arvay from him), I didn't 
 help you out with it. 
 
 Trench {holding her), I don't mean that you did it 
 on purpose, of course. Only instinctively. 
 
 Blanche {still a little anxious). But you haven't said 
 anything. 
 
 Trench. What more can I say — ^than this? {He 
 hisses her again,) 
 
 Blanche {overcome by the kiss, but holding on to her 
 point). But Harry 
 
 Trench {delighted at the name). Yes. 
 
 Blanche. When shall we be married.^ 
 
 Trench. At the first church we meet — ^the Appol- 
 linaris Church, if you like. 
 
 Blanche. No, but seriously. This is serious, Harry: 
 you mustn't joke about it. 
 
 Trench {looking suddenly round to the riverside gate 
 and quickly releasing her). So! Here they are back 
 again. {She mutters something not unlike a suppressed 
 oath. The rvaiter appears on the steps of the hotel, rvith 
 a bell on which he gives a long ring, Cokane and Sar- 
 torius are seen returning by the river gate,) 
 
 Waiter. Table d'hote in dwendy minutes, ladies and 
 zhentellmenn. {He goes into the hotel,) 
 
 Sartorius {gravely), I intended you to accompany 
 us, Blanche. 
 
 Blanche. Yes, papa. We were just about to start. 
 
 Sartorius. We are rather dusty: we must make our- 
 
14 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 selves presentable at the table d'hote. I think you had 
 better come in with me^ my child. Come. {He offers 
 Blanche his arm. The gravity of his manner overawes 
 them all, Blanche silently takes his arm and goes into 
 the hotel with him, Cohane, hardly less momentous than 
 Sartorius himself , contemplates Trench with the severity 
 of a judge,) 
 
 CoKANE {with reprobation), No^ my dear boy. No, 
 no. Never. I blush for you — was never so ashamed in 
 my life. You have been taking advantage of that unpro- 
 tected girl. 
 
 Trench {hotly), Cokane! 
 
 CoKANE {inexorable). Her father seems to be a per- 
 fect gentleman. I obtained the privilege of his acquaint- 
 ance; I introduced you: I allowed him to believe that he 
 might leave his daughter in your charge with absolute 
 confidence. And what did I see on our return? — what 
 did her father see ? Oh, Trench, Trench ! No, my dear 
 fellow, no, no. Bad taste, Harry, bad form! 
 
 Trench. Stuff ! There was nothing to see. 
 
 CoKANE. Nothing to see ! She, a perfect lady, a per- 
 son of the highest breeding, actually in your arms; and 
 you say there was nothing to see ! — with a waiter there 
 actually ringing a heavy bell to call attention to his 
 presence. {Lecturing him with redoubled severity,) 
 Have you no principles. Trench? fifave you no religious 
 convictions? Have you no acquaintance with the usages 
 of society? You actually kissed 
 
 Trench. You didn't see me kiss her. 
 
 CoKANE. We not only saw but heard it: the report 
 positively reverberated down the Rhine. Don't conde- 
 scend to subterfuge. Trench. 
 
 Trench. Nonsense, my dear Billy. You 
 
 Cokane. There you go again. Don't use that low 
 abbreviation. How am I to preserve the respect of fel- 
 low travellers of position and wealth, if I am to be 
 Billied at every turn? My name is William — William 
 de Burgh Cokane. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 15 
 
 Trench. Oh, bother ! There^ don't be offended^ old 
 chap. What's the use of putting your back up at every 
 trifle.^ It comes natural to me to call you Bill: it suits 
 you^ somehow. 
 
 CoKANE (mortified). You have no delicacy of feel- 
 ings Trench — ^no taste. I never mention it to any one; 
 but nothings I am afraid^ will ever make a true gentle- 
 man of you. (Sartorius appears on the threshold of the 
 hoteL) Here is my friend^ Sartorius^ comings no doubt^ 
 to ask you for an explanation of your conduct. I really 
 should not have been surprised to see him bring a horse- 
 whip with him. I shall not intrude on the painful scene. 
 (Going,) 
 
 Trench. Don't go^ confound it. I don't want to 
 meet him alone just now. 
 
 CoKANE (shaking his head). Delicacy^ Harry^ deli- 
 cacy. Good taste ! Savoir f aire ! (He walks away and 
 disappears in the garden to the right. Trench tries to 
 escape in the opposite direction by strolling off towards 
 the garden entrance.) 
 
 Sartorius (mesmerically) . Dr. Trench. 
 
 Trench (stopping and turning). Oh., is that you^ 
 Mr. Sartorius.^ How did you find the church.^ 
 
 (Sartorius, without a word, points to a seat. Trench, 
 half hypnotised by his own nervousness and the impres- 
 siveness of Sartorius, sits down helplessly.) 
 
 Sartorius (also seating himself). You have been 
 speaking to my daughter^ Dr. Trench.^ 
 
 Trench (with an attempt at ease of manner). Yes: 
 we had a conversation — quite a chat^ in fact — whilst 
 you were at the church with Cokane. How did you get 
 on with Cokane^ Mr. Sartorius? I always think he has 
 such wonderful tact. 
 
 Sartorius (ignoring the digression). I have just had 
 a word with my daughter^ Dr. Trench; and I find her 
 under the impression that something has passed between 
 you which it is my duty as a father — ^the father of a 
 
16 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 motherless girl — to inquire into at once. My daughter, 
 perhaps foolishly, has taken you quite seriously; 
 
 and 
 
 Trench. But 
 
 Sartorius. One moment, if you will be so good. I 
 have been a young man myself — younger, perhaps, than 
 you would suppose from my present appearance. I 
 mean, of course, in character. If you were not seri- 
 ous 
 
 Trench {ingeniously). But I was perfectly serious. 
 I want to marry your daughter, Mr. Sartorius. I hope 
 you don't object. 
 
 Sartorius {condescending to Trench's humility from 
 the mere instinct to seize an advantage, and yet defer- 
 ring to Lady Roxdale's relative). So far, no. I may 
 say that your proposal seems to be an honourable and 
 straightforward one, and that is very gratifying to me 
 personally. 
 
 Trench {agreeably surprised). Then I suppose we 
 may consider the affair as settled. It's really very good 
 of you. 
 
 Sartorius. Gently, Dr. Trench, gently. Such a 
 transaction as this cannot be settled off-hand. 
 
 Trench. Not off-hand, no. There are settlements 
 and things, of course. But it may be regarded as settled 
 between ourselves, mayn't it.^ 
 
 Sartorius. Hm! Have you nothing further to men- 
 tion? 
 
 Trench. Only that^that — no: I don't know that I 
 have, except that I love 
 
 Sartorius {interrupting). Anything about your 
 family, for example? You do not anticipate any objec- 
 tion on their part, do you? 
 
 Trench. Oh, they have nothing to do with it. 
 
 Sartorius {warmly). Excuse me, sir: they have a 
 great deal to do with it. {Trench is abashed,) I am 
 resolved that my daughter shall approach no circle in 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 17 
 
 which she will not be received with the full considera- 
 tion to which her education and her breeding (here his 
 self-control slips a little; and he repeats, as if Trench 
 had contradicted him) — I say^ her breeding — entitle 
 her. 
 
 Trench (bewildered). Of course not. But what 
 makes you think my family won't like Blanche? Of 
 course my father was a younger son; and I've had to 
 take a profession and all that; so my people won't ex- 
 pect us to entertain them: they'll know we can't afford 
 it. But they'll entertain us : they always ask me. ^^ 
 
 Sartorius. That won't do for me^ sir. Families 
 often think it due to themselves to turn their backs on 
 newcomers whom they may not think quite good enough 
 for them. 
 
 Trench. But I assure you my people aren't a bit 
 snobbish. Blanche is a lady: that'll be good enough for 
 them. 
 
 Sartorius (moved). I am glad you think so. (Of- 
 fers his hand. Trench, astonished, takes it.) I think 
 so myself. (Sartorius presses Trench's hand gratefully 
 and releases it.) And now^ Dr. Trench^ since you have 
 acted handsomely^ you shall have no cause to complain 
 of me. There shall be no difficulty about money: you 
 shall entertain as much as you please: I will guar- 
 antee all that. But I must have a guarantee on my 
 side that she will be received on equal terms by your 
 family. 
 
 Trench. Guarantee ! 
 
 Sartorius. Yes^ a reasonable guarantee. I shall 
 expect you to write to your relatives explaining your in- 
 tention^ and adding what you think proper as to my 
 daughter's fitness for the best society. When you can 
 show me a few letters from the principal members of 
 your family^ congratulating you in a fairly cordial way^ 
 I shall be satisfied. Can I say more? 
 
 Trench (much puzzled, hut grateful). No indeed. 
 
18 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 You are really very good. Many thanks. Since you 
 wish it^ I'll write to my people. But I assure you you'll 
 find them as jolly as possible over it. I'll make them 
 write by return. 
 
 Sartorius. Thank you. In the meantime_, I must ask 
 you not to regard the matter as settled. 
 
 Trench. Oh! Not to regard the — I see. You mean 
 between Blanche and 
 
 Sartorius. I mean between you and Miss Sartorius. 
 When I interrupted your conversation here some time 
 ago^ you and she were evidently regarding it as settled. 
 In case difficulties arise^ and the match — you see I call 
 it a match — be broken off, I should not wish Blanche to 
 think that she had allowed a gentleman to — ^to — (Trench 
 nods sympathetically) — Quite so. May I depend on you 
 to keep a fair distance^ and so spare me the necessity of 
 having to restrain an intercourse which promises to be 
 very pleasant to us all.^ 
 
 Trench. Certainly; since you prefer it. {They 
 shake hands on it.) 
 
 Sartorius (rising). You will write to-day, I think 
 you said.f* 
 
 Trench (^eagerly), I'll write now, before I leave 
 here — straight off. 
 
 Sartorius. I will leave you to yourself then. (He 
 hesitates, the conversation having made him self-con- 
 scious and embarrassed; then recovers himself with an 
 effort and adds with dignity, as he turns to go) 1 am 
 pleased to have come to an understanding with you. 
 (He goes into the hotel; and CoJcane, who has been hang- 
 ing about inquisitively, emerges from the shrubbery.) 
 
 Trench (excitedly). Billy, old chap, you're just in 
 time to do me a favour. I want you to draft a letter 
 for me to copy out. 
 
 CoKANE. I came with you on this tour as a friend. 
 Trench: not as a secretary. 
 
 Trench. Well, you'll write as a friend. It's to my 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 19 
 
 Aunt Maria^ about Blanche and me. To tell her^ you 
 know. 
 
 CoKANE. Tell her about Blanche and you ! Tell her 
 about your conduct ! Betray you^ my friend ; and forget 
 that I am writing to a lady? Never! 
 
 Trench. Bosh, Billy: don't pretend you don't un- 
 derstand. We're engaged — engaged, my boy: what 
 do you think of that? I must write by to-night's post. 
 You are the man to tell me what to say. Come, old chap 
 (^cocujcing him to sit down at one of the tables), here's a 
 pencil. Have you a bit of — oh, here: this'U do: write 
 it on the back of the map. (He tears the map out of 
 his Baedeker and spreads it face downwards on the table. 
 Cokane takes the pencil and prepares to write.) That's 
 right. Thanks awfully, old chap ! Now fire away. 
 {Anxiously.) Be careful how you word it, though, 
 Cokane. 
 
 CoKANE {putting down the pencil). If you doubt 
 my ability to express myself becomingly to Lady Rox- 
 dale 
 
 Trench {propitiating him). All right, old fellow, 
 all right: there's not a man alive who could do it 
 half so well as you. I only wanted to explain. You 
 see, Sartorius has got it into his head, somehow, that my 
 people will snub Blanche; and he won't consent unless 
 they send letters and invitations and congratulations and 
 the deuce knows what not. So just put it in such a way 
 that Aunt Maria will write by return saying she is de- 
 lighted, and asking us — Blanche and me, you know — 
 to stay with her, and so forth. You know what I mean. 
 Just tell her all about it in a chatty way; and 
 
 Cokane {crushingly). If you will tell me all about 
 it in a chatty way, I daresay I can communicate it to 
 Lady Roxdale with proper delicacy. What is Sartorius? 
 
 Trench {taken aback). I don't know: I didn't ask. 
 It's a sort of question you can't very well put to a man 
 — at least a man like him. Do you think you could word 
 
20 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 the letter so as to pass all that over ? I really don't like 
 to ask him. 
 
 CoKANE. I can pass it over if you wish. Nothing 
 easier. But if you think Lady Roxdale will pass it over, 
 I differ from you. I may be wrong: no doubt I am. I 
 generally am wrongs I believe; but that is my opinion. 
 
 Trench {much perplexed). Oh, confound it! What 
 the deuce am I to do? Can't you say he's a gentleman: 
 that won't commit us to anything. If you dwell on his 
 being well off, and Blanche an only child. Aunt Maria 
 will be satisfied. 
 
 CoKANE. Henry Trench: when will you begin to get 
 a little sense? This is a serious business. Act respon- 
 sibly, Harry: act responsibly. 
 
 Trench. Bosh! Don't be moral! 
 
 CoKANE. I am not moral. Trench. At least I am 
 not a moralist: that is the expression I should have used 
 — moral, but not a moralist. If you are going to get 
 money with your wife, doesn't it concern your family to 
 know how that money was made? Doesn't it concern 
 you — you, Harry? (^Trench looks at him helplessly, 
 twisting his fingers nervously, CoJcane throws down the 
 pencil and leans back with ostentatious indifference). 
 Of course it is no business of mine: I only throw out 
 the suggestion. Sartorius may be a retired burglar for 
 all I know. {Sartorius and Blanche, ready for dinner, 
 come from the hotel.) 
 
 Trench. Sh! Here they come. Get the letter fin- 
 ished before dinner, like a good old chappie: I shall 
 be awfully obliged to you. 
 
 Cokane {impatiently). Leave me^ leave me: you 
 disturb me. {He waves him off and begins to write). 
 
 Trench {humbly and gratefully), Yes^ old chap. 
 Thanks awfully. 
 
 {By this time Blanche has left her father and is stroll- 
 ing off toward the riverside. Sartorius comes down the 
 garden, Baedeker in hand, and sits near Cokane, reading. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 21 
 
 Trench addresses him). You won't mind my taking 
 Blanche in to dinner^ I hope_, sir? 
 
 Sartorius. By all means^ Dr. Trench. Pray do so. 
 (^He graciously rvaves him off to join Blanche. Trench 
 hurries after her through the gate. The light reddens 
 as the Rhenish sunset begins, Cohane, making rvry 
 faces in the agonies of composition, is disconcerted to 
 find Sartorius' eye upon him,) 
 
 Sartorius. I do not disturb you^ I hope^ Mr. Cokane. 
 
 CoKANE. By no means. Our friend Trench has en- 
 trusted me with a difficult and delicate task. He has 
 requested me^ as a friend of the family, to write to them 
 on a subject that concerns you. 
 
 Sartorius. Indeed, Mr. Cokane. Well, the com- 
 munication could not be in better hands. 
 
 CoKANE {rvith an air of modesty). Ah, that is going 
 too far, my dear sir, too far. Still, you see what Trench 
 is. A capital fellow in his way, Mr. Sartorius, an excel- 
 lent young fellow. But family communications like 
 these require good manners. They require tact ; and tact 
 is Trench's weak point. He has an excellent heart, but 
 no tact — none whatever. Everything depends on the 
 way the matter is put to Lady Roxdale. But as to that, 
 you may rely on me. I understand the sex. 
 
 Sartorius. Well, however she may receive it — and I 
 care as little as any man, Mr. Cokane, how people may 
 choose to receive me — I trust I may at least have the 
 pleasure of seeing you sometimes at my house when we 
 return to England. 
 
 CoKANE (overwhelmed). My dear sir! You ex- 
 press yourself in the true spirit of an English gentleman. 
 
 Sartorius. Not at all. You will always be most 
 welcome. But I fear I have disturbed you in the com- 
 position of your letter. Pray resume it. I shall leave 
 you to yourself. (He pretends to rise, hut checks him- 
 self to add) Unless indeed I can assist you in any way? 
 — by clearing up any point on which you are not in- 
 
 / 
 
22 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 formed^ for instance; or even^ if I may so far presume 
 on my years^ giving you the benefit of my experience 
 as to the best way of wording the matter. (Cokane 
 looks a little surprised at this, Sartorius looks hard 
 at him, and continues deliberately and meaningly) I 
 shall always be happy to help any friend of Dr. 
 Trench's^ in any way^ to the best of my ability and of 
 my means. 
 
 CoKANE. My dear sir^ you are really very good. 
 Trench and I were putting our heads together over the 
 letter just now; and there certainly were one or two 
 points on which we were a little in the dark. {Scrupu- 
 lously,) But I would not permit Harry to question you. 
 No. I pointed out to him that^ as a matter of taste^ it 
 would be more delicate to wait until you volunteered the 
 necessary information. 
 
 Sartorius. Hm ! May I ask what you have said^ so 
 far? 
 
 CoKANE. " My dear Aunt Maria." That is. Trench's 
 dear Aunt Maria, my friend Lady Roxdale. You under- 
 stand that I am only drafting a letter for Trench to 
 copy. 
 
 Sartorius. Quite so. Will you proceed; or would 
 it help you if I were to suggest a word or two? 
 
 CoKANE (effusively). Your suggestions will be most 
 valuable, my dear sir, most welcome. 
 
 Sartorius. I think I should begin in some such way 
 as this. ** In traveling with my friend Mr. Cokane up 
 the Rhine " 
 
 CoKANE {murmuring as he writes). Invaluable, in- 
 valuable. The very thing. " — my friend Mr. Cokane 
 up the Rhine- 
 
 Sartorius. ** I have made the acquaintance of "- 
 you may say " picked up '' or " come across," if you 
 think that would suit your friend's style better. We 
 must not be too formal. 
 
 Cokane. "Picked up" ! oh no: too degage, Mr. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 23 
 
 Sartorius^ too degage. I should say, '' had the privilege 
 of becoming acquainted with/' 
 
 Sartorius {quickly). By no means: Lady Roxdale 
 must judge of that for herself. Let it stand as I said. 
 " I have made the acquaintance of a young lady^ the 
 daughter of " {He hesitates.) 
 
 CoKANE {writing), '' acquaintance of a young lady^ 
 the daughter of " — yes } 
 
 Sartorius. *' of '' — you had better say ** a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 CoKANE {surprised) , Of course. 
 
 Sartorius {with sudden passion). It is not of 
 course^ sir. {Cohane, startled, looks at him with dawn- 
 ing suspicion, Sartorius recovers himself somewhat 
 shamefacedly,) Hm! " — of a gentleman of consider- 
 able wealth and position '' 
 
 CoKANE {echoing him with a new note of coldness in 
 his voice as he writes the last words), " — and position." 
 
 Sartorius. '' which^ however^ he has made entirely 
 for himself." {Cokane, now fully enlightened, stares 
 at him instead of writing,) Have you written that.'* 
 
 CoKANE {expanding into an attitude of patronage and 
 encouragement), Ah^ indeed. Quite so^ quite so. 
 {He writes,) " — entirely for himself." Just so. Pro- 
 ceed, Mr. Sartorius, proceed. Very clearly expressed. 
 
 Sartorius. ** The young lady will inherit the bulk 
 of her father's fortune, and will be liberally treated 
 on her marriage. Her education has been of the most 
 expensive and complete kind obtainable; and her sur- 
 roundings have been characterized by the strictest re- 
 finement. She is in every essential particular " 
 
 CoKANE {interrupting). Excuse the remark; but 
 don't you think this is rather too much in the style of a 
 prospectus of the young lady? I throw out the sug- 
 gestion as a matter of taste. 
 
 Sartorius {troubled). Perhaps you are right. I 
 am of course not dictating the exact words 
 
24 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 CoKANE. Of course not: of course not. 
 
 Sartorius. But I desire that there may be no wrong 
 impression as to my daughter's — er — breeding. As to 
 myself 
 
 CoKANE. Oh^ it will be sufficient to mention your pro- 
 fession^ or pursuits_, or {He ^pauses; and they look 
 
 pretty hard at one another,^ 
 
 Sartorius {very deliberately^. My income^ sir, is 
 derived from the rental of a very extensive real estate 
 in London. Lady Roxdale is one of the head landlords ; 
 and Dr. Trench holds a mortgage from which, if I mis- 
 take not, his entire income is derived. The truth is, 
 Mr. Cokane, I am quite well acquainted with Dr. 
 Trench's position and aiFairs; and I have long desired 
 to know him personally. 
 
 CoKANE {again obsequious, but still inquisitive^. 
 What a remarkable coincidence! In what quarter is 
 the estate situated, did you say? 
 
 Sartorius. In London, sir. Its management occu- 
 pies as much of my time as is not devoted to the or- 
 dinary pursuits of a gentleman. {He rises and takes 
 out his card case.) The rest I leave to your discretion. 
 {He puts a card upon the table.) That is my address 
 at Surbiton. If it should unfortunately happen, Mr. 
 Cokane, that this should end in a disappointment for 
 Blanche, probably she would rather not see you after- 
 wards. But if all turns out as we hope. Dr. Trench's 
 best friends will then be our best friends. 
 
 CoKANE {rising and confronting Sartorius confident- 
 ly, pencil and paper in hand). Rely on me, Mr. Sar- 
 torius. The letter is already finished here {points to 
 his brain). In five minutes it will be finished there 
 {points to the paper; nods to emphasize the assertion; 
 and begins to pace up and down the garden, writing, and 
 tapping his forehead from time to time as he goes, with 
 every appearance of severe intellectual exertion.) 
 
 Sartorius {calling through the gate after a glance 
 at his watch.) Blanche. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 25 
 
 Blanche {replying in the distance). Yes. 
 
 Sartorius. Time, my dear. {He goes in to the 
 table d'hote,) 
 
 Blanche (nearer). Coming. (She comes back 
 through the gate, followed by Trench,) 
 
 Trench (in a half whisper, as Blanche goes towards 
 the table d'hote). Blanche: stop — one moment. (She 
 stops.) We must be careful when your father is by. I 
 had to promise him not to regard anything as settled 
 until I hear from my people at home. 
 
 Blanche (chilled). Oh, I see. Your family may 
 object to me; and then it will be all over between us. 
 They are almost sure to. 
 
 Trench (anxiously). Don't say that, Blanche; it 
 sounds as if you didn't care. I hope you regard it as 
 settled. You haven't made any promise, you know. 
 
 Blanche (earnestly). Yes, I have: I promised papa 
 too. But I have broken my promise for your sake. I 
 suppose I am not so conscientious as you. And if the 
 matter is not to be regarded as settled, family or no 
 family, promise or no promise, let us break it off here 
 and now. 
 
 Trench (intoxicated with affection). Blanche: on 
 my most sacred honour, family or no family, promise or 
 
 no promise (The waiter reappears at the table 
 
 d'hote entrance, ringing his bell loudly.) Damn that 
 noise ! 
 
 CoKANE (as he comes to them, flourishing the letter). 
 Finished, dear boy, finished. Done to a turn, punctually 
 to the second. C'est fini, mon cher gar9on, c'est fini. 
 (Sartorius returns.) 
 
 Sartorius. Will you take Blanche in. Dr. Trench.'^ 
 (Trench takes Blanche in to the table d'hote.) Is the 
 letter finished, Mr. Cokane? 
 
 CoKANE (with an author's pride, handing his draft 
 to Sartorius). There! (Sartorius takes it, and reads 
 it, nodding gravely over it with complete approval.) 
 
26 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 Sartorius (returning the draft). Thank you^ Mr. 
 Cokane. You have the pen of a ready writer. 
 
 CoKANE (as they go in together). Not at all^ not at 
 all. A little tact^ Mr. Sartorius^ a little knowledge of 
 
 the worlds a little experience of women (The act 
 
 drop descends and cuts off the rest of the speech,) 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 In the library of a handsomely appointed villa at Sur- 
 biton on a sunny forenoon in September. Sartorius is 
 busy at a writing table, littered with business letters, 
 on the left. He sits facing the window, which is in the 
 right wall. The fireplace, decorated for summer, is 
 behind him. Between the table and the window Blanche, 
 in her prettiest frock, sits reading '' The Queen." The 
 door, painted, like all the woodwork, in the blackest 
 shade of red, with brass fittings, and moulded posts and 
 pediment, is in the middle of the back wall. All the 
 walls are lined with smartly tooled books, fitting into 
 their places like bricks. A library ladder stands in 
 the corner. 
 
 Sartorius. Blanche. 
 
 Blanche. Yes^ papa. 
 
 Sartorius. I have some news here. 
 
 Blanche. What is it? 
 
 Sartorius. I mean news for you — from Trench. 
 
 Blanche {with affected indifference). Indeed? 
 
 Sartorius. ''Indeed?" ! Is that all you have to 
 say to me? Oh^ very well. {He resumes his work. 
 Silence. ) 
 
 Blanche. What do his people say, papa? 
 
 Sartorius. His people, I don't know. {Still busy. 
 Another pause.) 
 
 Blanche. What does he say? 
 
 Sartorius. He! He says nothing. {He folds a 
 letter leisurely and looks for the envelope.) He pre- 
 fers to communicate the result of his — where did I 
 
28 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 put that? — oh^ here. Yes^ he prefers to communicate 
 the result in person. 
 
 Blanche (springing up). Oh^ papa! When is he 
 coming ? 
 
 Sartorius. If he walks from the station^ he may- 
 arrive in the course of the next half-hour. If he drives, 
 he may be here any moment. 
 
 Blanche (making hastily for the door). Oh! 
 
 Sartorius. Blanche. 
 
 Blanche. Yes, papa. 
 
 Sartorius. You will of course not meet him until 
 he has spoken to me. 
 
 Blanche (hypocritically) . Of course not, papa. I 
 shouldn't have thought of such a thing. 
 
 Sartorius. That is all. (She is going, when he 
 puts out his hand, and says with fatherly emotion,) My 
 dear child. (She responds by going over to kiss him. 
 A tap at the door,) Come in. (Lickcheese enters, 
 carrying a black hand-bag. He is a shabby, needy man, 
 with dirty face and linen, scrubby beard and whiskers, 
 going bald. A nervous, wiry, pertinacious sort of hu- 
 man terrier judged by his mouth and eyes, but miserably 
 apprehensive and servile before Sartorius. He bids 
 Blanche " Good morning, miss "; and she passes out 
 with a slight and contemptuous recognition of him.) 
 
 Lickcheese. Good morning, sir. 
 
 Sartorius (harsh and peremptory). Good morning. 
 
 Lickcheese (taking a little sack of money from his 
 bag). Not much this morning, sir. I have just had 
 the honour of making Dr. Trench's acquaintance, sir. 
 
 Sartorius (looking up from his writing, displeased). 
 Indeed } 
 
 Lickcheese. Yes, sir. Dr. Trench asked his way of 
 me, and was kind enough to drive me from the station. 
 
 Sartorius. Where is he, then? 
 
 Lickcheese. I left him in the hall, with his friend, 
 sir. I should think he is speaking to Miss Sartorius. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 29 
 
 Sartorius. Hm ! What do you mean by his friend ? 
 LiCKCHEESE. There is a Mr. Cokane with him^ sir. 
 Sartorius. I see you have been talking to him, eh? 
 LiCKCHEESE. As wc drove along: yes, sir. 
 Sartorius (sharply). Why did you not come by the 
 nine o'clock train .^^ 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. I thought 
 
 Sartorius. It cannot be helped now; so never mind 
 what you thought. But do not put off my business again 
 to the last moment. Has there been any further trouble 
 about the St. Giles' property? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. The Sanitary Inspector has been com- 
 plaining again about number 13 Robbins's Row. He 
 says he'll bring it before the vestry. 
 
 Sartorius. Did you tell him that I am on the vestry ? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sartorius. What did he say to that? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Said he supposed so, or you wouldn't 
 dare to break the law so scand'lous. I only tell you 
 what he said. 
 
 Sartorius. Hm ! Do you know his name ! 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Yes, sir. Speakman. 
 
 Sartorius. Write it down in the diary for the day 
 of the next vestry meeting. I will teach Mr. Speakman 
 his duty — his duty to members of the vestry. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE (doubtfully). The vestry can't dismiss 
 him, sir. He's under the Local Government Board. 
 
 Sartorius. I did not ask you that. Let me see the 
 books. (LicJccheese produces the rent book, and hands 
 it to Sartorius; then makes the desired entry in the diary 
 on the table, rvatching Sartorius with misgiving as the 
 rent book is examined, Sartorius frowns and rises,) 
 £l : 4s. for repairs to No. 13. What does this mean? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Well, sir, it was the staircase on the 
 third floor. It was downright dangerous: there weren't 
 but three whole steps in it, and no handrail. I thought 
 it best to have a few boards put in. 
 
30 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 Sartorius. Boards ! Firewood^ sir^ firewood ! They 
 will burn every stick of it. You have spent twenty-four 
 shillings of my money on firewood for them. 
 
 LicKCHEESE. There ought to be stone stairs^ sir: it 
 would be a saving in the long run. The clergyman 
 says 
 
 Sartorius. What! who says.^ 
 
 LicKCHEESE. The clergyman^ sir^ only the clergy- 
 man. Not that I make much account of him; but if you 
 knew how he has worried me over that staircase 
 
 Sartorius. I am an Englishman; and I will suffer 
 no clergyman to interfere in my business. {He turns 
 suddenly on LicJccheese.) Now look here^ Mr. Lick- 
 cheese ! This is the third time this year that you have 
 brought me a bill of over a pound for repairs. I have 
 warned you repeatedly against dealing with these tene- 
 ment houses as if they were mansions in a West-end 
 square. I have had occasion to warn you too against 
 discussing my affairs with strangers. You have chosen 
 to disregard my wishes. You are discharged. 
 
 LicKCHEESE {dismayed). Oh^ sir^ don't say that. 
 
 Sartorius {fiercely). You are discharged. 
 
 LicKCHEESE. Well^ Mr. Sartorius^ it is hard^ so it is. 
 No man alive could have screwed more out of them 
 poor destitute devils for you than I have, or spent less 
 in doing it. I have dirtied my hands at it until 
 they're not fit for clean work hardly; and now you turn 
 me 
 
 Sartorius {interrupting him menacingly). What do 
 you mean by dirtying your hands? If I find that you 
 have stepped an inch outside the letter of the law, Mr. 
 Lickcheese, I will prosecute you myself. The way to 
 keep your hands clean is to gain the confidence of your 
 employers. You will do well to bear that in mind in 
 your next situation. 
 
 The Parlour Maid {opening the door). Mr. Trench 
 and Mr. Cokane. {Cokane and Trench come in. Trench 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 31 
 
 festively dressed and in the highest spirits, CoJcane 
 highly self-satisfied,) 
 
 Sartorius. How do you do. Dr. Trench? Good 
 morning Mr. Cokane. I am pleased to see you here. 
 Mr. Lickcheese, you will place your accounts and money 
 on the table: I will examine them and settle with you 
 presently. (Lickcheese retires to the table, and begins 
 to arrange his accounts, greatly depressed,) 
 
 Trench (glancing at Lickcheese), I hope we're not 
 in the way. 
 
 Sartorius. By no means. Sit down, pray. I fear 
 you have been kept waiting. 
 
 Trench (taking Blanche's chair). Not at all. 
 We've only just come in. (He takes out a packet of let- 
 ters and begins untying them,) 
 
 CoKANE (going to a chair nearer the rvindow, but 
 stopping to look admiringly round before sitting down). 
 You must be happy here with all these books, Mr. Sar- 
 torius. A literary atmosphere. 
 
 Sartorius (resuming his seat). I have not looked 
 into them. They are pleasant for Blanche occasionally 
 when she wishes to read. I chose the house because it 
 is on gravel. The death rate is very low. 
 
 Trench (triumphantly), I have any amount of let- 
 ters for you. All my people are delighted that I am 
 going to settle. Aunt Maria wants Blanche to be 
 married from her house. (He hands Sartorius a letter,) 
 
 Sartorius. Aunt Maria! 
 
 CoKANE. Lady Roxdale, my dear sir: he means 
 Lady Roxdale. Do express yourself with a little more 
 tact, my dear fellow. 
 
 Trench. Lady Roxdale, of course. Uncle Harry 
 
 CoKANE. Sir Harry Trench. His godfather, my 
 dear sir, his godfather. 
 
 Trench. Just so. The pleasantest fellow for his 
 age you ever met. He offers us his house at St. Andrews 
 for a couple of months, if we care to pass our honey- 
 
32 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 moon there. {Handing Sartorius another letter.) It's 
 the sort of house nobody can live in^ you know; but it's 
 a nice thing for him to offer. Don't you think so? 
 
 Sartorius (preoccupied rvith the letters). No doubt. 
 These seem very gratifying^ Dr. Trench. 
 
 Trench. Yes; aren't they? Aunt Maria has really 
 behaved like a brick. If you read the postscript you'll 
 see she spotted Cokane's hand in my letter. {Chuck- 
 ling.) He wrote it for me. 
 
 Sartorius {glancing at Cohane). Indeed? Mr. Co- 
 kane evidently did it with great tact. 
 
 CoKANE {returning the glance). Don't mention it. 
 
 Trench {buoyantly). Well^ what do you say now, 
 Mr. Sartorius? May we regard the matter as settled at 
 last ! 
 
 Sartorius. Quite settled. {He rises and offers his 
 hand. Trench, glowing rvith gratitude, rises and shakes 
 it vehemently, unable to find rvords for his feelings.) 
 
 Cokane {coming betrveen them). Allow me to con- 
 gratulate you both. {Shakes hands rvith the two at 
 the same time.) 
 
 Sartorius. And now, gentlemen, I have a word to 
 say to my daughter. Dr. Trench, you will not, I hope, 
 grudge me the pleasure of breaking this news to her: I 
 have had to disappoint her more than once since I last 
 saw you. Will you excuse me for ten minutes? 
 
 Cokane {in a flush of friendly protest). My dear 
 sir, can you ask? 
 
 Trench. Certainly. 
 
 Sartorius. Thank you. {He goes out.) 
 
 Trench {still chuckling). He won't have any news 
 to break, poor old boy: she's seen all the letters already. 
 
 Cokane. I must say your behaviour has been far 
 from straightforward, Harry. You have been carrying 
 on a clandestine correspondence. 
 
 LicKCHEESE {stealthily). Gentlemen 
 
 Trench ) {turning — they had forgotten his presence). 
 
 Cokane ) Hallo! 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 33 
 
 LiCKCHEESE {coming between them very humbly, but 
 in mortal anxiety and haste). Look here, gentlemen. 
 (To Trench,) You, sir, I address myself to more par- 
 tielar. Will you say a word in my favour to the 
 guv 'nor? He's just given me the sack; and I have four 
 children looking to me for their bread. A word from 
 you, sir, on this happy day, might get him to take me 
 on again. 
 
 Trench (embarrassed). Well, you see, Mr. Lick- 
 cheese, I don't see how I can interfere. I'm very sorry, 
 of course. 
 
 CoKANE. Certainly you cannot interfere. It would 
 be in the most execrable taste. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Oh, gentlemen, you are young; and 
 you don't know what loss of employment means to the 
 like of me. What harm would it do you to help a poor 
 man.^ Just listen to the circumstances, sir. I only 
 
 Trench (moved but snatching at an excuse for tak- 
 ing a high tone in avoiding the unpleasantness of help- 
 ing him). No: I had rather not. Excuse my saying 
 plainly that I think Mr. Sartorius is not a man to act 
 hastily or harshly. I have always found him very fair 
 and generous; and I believe he is a better judge of the 
 circumstances than I am. 
 
 Cokane (inquisitive), I think you ought to hear 
 the circumstances, Harry. It can do no harm. Hear 
 the circumstances by all means. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Never mind, sir: it ain't any use. 
 When I hear that man called generous and fair ! — 
 well, never mind. 
 
 Trench (severely). If you wish me to do anything 
 for you, Mr. Lickcheese, let me tell you that you are 
 not going the right way about it in speaking ill of Mr. 
 Sartorius. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Have I said one word against him, 
 sir.f* I leave it to your friend: have I said a word? 
 
 Cokane. True, true. Quite true. Harry: be just. 
 
34 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 LicKCHEESE. Mark my words^ gentlemen: he'll find 
 what a man he's lost the very first week's rents the new 
 man'U bring him. You'll find the difference yourself. 
 Dr. Trench, if you or your children come into the prop- 
 erty. I have got money when no other collector alive 
 would have wrung it out. And this is the thanks I get 
 for it ! Why, see here, gentlemen ! Look at that bag 
 of money on the table. Hardly a penny of that but 
 there was a hungry child crying for the bread it would 
 have bought. But I got it for him — screwed and wor- 
 ried and bullied it out of them. I — look here, gentle- 
 men: I'm pretty well seasoned to the work; but there's 
 money there that I couldn't have taken if it hadn't 
 been for the thought of mj own children depending on 
 me for giving him satisfaction. And because I charged 
 him four-and-twenty shillin' to mend a staircase that 
 three women have been hurt on, and that would have 
 got him prosecuted for manslaughter if it had been let 
 go much longer, he gives me the sack. Wouldn't listen 
 to a word, though I would have offered to make up the 
 money out of my own pocket — aye, and am willing to 
 do it still if you will only put in a word for me, sir. 
 
 Trench (aghast). You took money that ought to 
 have fed starving children ! Serve you right ! If I had 
 been the father of one of those children, I'd have given 
 you something worse than the sack. I wouldn't say a 
 word to save your soul, if you have such a thing. Mr. 
 Sartorius was quite right. 
 
 LicKCHEESE (staring at him, surprised into contemp- 
 tuous amusement in the midst of his anxiety). Just 
 listen to this ! Well, you are an innocent young gentle- 
 man. Do you suppose he sacked me because I was too 
 hard? Not a bit of it: it was because I wasn't hard 
 enough. I never heard him say he was satisfied yet — 
 no, nor he wouldn't, not if I skinned 'em alive. I don't 
 say he's the worst landlord in London: he couldn't be 
 worse than some; but he's no better than the worst I 
 
Act n Widowers' Houses 35 
 
 ever had to do with. And^ though I say it^ I'm better 
 than the best collector he ever done business with. I 
 have screwed more and spent less on his properties than 
 any one would believe that knows what such properties 
 are. I know my merits^ Dr. Trench^ and will speak for 
 myself if no one else will. 
 
 Trench. What sort of properties? Houses? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Tenement houses^ let from week to 
 week by the room or half -room — aye^ or quarter-room. 
 It pays when you know how to work it^ sir. Nothing 
 like it. It's been calculated on the cubic foot of space, 
 sir^ that you can get higher rents letting by the room 
 than you can for a mansion in Park Lane. 
 
 Trench. I hope Mr. Sartorius hasn't much of that 
 sort of property^ however it may pay. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. He has nothing else^ sir; and he shows 
 his sense in it too. Every few hundred pounds he could 
 scrape together he bought old houses with — houses that 
 you wouldn't hardly look at without holding your nose. 
 He has 'em in St. Giles's : he has 'em in Marylebone : he 
 has 'em in Betlmal Green. Just look how he lives him- 
 self^ and you'll see the good of it to him. He likes a 
 low death-rate and a gravel soil for himself^ he does. 
 You come down with me to Robbins's Row; and 111 show 
 you a soil and a death-rate^ so I will! And^ mind you, 
 it's me that makes it pay him so well. Catch him going 
 down to collect his own rents ! Not likely ! 
 
 Trench. Do you mean to say that all his property 
 — all his means — come from this sort of thing? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Every penny of it, sir. {Trench, over- 
 whelmed, has to sit down,) 
 
 CoKANE {looking compassionately at him). Ah, my 
 dear fellow, the love of money is the root of all evil. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Yes, sir; and we'd all like to have the 
 tree growing in our garden. 
 
 CoKANE (revolted), Mr. Lickcheese, I did not ad- 
 dress myself to you. I do not wish to be severe with 
 
36 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 you; but there is something peculiarly repugnant to my 
 feelings in the calling of a rent collector. 
 
 LicKCHEESE. It's no worsc than many another. I 
 have my children looking to me. 
 
 CoKANE. True: I admit it. So has our friend Sar- 
 torius. His affection for his daughter is a redeeming 
 point — a redeeming pointy certainly. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. She's a lucky daughter^ sir. Many an- 
 other daughter has been turned out upon the streets to 
 gratify his affection for her. That's what business is, 
 sir, you see. Come sir, I think your friend will say 
 a word for me now he knows I'm not in fault. 
 
 Trench (rising angrily), I will not. It's a dam- 
 nable business from beginning to end; and you deserve 
 no better luck for helping in it. I've seen it all among 
 the out-patients at the hospital; and it used to make my 
 blood boil to think that such things couldn't be pre- 
 vented. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE (his Suppressed spleen breaking out). 
 Oh indeed, sir. But I suppose you will take your share 
 when you marry Miss Blanche, all the same. (Furi- 
 ously,) Which of us is the worse, I should like to 
 know — me that wrings the money out to keep a home 
 over my children, or you that spend it and try to shove 
 the blame on to me? 
 
 CoKANE. A most improper observation to address to 
 a gentleman, Mr. Lickcheese. A most revolutionary 
 sentiment. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Perhaps so. But then, Robbins's Row 
 ain't a school for manners. You collect a week or two 
 there — you're welcome to my place if I can't keep it 
 for myself — and you'll hear a little plain speaking, so 
 you will. 
 
 CoKANE (rvith dignity). Do you know to whom you 
 are speaking, my good man.^^ 
 
 LiCKCHEESE (^recklessly), I know well enough who 
 I'm speaking to. What do I care for you, or a thousand 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses S7 
 
 such? I'm poor; that's enough to make a rascal of me. 
 No consideration for me — nothing to be got by saying 
 a word for me! {Suddenly cringing to Trench,) Just 
 a word^ sir. It would cost you nothing. {Sartorius 
 appears at the door unobserved,) Have some feeling 
 for the poor. 
 
 Trench. I'm afraid you have shown very little, by 
 your own confession. 
 
 LicKCHEESE {breaking out again). More than your 
 
 precious father-in-law^ anyhow. I {Sartorius's 
 
 voice, striking in with deadly calmness, paralyzes him,) 
 
 Sartorius. You will come here to-morrow not later 
 than ten, Mr. Lickcheese, to conclude our business. I 
 shall trouble you no further to-day. (Lickcheese, cowed, 
 goes out amid dead silence, Sartorius continues, after 
 an awkward pause,) He is one of my agents, or rather 
 was; for I have unfortunately had to dismiss him for 
 repeatedly disregarding my instructions. (Trench says 
 nothing. Sartorius throws off his embarrassment, and 
 assumes a jocose, rallying air, unbecoming to him un- 
 der any circumstances, and just now almost unbearably 
 jarring.) Blanche will be down presently, Harry 
 {Trench recoils) — I suppose I must call you Harry 
 now. What do you say to a stroll through the garden, 
 Mr. Cokane.'^ We are celebrated here for our flowers. 
 
 CoKANE. Charmed, my dear sir, charmed. Life 
 here is an idyll — a perfect idyll. We were just dwell- 
 ing on it. 
 
 Sartorius {slyly). Harry can follow with Blanche. 
 She will be down directly. 
 
 Trench {hastily). No. I can't face her just now. 
 
 Sartorius {rallying him). Indeed! Ha, ha! {The 
 laugh, the first they have heard from him, sets Trench's 
 teeth on edge, Cokane is taken aback, but instantly re- 
 covers himself.) 
 
 Cokane. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! ho ! 
 
 Trench. But you don't understand. 
 
38 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 Sartorius. Oh^ I think we do^ I think we do. Eh, 
 Mr. Cokane? Ha ! ha ! 
 
 CoKANE. I should think we do. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 {They go out together, laughing at him. He col- 
 lapses into a chair, shuddering in every nerve, Blanche 
 appears at the door. Her face lights up when she 
 sees that he is alone. She trips noiselessly to the bade 
 of his chair and clasps her hands over his eyes. With 
 a convulsive start and exclamation he springs up and 
 breaks away from her,) 
 
 Blanche (astonished), Harry! 
 
 Trench (with distracted politeness), I beg your 
 pardon, I was thinking — ^won't you sit down. 
 
 Blanche (looking suspiciously at him). Is any- 
 thing the matter.'^ (She sits down slowly near the writ- 
 ing table. He takes Cokane' s chair,) 
 
 Trench. No. Oh no. 
 
 Blanche. Papa has not been disagreeable, I hope. 
 
 Trench. No: I have hardly spoken to him since I 
 was with you. (He rises; takes up his chair; and 
 plants it beside hers. This pleases her better. She 
 looks at him with her most winning smile, A sort of 
 sob breaks from him; and he catches her hands and 
 kisses them passionately. Then, looking into her eyes 
 with intense earnestness, he says) Blanche: are you fond 
 of money? 
 
 Blanche (gaily). Very. Are you going to give me 
 any.?^ 
 
 Trench (wincing). Don't make a joke of it: I'm 
 serious. Do you know that we shall be very poor? 
 
 Blanche. Is that what made you look as if you had 
 neuralgia ? 
 
 Trench (pleadingly). My dear: it's no laughing 
 matter. Do you know that I have a bare seven hun- 
 dred a year to live on? 
 
 Blanche. How dreadful! 
 
 Trench. Blanche: it's very serious indeed: I as- 
 sure you it is. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 39 
 
 Blanche. It would keep me rather short in my 
 housekeeping, dearest boy, if I had nothing of my own. 
 But papa has promised me that I shall be richer than 
 ever when we are married. 
 
 Trench. We must do the best we can with seven 
 hundred. I think we ought to be self-supporting. 
 
 Blanche. That's just what I mean to be, Harry. If 
 I were to eat up half your £700, I should be making you 
 twice as poor; but I am going to make you twice as 
 rich instead. {He shakes his head,) Has papa made 
 any difficulty .^^ 
 
 Trench {rising with a sigh and taking his chair 
 back to its former place). No, none at all. {He sits 
 dorvn dejectedly. When Blanche speaks again her face 
 and voice betray the beginning of a struggle rvith her 
 temper,) 
 
 Blanche. Harry, are you too proud to take money 
 from my father! 
 
 Trench. Yes, Blanche: I am too proud. 
 
 Blanche {after a pause). That is not nice to me, 
 Harry. 
 
 Trench. You must bear with me Blanche. I — I 
 can't explain. After all, it's very natural. 
 
 Blanche. Has it occurred to you that I may be 
 proud, too.^ 
 
 Trench. Oh, that's nonsense. No one will accuse 
 you of marrying for money. 
 
 -* Blanche. No one would think the worse of me if 
 I did, or of you either. {She rises and begins to rvalk 
 restlessly about,) We really cannot live on seven hun- 
 dred a year, Harry; and I don't think it quite fair of 
 you to ask me merely because you are afraid of people 
 talking. 
 
 Trench. It is not that alone, Blanche. 
 
 Blanche. What else is it, then.f^ 
 
 Trench. Nothing. I 
 
 Blanche {gettiiig behind him, and speaking with 
 
40 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 forced playfulness as she bends over him, her hands 
 on his shoulders^. Of course it's nothing. Now don't 
 be absurd^ Harry: be good; and listen to me: I know 
 how to settle it. You are too proud to owe anything 
 to me; and I am too proud to owe anything to you. 
 You have seven hundred a year. Well^ I will take 
 just seven hundred a year from papa at first; and then 
 we shall be quits. Now^ now^ Harry^ you know you 
 have not a word to say against that. 
 
 Trench. It's impossible. 
 
 Blanche. Impossible ! 
 
 Trench. Yes^ impossible. I have resolved not to 
 take any money from your father. 
 
 Blanche. But he will give the money to me: not 
 to you. 
 
 Trench. It's the same thing. {With an effort to 
 he sentimental.) I love you too well to see any dis- 
 tinction. {He puts up his hand half-heartedly: she 
 takes it over his shoulder with equal indecision. They 
 are both trying hard to conciliate one another,) 
 
 Blanche. That's a very nice way of putting it^ 
 Harry; but I am sure there is something I ought to 
 know. Has papa been disagreeable? 
 
 Trench. No: he has been very kind — to me^ at 
 least. It's not that. It's nothing you can guess, 
 Blanche. It would only pain you — perhaps offend you. 
 I don't mean_, of course, that we shall live always on 
 seven hundred a year. I intend to go at my profession 
 in earnest, and work my fingers to the bone. 
 
 Blanche (playing with his fingers, still over his 
 shoulder). But I shouldn't like you with your fingers 
 worked to the bone, Harry. I must be told what the 
 matter is. {He takes his hand quickly away; she 
 flushes angrily; and her voice is no longer even an imi- 
 tation of the voice of a lady as she exclaims,) I hate 
 secrets; and I don't like to be treated as if I were a 
 child. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 41 
 
 Trench {annoyed by her tone). There's nothing to 
 tell. I don't choose to trespass on your father's gen- 
 erosity: that's all. 
 
 Blanche. You had no objection half an hour ago, 
 when you met me in the hall, and showed me all the 
 letters. Your family doesn't object. Do you object.^ 
 
 Trench {earnestly), I do not indeed. It's only a 
 question of money. 
 
 Blanche (imploringly, the voice softening and refin- 
 ing for the last time), Harry: there's no use in our 
 fencing in this way. Papa will never consent to my 
 being absolutely dependent on you; and I don't like the 
 idea of it myself. If you even mention such a thing to 
 him you will break off the match: you will indeed. 
 
 Trench (obstinately), I can't help that. 
 
 Blanche (white with rage). You can't help ! 
 
 Oh, I'm beginning to understand. I will save you the 
 trouble. You can tell papa that I have broken off the 
 match; and then there will be no further difficulty. 
 
 Trench (taken aback). What do you mean, Blanche.^ 
 Are you offended.'* 
 
 Blanche. Offended! How dare you ask me? 
 
 Trench. Dare ! 
 
 Blanche. How much more manly it would have been 
 to confess that you were trifling with me that time on 
 the Rhine! Why did you come here to-day.^ Why did 
 you write to your people.^ 
 
 Trench. Well, Blanche, if you are going to lose your 
 temper 
 
 Blanche. That's no answer. You depended on your 
 family to get you out of your engagement; and they did 
 not object: they were only too glad to be rid of you. 
 You were not mean enough to stay away, and not manly 
 enough to tell the truth. You thought you could pro- 
 voke me to break the engagement: that is so like a man 
 — ^to try and put the woman in the wrong. Well, you 
 have your way: I release you. I wish you had opened 
 
42 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 my eyes by downright brutality — by striking me — by 
 anything rather than shuffling as you have done. 
 
 Trench (hotly). Shuffle! If I had thought you capa- 
 ble of turning on me like this^ I should never have spoken 
 to you. I have a good mind never to speak to you again. 
 
 Blanche. You shall not — ^not ever. I will take care 
 of that. (Going to the door,) 
 
 Trench (alarmed). What are you going to do.'* 
 
 Blanche. To get your letters — your false letters, 
 and your presents — your hateful presents, to return them 
 to you. I am very glad it is all broken off; and if — (as 
 she puts her hand to the door it is opened from rvithout 
 hy Sartorius, who enters and shuts it behind him.) 
 
 Sartorius (interrupting her severely). Hush, pray, 
 Blanche: you are forgetting yourself: you can be heard 
 all over the house. What is the matter? 
 
 Blanche (too angry to care whether she is overheard 
 or not). You had better ask him. He has some excuse 
 about money. 
 
 Sartorius. Excuse! Excuse for what? 
 
 Blanche. For throwing me over. 
 
 Trench (vehemently). I declare I never 
 
 Blanche (interrupting him still more vehemently). 
 
 You did. You did. You are doing nothing else 
 
 (Trench begins repeating his contradiction and she her 
 assertion; so that they both speak angrily together.) 
 
 Sartorius (in desperation at the noise). Silence. 
 (Still more formidably.) Silence. (They obey. He 
 proceeds firmly.) Blanche, you must control your tem- 
 per: I will not have these repeated scenes within hearing 
 of the servants. Dr. Trench will answer for himself to 
 me. You had better leave us. (He opens the door, and 
 calls) Mr. Cokane, will you kindly join us here. 
 
 CoKANE (in the conservatory). Coming, my dear sir, 
 coming. (He appears at the door.) 
 
 Blanche. I am sure I have no wish to stay. I hope 
 I shall find you alone when I come back. (An inarticu- 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 43 
 
 late exclamation bursts from Trench, She goes out, 
 passing Cokane resentfully. He looks after her in sur- 
 prise; then looks questioningly at the two men, Sar- 
 torius shuts the door with an angry stroke, and turns to 
 Trench,) 
 
 Sartorius (aggressively). Sir 
 
 Trench {interrupting him more aggressively). Well, 
 
 sir 
 
 Cokane (getting between them). Gently, dear boy, 
 gently. Suavity, Harry, suavity. 
 
 Sartorius (mastering himself). If you have any- 
 thing to say to me. Dr. Trench, I will listen to you 
 patiently. You will then allow me to say what I have 
 to say on my part. 
 
 Trench (ashamed). I beg your pardon. Of course, 
 yes. Fire away. 
 
 Sartorius. May I take it that you have refused to 
 fulfil your engagement with my daughter ? 
 
 Trench. Certainly not: your daughter has refused 
 to fulfil her engagement with me. But the match is 
 broken off, if that is what you mean. 
 
 Sartorius. Dr. Trench: I will be plain with you. I 
 know that Blanche has a strong temper. It is part of 
 her strong character and her physical courage, which is 
 greater than that of most men, I can assure you. You 
 must be prepared for that. If this quarrel is only 
 Blanche's temper you may take my word for it that it 
 will be over before to-morrow. But I understood from 
 what she said just now that you have made some diffi- 
 culty on the score of money. 
 
 Trench (with renewed excitement). It was Miss 
 Sartorius who made that difficulty. I shouldn't have 
 minded that so much, if it hadn't been for the things 
 she said. She showed that she doesn't care that (snap- 
 ping his fingers) for me. 
 
 Cokane (soothingly). Dear boy • 
 
 Trench. Hold your tongue, Billy: it's enough to 
 
44 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 make a man wish he'd never seen a woman. Look here, 
 Mr. Sartorius: I put the matter to her as delicately and 
 considerately as possible, never mentioning a word of 
 my reasons, but just asking her to be content to live on 
 my own little income; and yet she turned on me as if I 
 had behaved like a savage. 
 
 Sartorius. Live on your income! Impossible: my 
 daughter is accustomed to a proper establishment. Did 
 I not expressly undertake to provide for that.^ Did she 
 not tell you I promised her to do so? 
 
 Trench. Yes, I know all about that, Mr. Sartorius; 
 and I'm greatly obliged to you; but I'd rather not take 
 anything from you except Blanche herself. 
 
 Sartorius. And why did you not say so before? 
 
 Trench. No matter why. Let us drop the subject. 
 
 Sartorius. No matter! But it does matter, sir. I 
 insist on an answer. Why did you not say so before? 
 
 Trench. I didn't know before. 
 
 Sartorius (^provoked). Then you ought to have 
 known your own mind before entering into such a very 
 serious engagement. {He flings angrily away across the 
 room and hack,) 
 
 Trench {much injured), I ought to have known. 
 Cokane: is this reasonable? {Cokane's features are con- 
 torted by an air of judicial consideration; hut he says 
 nothing; and Trench, again addressing Sartorius, hut 
 with a marked diminution of respect, continues) How 
 the deuce could I have known? You didn't tell me. 
 
 Sartorius. You are trifling with me, sir. You say 
 that you did not know your own mind before. 
 
 Trench. I say nothing of the sort. I say that I did 
 not know where your money came from before. 
 
 Sartorius. That is not true, sir. I 
 
 CoKANE. Gently, my dear sir. Gently, Harry, dear 
 boy. Suaviter in modo: fort 
 
 Trench. Let him begin, then. What does he mean 
 by attacking me in this fashion? 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 45 
 
 Sartorius. Mr. Cokane: you will bear me out. I 
 was explicit on the point. I said I was a self-made 
 man; and I am not ashamed of it. 
 
 Trench. You are nothing of the sort. I found out 
 this morning from your man — Lickcheese^ or whatever 
 his confounded name is — that your fortune has been 
 made out of a parcel of unfortunate creatures that have 
 hardly enough to keep body and soul together — made by 
 screwing, and bullying, and driving, and all sorts of 
 pettifogging tyranny. 
 
 Sartorius (outraged). Sir! (They confront one an- 
 other threateningly,) 
 
 Cokane (softly). Rent must be paid, dear boy. It 
 is inevitable, Harry, inevitable. (Trench turns away 
 petulantly, Sartorius looks after him reflectively for a 
 moment; then resumes his former deliberate and digni- 
 fied manner, and addresses Trench with studied consid- 
 eration, hut with a perceptible condescension to his youth 
 and folly,) 
 
 Sartorius. I am afraid. Dr. Trench, that you are a 
 very young hand at business; and I am sorry I forgot 
 that for a moment or so. May I ask you to suspend your 
 judgment until we have a little quiet discussion of this 
 sentimental notion of yours ? — if you will excuse me for 
 calling it so. (He takes a chair, and motions Trench to 
 another on his right,) 
 
 Cokane. Very nicely put, my dear sir. Come, 
 Harry, sit down and listen; and consider the matter 
 calmly and judicially. Don't be headstrong. 
 
 Trench. I have no objection to sit down and listen; 
 but I don't see how that can make black white; and I 
 am tired of being turned on as if I were in the wrong. 
 (He sits down, Cokane sits at his elbow, on his right. 
 They compose themselves for a conference,) 
 
 Sartorius. I assume, to begin with. Dr. Trench, that 
 you are not a Socialist, or anything of that sort. 
 
 Trench. Certainly not. I am a Conservative — at 
 
46 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 least, if I ever took the trouble to vote^ I should vote 
 for the Conservative and against the other fellow. 
 
 CoKANE. True blue^ Harry^ true blue ! 
 
 Sartorius. I am glad to find that so far we are in 
 perfect sympathy. I am^ of course^ a Conservative; not 
 a narrow or prejudiced one^ I hope^ nor at all opposed 
 to true progress^ but still a sound Conservative. As to 
 Lickcheese^ I need say no more about him than that I 
 have dismissed him from my service this morning for a 
 breach of trust; and you will hardly accept his testimony 
 as friendly or disinterested. As to my business^ it is 
 simply to provide homes suited to the small means of 
 very poor people^ who require roofs to shelter them just 
 like other people. Do you suppose I can keep up these 
 roofs for nothing ! 
 
 Trench. Yes: that is all very fine; but the point is^ 
 what sort of homes do you give them for their money? 
 People must live somewhere^ or else go to jail. Advan- 
 tage is taken of that to make them pay for houses that 
 are not fit for dogs. Why don't you build proper dwell- 
 ings_, and give fair value for the money you take.'* 
 
 Sartorius {pitying his innocence). My young friend^ 
 these poor people do not know how to live in proper 
 dwellings : they would wreck them in a week. You doubt 
 me: try it for yourself. You are welcome to replace all 
 the missing banisters^ handrails^ cistern lids and dust- 
 hole tops at your own expense; and you will find them 
 missing again in less than three days — burnt^ sir, every 
 stick of them. I do not blame the poor creatures: they 
 need fires^ and often have no other way of getting them. 
 But I really cannot spend pound after pound in repairs 
 for them to pull down^ when I can barely get them to 
 pay me four and sixpence a week for a room^ which is 
 the recognized fair London rent. No^ gentlemen: when 
 people are very poor, you cannot help them, no matter 
 how much you may sympathize with them. It does them 
 more harm than good in the long run. I prefer to save 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 47 
 
 iry money in order to provide additional houses for the 
 homeless^ and to lay by a little for Blanche. {He looks 
 at ihem. They are silent: Trench unconvinced, hut 
 talked down; Cokane humanely perplexed. Sartorius 
 bends his brows; comes forrvard in his chair as if gather- 
 ing himself together for a spring; and addresses him- 
 self, with impressive significance, to Trench,) And now^ 
 Dr. Trench, may I ask what your income is derived 
 from ! 
 
 Trench (defiantly). From interest — ^not from 
 houses. My hands are clean as far as that goes. In- 
 terest on a mortgage. 
 
 Sartorius (forcibly). Yes: a mortgage on my prop- 
 erty. When I, to use your own words^ screw^ and buUy^ 
 and drive these people to pay what they have freely 
 xmdertaken to pay me, I cannot touch one penny of the 
 money they give me until I have first paid you your 
 ,£700 out of it. What Lickcheese did for me^ I do for 
 you. He and I are alike intermediaries: you are the 
 principal. It is because of the risks I run through the 
 poverty of my tenants that you exact interest from me 
 at the monstrous and exorbitant rate of seven per cent^ 
 forcing me to exact the uttermost farthing in my turn 
 from the tenants. And yet_, Dr. Trench^ you have not 
 hesitated to speak contemptuously of me because I have 
 applied my industry and forethought to the management 
 of our property, and am maintaining it by the same 
 honourable means. 
 
 Cokane (greatly relieved). Admirable, my dear sir, 
 excellent! I felt instinctively that Trench was talking 
 unpractical nonsense. Let us drop the subject, my dear 
 boy: you only make an ass of yourself when you meddle 
 in business matters. I told you it was inevitable. 
 
 Trench (dazed). Do you mean to say that I am 
 just as bad as you are.^ 
 
 Cokane. Shame, Harry, shame! Grossly bad taste! 
 Be a gentleman. Apologize. 
 
 m 
 
'^^^m: 
 
 48 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 Sartorius. Allow me^ Mr. Cokane. (To Trench.) 
 If^ when you say you are just as bad as I am^ you mean 
 that you are just as powerless to alter the state of so- 
 ciety^ then you are unfortunately quite right. {Trench 
 does not at once reply. He stares at Sartorius^ and then 
 hangs his head and gazes stupidly at the floor, morally 
 beggared, with his clasped knuckles between his knees, 
 a living picture of disillusion. Cokane comes sympa- 
 thetically to him and puts an encouraging hand on his 
 shoulder.) 
 
 Cokane (gently). Come^ Harry^ come! Pull your- 
 self together. You owe a word to Mr. Sartorius. 
 
 Trench (still stupefied, slowly unlaces his fingers; 
 puts his hands on his knees, and lifts himself upright; 
 pulls his waistcoat straight with a tug; and turns to Sar- 
 torius with an attempt to take his disenchantment philo- 
 sophically). Well^ people who live in glass houses have 
 no right to throw stones. But^ on my honour^ I never 
 knew that my house was a glass one until you pointed it 
 out. I beg your pardon. {He offers his hand.) 
 
 Sartorius. Say no more^ Harry: your feelings do 
 you credit : I assure you I feel exactly as you do^ myself. 
 Every man who has a heart must wish that a better 
 state of things was practicable. But unhappily it is 
 not. 
 
 Trench (a little consoled). I suppose not. 
 
 Cokane. Not a doubt of it^ my dear sir; not a doubt 
 of it. The increase of the population is at the bottom 
 of it all. 
 
 Sartorius {to Trench). I trust I have convinced you 
 that you need no more object to Blanche sharing my 
 fortune, than I need object to her sharing yours. 
 
 Trench {with dull wist fulness) . It seems so. We're 
 all in the same swim, it appears. I hope you will excuse 
 my making such a fuss. 
 
 Sartorius. Not another word. In fact, I thank you 
 for refraining from explaining the nature of your scru- 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 49 
 
 pies to Blanche: I admire that in you^ Harry. Perhaps 
 it will be as well to leave her in ignorance. 
 
 Trench {anxiously). But I must explain now. You 
 saw how angry she was. 
 
 Sartorius. You had better leave that to me. {He 
 looks at his watch, and rings the belL) Lunch is nearly 
 due: while you are getting ready for it I can see 
 Blanche; and I hope the result will be quite satisfactory 
 to us all. (The parlour maid answers the bell; he ad- 
 dresses her with his habitual peremptoi'iness. ) Tell Miss 
 Blanche I want her. 
 
 The Parlour Maid (her face falling expressively). 
 Yes, sir. (She turns reluctantly to go.) 
 
 Sartorius (on second thoughts) . Stop. (She stops,) 
 My love to Miss Blanche : and I am alone here and would 
 like to see her for a moment if she is not busy. 
 
 The Parlour Maid (relieved). Yes, sir. (She goes 
 out.) 
 
 Sartorius. I will show you your room, Harry. I 
 hope you will soon be perfectly at home in it. You also, 
 Mr. Cokane, must learn your way about here. Let us go 
 before Blanche comes. (He leads the way to the door,) 
 
 Cokane (cheerily, following him). Our little discus- 
 sion has given me quite an appetite. 
 
 Trench (moodily). It has taken mine away. (They 
 go out, Sartorius holding the door for them. He is fol- 
 lowing when the parlour maid reappears. She is a sniv- 
 elling, sympathetic creature, and is on the verge of tears,) 
 
 Sartorius. Well, is Miss Blanche coming.^ 
 
 The Parlour Maid. Yes, sir. I think so, sir. 
 
 Sartorius. Wait here until she comes; and tell her 
 that I will be back in a moment. 
 
 The Parlour Maid. Yes, sir. (She comes into the 
 room, Sartorius looks suspiciously at her as she passes 
 him. He half closes the door and follows her,) 
 
 Sartorius (lowering his voice). What is the matter 
 with you? 
 
50 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 The Parlour Maid (whimpering). Nothings sir. 
 
 Sartorius {at the same pitch, more menacingly). 
 Take care how you behave yourself when there are visi- 
 tors present. Do you hear.^ 
 
 The Parlour Maid. Yes^ sir. {Sartorius goes out.) 
 
 Sartorius {outside). Excuse me: I had a word to say 
 to the servant. {Trench is heard replying, '' Not at all/' 
 Cokane '' Don't mention it, my dear sir," The murmur 
 of their voices passes out of hearing. The parlour maid 
 sniffs; dries her eyes; goes to one of the bookcases ; and 
 takes some brown paper and a ball of string from a 
 drawer. She puts them on the table and wrestles with 
 another sob, Blanche comes in, with a jewel box in her 
 hands. Her expression is that of a strong and deter- 
 mined woman in an intense passion. The maid looks at 
 her with a mixture of abject wounded affection and 
 bodily terror,) 
 
 Blanche {looking around), Where's my father.'* 
 
 The Parlour Maid {tremulously propitiatory). He 
 left word he'd be back directly^ miss. I'm sure he won't 
 be long. Here's the paper and string all ready^ miss. 
 {She spreads the paper on the table,) Can I do the 
 parcel for you, miss.'* 
 
 Blanche. No. Mind your own business. {She emp- 
 ties the box on the sheet of brown paper. It contains a 
 packet of letters, a ring, and a set of gold bangles. At 
 sight of them she has a paroxysm of passion, which she 
 relieves by dashing the box to the floor. The maid sub- 
 missively picks it up and puts it on the table, again sniff- 
 ing and drying her eyes.) What are you crying for? 
 
 The Parlour Maid {plaintively). You speak so 
 brutal to me. Miss Blanche; and I do love you so. I'm 
 sure no one else would stay and put up with what I have 
 to put up with. 
 
 Blanche. Then go. I don't want you. Do you 
 hear. Go. 
 
 The Parlour Maid {piteously, falling on her knees). 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 51 
 
 Oh no^ Miss Blanche. Don't send me away from you: 
 don't 
 
 Blanche {with fierce disgust). Agh! I hate the 
 sight of you. (The maid, wounded to the heart, cries 
 bitterly,) Hold your tongue. Are those two gentlemen 
 gone } 
 
 The Parlour Maid (weeping). Oh, how could you 
 say such a thing to me, Miss Blanche — me that 
 
 Blanche (seizing her by the hair and throat). Stop 
 that noise, I tell you, unless you want me to kill you. 
 
 The Parlour Maid (protesting and imploring, but in 
 a carefully subdued voice). Let me go. Miss Blanche: 
 you know you'll be sorry: you always are. Remember 
 how dreadfully my head was cut last time. 
 
 Blanche (raging). Answer me, will you? Have 
 they gone? 
 
 The Parlour Maid. Lickcheese has gone, looking 
 
 dreadf— (she breaks off with a stifled cry as Blanche's 
 
 fingers tighten furiously on her.) 
 
 Blanche. Did I ask you about Lickcheese? You 
 beast : you know who I mean : you're doing it on purpose. 
 
 The Parlour Maid (in a gasp). They're staying to 
 limch. 
 
 Blanche (looking intently into her face). He? 
 
 The Parlour Maid (whispering with a sympathetic 
 nod). Yes, miss. (Blanche slowly releases her and 
 stands upright with clenched fists and set face. The par- 
 lour maid, recognizing the passing of the crisis of passion 
 and fearing no further violence, sits discomfitedly on her 
 heels, and tries to arrange her hair and cap, whimpering 
 a little with exhaustion and soreness.) Now you've set 
 my hands all trembling; and I shall jingle the things on 
 the tray at lunch so that everybody will notice me. It's 
 too bad of you. Miss Bl — (Sartorius coughs outside.) 
 
 Blanche (quickly). Sh! Get up. (The parlour 
 m,aid hastily gets up, and goes out as demurely as she 
 can, passing Sartorius on her way to the door. He 
 
52 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 glances sternly at her and comes to Blanche, The par- 
 lour maid shuts the door softly behind her.) 
 
 Sartorius {mournfully). My dear: can you not make 
 a little better fight with your temper? 
 
 Blanche {panting rvith the subsidence of her fit), 
 No_, I can't. I won't. I do my best. Nobody who really 
 cares for me gives me up because of my temper. I never 
 show my temper to any of the servants but that girl; 
 and she is the only one that will stay with us. 
 
 Sartorius. But^ my dear^ remember that we have to 
 meet our visitors at luncheon presently. I have run down 
 before them to say that I have arranged that little diffi- 
 culty with Trench. It was only a piece of mischief 
 made by Lickcheese. Trench is a young fool; but it is 
 all right now. 
 
 Blanche. I don't want to marry a fool. 
 
 Sartorius. Then you will have to take a husband 
 over thirty^ Blanche. You must not expect too much, 
 my child. You will be richer than your husband^ and^ I 
 think^ cleverer too. I am better pleased that it should 
 be so. 
 
 Blanche {seizing his arm). Papa. 
 
 Sartorius. Yes^ my dear. 
 
 Blanche. May I do as I like about this marriage; or 
 must I do as you like? 
 
 Sartorius {uneasily). Blanche 
 
 Blanche. No^ papa; you must answer me. 
 
 Sartorius {abandoning his self-control, and giving 
 rvay recklessly to his affection for her). You shall do 
 as you like now and always^ my beloved child. I only 
 wish to do as my own darling pleases. 
 
 Blanche. Then I will not marry him. He has 
 played fast and loose with me. He thinks us beneath 
 him^ he is ashamed of us; he dared to object to being 
 benefited by you — as if it were not natural for him to 
 owe you everything; and yet the money tempted him 
 after all. {Suddenly throwing her arms hysterically 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 53 
 
 about his neck.) Papa^ I don't want to marry: I only 
 want to stay with you and be happy as we have always 
 been. I hate the thought of being married: I don't 
 care for him: I don't want to leave you. {Trench and 
 Cokane return; but she can hear nothing hut her owni 
 voice and does not notice them,) Only send him away: 
 promise me that you will send him away and keep me 
 here with you as we have always — {seeing Trench,) 
 Oh! {She hides her face on her father's breast,) 
 
 Trench {nervously), I hope we are not intruding. 
 
 Sartorius {formidably). Dr. Trench: my daughter 
 has changed her mind. 
 
 Trench {disconcerted). Am I to understand 
 
 Cokane {striking in in his most vinegary manner). I 
 think_, Harry, under the circumstances_, we have no al- 
 ternative but to seek luncheon elsewhere. 
 
 Trench. But, Mr. Sartorius, have you explained 
 
 Sartorius {straight in Trench's face). I have ex- 
 plained, sir. Good morning. ( Trench, outraged, ad- 
 vances a step. Blanche sinks away from her father 
 into a chair. Sartorius stands his ground rigidly.) 
 
 Trench {turning away indignantly). Come on, 
 Cokane. 
 
 Cokane. Certainly, Harry, certainly. {Trench goes 
 out, very angry. The parlour maid, with a tray jingling 
 in her hands, passes outside.) You have disappointed 
 me, sir, very acutely. Good morning. {He follows 
 Trench, ) 
 
 END OF act n. 
 
ACT III 
 
 The drawing-room in Sartorius's house in Bedford 
 Square, Winter evening: fire burning, curtains drawn 
 and lamps lighted, Sartorius and Blanche are sitting 
 glumly near the fire. The Parlour Maidj who has just 
 brought in coffee, is placing it on a small table between 
 them. There is a large table in the middle of the room. 
 The pianoforte, a grand, is on the left, with a photo- 
 graphic portrait of Blanche on a miniature easel on the 
 top. Two doors, one on the right further forward than 
 the fireplace, leading to the study; the other at the back, 
 on the left, leading to the lobby, Blanche has her work 
 basket at hand, and is knitting, Sartorius, closer to the 
 firCy has a newspaper. The Parlour Maid goes out. 
 
 Sartorius. Blanche^ my love. 
 
 Blanche. Yes. 
 
 Sartorius. I had a long talk to the doctor to-day 
 about our going abroad. 
 
 Blanche (impatiently), I am quite well; and I will 
 not go abroad. I loathe the very thought of the Con- 
 tinent. Why will you bother me so about my health? 
 
 Sartorius. It was not about your healthy Blanche^ 
 but about my own. 
 
 Blanche (rising). Yours! (^She goes anxiously to 
 him,) Oh^ papa^ there is nothing the matter with you^ 
 I hope.^ 
 
 Sartorius. There will be — there must be^ Blanche^ 
 long before you begin to consider yourself an old woman. 
 
 Blanche. But there is nothing the matter now.^ 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 55 
 
 Sartorius. Well^ my dear^ the doctor says I need 
 change^ travel^ excitement 
 
 Blanche. Excitement ! You need excitement ! (She 
 laughs joylessly, and sits down on the rug at his feet,) 
 How is itj, papa_, that you^ who are so clever with every- 
 body else_, are not a bit clever with me? Do you think 
 I can't see through your little plan to take me abroad? 
 Since I will not be the invalid and allow you to be the 
 nurse, you are to be the invalid and I am to be the 
 nurse. 
 
 Sartorius. Well, Blanche, if you will have it that 
 you are well and have nothing preying on your spirits, 
 I must insist on being ill and have something preying 
 on mine. And indeed, my girl, there is no use in our 
 going on as we have for the last four months. You have 
 not been happy; and I have been far from comfort- 
 able. (Blanche's face clouds: she turns away from him 
 and sits dumb and brooding. He waits in vain for some 
 reply; then adds in a lower tone) Need you be so in- 
 flexible, Blanche? 
 
 Blanche (pained and rigid), I thought you ad- 
 mired inflexibility: you have always prided yourself 
 on it. 
 
 Sartorius. Nonsense, my dear, nonsense. I have 
 had to give in often enough. And I could show you 
 plenty of soft fellows who have done as well as I, 
 and enjoyed themselves more, perhaps. If it is only 
 for the sake of inflexibility that you are standing 
 out 
 
 Blanche. I am not standing out. I don't know 
 what you mean. (She tries to rise and go away,) 
 
 Sartorius (catching her arm and arresting her on 
 her knees). Come, my child: you must not trifle with 
 me as if I were a stranger. You are fretting be- 
 
 Blanche (violently twisting herself free and speak- 
 ing as she rises). If you say it, papa, I will kill my- 
 
56 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 self. It is not true. If he were here on his knees 
 to-night_, I would walk out of the house sooner than en- 
 dure it. {She goes out excitedly, Sartorius, greatly 
 troubled, turns again to the 'fire with a heavy sigh J) 
 
 Sartorius {gazing gloomily into the glorv). Now if 
 I fight it out with her^ no more comfort for months ! I 
 might as well live with my clerk or my servant. And 
 if I give in now^ I shall have to give in always. Well^ 
 I can't help it. I have stuck to having my own way all 
 my life ; but there must be an end to that drudgery some 
 day. She is young: let her have her turn at it. {The 
 parlour maid comes in.) 
 
 The Parlour Maid. Please sir^ Mr. Lickcheese 
 wants to see you very particular. On important business 
 — your business^ he told me to say. 
 
 Sartorius. Mr. Lickcheese ! Do you mean Lick- 
 cheese who used to come here on my business.^ 
 
 The Parlour Maid. Yes, sir. But indeed, sir, you'd 
 scarcely know him. 
 
 Sartorius {frorvning). Hm ! Starving, I suppose. 
 Come to beg.^ 
 
 The Parlour Maid {intensely repudiating the idea). 
 O-o-o-o-h NO, sir. Quite the gentleman, sir! Sealskin 
 overcoat, sir ! Come in a hansom, all shaved and clean ! 
 I'm sure he's come into a fortune, sir. 
 
 Sartorius. Hm! Show him up. 
 
 {Lickcheese, rvho has been rvaiting at the door, in- 
 stantly comes in. The change in his appearance is 
 dazzling. He is in evening dress, with an overcoat lined 
 throughout with furs presenting all the hues of the tiger. 
 His shirt is fastened at the breast with a single dia- 
 mond stud. His silk hat is of the glossiest black; a 
 handsome gold watch chain hangs like a garland on his 
 filled out waistcoat; he has shaved his whiskers and 
 grown a moustache, the ends of which are waxed and 
 pointed. As Sartorius stares speechless at him, he 
 stands, smiling, to be admired, intensely enjoying the 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 57 
 
 effect he is producing. The parlour maid, hardly less 
 pleased rvith her own share in this coup-de-thedtre , goes 
 out beaming, full of the news for the kitchen. Lick- 
 cheese clinches the situation by a triumphant nod at 
 Sartorius, ) 
 
 Sartorius {bracing himself — hostile). Well? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Quite well^ Sartorius^ thankee. 
 
 Sartorius. I was not asking after your healthy sir^ 
 as you know, I think, as well as I do. What is your 
 business ? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Business that I can take elsewhere if I 
 meet with less civility than I please to put up with, 
 Sartorius. You and me is man and man now. It was 
 money that used to be my master, and not you, don't 
 think it. Now that I'm independent in respect of 
 money 
 
 Sartorius (crossing determinedly to the door, and 
 holding it open). You can take your independence out 
 of my house, then. I won't have it here. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE {indulgently). Come, Sartorius, don't 
 be stiiFnecked. I come her as a friend to put money in 
 your pocket. No use in your lettin' on to me that you're 
 above money. Eh.^ 
 
 Sartorius (hesitates, and at last shuts the door, say- 
 ing guardedly). How much money? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE (victorious, going to Blanche's chair and 
 beginning to take off his overcoat). Ah! there you 
 speak like yourself, Sartorius. Now suppose you ask 
 me to sit down and make myself comfortable. 
 
 Sartorius (coming from the door), I have a mind 
 to put you downstairs by the back of your neck, you in- 
 fernal blackguard. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE (not a bit ruffled, takes off his overcoat 
 and hangs it on the back of Blanche's chair, pulling a 
 cigar case out of one of his pockets as he does so). You 
 and me is too much of a pair for me to take anything 
 you say in bad part, Sartorius. 'Ave a cigar. 
 
58 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 Sartorius. No smoking here: this is my daughter's 
 room. However^ sit down^ sit down. {They sit,) 
 
 LicKCHEESE. I' bin gittin' orn a little since I saw 
 you last. 
 
 Sartorius. So I see. 
 
 Lick CHEESE. I owe it partly to you, you know. Does 
 that surprise you? 
 
 Sartorius. It doesn't concern me. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. So you think, Sartorius, because it 
 never did concern you how / got on, so long as I got 
 you on by bringing in the rents. But I picked up some- 
 thing for myself down at Robbins's Row. 
 
 Sartorius. I always thought so. Have you come to 
 make restitution? 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. You wouldu't take it if I offered it to 
 you, Sartorius. It wasn't money: it was knowledge — 
 knowledge of the great public question of the Housing 
 of the Working Classes. You know there's a Royal 
 Commission on it, don't you? 
 
 Sartorius. Oh, I see. You've been giving evidence. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Giving evidence! Not me. What 
 good would that do me! Only my expenses; and that 
 not on the professional scale, neither. No: I gev no 
 evidence. But I'll tell you what I did. I kep' it back, 
 just to oblige one or two people whose feelings would 
 have been hurt by seeing their names in a bluebook as 
 keeping a fever den. Their Agent got so friendly with 
 me over it that he put his name on a bill of mine to the 
 tune of — well, no matter: it gave me a start; and a 
 start was all I ever wanted to get on my feet. I've 
 got a copy of the first report of the Commission in the 
 pocket of my overcoat. (He rises and gets at his over- 
 coat, from a pocket of rvhich he takes a bluebooJc.) I 
 turned down the page to show you: I thought you'd 
 like to see it. {He doubles the book back at the place 
 indicated, and hands it to Sartorius,) 
 
 Sartorius. So blackmail is the game, eh ? {He puts 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 59 
 
 the book on the table without looking at it, and strikes 
 it emphatically with his fist.) I don't care that for 
 my name being in bluebooks. My friends don't read 
 them; and I'm neither a Cabinet Minister nor a candi- 
 date for Parliament. There's nothing to be got out of 
 me on that lay. 
 
 LicKCHEESE (shocked). Blackmail! Oh^ Mr. Sar- 
 torius^, do you think I would let out a word about your 
 premises ? Round on an old pal ! no : that ain't Lick- 
 cheese's way. Besides, they know all about you already. 
 Them stairs that you and me quarrelled about, they was 
 a whole afternoon examining the clergyman that made 
 such a fuss — you remember } — about the women that was 
 hurt on it. He made the worst he could of it, in an 
 ungentlemanly, unchristian spirit. I wouldn't have that 
 clergyman's disposition for worlds. Oh no: that's not 
 what was in my thoughts. 
 
 Sartorius. Come, come, man: what was in your 
 thoughts.'* Out with it. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE (with provoking deliberation, smiling 
 and looking mysteriously at him). You ain't spent a 
 few hundreds in repairs since we parted, have you.^ 
 {Movement of impatience from Sartorius: Lickcheese 
 goes on soothingly,) Now don't fly out at me. I know 
 a landlord that owned as beastly a slum as you could 
 find in London, down there by the Tower. By my ad- 
 vice that man put half the houses into first-class repair, 
 and let the other half to a new Company — ^the North 
 Thames Iced Mutton Depot Company, of which I held 
 a few shares — promoters' shares. And what was the 
 end of it, do you think? 
 
 Sartorius. Smash! I suppose. 
 
 Lickcheese. Smash! not a bit of it. Compensa- 
 tion, Mr. Sartorius, compensation. Do you understand 
 that.^ 
 
 Sartorius. Compensation for what? 
 
 Lickcheese. Why, the land was wanted for an ex- 
 
60 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 tension of the Mint; and the Company had to be bought 
 out^ and the buildings compensated for. Somebody has 
 to know these things beforehand,, you know^ no matter 
 how dark they're kept. 
 
 Sartorius (interested, but cautious). Well? 
 
 Lick CHEESE. Is that all you have to say to me^ Mr. 
 Sartorius ? " Well " ! as if I was next door's dog ! Sup- 
 pose I'd got wind of a new street that would knock down 
 Robbins's Row and turn Burke's Walk into a frontage 
 worth thirty pounds a foot! — would you say no more to 
 me than (mimicking) " Well " ? (^Sartorius hesitates, 
 looking at him in great doubt: Lickcheese rises and ex- 
 hibits himself,) Come^ look at my get-up^ Mr. Sar- 
 torius. Look at this watchchain ! Look at the cor- 
 poration I've got on me ! Do you think all that came 
 from keeping my mouth shut.^ No^ it came from keep- 
 ing my ears and eyes open. (^Blanche comes in, fol- 
 lowed by the parlour maid, who has a silver tray on 
 which she collects the coffee cups. Sartorius, impatient 
 at the interruption, rises and motions Lickcheese to the 
 door of the study.) 
 
 Sartorius. Sh. We must talk this over in the study. 
 There is a good fire there^ and you can smoke. Blanche : 
 an old friend of ours. 
 
 Lickcheese. And a kind one to me. I hope I see 
 you well^ Miss Blanche. 
 
 Blanche. Why it's Mr. Lickcheese ! I hardly knew 
 you. 
 
 Lickcheese. I find you a little changed j^ourself^ 
 miss. 
 
 Blanche (hastily). Oh^ I am the same as ever. 
 How are Mrs. Lickcheese and the chil 
 
 Sartorius (impatiently). We have business to trans- 
 act^ Blanche. You can talk to Mr. Lickcheese after- 
 wards. Come on. (Sartorius and Lickcheese go into 
 the study. Blanche, surprised at her father's abrupt- 
 ness, looks after them for a moment. Then, seeing Lick- 
 
Act ni Widowers' Houses 61 
 
 cheese's overcoat on her chair, she takes it up, amused, 
 and looks at the fur,) 
 
 The Parlour Maid. Oh^ we are fine^ ain't we^ Miss 
 Blanche? I think Mr. Lickcheese must have come into 
 a legacy. {Confidentially,) I wonder what he can want 
 with the master^ Miss Blanche! He brought him this 
 big book. {She shows the bluehook to Blanche.) 
 
 Blanche (her curiosity roused — taking the book). 
 Let me see. {She looks at it,) There's something about 
 papa in it. {She sits down and begins to read,) 
 
 The Parlour Maid {folding the tea-table and put- 
 ting it out of the way). He looks ever so much younger^ 
 Miss Blanche^ don't he. I couldn't help laughing when 
 I saw him with his whiskers shaved off: it do look so 
 silly when you're not accustomed to it. {No answer 
 from Blanche,) You haven't finished your coffee^ miss: 
 I suppose I may take it away. {No answer,) Oh^ you 
 are interested in Mr. Lickcheese's book^ miss. {Blanche 
 springs up. The parlour maid looks at her face, and 
 instantly hurries out of the room on tiptoe with her 
 tray,) 
 
 Blanche. So that was why he would not touch the 
 money. {She tries to tear the book across; but that is 
 impossible; and she throws it violently into the fireplace. 
 It falls into the fender,) Oh^ if only a girl could have 
 no father^ no family^ j ust as I have no mother ! Clergy- 
 man ! — beast ! " The worst slum landlord in London." 
 *' Slum landlord." Oh ! {She covers her face with her 
 hands and sinks shuddering into the chair on which the 
 overcoat lies. The study door opens,) 
 
 Lickcheese {in the study). You just wait five min- 
 utes. I'll fetch him. {Blanche snatches a piece of work 
 from her basket and sits erect and quiet, stitching at it, 
 Lickcheese comes back, speaking to Sartorius, who fol- 
 lows him,) He lodges round the corner in Gower Street; 
 and my private 'ansom's at the door. By your leave. 
 Miss Blanche {pulling gently at his overcoat,) 
 
62 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 Blanche (rising). I beg your pardon. I hope I 
 haven't crushed it. 
 
 LicKCHEESE (with the coat on). You're welcome to 
 crush it again now. Miss Blanche. Don't say good 
 evening to me, miss: I'm coming back, presently — me 
 and a friend or two. Ta, ta, Sartorius : I shan't be long. 
 (He goes out, Sartorius looJcs about for the bluebook,) 
 
 Blanche. I thought we were done with Lickcheese. 
 
 Sartorius. Not quite yet, I think. He left a book 
 here for me to look over — a large book in a blue paper 
 cover. Has the girl put it away.'^ (He sees it in the 
 fender; looks at Blanche; and adds,) Have you seen it! 
 
 Blanche. No. Yes. (Angrily,) No, I have not 
 seen it. What have I to do with it! (^Sartorius picks 
 the book up and dusts it; then sits down quietly to read. 
 After a glance up and down the columns, he nods as- 
 sentingly, as if he found there exactly what he ex- 
 pected,) 
 
 Sartorius. It's a curious thing, Blanche, that the 
 Parliamentary gentlemen who write such books as these, 
 should be so ignorant of practical business. One would 
 suppose, to read this, that we are the most grasping, 
 grinding, heartless pair in the world, you and I. 
 
 Blanche. Is it not true — about the state of the 
 houses, I mean? 
 
 Sartorius (calmly). Oh, quite true. 
 
 Blanche. Then is it not our fault .^ 
 
 Sartorius. My dear, if we made the houses any bet- 
 ter, the rents would have to be raised so much that the 
 poor people would be unable to pay, and would be thrown 
 homeless on the streets. 
 
 Blanche. Well, turn them out and get in a respect- 
 able class of people. Why should we have the disgrace 
 of harbouring such wretches? 
 
 Sartorius (opening his eyes). That sounds a little 
 hard on them, doesn't it, my child? 
 
 Blanche. Oh, I hate the poor. At least, I hate 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 63 
 
 those dirty^ drunken^ disreputable people who live like 
 pigs. If they must be provided for^ let other people 
 look after them^ How can you expect any one to think 
 well of us when such things are written about us in that 
 infamous book? 
 
 Sartorius (^coldly and a little wistfully^, I see I 
 have made a real lady of you^ Blanche. 
 
 Blanche (defiantly). Well^ are you sorry for that? 
 
 Sartorius. No^ my dear^ of course not. But do you 
 know^ Blanche^ that my mother was a very poor woman^ 
 and that her poverty was not her fault? 
 
 Blanche. I suppose not; but the people we want to 
 mix with now don't know that. And it was not my 
 fault; so I don't see why I should be made to suffer 
 for it. 
 
 Sartorius (enraged). Who makes you suffer for it, 
 miss ? What would you be now but for what your grand- 
 mother did for me when she stood at her wash-tub for 
 thirteen hours a day and thought herself rich when she 
 made fifteen shillings a week? 
 
 Blanche (angrily), I suppose I should have been 
 down on her level instead of being raised above it, as 
 I am now. Would you like us to go and live in that 
 place in the book for the sake of grandmamma? I hate 
 the idea of such things. I don't want to know about 
 them. I love you because you brought me up to some- 
 thing better. (Half aside, as she turns away from him,) 
 I should hate you if you had not. 
 
 Sartorius (giving in). Well, my child, I suppose 
 it is natural for you to feel that way, after your bring- 
 ing up. It is the ladylike view of the matter. So don't 
 let us quarrel, my girl. You shall not be made to suffer 
 any more. I have made up my mind to improve the 
 property, and get in quite a new class of tenants. 
 There! does that satisfy you? I am only waiting for 
 the consent of the ground landlord. Lady Roxdale. 
 
 Blanche. Lady Roxdale! 
 
64 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 Sartorius. Yes. But I shall expect the mortgagee 
 to take his share of the risk. 
 
 Blanche. The mortgagee ! Do you mean- (She 
 
 cannot finish the sentence: Sartorius does it for her,) 
 
 Sartorius. Harry Trench. Yes. And remember, 
 Blanche: if he consents to join me in the scheme, I shall 
 have to be friends with him. 
 
 Blanche. And to ask him to the house .^ 
 
 Sartorius. Only on business. You need not meet 
 him unless you like. 
 
 Blanche (overrvhelmed). When is he coming? 
 
 Sartorius. There is no time to be lost. Lickcheese 
 has gone to ask him to come round. 
 
 Blanche {in dismay). Then he will be here in a 
 few minutes ! What shall I do ? 
 
 SiARTORius. I advise you to receive him as if nothing 
 had happened, and then go out and leave us to our 
 business. You are not afraid to meet him? 
 
 Blanche. Afraid ! No, most certainly not. But 
 
 (Lickcheese's voice is heard rvithout). Here they 
 
 are. Don't say I'm here, papa. (She rushes away into 
 the study. Lickcheese comes in with Trench and Co- 
 kane, Cokane shakes hands effusively with Sartorius, 
 Trench, who is coarsened and sullen, and has evidently 
 not been making the best of his disappointment, bows 
 shortly and resentfully. Lickcheese covers the embar- 
 rassment of the position by talking cheerfully until they 
 are all seated round the large table. Trench on the right, 
 Cokane on the left; the other two between them, with 
 Lickcheese next to Cokane.) 
 
 Lickcheese. Here we are, all friends round St. 
 Paul's. You remember Mr. Cokane: he does a little 
 business for me now as a friend, and gives me a help 
 with my correspondence — sekketary we call it. I've no 
 litery style, and that's the truth; so Mr. Cokane kindly 
 puts it into my letters and draft prospectuses and adver- 
 tisements and the like. Don't you, Cokane? Of course 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 65 
 
 you do: why shouldn't you? He's been helping me to- 
 night to persuade his old friend^ Dr. Trench^ about the 
 matter we were speaking of. 
 
 CoKANE {austerely) , No^ Mr. Lickcheese^ not trying 
 to persuade him. No: this is a matter of principle with 
 me. I say it is your duty^ Henry — your duty — ^to put 
 those abominable buildings into proper and habitable 
 repair. As a man of science you owe it to the com- 
 munity to perfect the sanitary arrangements. In ques- 
 tions of duty there is no room for persuasion_, even from 
 the oldest friend. 
 
 Sartorius {to Trench). I certainly feel^ as Mr. Co- 
 kane puts it^ that it is our duty: one which I have 
 perhaps too long neglected out of regard for the poor- 
 est class of tenants. 
 
 LicKCHEESE. Not a doubt of it^ gents^ a dootjk I 
 can be as sharp as any man when it's a question of 
 business; but dooty's another thing. 
 
 Trench. Well^ I don't see that it is any more my 
 duty now than it was four months ago. I look at it , 
 simply as a question of so much money. 
 
 CoKANE. Shame^ Harry^ shame! Shame! 
 
 Trench. Oh^ shut up^ you fool. {Cohane springs 
 up. Lick cheese catches his coat and holds him.) 
 
 LicKCHEESE. Steady^ steady^ Mr. Sekketary. Dr. 
 Trench is only joking. 
 
 CoKANE. I insist on the withdrawal of that expres- 
 sion. I have been called a fool. 
 
 Trench {morosely). So you are a fool. 
 
 CoKANE. Then you are a damned fool. Now^ sir ! 
 
 Trench. All right. Now we've settled that. {Co- 
 hane, with a snort J sits down.) What I mean is this. 
 Don't let's have any nonsense about this job. As I un- 
 derstand it^ Robbins's Row is to be pulled down to make 
 way for the new street into the Strand; and the straight 
 tip now is to go for compensation. 
 
 LicKCHEESE {chuckling). That's so^ Dr. Trench. 
 That's it. 
 
66 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 Trench (continuing). Well^ it appears that the 
 dirtier a place is^ the more rent you get; and the de- 
 center it is^ the more compensation you get. So we're 
 to give up dirt and go in for decency. 
 
 Sartorius. I should not put it exactly in that way; 
 but 
 
 CoKANE. Quite rights Mr. Sartorius^ quite right. 
 The case could not have been stated with worse taste or 
 with less tact. 
 
 LicKCHEESE. Sh-sh-sh-sh ! 
 
 Sartorius. I do not quite go with you there^ Mr. 
 Cokane. Dr. Trench puts the case frankly as a man of 
 business. I take the wider view of a public man. We 
 live in a progressive age; and humanitarian ideas are 
 advancing and must be taken into account. But my 
 practical conclusion is the same as his. I should hardly 
 feel justified in making a large claim for compensation 
 under existing circumstances. 
 
 LicKCHEESE. Of course not: and you wouldn't get 
 it if you did. You see^ it's like this^ Dr. Trench. 
 There's no doubt that the Vestries has legal powers to 
 play old Harry with slum properties^ and spoil the 
 housenacking game if they please. That didn't matter 
 in the good old times^ because the Vestries used to be 
 ourselves. Nobody ever knew a word about the elec- 
 tion; and we used to get ten of us into a room and elect 
 one another^ and do what we liked. Well^ that cock 
 won't fight any longer; and^ to put it short, the game is 
 up for men in the position of you and Mr. Sartorius. 
 My advice to you is, take the present chance of get- 
 ting out of it. Spend a little money on the block at 
 the Cribbs Market end — enough to make it look like 
 a model dwelling; and let the other block to me on fair 
 terms for a depot of the North Thames Iced Mutton 
 Company. They'll be knocked down inside of two year 
 to make room for the new north and south main thor- 
 oughfare; and you'll be compensated to the tune of 
 
Act in AVidowers' Houses 67 
 
 double the present valuation^ with the cost of the im- 
 provements thrown in. Leave things as they are; and 
 you stand a good chance of being fined^ or condemned^ 
 or pulled down before long. Now's your time. 
 
 CoKANE. Hear^ hear ! Hear^ hear ! Hear, hear ! 
 Admirably put from the business point of view! I rec- 
 ognize the uselessness of putting the moral point of view 
 to you. Trench; but even you must feel the cogency of 
 Mr. Lickcheese's business statement. 
 
 Trench. But why can't you act without me? What 
 have I got to do with it ? I am only a mortgagee. 
 
 Sartorius. There is a certain risk in this compensa- 
 tion investment, Dr. Trench. The County Council may 
 alter the line of the new street. If that happens, the 
 money spent in improving the houses will be thrown 
 away — simply thrown away. Worse than thrown away, 
 in fact; for the new buildings may stand unlet or half 
 let for years. But you will expect your seven per cent 
 as usual. 
 
 Trench. A man must live. 
 
 CoKANE. Je n'en vois pas la necessite. 
 
 Trench. Shut up, Billy; or else speak some lan- 
 guage you understand. No, Mr. Sartorius: I should be 
 very glad to stand in with you if I could afford it; 
 but I can't; so there's an end of that. 
 
 Lickcheese. Well, all I can say is that you're a 
 very foolish young man. 
 
 CoKANE. What did I tell you, Harry .^^ 
 
 Trench. I don't see that it's any business of yours, 
 Mr. Lickcheese. 
 
 Lickcheese. It's a free country: every man has a 
 right to his opinion. {Cokane cries Hear, hear!) Come, 
 where's your feelings for them poor people. Dr. Trench.^ 
 Remember how it went to your heart when I first told 
 you about them. What! are you going to turn hard.'* 
 
 Trench. No: it won't do: you can't get over me that 
 way. You proved to me before that there was no use 
 
68 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 in being sentimental over that slum shop of ours; and 
 it's no good your turning round on the philanthropic 
 tack now that you want me to put my capital into 
 your speculation. I've had my lesson; and I'm going 
 to stick to my present income. It's little enough for me 
 as it is. 
 
 Sartorius. It really matters nothing to me^ Dr. 
 Trench^ how you decide. I can easily raise the money 
 elsewhere and pay you off. Then^ since you are re- 
 solved to run no risks^ you can invest your <£ 10^000 in 
 Consols and get £250 a year for it instead of ,£700. 
 {Trench, completely outwitted, stares at them in con- 
 sternation, Cohane breaks the silence.^ 
 
 CoKANE. This is what comes of being avaricious^ 
 Harry. Two thirds of your income gone at one blow. 
 And I must say it serves you right. 
 
 Trench. That's all very fine; but I don't under- 
 stand it. If you can do this to me, why didn't you do 
 it long ago.f* 
 
 Sartorius. Because^ as I should probably have had 
 to borrow at the same rate, I should have saved nothing ; 
 whereas you would have lost over <£400- — a very serious 
 matter for you. I had no desire to be unfriendly; and 
 even now I should be glad to let the mortgage stand, 
 were it not that the circumstances mentioned by Mr. 
 Lickcheese force my hand. Besides, Dr. Trench, I 
 hoped for some time that our interests might be joined 
 by closer ties even than those of friendship. 
 
 Lickcheese {jumping up, relieved). There! Now 
 the murder's out. Excuse me. Dr. Trench. Ex-cuse 
 me, Mr. Sartorius: excuse my freedom. Why not Dr. 
 Trench marry Miss Blanche, and settle the whole affair 
 that way? {Sensation, Lickcheese sits down trium- 
 phant,) 
 
 Cokane. You forget, Mr. Lickcheese^ that the young 
 lady, whose taste has to be considered, decisively ob- 
 jected to him. 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 69 
 
 Trench. Oh! Perhaps you think she was struck 
 with you. 
 
 CoKANE. I did not say so^ Trench. No man of any 
 delicacy would suggest such a thing. You have an un- 
 tutored mind^ Trench^ an untutored mind. 
 
 Trench. Well^ Cokane: I've told you my opinion of 
 you already. 
 
 CoKANE (rising wildly). And I have told you my 
 opinion of you. I will repeat it if you wish. I am 
 ready to repeat it. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. Come^ Mr. Sekketary: you and me^ as 
 married men^ is out of the 'unt as far as young ladies is 
 concerned. I know Miss Blanche: she has her father's 
 eye for business. Explain this job to her; and she'll 
 make it up with Dr. Trench. Why not have a bit of 
 romance in business when it costs nothing.^ We all have 
 our feelings: we ain't mere calculating machines. 
 
 Sartorius (revolted) , Do you think^ Lickcheese, that 
 my daughter is to be made part of a money bargain 
 between you and these gentlemen.^ 
 
 LicKCHEESE. Oh, come^ Sartorius: don't talk as if 
 you was the only father in the world. I have a daughter 
 too; and my feelings in that matter is just as fine as 
 yours. I propose nothing but what is for Miss Blanche's 
 advantage and Dr. Trench's. 
 
 CoKANE. Lickcheese expresses himself roughly^ Mr. 
 Sartorius ; but his is a sterling nature ; and what he says 
 is to the point. If Miss Sartorius can really bring her- 
 self to care for Harry^ I am far from desiring to stand 
 in the way of such an arrangement. 
 
 Trench. Why^ what have you got to do with it.^ 
 
 Lickcheese. Easy^ Dr. Trench^ easy. We want your 
 opinion. Are you still on for marrying Miss Blanche if 
 she's agreeable.^ 
 
 Trench (^shortly), I don't know that I am. (Sar- 
 torius rises indignantly,) 
 
 Lickcheese. Easy one moment, Mr. Sartorius. (To 
 
70 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 Trench) Come^ Dr. Trench; you say you don't know 
 that you are. But do you know that you ain't: that's 
 what we want to know.^ 
 
 Trench {sulkily). I won't have the relations between 
 Miss Sartorius and myself made part of a bargain. {He 
 rises to leave the table,) 
 
 LicKCHEESE {rising). That's enough: a gentleman 
 could say no less. {Insinuatingly.) Now^ would you 
 mind me and Cokane and the gov'nor steppin' into the 
 study to arrange about the lease to the North Thames 
 Iced Mutton Company.^ 
 
 Trench. Oh^ I don't mind. I'm going home. 
 There's nothing else to say. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE. No^ dou't go. Only just a minute: me 
 and Cokane will be back in no time to see you home. 
 You'll wait for us^ won't you? there's a good fellow. 
 
 Trench. Well^ if you wish^ yes. 
 
 LiCKCHEESE {cheerily). Didn't I know you would! 
 
 Sartorius {at the study door, to Cokane). After 
 you^ sir. {Cokane horvs formally and goes into the 
 study.) 
 
 LiCKCHEESE {at the door, aside to Sartorius). You 
 never 'ad such a managin' man as me^ Sartorius. {He 
 goes into the study chuckling, followed by Sartorius.) 
 
 {Trench, left alone, looks round carefully and listens 
 a moment. Then he goes on tiptoe to the piano and leans 
 upon it with folded arms, gazing at Blanche's portrait. 
 Blanche herself appears presently at the study door. 
 When she sees how he is occupied, she closes it softly and 
 steals over to him, watching him intently. He rises from 
 his leaning attitude, and takes the portrait from the easel, 
 holding it out before him at arm's length; then, taking a 
 second look round to reassure himself that nobody is 
 watching him, finds Blanche close upon him. He drops 
 the portrait and stares at her without the least presence 
 of mind.) 
 
 Blanche {shrewishly) . Well.^ So you have come 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 71 
 
 back here. You have had the meanness to come into 
 this house again. {He flushes and retreats a step. She 
 follows him up remorselessly.) What a poor-spirited 
 creature you must be! Why don't you go? {Red and 
 wincing, he starts huffily to get his hat from the table; 
 hut when he turns to the door with it she deliberately gets 
 in his way, so that he has to stop.) I don't want you to 
 stay. {For a moment they stand face to face, quite close 
 to one another, she provocative, taunting, half defying, 
 half inviting him to advance, in a flush of undisguised 
 animal excitement. It suddenly flashes on him that all 
 this ferocity is erotic — that she is making love to him. 
 His eye lights up: a cunning expression comes into the 
 corner of his mouth: with a heavy assumption of indif- 
 ference he walks straight back to his chair, and plants 
 himself in it with his arms folded. She comes down the 
 room after him,) But I forgot: you have found that 
 there is some money to be made here. Lickcheese told 
 you. You, who were so disinterested, so independent, 
 that you could not accept anything from my father ! {At 
 the end of every sentence she waits to see what execution 
 she has done,) I suppose you will try to persuade me 
 that you have come down here on a great philanthropic 
 enterprise — to befriend the poor by having those houses 
 rebuilt, eh.^ {Trench maintains his attitude and makes 
 no sign.) Yes, when my father makes you do it. And 
 when Lickcheese has discovered some way of making it 
 profitable. Oh, I know papa; and I know you. And 
 for the sake of that, you come back here — into the house 
 where you were refused — ordered out. {Trench's face 
 darkens: her eyes gleam as she sees it.) Aha! you re- 
 member that. You know it is true: you cannot deny it. 
 {She sits down, and softens her tone a little as she affects 
 to pity him.) Ah, let me tell you that you cut a poor 
 figure, a very, very poor figure, Harry. {At the word 
 '' Harry/' he relaxes the fold of his arms; and a faint 
 grin of anticipated victory appears on his face,) And 
 
72 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 jouy too^ a gentleman ! — so highly connected ! — with such 
 distinguished relations ! — so particular as to where your 
 money comes from! I wonder at you. I really wonder 
 at you. I should have thought that if your family 
 brought you nothing else^ it might at least have brought 
 you some sense of personal dignity. Perhaps you think 
 you look dignified at present^ eh.^ {No reply.) Well^ 
 I can assure you that you don't: you look most ridiculous 
 — as foolish as a man could look — you don't know what 
 to say; and you don't know what to do. But after all^ 
 I really don't see what anyone could say in defence of 
 such conduct. {He looks straight in front of him, and 
 purses up his lips as if whistling. This annoys her; and 
 she becomes affectedly polite.) I am afraid I am in your 
 way^ Dr. Trench. {She rises.) I shall not intrude on 
 you any longer. You seem so perfectly at home that I 
 need make no apology for leaving you to yourself. {She 
 makes a feint of going to the door; but he does not 
 budge; and she returns and comes behind his chair.) 
 Harry. {He does not turn. She comes a step nearer.) 
 Harry : I want you to answer me a question. {Earnestly, 
 stooping over him.) Look me in the face. {No reply.) 
 Do you hear ? {Putting her hand on his shoulder.) Look 
 — me — in — the — face. {He still stares straight in front 
 of him. She suddenly kneels down beside him with her 
 breast against his right shoulder; taking his face in her 
 hands, and twisting it sharply towards her.) Harry: 
 what were you doing with my photograph just now^ when 
 you thought you were alone? {His face writhes as he 
 tries hard not to smile. She flings her arms round him, 
 and crushes him in an ecstatic embrace as she adds, with 
 furious tenderness) How dare you touch anything be- 
 longing to me.^ {The study door opens and voices are 
 heard.) 
 
 Trench. I hear some one coming. {She regains her 
 chair with a bound, and pushes it back as far as possible. 
 Cokane, Lick cheese, and Sartorius come from the study. 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 73 
 
 Sartorius and Lickcheese come to Trench. Cokane 
 crosses to Blanche in his most killing manner,) 
 
 Cokane. How do you do^ Miss Sartorius? Nice 
 weather for the return of Tenfant prodigue^, eh? 
 
 Blanche. Capital^ Mr. Cokane. So glad to see you. 
 (^She gives him her hand, which he kisses with gallantry.) 
 
 Lickcheese (on Trench's left, in a low voice). Any 
 noos for us, Mr. Trench? 
 
 Trench (to Sartorius, on his right). I'll stand in, 
 compensation or no compensation. (Shakes Sartorius's 
 hand. The parlour maid has just appeared at the door.) 
 
 Blanche. Supper is ready, papa. 
 
 Cokane. Allow me. 
 
 (Exeunt omnes: Blanche on Cokane's arm; Lickcheese 
 jocosely taking Sartorius on one arm and Trench on the 
 other. ) 
 
 curtain. 
 
THE PHILANDERER 
 
 '.i^'vvp'j'/'; ' 
 
THE PHILANDERER 
 
 ACT I 
 
 A lady and gentleman are making love to one another 
 in the drawing-room of a flat in Ashly Gardens in the 
 Victoria district of London. It is past ten at night. 
 The TV alls are hung with theatrical engravings and pho- 
 tographs — Kemble as Hamlet^ Mrs. Siddons as Queen 
 Katharine pleading in court, Macready as Werner {after 
 Maclise)y Sir Henry Irving as Richard III (after 
 Long), Miss Ellen Terry, Mrs. Kendal, Miss Ada Re- 
 han, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Mr. Henry Arthur 
 Jones, Mr. A. W. Pinero, Mr. Sydney Grundy, and so 
 on, but not the Signora Duse or anyone connected with 
 Ibsen. The room is not a perfect square, the right hand 
 corner at the back being cut off diagonally by the door- 
 way, and the opposite corner rounded by a turret 
 window filled up with a stand of flowers surrounding a 
 statue of Shakespear. The fireplace is on the right, 
 with an armchair near it. A small round table, further 
 forward on the same side, with a chair beside it, has 
 a yellow-backed French novel lying open on it. The 
 piano, a grand, is on the left, open, with the keyboard 
 in full view at right angles to the wall. The piece of 
 music on the desk is '' When other lips.'' Incandescent 
 lights, well shaded, are on the piano and mantelpiece. 
 Near the piano is a sofa, on which the lady and gentle- 
 man are seated affectionately side by side, in one an- 
 other's arms. 
 
 The lady, Grace T ran field, is about 82, slight of build. 
 
78 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 delicate of feature, and sensitive in expression. She is 
 just norv given up to the emotion of the moment; hut her 
 well closed mouth, proudly set brows, firm chin, and 
 elegant carriage show plenty of determination and self 
 respect. She is in evening dress. 
 
 The gentleman, Leonard Charteris, a few years older, 
 is unconventionally hut smartly dressed in a velvet jacket 
 and cashmere trousers. His collar, dyed Wotan hlue, 
 is part of his shirt, and turns over a garnet coloured 
 scarf of Indian silk, secured hy a torquoise ring. He 
 wears hlue socks and leather sandals. The arrangement 
 of his tawny hair, and of his moustaches and short heard, 
 is apparently left to Nature; hut he has taken care that 
 Nature shall do him the fullest justice. His amative 
 enthusiasm, at which he is himself laughing, and his 
 clever, imaginative, humorous ways, contrast strongly 
 with the sincere tenderness and dignified quietness of 
 the woman, 
 
 Charteris {impulsively clasping Grace), My dear- 
 est love. 
 
 Grace (responding affectionately). My darling. 
 Are you happy? 
 
 Charteris. In Heaven. 
 
 Grace. My own. 
 
 Charteris. My heart's love. (He sighs happily, and 
 takes her hands in his, looking quaintly at her.) That 
 must positively be my last kiss^ Grace^ or I shall become 
 downright silly. Let us talk. (Releases her and sits 
 a little apart from her.) Grace: is this your first love 
 affair } 
 
 Grace. Have you forgotten that I am a widow? Do 
 you think I married Tranfield for money? 
 
 Charteris. How do I know? Besides, you might 
 have married him not because you loved him, but because 
 you didn't love anybody else. When one is youngs one 
 marries out of mere curiosity^ just to see what it's like. 
 
 Grace. Well, since you ask me, I never was in love 
 
Act I The Philanderer 79 
 
 with Tranfield^ though I only found that out when I 
 fell in love with you. But I used to like him for being 
 In love with me. It brought out all the good in him 
 so much that I have wanted to be in love with some one 
 ever since. I hope^ now that I am in love with you_, you 
 will like me for it just as I liked Tranfield. 
 
 Charteris. My dear^ it is because I like you that I 
 want to marry you. I could love anybody — any pretty 
 7voman, that is. 
 
 Grace. Do you really mean that^ Leonard? 
 
 Charteris. Of course. Why not.^ 
 
 GFiACE {reflecting). Never mind why. Now tell me^ 
 is this your first love affair? 
 
 Cbiarteris {amazed at the simplicity of the question), 
 No^ bless my soul. No — nor my second^ nor my third. 
 
 Grace. But I mean your first serious one. 
 
 Charteris {with a certain hesitation). Yes. {There 
 is a pause. She is not convinced. He adds, with a very 
 perceptible load on his conscience.) It is the first in 
 which / have been serious. 
 
 Grace {searchingly). I see. The other parties were 
 always serious. 
 
 Charteris. No^ not always — heaven forbid! 
 
 Grace. How often? 
 
 Charteris. Well^ once. 
 
 Grace. Julia Craven? 
 
 Charteris {recoiling). Who told you that? {She 
 shakes her head mysteriously, and he turns away from 
 her moodily and adds) You had much better not have 
 asked. 
 
 Grace {gently). I'm sorry^ dear. {She puts out her 
 hand and pulls softly at him to bring him near her 
 again.) 
 
 Charteris {yielding mechanically to the pull, and 
 allowing her hand to rest on his arm, but sitting squarely 
 without the least attempt to return the caress). Do I 
 feel harder to the touch than I did five minutes ago? 
 
80 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 Grace. What nonsense! 
 
 Charteris. I feel as if my body had turned into the 
 toughest of hickory. That is what comes of reminding 
 me of Julia Craven. {Brooding, with his chin on his 
 right hand and his elbow on his knee.) I have sat alone 
 with her just as I am sitting with you 
 
 Grace {shrinking from him). Just! 
 
 Charteris {sitting upright and facing her steadily). 
 Just exactly. She has put her hands in mine^ and laid 
 her cheek against mine^ and listened to me saying all 
 sorts of silly things. {Grace, chilled to the soul, rises 
 from the sofa and sits down on the piano stool, with 
 her back to the keyboard.) Ah^ you don't want to hear 
 any more of the story. So much the better. 
 
 Grace {deeply hurt, but controlling herself). When 
 did you break it off? 
 
 Charteris {guiltily). Break it off? 
 
 Grace {firmly). Yes^ break it off. 
 
 Charteris. Well, let me see. When did I fall in 
 love with you ? 
 
 Grace. Did you break it off then? 
 
 Charteris {mischievously, making it plainer and 
 plainer that it has not been broken off). It was clear 
 then, of course, that it must be broken off. 
 
 Grace. And did you break it off? 
 
 Charteris. Oh, yes: I broke it off. 
 
 Grace. But did she break it off? 
 
 Charteris {rising). As a favour to me, dearest, 
 change the subj ect. Come away from the piano : I want 
 you to sit here with me. {Takes a step towards her.) 
 
 Grace. No. I also have grown hard to the touch — 
 much harder than hickory for the present. Did she 
 break it off? 
 
 Charteris. My dear, be reasonable. It was fully 
 explained to her that it was to be broken off. 
 
 Grace. Did she accept the explanation? 
 
 Charteris. She did what a woman like Julia al- 
 
Act I The Philanderer 81 
 
 ways does. When I explained personally^ she said it 
 was not my better self that was speakings and that she 
 knew I still really loved her. When I wrote it to her 
 with brutal explicitness^ she read the letter carefully and 
 then sent it back to me with a note to say that she 
 had not had the courage to open it^ and that I ought 
 to be ashamed of having written it. {Comes beside 
 Grace, and puts his left hand caressingly round her 
 neck,) You see^ dearie^ she won't look the situation in 
 the face. 
 
 Grace (shaking off his hand and turning a little away 
 on the stool), I am afraid^ from the light way in which 
 you speak of it^ you did not sound the right chord. 
 
 Charteris. My dear^ when you are doing what a 
 woman calls breaking her hearty you may sound the 
 very prettiest chords you can find on the piano; but to 
 her ears it is just like this — (Sits dorvn on the bass end 
 of the keyboard, Grace puts her fingers in her ears. 
 He rises and moves away from the piano, saying) No, 
 my dear: I've been kind; I've been frank; I've been 
 everything that a goodnatured man could be: she only 
 takes it as the making up of a lover's quarrel. (Grace 
 winces.) Frankness and kindness: one is as the other — 
 especially frankness. I've tried both. (He crosses to 
 the fireplace, and stands facing the fire, looking at the 
 ornaments on the mantelpiece and warming his hands,) 
 
 Grace (Her voice a little strained). What are you 
 going to try now.^ 
 
 Charteris (on the hearthrug, turning to face her). 
 Action, my dear! Marriage! ! In that she must be- 
 lieve. She won't be convinced by anything short of it, 
 because, you see, I have had some tremendous philander- 
 ings before, and have gone back to her after them. 
 
 Grace. And so that is why you want to marry me? 
 
 Charteris. I cannot deny it, my love. Yes: it is 
 your mission to rescue me from Julia. 
 
 Grace (rising). Then, if you please, I decline to be 
 
82 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 made use of for any such purpose. I will not steal you 
 from another woman. {She begins to walk up and down 
 the room with ominous disquiet,^ 
 
 Charteris. Steal me! {Comes towards her.) 
 Grace: I have a question to put to you as an advanced 
 woman. Mind ! as an advanced woman. Does Julia 
 belong to me? Am I her owner— her master? 
 
 Grace. Certainly not. No woman is the property of 
 a man. A woman belongs to herself and to nobody else. 
 
 Charteris. Quite right. Ibsen for ever! That's 
 exactly my opinion. Now tell me, do I belong to Julia; 
 or have I a right to belong to myself? 
 
 Grace (puzzled). Of course you have; but 
 
 Charteris {interrupting her triumphantly). Then 
 how can you steal me from Julia if I don't belong to her ? 
 {Catching her by the shoulders and holding her out at 
 arm's length in front of him.) Eh^ little philosopher? 
 No^ my dear: if Ibsen sauce is good for the goose^ it's 
 good for the gander as well. Besides {coaxing her) it 
 was nothing but a philander with Julia — ^nothing else 
 in the worlds I assure you. 
 
 Grace {breaking away from him). So much the 
 worse! I hate your philanderings : they make me 
 ashamed of you and of myself. {Goes to the sofa and 
 sits in the right hand corner of it, leaning gloomily on 
 her elbow with her face averted.) 
 
 Charteris. Grace: you utterly misunderstand, the 
 origin of my philanderings. {Sits down beside her.) 
 Listen to me: am I a particularly handsome man? 
 
 Grace {turning to him as if astonished at his con- 
 ceit). No! 
 
 Charteris {triumphantly). You admit it. Am I a 
 well dressed man? 
 
 Grace. Not particularly. 
 
 Charteris. Of course not. Have I a romantic mys- 
 terious charm about me ? — do I look as if a secret sorrow 
 preyed on me.^ — am I gallant to women? 
 
Act I The Philanderer 83 
 
 Grace. Not in the least. 
 
 Charteris. Certainly not. No one can accuse me of 
 it. Then whose fault is it that half the women I speak 
 to fall in love with me? Not mine: I hate it: it bores me 
 to distraction. At first it flattered me — delighted me — 
 that was how Julia got me^ because she was the first 
 woman who had the pluck to make me a declaration. 
 But I soon had enough of it ; and at no time have I taken 
 the initiative and persecuted women with my advances 
 as women have persecuted me. Never. Except^ of 
 course, in your case. 
 
 Grace. Oh^ you need not make any exception. I 
 had a good deal of trouble to induce you to come and 
 see us. You were very coy. 
 
 Charteris {fondly, taking her hand). With you, 
 dearest, the coyness was sheer coquetry. I loved you 
 from the first, and fled only that you might pursue. But 
 come ! let us talk about something really interesting. 
 {Takes her in his arms,) Do you love me better than 
 anyone else in the world .^ 
 
 Grace. I don't think you like to be loved too much. 
 
 Charteris. That depends on who the person is. 
 You {pressing her to his heart) cannot love me too 
 much: you cannot love me half enough. I reproach you 
 
 every day for your coldness — your {Violent double 
 
 knock heard without. They start and listen, still in one 
 another's arms, hardly daring to breathe,) Who the 
 deuce is calling at this hour? 
 
 Grace. I can't imagine. {They listen guiltily. The 
 door of the flat is opened without. They hastily get 
 away from one another,) 
 
 A Woman's Voice Outside. Is Mr. Charteris here? 
 
 Charteris {springing up), Julia! The devil! 
 {Stands at the left of the sofa with his hands on it, 
 bending forward with his eyes flawed on the door,) 
 
 Grace {rising also). What can she want? 
 
 The Voice. Never mind: I will announce myself. 
 
84 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 (A beautiful, dark, tragic looking rvoman, in mantle and 
 bonnet, appears at the door, raging furiously,) Oh, this 
 is charming. I have interrupted a pretty tete-a-tete. 
 Oh^ you villain ! {She comes straight at Grace, Char- 
 teris runs across behind the sofa and stops her. She 
 struggles furiously rvith him, Grace preserves her self 
 possession, but retreats quietly to the piano, Julia, 
 finding Charteris too strong for her, gives up her at- 
 tempt to get at Grace, but strikes him in the face as she 
 frees herself,} 
 
 Charteris (shocked). Oh^ Julia, Julia! This is too 
 bad. 
 
 Julia. Is it, indeed, too bad? What are you doing 
 up here with that woman? You scoundrel! But now 
 listen to me; Leonard: you have driven me to despera- 
 tion; and I don't care what I do, or who hears me. I'll 
 not bear it. She shall not have my place with you 
 
 Charteris. Sh-sh ! 
 
 Julia. No, no: I don't care: I will expose her true 
 character before everybody. You belong to me: you 
 have no right to be here; and she knows it. 
 
 Charteris. I think you had better let me take you 
 home, Julia. 
 
 Julia. I will not. I am not going home : I am going 
 to stay here — here — until I have made you give her up. 
 
 Charteris. My dear, you must be reasonable. You 
 really cannot stay in Mrs. Tranfield's house if she ob- 
 jects. She can ring the bell and have us both put out. 
 
 Julia. Let her do it then. Let her ring the bell if 
 she dares. Let us see how this pure virtuous creature 
 will face the scandal of what I will declare about her. 
 Let us see how you will face it. I have nothing to lose. 
 Everybody knows how you have treated me: you have 
 boasted of your conquests, you poor pitiful, vain creature 
 — I am the common talk of your acquaintances and hers. 
 Oh, I have calculated my advantage (tearing off her 
 mantle) : I am a most unhappy and injured woman; but 
 
Act I The Philanderer 85 
 
 I am not the fool you take me to be. I am going to 
 stay — see ! (She flings the mantle on the round table; 
 puts her bonnet on it, and sits down,) Now, Mrs. Tran- 
 field: there is the bell: (pointing to the button beside 
 the fireplace) why don't you ring.^ (Grace, looking at- 
 tentively at Charteris, does not move,) Ha! ha! I 
 thought so. 
 
 Charteris (quietly, rvithout relaxing his watch on 
 Julia). Mrs. Tranfield: I think you had better go into 
 another room. (Grace makes a movement towards the 
 door, but stops and looks inquiringly at Charteris as 
 Julia springs up. He advances a step so as to prevent 
 her from getting to the door,) 
 
 Julia. She shall not. She shall stay here. She 
 shall know what you are, and how you have been in 
 love with me — ^how it is not two days since you kissed 
 me and told me that the future would be as happy as 
 the past. (Screaming at him) You did: deny it if you 
 dare. 
 
 Charteris (to Grace in a low voice). Go! 
 
 Grace (with nonchalant disgust — going). Get her 
 away as soon as you can, Leonard. 
 
 (Julia, with a stifled cry of rage, rushes at Grace, 
 who is crossing behind the sofa towards door, Charteris 
 seizes her and prevents her from getting past the sofa. 
 Grace goes out. Charteris, holding Julia fast, looks 
 around to the door to see whether Grace is safely out of 
 the room,) 
 
 Julia (suddenly ceasing to struggle and speaking 
 with the most pathetic dignity). Oh, there is no need 
 to be violent. (He passes her across to the left end of 
 the sofa, and leans against the right end, panting and 
 mopping his forehead) , That is worthy of you ! — to use 
 brute force — ^to humiliate me before her! (She breaks 
 down and bursts into tears,) 
 
 Charteris (to himself with melancholy conviction). 
 This is going to be a cheerful evening. Now patience. 
 
86 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 patience, patience! {Sits on a chair near the round 
 table, ) 
 
 Julia {in anguish). Leonard, have you no feeling 
 for me? 
 
 Charteris. Only an intense desire to get you safely 
 out of this. 
 
 Julia (fiercely), I am not going to stir. 
 
 Charteris (wearily). Well, well. (Heaves a long 
 sigh. They sit silent for awhile, Julia struggling, not 
 to regain her self control, but to maintain her rage at 
 boiling point.) 
 
 Julia (rising suddenly) , I am going to speak to that 
 woman. 
 
 Charteris (jumping up). No, no. Hang it, Julia, 
 don't let's have another wrestling match. I have the 
 strength, but not the wind: you're too young for me. 
 Sit down or else let me take you home. Suppose her 
 father comes in. 
 
 Julia. I don't care. It rests with you. I am ready 
 to go if she will give you up: until then I stay. Those 
 are my terms : you owe me that. (She sits down de- 
 terminedly, Charteris looks at her for a moment; then, 
 making up his mind, goes resolutely to the couch, sits 
 down near the right hand end of it, she being at the left; 
 and says with biting emphasis) — 
 
 Charteris. I owe you just exactly nothing. 
 
 Julia (reproachfully). Nothing! You can look me 
 in the face and say that? Oh, Leonard! 
 
 Charteris. Let me remind you, Julia, that when first 
 iwe became acquainted, the position you took up was that 
 of a woman of advanced views. 
 
 Julia. That should have made you respect me the 
 more. 
 
 Charteris (placably). So it did, my dear. But that 
 is not the point. As a woman of advanced views, you 
 were determined to be free. You regarded marriage as 
 a degrading bargain, by which a woman sold herself to 
 
Act I The Philanderer 87 
 
 a man for the social status of a wife and the right to 
 be supported and pensioned in old age out of his in- 
 come. That's the advanced view — our view. Besides^ 
 if you had married me^ I might have turned out a 
 drunkard^ a criminal^ an imbecile^ a horror to you; and 
 you couldn't have released yourself. Too big a risk, 
 you see. That's the rational view — our view. Accord- 
 ingly, you reserved the right to leave me at any time 
 if you found our companionship incompatible with — 
 what was the expression you used? — with your full de- 
 velopment as a human being: I think that was how you 
 put the Ibsenist view — our view. So I had to be con- 
 tent with a charming philander, which taught me a great 
 deal, and brought me some hours of exquisite happiness. 
 
 Julia. Leonard: you confess then that you owe me 
 something } 
 
 Charteris (haughtily). No: what I received, I paid. 
 Did you learn nothing from me? — was there no de- 
 light for you in our friendship? 
 
 Julia (vehemently and movingly; for she is now sin- 
 cere). No. You made me pay dearly for every mo- 
 ment of happiness. You revenged yourself on me for 
 the humiliation of being the slave of your passion for 
 me. I was never sure of you for a moment. I trembled 
 whenever a letter came from you, lest it should contain 
 some stab for me. I dreaded your visits almost as 
 much as I longed for them. I was your plaything, not 
 your companion. (She rises, exclaiming) Oh, there 
 was such suffering in my happiness that I hardly knew 
 joy from pain. (She sinks on the piano stool^ and adds, 
 as she buries her face in her hands and turns away from 
 him) Better for me if I had never met you! 
 
 Charteris (rising indignantly). You ungenerous 
 wretch! Is this your gratitude for the way I have just 
 been flattering you? What have I not endured from 
 you — endured with angelic patience? Did I not find 
 out, before our friendship was a fortnight old, that all 
 
88 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 your advanced views were merely a fashion picked up 
 and followed like any other fashion^ without under- 
 standing or meaning a word of them? Did you not, in 
 spite of your care for your own liberty, set up claims 
 on me compared to which the claims of the most jealous 
 wife would have been trifles. Have I a single woman 
 friend whom you have not abused as old, ugly, vi- 
 cious 
 
 Julia (^quickly looking up). So they are. 
 
 Charteris. Well, then. 111 come to grievances that 
 even you can understand. I accuse you of habitual and 
 intolerable jealousy and ill temper; of insulting me on 
 imaginary provocation: of positively beating me; of 
 stealing letters of mine 
 
 Julia {rising). Yes, nice letters. 
 
 Charteris. of breaking your solemn promises 
 
 not to do it again ; of spending hours — aye, days ! piec- 
 ing together the contents of my waste paper basket in 
 your search for more letters; and then representing 
 yourself as an ill used saint and martyr wantonly be- 
 trayed and deserted by a selfish monster of a man. 
 
 Julia. I was justified in reading your letters. Our 
 perfect confidence in one another gave me the right to 
 do it. 
 
 Charteris. Thank you. Then I hasten to break off 
 a confidence which gives such rights. (Sits down sulkily 
 on sofa.) 
 
 Julia (with her right hand on the back of the sofa, 
 bending over him threateningly) . You have no right to 
 break it off. 
 
 Charteris. I have. You refused to marry me be- 
 cause 
 
 Julia. I did not. You never asked me. If we 
 were married, you would never dare treat me as you are 
 doing now. 
 
 Charteris (laboriously going back to his argument). 
 It was understood between us as people of advanced 
 
Act I The Philanderer 89 
 
 views that we were not to marry because^ as the law 
 stands^ I might have become a drunkard^ a 
 
 Julia. a criminal^ an imbecile or a horror. You 
 
 said that before. {Sits down beside him with a fling.) 
 
 Charteris (politely), I beg your pardon^ my dear. 
 I know I have a habit of repeating myself. The point is 
 that you reserved your freedom to give me up when you 
 pleased. 
 
 Julia. Well, what of that? I do not please to give 
 you up; and I will not. You have not become a drunk- 
 ard or a criminal. 
 
 Charteris. You don*t see the point yet, Julia. You 
 seem to forget that in reserving your freedom to leave 
 me in case I should turn out badly, you also reserved my 
 freedom to leave you in case you should turn out badly. 
 
 Julia. Very ingenious. And pray, have / become a 
 drunkard, or a criminal, or an imbecile? 
 
 Charteris (rising). You have become what is infi- 
 nitely worse than all three together — a j ealous termagant. 
 
 Julia (shaking her head bitterly). Yes, abuse me — 
 call me names. 
 
 Charteris. I now assert the right I reserved — the 
 right of breaking with you when I please. Advanced 
 views, Julia, involve advanced duties: you cannot be an 
 advanced woman when you want to bring a man to your 
 feet, and a conventional woman when you want to hold 
 him there against his will. Advanced people form 
 charming friendships : conventional people marry. Mar- 
 riage suits a good deal of people; and its first duty is 
 fidelity. Friendship suits some people; and its first duty 
 is unhesitating, uncomplaining acceptance of a notice of 
 a change of feeling from either side. You chose friend- 
 ship instead of marriage. Now do your duty, and ac- 
 cept your notice. 
 
 Julia. Never! We are engaged in the eye of — the 
 eye of 
 
 Charteris (sitting down quickly beside her). Yes, 
 
90 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 Julia. Can't you get it out? In the eye of something 
 that advanced women don't believe in^ eh? 
 
 Julia (throwing herself at his feet). O Leonard, 
 don't be cruel. I am too miserable to argue — ^to think. 
 I only know I love you. You reproach me with not 
 wanting to marry you. I would have married you at 
 any time after I came to love you, if you had asked me. 
 I will marry you now if you will. 
 
 Charteris. I won't, my dear. That's flat. We're in- 
 tellectually incompatible. 
 
 Julia. But why? We could be so happy. You love 
 me — I know you love me — I feel it. You say * My 
 dear " to me : you have said it several times this evening. 
 I know I have been wicked, odious, bad. I say nothing 
 in defence of myself. But don't be hard on me. I was 
 distracted by the thought of losing you. I can't face 
 life without you Leonard. I was happy when I met 
 you: I had never loved anyone; and if you had only let 
 me alone I could have gone on contentedly by myself. 
 But I can't now. I must have you with me. Don't cast 
 me off without a thought of all I have at stake. I could 
 be a friend to you if you would only let me — if you 
 would only tell me your plans — give me a share in your 
 work — ^treat me as something more than the amusement 
 of an idle hour. Oh Leonard, Leonard, you've never 
 given me a chance: indeed you haven't. I'll take pains; 
 I'll read; I'll try to think; I'll conquer my jealousy; 
 I'll (She breaks dorvn, rocking her head desper- 
 ately on his knee and rvrithing,) Oh, I'm mad: I'm 
 mad: you'll kill me if you desert me. 
 
 Charteris (petting her). My dear love, don't cry — 
 don't go on in this way. You know I can't help it. 
 
 Julia (sobbing as he rises and coaxingly lifts her 
 with him). Oh, you can, you can. One word from you 
 will make us happy for ever. 
 
 Charteris (diplomatically). Come, my dear: we 
 really must go. We can't stay until Cuthbertson comes. 
 
Act I The Philanderer 91 
 
 {Releases her gently and takes her mantle from the 
 table,) Here is your mantle: put it on and be good. 
 You have given me a terrible evening: you must have 
 some consideration for me. 
 
 Julia (dangerous again). Then I am to be cast off. 
 
 Charteris {coaxingly). You are to put on your bon- 
 net^ dearest. {He puts the mantle on her shoulders,) 
 
 Julia {with a hitter half laugh, half sob), Well^ I 
 suppose I must do what I am told. {She goes to the 
 table, and looks for her bonnet. She sees the yellow- 
 backed French novel,) Ah^ look at that! {holds it out 
 to him,) Look — look at what the creature reads — filthy^ 
 vile French stuff that no decent woman would touch. 
 And you — you have been reading it with her. 
 
 Charteris. You recommended that book to me your- 
 self. 
 
 Julia. Faugh! {Dashes it on the floor,) 
 
 Charteris {running anxiously to the book). Don't 
 damage property^ Julia. {He picks it up and dusts it,) 
 Making scenes is an affair of sentiment: damaging prop- 
 erty is serious. {Replaces it on the table,) And now 
 do pray come along. 
 
 Julia {implacably). You can go: there is nothing 
 to prevent you. I will not stir. {She sits down stub- 
 bornly on the sofa,) 
 
 Charteris {losing patience). Oh come! I am not 
 going to begin all this over again. There are limits even 
 to my forbearance. Come on. 
 
 Julia. I will not^ I tell you. 
 
 Charteris. Then good night. {He makes resolutely 
 for the door. With a rush, she gets there before him, 
 and bars his way,) I thought you wanted me to go. 
 
 Julia {at the door). You shall not leave me here 
 alone. 
 
 Charteris. Then come with me. 
 
 Julia. Not until you have sworn to me to give up 
 that woman. 
 
92 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 Charteris. My dear^ I will swear anything if you 
 will only come away and put an end to this. 
 
 Julia {pevplexed — doubting him). You will swear? 
 
 Charteris. Solemnly. Propose the oath. I have 
 been on the point of swearing for the last half hour. 
 
 Julia (despairingly). You are only making fun of 
 me. I want no oaths. I want your promise — your sacred 
 word of honour. 
 
 Charteris. Certainly — anything you demand^ on 
 condition that you come away immediately. On my 
 sacred word of honour as a gentleman — as an English- 
 man — as anything you like — I will never see her again^ 
 never speak to her^ never think of her. Now come. 
 
 Julia. But are you in earnest? Will you keep your 
 word ? 
 
 Charteris (smiling subtly). Now you are getting 
 unreasonable. Do come along without any more non- 
 sense. At any rate^ I am going. I am not strong enough 
 to carry you home; but I am strong enough to make my 
 way through that door in spite of you. You will then 
 have a new grievance against me for my brutal violence. 
 (He takes a step towards the door,) 
 
 Julia (solemnly). If you do^ I swear I will throw 
 myself from that window^ Leonard^ as you pass out. 
 
 Charteris (unimpressed). That window is at the 
 back of the building. I shall pass out at the front; so 
 you will not hurt me. Good night. (He approaches the 
 door,) 
 
 Julia. Leonard: have you no pity? 
 
 Charteris. Not in the least. When you condescend 
 to these antics you force me to despise you. How can a 
 woman who behaves like a spoiled child and talks like a 
 sentimental novel have the audacity to dream of being a 
 companion for a man of any sort of sense or character? 
 (She gives an inarticulate cry and throws herself sob- 
 bing on his breast,) Come^ don't cry^ my dear Julia: 
 you don't look half so beautiful as when you're happy; 
 
Act I The Philanderer 93 
 
 and it takes all the starch out of my shirt front. Come 
 along. 
 
 Julia (affectionately). I'll come^ dear^ if you wish 
 it. Give me one kiss. 
 
 Charteris (exasperated). This is too much. No: 
 I'm dashed if I will. Here^ let me go, Julia. (She 
 clings to him.) Will you come without another word if 
 I give you a kiss.^ 
 
 Julia. I will do anything you wish, darling. 
 
 Charteris. Well, here. (He takes her in his arms 
 and gives her an unceremonious kiss,) Now remember 
 your promise. Come along. 
 
 Julia. That was not a nice kiss, dearest. I want one 
 of our old real kisses. 
 
 Charteris (furious). Oh, go to the deuce. (He dis- 
 engages himself impulsively ; and she, as if he had flung 
 her down, falls pathetically rvith a stifled moan. With 
 an angry look at her, he strides out and slams the door. 
 She raises herself on one hand, listening to his retreat- 
 ing footsteps. They stop. Her face lights up with 
 eager, triumphant cunning. The steps return hastily. 
 She throws herself down again as before. Charteris re- 
 appears, in the utmost dismay, exclaiming) Julia: we're 
 done. Cuthbertson's coming upstairs with your father 
 — (she sits up quickly) do you hear.^ — the two fathers. 
 
 Julia (sitting on the floor) . Impossible. They don't 
 know one another. 
 
 Charteris (desperately). I tell you they are coming 
 up together like brothers. What on earth are we to do? 
 
 Julia (scrambling up with the help of his hand). 
 Quick, the lift: we can go down in that. (She rushes 
 to the table for her bonnet.) 
 
 Charteris. No, the man's gone home; and the lift's 
 locked. 
 
 Julia (putting on bonnet at express speed). Let's go 
 up to the next floor. 
 
 Charteris. There's no next floor. We're at the top 
 
94 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 of the house. No^ no, you must invent some thumping 
 lie. I can't think of one: you can, Julia. Exercise all 
 your genius. Ill back you up. 
 
 Julia. But 
 
 Charteris. Sh-sh! Here they are. Sit down and 
 look at home. (Julia tears off her bonnet and mantle; 
 throws them on the table; and darts to the piano at which 
 she seats herself.) 
 
 Julia. Come and sing. (She plays the symphony to 
 '' When other lips/' He stands at the piano, as if about 
 to sing. Two elderly gentlemen enter, Julia stops 
 playing,) 
 
 The elder of the two gentlemen. Colonel Daniel Cra- 
 ven, affects the bluff, simple veteran, and carries it off 
 pleasantly and well, having a fine upright figure, and 
 being, in fact, a goodnaturedly impulsive, credulous per- 
 son who, after an entirely thoughtless career as an o'fficer 
 and a gentleman, is now being startled into some sort 
 of self-education by the surprising proceedings of his 
 children. 
 
 His companion, Mr, Joseph Cuthbertson, Grace's 
 father, has none of the Colonel's boyishness. He is a 
 man of fervent idealistic sentiment, so frequently out- 
 raged by the facts of life, that he has acquired an habitu- 
 ally indignant manner, which unexpectedly becomes en- 
 thusiastic or affectionate when he speaks. 
 
 The two men differ greatly in expression. The Colo- 
 nel's face is lined with weather, with age, with eating 
 and drinking, and with the cumulative effects of many 
 petty vexations, but not with thought: he is still fresh, 
 and he has by no means full expectations of pleasure and 
 novelty, Cuthbertson has the lines of sedentary London 
 brain work, with its chronic fatigue and longing for rest 
 and recreative emotion, and its disillusioned indifference 
 to adventure and enjoyment, except as a means of re- 
 cuperation. 
 
 They are both in evening dress; and Cuthbertson wears 
 
Act I The Philanderer 95 
 
 his fur collared overcoat, which, rvith his vigilant, iras- 
 cible eye, piled up hair, and the honorable earnestness 
 with which he takes himself, gives him an air of con- 
 siderable consequence, 
 
 CuTHBERTSON (with a hospitable show of delight at 
 finding visitors). Don't stop^ Miss Craven. Go on^ 
 Charteris. (He comes down behind the sofa, and hangs 
 his overcoat on it, after taking an opera glass and a 
 theatre programme from the pockets, and putting them 
 down on the piano. Craven meanwhile goes to the fire- 
 place and stands on the hearthrug,) 
 
 Charteris. No^ thank you. Miss Craven has just 
 been taking me through an old song; and I've had enough 
 of it. (He takes the song off the piano desk and lays it 
 aside; then closes the lid over the keyboard,) 
 
 Julia (passing between the sofa and piano to shake 
 hands with Cuthbertson), Why, you've brought Daddy! 
 What a surprise! (Looking across to Craven,) So glad 
 you've eome_, Dad. (She takes a chair near the window, 
 and sits there,) 
 
 Cuthbertson. Craven: let me introduce you to Mr. 
 Leonard Charteris^ the famous Ibsenist philosopher. 
 
 Craven. Oh^ we know one another already. Char- 
 teris is quite at home at our house^ Jo. 
 
 Cuthbertson. I beg both your pardons. (Charteris 
 sits down on the piano stool.) He's quite at home here 
 too. By the bye_, where's Grace? 
 
 Julia and Charteris. Er (^^^y ^^op and look 
 
 at one another.) 
 
 Julia (politely). I beg your pardon^ Mr. Charteris: 
 I interrupted you. 
 
 Charteris. Not at all. Miss Craven. (An awkward 
 pause.) 
 
 Cuthbertson (to help them out). You were going to 
 tell about Grace, Charteris. 
 
 Charteris. I was only going to say that I didn't 
 know that you and Craven were acquainted. 
 
96 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 Craven. Why^ / didn't know it until to-night. It's 
 a most extraordinary thing. We met by chance at the 
 theatre ; and he turns out to be my oldest friend. 
 
 CuTHBERTSON {energetically). Yes^ Craven; and do 
 you see how this proves what I was saying to you about 
 the breaking up of family life.^ Here are all our young 
 people — Grace and Miss Julia and the rest — bosom 
 friends^ inseparables; and yet we two^ who knew each 
 other before they were born^ might never have met again 
 if you hadn't popped into the stall next to mine to-night 
 by pure chance. Come^ sit down (bustling over to him 
 affectionately and pushing him into the arm chair above 
 the fire) : there's your place^ by my fireside^ whenever you 
 choose to fill it. (He posts himself at the right end of the 
 sofa, leaning against it and admiring Craven.) Just 
 imagine your being Dan Craven ! 
 
 Craven. Just imagine your being Jo Cuthbertson^ 
 though! That's a far more extraordinary coincidence^ 
 because I'd got it into my head that your name was Tran- 
 field. 
 
 Cuthbertson. Oh^ that's my daughter's name. She's 
 a widow^ you know. How uncommonly well you look^ 
 Dan! The years haven't hurt you much. 
 
 Craven {suddenly becoming unnaturally gloomy). I 
 look well. I even feel well. But my days are numbered. 
 
 Cuthbertson {alarmed). Oh don't say that^ my dear 
 fellow. I hope not. 
 
 Julia {with anguish in her voice). Daddy! {Cuth- 
 bertson looks inquiringly around at her.) 
 
 Craven. There^ there^ my dear: I was wrong to talk 
 of it. It's a sad subject. But it's better that Cuthbert- 
 son should know. We used to be very close friends^ and 
 are so stilly I hope. {Cuthbertson goes to Craven and 
 presses his hand silently; then returns to sofa and sits, 
 pulling out his handkerchief and displaying some emo- 
 tion. ) 
 
 Charteris {a little impatiently). The fact is, Cuth- 
 
Act I The Philanderer 97 
 
 bertson^ Craven's a devout believer in the department of 
 witchcraft called medical science. He's celebrated in all 
 the medical schools as an example of the newest sort of 
 liver complaint. The doctors say he can't last another 
 year; and he has fully made up his mind not to survive 
 next Easter^ just to oblige them. 
 
 Craven (with military affectation). It's very kind of 
 you to try to keep up my spirits by making light of 
 it, Charteris. But I shall be ready when my time 
 comes. I'm a soldier. (A sob from Julia,) Don't cry, 
 Julia. 
 
 CuTHBERTSON (Jiushily) . I hope you may long be 
 spared, Dan. 
 
 Craven. To oblige me, Jo, change the subject. {He 
 gets up and again posts himself on the hearthrug rvith 
 his back to the fire,) 
 
 Charteris. Try and persuade him to join our club, 
 Cuthbertson. He mopes. 
 
 Julia. It's no use. Sylvia and I are always at him 
 to join; but he won't. 
 
 Craven. My child, I have my own club. 
 
 Charteris (contemptuously). Yes, the Junior Army 
 and Navy ! Do you call that a club ? Why, they daren't 
 let a woman cross the doorstep ! 
 
 Craven (a little ruffled). Clubs are a matter of taste, 
 Charteris. You like a cock and hen club: I don't. It's 
 bad enough to have Julia and her sister — a girl under 
 twenty — spending half their time at such a place. Be- 
 sides, now really, such a name for a club! The Ibsen 
 club ! I should be laughed out of London. The Ibsen 
 club ! Come, Cuthbertson, back me up. I'm sure you 
 agree with me. 
 
 Charteris. Cuthbertson's a member. 
 
 Craven (amazed). No! Why, he's been talking to 
 me all the evening about the way in which everything is 
 going to the dogs through advanced ideas in the younger 
 generation. 
 
98 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 Charteris. Of course. He's been studying it in the 
 club. He's always there. 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN (warmli/). Not always. Don't exag- 
 gerate^ Charteris. You know very well that though I 
 joined the club on Grace's account^ thinking that her 
 father's presence there would be a protection and a — a 
 sort of sanction^ as it were — I never approved of it. 
 
 Craven (tactlessly harping on Cuthhertson's incon- 
 sistency). Well^ you know^ this is unexpected: now it's 
 really very unexpected. I should never have thought it 
 from hearing you talk^ Jo. Why^ you said the whole 
 modern movement was abhorrent to you because your life 
 had been passed in witnessing scenes of suffering nobly 
 endured and sacrifice willingly rendered by womanly 
 women and manly men and deuce knows what else. Is 
 it at the Ibsen club that you see all this manliness and 
 womanliness } 
 
 Charteris. Certainly not: the rules of the club for- 
 bid anything of that sort. Every candidate for member- 
 ship must be nominated by a man and a woman^ who 
 both guarantee that the candidate^ if female, is not 
 womanly, and if male, is not manly. 
 
 Craven (chuckling cunningly and stooping to press 
 his heated trousers against his legs, rvhich are chilly). 
 Won't do, Charteris. Can't take me in with so thin a 
 story as that. 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN (vehemently). It's true. It's mon- 
 strous, but it's true. 
 
 Craven (with rising indignation, as he begins to draw 
 the inevitable inferences). Do you mean to say that 
 somebody had the audacity to guarantee that my Julia 
 is not a womanly woman? 
 
 Charteris (darkly). It sounds incredible; but a man 
 was found ready to take that inconceivable lie on his 
 conscience. 
 
 Julia (firing up). If he has nothing worse than that 
 on his conscience, he may sleep pretty well. In what 
 
A.CT I The Philanderer 99 
 
 way am I more womanly than any of the rest of them^ 
 I should like to know? They are always saying things 
 like that behind my back — I hear of them from Sylvia. 
 Only the other day a member of the committee said I 
 ought never to have been elected — that you {to Char- 
 teris) had smuggled me in. I should like to see her say 
 it to my face: that's all. 
 
 Craven. But^ my precious^ I most sincerely hope she 
 was right. She paid you the highest compliment. Why, 
 the place must be a den of infamy. 
 
 CuTHBERTSON {emphatically). So it is, Craven, so 
 it is. 
 
 Charteris. Exactly. That's what keeps it so select: 
 nobody but people whose reputations are above suspicion 
 dare belong to it. If we once got a good name, we should 
 become a mere whitewashing shop for all the shady char- 
 acters in London. Better join us. Craven. Let me put 
 you up. 
 
 Craven. What! Join a club where there's some 
 scoundrel who guaranteed my daughter to be an unwom- 
 anly woman ! If I weren't an invalid, I'd kick him. 
 
 Charteris. Oh don't say that. It was I who did it. 
 
 Craven {reproachfully). You! Now upon my soul, 
 Charteris, this is very vexing. Now how could you bring 
 yourself to do such a thing? 
 
 Charteris. She made me. Why, I had to guarantee 
 Cuthbertson as unmanly; and he's the leading represen- 
 tative of manly sentiment in London. 
 
 Craven. That didn't do Jo any harm: but it took 
 away my Julia's character. 
 
 Julia {outraged). Daddy! 
 
 Charteris. Not at the Ibsen club, quite the contrary. 
 After all, what can we do? You know what breaks up 
 most clubs for men and women. There's a quarrel — a 
 scandal — cherchez la femme — always a woman at the 
 bottom of it. Well, we knew this when we founded the 
 club; but we noticed that the woman at the bottom of it 
 
100 The Philanderer Act 1 
 
 was always a womanly woman. The unwomanly women 
 who work for their living and know how to take care of 
 themselves never give any trouble. So we simply said 
 we wouldn't have any womanly women; and when one 
 gets smuggled in she has to take care not to behave in a 
 womanly way. We get on all right. {He rises.) Come 
 to lunch with me there tomorrow and see the place. 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN (rising), No^ he's engaged to me. But 
 you can join us. 
 
 Charteris. What hour? 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN. Any time after twelve. (To Craven) 
 It's at 90 Cork street^ at the other end of the Burlington 
 Arcade. 
 
 Craven (making a note), 90^ you say. After twelve. 
 (He suddenly relapses into gloom,) By the bye, don't 
 order anything special for me. I'm not allowed wine — 
 only Apollinaris. No meat either — only a scrap of fish 
 occasionally. I'm to have a short life^ but not a merry 
 one. (Sighing,) Well, well. (Bracing himself up,) 
 Now, Julia, it's time for us to be off. (Julia rises,) 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN. But whcrc on earth is Grace ? I must 
 go and look for her. (He turns to the door,) 
 
 Julia (stopping him). Oh, pray don't disturb her, 
 Mr. Cuthbertson. She's so tired. 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN. But just for a moment to say good 
 night. (Julia and Charteris look at one another in dis- 
 may. Cuthbertson looks quickly at them, perceiving that 
 something is wrong,) 
 
 Charteris. We must make a clean breast of it, I see. 
 
 Cuthbertson. Clean breast? 
 
 Charteris. The truth is, Cuthbertson, Mrs. Tran- 
 field, who is, as you know, the most thoughtful of women, 
 took it into her head that I — well, that I particularly 
 wanted to speak to Miss Craven alone. So she said she 
 was tired and wanted to go to bed. 
 
 Craven (scandalised). Tut! tut! 
 
 Cuthbertson. Oho! is that it? Then it's all right. 
 
Act I The Philanderer 101 
 
 She never goes to bed as early as this. I'll fetch her in 
 a moment. (^He goes out confidently, leaving Chart eris 
 aghast. ) 
 
 Julia. Now youVe done it. {She rushes to the round 
 table and snatches up her mantle and bonnet,) I'm off. 
 {She makes for the door.) 
 
 Craven (horrified). What are you doings Julia? 
 You can't go until you've said good night to Mrs. Tran- 
 field. It would be horribly rude. 
 
 Julia. You can stay if you like^ Daddy: I can't. 
 I'll wait for you in the hall. {She hurries out,) 
 
 Craven {follorving her). But what on earth am I to 
 say.^ {Stopping as she disappears, and turning to Char- 
 teris grumbling) Now really you know^ Charteris_, this 
 is devilish awkward^ upon my life it is. That was a 
 most indelicate thing of you to say plump out before us 
 all — that about you and Julia, 
 
 Charteris. I'll explain it all to-morrow. Just at 
 present we'd really better follow Julia's example and 
 bolt. {He starts for the door.) 
 
 Craven {intercepting him). Stop! don't leave me like 
 this: I shall look like a fool. Now I shall really take it 
 in bad part if you run away, Charteris. 
 
 Charteris {resignedly). All right. I'll stay. {Lifts 
 himself on to the shoulder of the grand piano and sits 
 there srvinging his legs and contemplating Craven re- 
 signedly,) 
 
 Craven {pacing up and down). I'm excessively vexed 
 about Julia's conduct^ I am indeed. She can't bear to be 
 crossed in the slightest thing, poor child. I'll have to 
 apologize for her you know: her going away is a down- 
 right slap in the face for these people here. Cuthbert- 
 son may be offended already for all I know. 
 
 Charteris. Oh never mind about him. Mrs. Tran- 
 field bosses this . establishment. 
 
 Craven {cunningly). Ah, that's it, is it.'* He's just 
 the sort of fellow that would have no control over his 
 
102 The Philanderer Act I 
 
 daughter. (^He goes hack to his former place on the 
 hearthrug with his hack to the fire.) By the bye^ what 
 the dickens did he mean by all that about passing his 
 life amid — what was it ? — " scenes of suffering nobly 
 endured and sacrifice willingly rendered by womanly 
 women and manly men " and a lot more of the same sort? 
 I suppose he's something in a hospital. 
 
 Charteris. Hospital! Nonsense: he's a dramatic 
 critic. Didn't you hear me say that he was the leading 
 representative of manly sentiment in London? 
 
 Craven. You don't say so. Now really^ who'd have 
 thought it ! How j oily it must be to be able to go to the 
 theatre for nothing! I must ask him to get me a few 
 tickets occasionally. But isn't it ridiculous for a man to 
 talk like that! I'm hanged if he don't take what he sees 
 on the stage quite seriously. 
 
 Charteris. Of course: that's why he's a good critic. 
 Besides^ if you take people seriously off the stage^ why 
 shouldn't you take them seriously on it^ where they're 
 under some sort of decent restraint? (He jumps down 
 off piano and goes up to the window, Cuthhertson comes 
 hack,) 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN {to Cravcn, rather sheepishly). The 
 fact is^ Grace has gone to bed. I must apologize to 
 
 you and Miss {He turns to Julia's seat, and stops 
 
 on seeing it vacant,) 
 
 Craven (emharrassed). It is I who have to apologize 
 for Julia^ Jo. She 
 
 Charteris (interrupting). She said she was quite 
 sure that if we didn't go^ you'd persuade Mrs. Tranfield 
 to get up to say good night for the sake of politeness ; so 
 she went straight off. 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN. Very kind of her indeed. I'm really 
 ashamed 
 
 Craven. Don't mention it, Jo, don't mention it. 
 She's waiting for me below. (Going,) Good night. 
 Good night, Charteris. 
 
Act I The Philanderer 103 
 
 Charteris. Good night. 
 
 CuTHBERTSO's (seeing Craven out). Goodnight. Say 
 good night and thanks to Miss Craven for me. To-mor- 
 row any time after twelve, remember. {They go out; 
 and Charteris rvith a long sigh crosses to the fireplace, 
 thoroughly tired out.) 
 
 Craven (outside). All right. 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN (outsidc) . Take care of the stairs; 
 they're rather steep. Good night. (The outside door 
 shuts; and Cuthhertson returns. Instead of entering, he 
 stands in the doorrvay rvith one hand in the breast of his 
 waistcoat, eyeing Charteris sternly.) 
 
 Charteris. What's the matter? 
 
 CuTHBERTSON (stcmly). Charteris: what's been going 
 on here? I insist on knowing. Grace has not gone to 
 bed: I have seen and spoken with her. What is it all 
 about ? 
 
 Charteris. Ask your theatrical experience^ Cuthhert- 
 son. A man^ of course. 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN (coTuing forward and confronting him). 
 Don't play the fool with me^ Charteris: I'm too old a 
 hand to be amused by it. I ask you^ seriously^ what's 
 the matter? 
 
 Charteris. I tell you^ seriously^ I'm the matter. 
 Julia wants to marry me: I want to marry Grace. I 
 came here to-night to sweetheart Grace. Enter Julia. 
 Alarums and excursions. Exit Grace. Enter you and 
 Craven. Subterfuges and excuses. Exeunt Craven and 
 Julia. And here we are. That's the whole story. Sleep 
 over it. Good night. (He leaves.) 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN (staring after him). Well I'll be 
 
 (The act drop descends.) 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 Next day at noon, in the Library of the Ibsen club. A 
 spacious room, rvith glass doors right and left. At the 
 back, in the middle, is the fireplace, surmounted by a 
 handsome mantelpiece, rvith a bust of Ibsen, and deco- 
 rated inscriptions of the titles of his plays. There are 
 circular recesses at each side of fireplace, rvith divan seats 
 running round them, and windows at the top, the space 
 between the divan and the windorv sills being lined with 
 books. A long settee is placed before the fire. Along 
 the back of the settee, and touching it, is a green table, 
 littered with journals. A revolving bookcase stands in 
 the foreground, a little to the left, with an easy chair 
 close to it. On the right, between the door and the recess, 
 is a light library stepladder. Placards inscribed '' si- 
 lence " are conspicuously exhibited here and there. 
 
 {Cuthbertson is seated in the easy chair at the revolv- 
 ing bookstand, reading the '^ Daily Graphic.'' Dr. Para- 
 more is on the divan in the right hand recess, reading 
 '' The British Medical Journal." He is young as age is 
 counted in the professions — barely forty. His hair is 
 wearing bald on his forehead; and his dark arched eye- 
 brows, coming rather close together, give him a conscien- 
 tiously sinister appearance. He wears the frock coat and 
 cultivates the '' bedside manner " of the fashionable 
 physician with scrupulous conventionality . Not at all a 
 happy or frank man, but not consciously unhappy nor 
 intentionally insincere, and highly self satisfied intel- 
 lectually. 
 
 Sylvia Craven is sitting in the middle of the settee be- 
 
Act II The Philanderer 105 
 
 fore the fire, only the hack of her head being visible. She 
 is reading a volume of Ibsen, She is a girl of eighteen, 
 small and trim, wearing a smart tailor-made dress, rather 
 short, and a Newmarket jacket, showing a white blouse 
 with a light silk sash and a man's collar and watch chain 
 so arranged as to look as like a man's waistcoat and shirt- 
 front as 'possible without spoiling the prettiness of the 
 effect. A Page Boy's voice, monotonously calling for 
 Dr. Paramore, is heard approaching outside on the right,) 
 
 Page (outside). Dr. Paramore^ Dr. Paramore^ Dr. 
 Paramore. (He enters carrying a salver with a card on 
 it,) Dr. Par 
 
 Paramore (sharply, sitting up). Here^ boy. (The 
 boy presents the salver, Paramore takes the card and 
 looks at it,) All right: I'll come down to him. (The boy 
 goes, Paramore rises, and comes from the recess, throw- 
 ing his paper on the table,) Good mornings Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson (stopping to pull out his cuffs and shake his coat 
 straight) Mrs. Tranfield quite well^ I hope? 
 
 Sylvia (turning her head indignantly). Sh — sh — sh! 
 (Paramore turns, surprised, Cuthbertson rises ener- 
 getically and looks across the bookstand to see who is the 
 author of this impertinence,) 
 
 Paramore (to Sylvia — stiffly) I beg your pardon, 
 Miss Craven: I did not mean to disturb you. 
 
 Sylvia (flustered and self assertive). You may talk 
 as much as you like if you will only have the common 
 consideration to first ask whether the other people object. 
 What I protest against is your assumption that my pres- 
 ence doesn't matter because I'm only a female member. 
 That's all. Now go on, pray: you don't disturb me in 
 the least. (She turns to the fire, and again buries her- 
 self in Ibsen,) 
 
 Cuthbertson (with emphatic dignity). No gentle- 
 man would have dreamt of objecting to our exchanging 
 a few words, madam. (She takes no notice. He resumes 
 
106 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 angrily,^ As a matter of fact I was about to say to Dr. 
 Paramore that if he would care to bring his visitor up 
 here^ I should not object. The impudence! {Dashes 
 his 'paper down on the chair,) 
 
 Paramore. Oh^ many thanks; but it's only an instru- 
 ment maker. 
 
 CuTHBERTSON. Any new medical discoveries, doctor? 
 
 Paramore. Well, since you ask me, yes — perhaps a 
 most important one. I have discovered something that 
 has hitherto been overlooked — a minute duct in the liver 
 of the guinea pig. Miss Craven will forgive my men- 
 tioning it when I say that it may throw an important 
 light on her father's case. The first thing, of course, is 
 to find out what the duct is there for. 
 
 CuTHBERTSON {reverently — feeling that he is in the 
 presence of science). Indeed. How will you do that? 
 
 Paramore. Oh, easily enough, by simply cutting the 
 duct and seeing what will happen to the guinea pig. 
 {Sylvia rises, horrified.) I shall require a knife spe- 
 cially made to get at it. The man who is waiting for me 
 downstairs has brought me a few handles to try before 
 fitting it and sending it to the laboratory. I am afraid 
 it would not do to bring such weapons up here. 
 
 Sylvia. If you attempt such a thing, Dr. Paramore, 
 I will complain to the committee. The majority of the 
 committee are anti-vivisectionists. You ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself. {She flounces out at the right 
 hand door,) 
 
 Paramore {with patient contempt). That's the sort 
 of thing we scientific men have to put up with nowadays, 
 Mr. Cuthbertson. Ignorance, superstition, sentimental- 
 ity: they are all one. A guinea pig's convenience is set 
 above the health and lives of the entire human race. 
 
 Cuthbertson {vehemently). It's not ignorance or 
 superstition, Paramore: it's sheer downright Ibsenism: 
 that's what it is. I've been wanting to sit comfortably 
 at the fire the whole morning; but I've never had a chance 
 
Act II The Philanderer 107 
 
 with that girl there. I couldn't go and plump myself 
 down on a seat beside her: goodness knows what she'd 
 think I wanted. That's one of the delights of having 
 women in the club : when they come in here they all want 
 to sit at the fire and adore that bust. I sometimes feel 
 that I should like to take the poker and fetch it a wipe 
 across the nose — ^ugh! 
 
 Paramore. I must say I prefer the elder Miss Craven 
 to her sister. 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN (Ms eyes lighting up). Ah^ Julia! I 
 believe you. A splendid fine creature — every inch a 
 woman. No Ibsenism about her! 
 
 Paramore. I quite agree with you there^ Mr. Cuth- 
 bertson. Er — by the way^ do you think is Miss Craven 
 attached to Charteris at all? 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN. What^ that fellow! Not he. He 
 hangs about after her; but he's not man enough for her. 
 A woman of that sort likes a strongs manly^ deep- 
 throated^ broad-chested man. 
 
 Paramore {anxiously). Hm^ a sort of sporting char- 
 acter^ you think .^ 
 
 Cuthbertson. Oh^ no^ no. A scientific man^ perhaps, 
 like yourself. But you know what I mean — a MAN. 
 (Strikes himself a sounding blow on the chest.) 
 
 Paramore. Of course; but Charteris is a man. > 
 
 Cuthbertson. Pah! you don't see what I mean. 
 (The Page Boy returns with his salver.) 
 
 Page Boy (calling monotonously as before). Mr. 
 Cuthbertson, Mr. Cuthbertson, Mr. Cuth 
 
 Cuthbertson. Here, boy. (He takes a card from 
 the salver.) Bring the gentleman up here. (The boy 
 goes out.) It's Craven. He's coming to lunch with me 
 and Charteris. You might join us if you've nothing bet- 
 ter to do, when you've finished with the instrument man. 
 If Julia turns up I'll ask her too. 
 
 Paramore (flushing with pleasure). I shall be very 
 happy. Thank you. (He is going out at the right hand 
 
108 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 door when Craven enters.) Good mornings Colonel 
 Craven. 
 
 Craven {at the door). Good morning — glad to see 
 you. I'm looking for Cuthbertson. 
 
 Paramore {smiling). There he is. {He goes out.) 
 
 Cuthbertson {greeting Craven effusively). De- 
 lighted to see you. Now will you come to the smoking 
 room^ or will you sit down here and have a chat while 
 we're waiting for Charteris. If you like company^ the 
 smoking room is always full of women. Here we shall 
 have it pretty well all to ourselves until about three 
 o'clock. 
 
 Craven. I don't like to see women smoking. I'll 
 make myself comfortable here. {Sits in an easy chair 
 on the right.) 
 
 Cuthbertson {taking a chair beside him, on his left). 
 Neither do I. There's not a room in this club where I 
 can enjoy a pipe quietly without a woman coming in and 
 beginning to roll a cigarette. It's a disgusting habit in 
 a woman: it's not natural to her sex. 
 
 Craven {sighing). Ah^ Jo^ times have changed since 
 we both courted Molly Ebden all those years ago. I 
 took my defeat well^ old chap^ didn't I ? 
 
 Cuthbertson {with earnest approval). You did^ 
 Dan. The thought of it has often helped me to behave 
 well myself: it has, on my honour. 
 
 Craven. Yes, you always believe in hearth and home, 
 Jo — in a true English wife and a happy wholesome fire- 
 side. How did Molly turn out? 
 
 Cuthbertson {trying to be fair to Molly). Well, not 
 bad. She might have been worse. You see I couldn't 
 stand her relations : all the men were roaring cads ; and 
 she couldn't get on with my mother. And then she hated 
 being in town; and of course I couldn't live in the coun- 
 try on account of my work. But we hit it off as well as 
 most people, until we separated. 
 
 Craven {taken aback). Separated! {He is irresis- 
 
Act II The Philanderer 109 
 
 tibli/ amused.) Oh^ that was the end of the hearth and 
 home, Jo^ was it? 
 
 CuTHBERTSON (warmly). It was not my faulty Dan. 
 (Sentimentally,) Some day the world will know how I 
 loved that woman. But she was incapable of valuing a 
 true man's affection. Do you know^ she often said she 
 wished she'd married you instead. 
 
 Craven (sobered by the suggestion). Dear me^ dear 
 me ! Well, perhaps it was better as it was. You heard 
 about my marriage, I suppose. 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN. Oh ycs I wc all heard of it. 
 
 Craven. Well, Jo, I may as well make a clean breast 
 of it — everybody knew it. I married for money. 
 
 CuTHBERTSON (encouragingly) , And why not, Dan, 
 why not.^ We can't get on without it, you know. 
 
 Craven (with sincere feeling), 1 got to be very fond 
 of her, Jo. I had a home until she died. Now every- 
 thing's changed. Julia's always here. Sylvia's of a 
 different nature; but she's always here too. 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN (sympathetically), I know. It's the 
 same with Grace. She's always here. 
 
 Craven. And now they want me to be always here. 
 They're at me every day to join the club — ^to stop my 
 grumbling, I suppose. That's what I want to consult 
 you about. Do you think I ought to join.'* 
 
 Cuthbertson. Well, if you have no conscientious 
 ob j ection 
 
 Craven (testily interrupting him). I object to the 
 existence of the place on principle; but what's the use 
 of that.^ Here it is in spite of my objection, and I may 
 as well have the benefit of any good that may be in it. 
 
 Cuthbertson (soothing him). Of course: that's the 
 only reasonable view of the matter. Well, the fact is, 
 it's not so inconvenient as you might think. When you're 
 at home, you have the house more to yourself; and when 
 you want to have your family about you, you can dine 
 with them at the club. 
 
110 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 Craven (not much attracted by this). True. 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN. Bcsides^ if you don't want to dine 
 with them^ you needn't. 
 
 Craven (convinced), True^ very true. But don't 
 they carry on here_, rather? 
 
 Cuthbertson. Oh^ no^ they don't exactly carry on. 
 Of course the usual tone of the club is low^ because the 
 women smoke and earn their own living and all that; but 
 still there's nothing actually to complain of. And it's 
 convenient_, certainly. (Charteris comes in, looking round 
 for them.) 
 
 Craven (rising). Do you know^ I've a great mind to 
 join^ just to see what it's like. Would you mind putting 
 me up.^ 
 
 Cuthbertson. Delighted^ Dan^ delighted. (He 
 grasps Craven's hand.) 
 
 Charteris (putting one hand on Craven's shoulder 
 and the other on Cuthhert son's). Bless you^. my chil- 
 dren! (Cuthbertson, a little rvounded in his dignity, 
 moves arvay. The Colonel takes the jest in the utmost 
 good humor,) 
 
 Craven (cordially). Hallo! 
 
 Charteris (to Craven), Hope I haven't disturbed 
 your chat by coming too soon. 
 
 Craven. Not at all. Welcome, dear boy. (Shakes 
 his hand.) 
 
 Charteris. That's right. I'm earlier than I in- 
 tended. The fact is^ I have something rather pressing 
 to say to Cuthbertson. 
 
 Craven. Private ! 
 
 Charteris. Not particularly. (To Cuthbertson,) 
 Only what we were speaking of last night. 
 
 Cuthbertson. Well^ Charteris^ I think that is pri- 
 vate^ or ought to be. 
 
 Craven (going up towards the table). I'll just take 
 a look at the Times 
 
 Charteris (stopping him). Oh, it's no secret: every- 
 
Act II The Philanderer 111 
 
 body in the club guesses it. {To Cuthbertson.) Has 
 Grace never mentioned to you that she wants to marry 
 me? 
 
 Cuthbertson (indignantly). She has mentioned 
 that you want to marry her. 
 
 Charteris. Ah; but then it's not what I want^ but 
 what Grace wants^ that will weigh with you. 
 
 Craven (a little shocked). Excuse me Charteris: this 
 is private. Til leave you to yourselves. {Again moves 
 towards the table,) 
 
 Charteris. Wait a bit^ Craven: you're concerned in 
 this. Julia wants to marry me too. 
 
 Craven {in a tone of the strongest remonstrance). 
 Now really ! Now upon my life and soul ! 
 
 Charteris. It's a f act^ I assure you. Didn't it strike 
 you as rather odd^ our being up there last night and 
 Mrs. Tranfield not with us? 
 
 Craven. Well^ yes it did. But you explained it. 
 And now really^ Charteris^ I must say your explanation 
 was in shocking bad taste before Julia. 
 
 Charteris. Never mind. It was a good^ f at^ healthy, 
 bouncing lie. 
 
 Craven and Cuthbertson. Lie! 
 
 Charteris. Didn't you suspect that? 
 
 Craven. Certainly not. Did you, Jo ? 
 
 Cuthbertson. No, most emphatically. 
 
 Craven. What's more, I don't believe you. I'm 
 sorry to have to say such a thing; but you forget that 
 Julia was present and didn't contradict you. 
 
 Charteris. She didn't want to. 
 
 Craven. Do you mean to say that my daughter de- 
 ceived me? 
 
 Charteris. Delicacy towards me compelled her to. 
 Craven. 
 
 Craven {taking a very serious tone). Now look here, 
 Charteris: have you any proper sense of the fact that 
 you're standing between two fathers? 
 
112 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 CuTHBERTSON. Quite rights Dan^ quite right. I re- 
 peat the question on my own account. 
 
 Charteris. Well^ I'm a little dazed still by standing 
 for so long between two daughters; but I think I grasp 
 the situation. {Cuthhertson flings away with an excla- 
 mation of disgust,) 
 
 Craven. Then I'm sorry for your manners^ Char- 
 teris: that's all. {He turns away sulkily; then suddenly 
 fires up and turns on Charteris,) How dare you tell me 
 my daughter wants to marry you. Who are you^ pray^ 
 that she should have any such ambition? 
 
 Charteris. Just so; she couldn't have made a worse 
 choice. But she won't listen to reason. I've talked to 
 her like a father myself — I assure you^ my dear Craven, 
 I've said everything that you could have said; but it's 
 no use: she won't give me up. And if she won't listen 
 to me, what likelihood is there of her listening to you } 
 
 Craven {in angry bewilderment). Cuthbertson: did 
 you ever hear anything like this? 
 
 Cuthbertson. Never ! Never ! 
 
 Charteris. Oh, bother? Come, don't behave like a 
 couple of conventional old fathers : this is a serious affair. 
 Look at these letters {producing a letter and a letter- 
 card,) This {showing the card) is from Grace — by the 
 way, Cuthbertson, I wish you'd ask her not to write on 
 letter-cards: the blue colour makes it so easy for Julia 
 to pick the bits out of my waste paper basket and 
 piece them together. Now listen. ** My dear Leonard: 
 Nothing could make it worth my while to be exposed 
 to such scenes as last night's. You had much better go 
 back to Julia and forget me. Yours sincerely, Grace 
 Tranfield." 
 
 Cuthbertson {infuriated). Damnation! 
 
 Charteris {turning to Craven and preparing to read 
 the letter). Now for Julia. {The Colonel turns away 
 to hide his face from Charteris, anticipating a shock, 
 and puts his hand on a chair to steady himself,) " My 
 
Act II The Philanderer 113 
 
 dearest boy. Nothing will make me believe that this 
 odious woman can take my place in your heart. I send 
 some of the letters you wrote me when we first met; and 
 I ask you to read them. They will recall what you felt 
 when you wrote them. You cannot have changed so much 
 as to be indifferent to me : whoever may have struck your 
 fancy for the moment^ your heart is still mine " — and so 
 on : you know the sort of thing — " Ever and always your 
 loving Julia." {The Colonel sinks on the chair and 
 covers his face with his hand.) You don't suppose she's 
 serious^ do you: that's the sort of thing she writes me 
 three times a day. (To Cuthbertson) Grace is in earnest 
 though^ confound it. (He holds out Grace's letter,) A 
 blue card as usual ! This time I shall not trust the waste 
 paper basket, (He goes to the fire, and throrvs the let- 
 ters into it.) 
 
 Cuthbertson (facing him with folded arms as he 
 comes down again). May I ask^ Mr. Charteris^ is this 
 the New Humour? 
 
 Charteris (still too preoccupied with his own diffi- 
 culty to have any sense of the effect he is producing on 
 the others). Oh, stuff! Do you suppose it's a joke 
 to be situated as I am.^ You've got your head so stuffed 
 with the New Humour and the New Woman and the 
 New This^ That and the Other^ all mixed up with your 
 own old Adam^ that you've lost your senses. 
 
 Cuthbertson (strenuously). Do you see that old 
 man^ grown grey in the honoured service of his coun- 
 try^ whose last days you have blighted.^ 
 
 Charteris (surprised, looking at Craven and realiz- 
 ing his distress with genuine concern). I'm very sorry. 
 Come^ Craven; don't take it to heart. (Craven shakes 
 his head.) I assure you it means nothing: it happens to 
 me constantly. 
 
 Cuthbertson. There is only one excuse for you. 
 You are not fully responsible for your actions. Like all 
 advanced people^ you have got neurasthenia. 
 
114 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 Charteris {appalled). Great Heavens! what's that? 
 
 CuTHBERTSON. I decline to explain. You know as 
 well as I do. I am going downstairs now to order lunch. 
 I shall order it for three ; but the third place is for Para- 
 more^ whom I have invited^ not for you. {He goes out 
 through the left hand door,) 
 
 Charteris (putting his hand on Craven's shoulder), 
 Come^ Craven; advise me. You've been in this sort of 
 fix yourself probably. 
 
 Craven. Charteris: no woman writes such letters to 
 a man unless he has made advances to her. 
 
 Charteris {mournfully). How little you know the 
 worlds Colonel! The New Woman is not like that. 
 
 Craven. I can only give you very old fashioned ad- 
 vice^ my boy; and that is that it's well to be oiF with the 
 Old Woman before you're on with the New. I'm sorry 
 you told me. You might have waited for my death: it's 
 not far off now. {His head droops again, Julia and 
 Paramore enter on the right. Julia stops as she catches 
 sight of Charteris, her face clouding and her breast heav- 
 ing, Paramore, seeing the Colonel apparently ill, hur- 
 ries dorvn to him with the bedside manner in full play,) 
 
 Charteris {seeing Julia), Oh Lord! {He retreats 
 under the lee of the revolving bookstand,) 
 
 Paramore {sympathetically to the Colonel). Allow 
 me. {Takes his wrist and begins to count his pulse,) 
 
 Craven {looking up). Eh? {Withdraws his hand 
 and rises rather crossly.) No^ Paramore: it's not my 
 liver now: it's private business. {A chase now begins 
 between Julia and Charteris, all the more exciting to them 
 because the huntress and her prey must alike conceal the 
 real object of their movements from the others, Char- 
 teris first makes for the right hand door. Julia immedi- 
 ately moves back to it, barring his path. He doubles 
 back round the bookstand, setting it whirling as he makes 
 for the left door, Julia crossing in pursuit of him. He 
 is about to escape when he is cut off by the return of 
 
Act II The Philanderer 115 
 
 Cuthbertson. He turns back and sees Julia close upon 
 him. There being nothing else for it, he bolts up into 
 the recess to the left of the fireplace,) 
 
 Cuthbertson. Good mornings Miss Craven. {They 
 shake hands.) Won't you join us at lunch? Paramore's 
 coming too. 
 
 Julia. Thanks: I shall be very pleased. {She goes 
 up with affected purposelessness towards the recess, 
 Charteris, almost trapped in it, crosses to the right hand 
 recess by way of the fender, knocking down the fire irons 
 with a crash as he does so,) 
 
 Craven (who has crossed to the whirling bookcase 
 and stopped it). What the dickens are you doing there, 
 Charteris } 
 
 Charteris. Nothing. It's such a confounded room 
 to get about in. 
 
 Julia (maliciously). Yes, isn't it. (She is moving 
 back to guard the right hand door, when Cuthbertson ap- 
 pears at it,) 
 
 Cuthbertson. May I take you down.^ (He offers 
 her his arm,) 
 
 Julia. No, really: you know it's against the rules 
 of the club to coddle women in any way. Whoever is 
 nearest to the door goes first. 
 
 Cuthbertson. Oh well, if you insist. Come, gentle- 
 men : let us go to lunch in the Ibsen fashion — the un- 
 sexed fashion. (He goes out on the left followed by 
 Paramore, laughing. Craven goes last. He turns at the 
 door to see whether Julia is coming, and stops when he 
 sees she is not.) 
 
 Craven. Come, Julia. 
 
 Julia (with patronizing affection). Yes, Daddy, 
 dear, presently. (Charteris is meanwhile stealing to the 
 right hand door.) Don't wait for me: I'll come in a 
 moment. (The Colonel hesitates.) It's all right. Daddy. 
 
 Craven (very gravely). Don't be long, my dear. 
 (He goes out,) 
 
116 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 Charteris. I'm off. {Makes a dash for the right 
 hand door J) 
 
 Julia {darting at him and seizing his wrist). Aren't 
 you coming? 
 
 Charteris. No. Unhand me Julia. {He tries to 
 get away: she holds him.) If you don't let me go, I'll 
 scream for help. 
 
 Julia {reproachfully). Leonard! {He breaks away 
 from her.) Oh^ how can you be so rough with me^ dear. 
 Did you get my letter .^^ 
 
 Charteris. Burnt it — {she turns away, struck to the 
 heart, and buries her face in her hands) — along with 
 hers. 
 
 Julia {quickly turning again). Her's ! Has she 
 written to you.^^ 
 
 Charteris. Yes^ to break off with me on your ac- 
 count. 
 
 Julia {her eyes gleaming). Ah! 
 
 Charteris. You are pleased. Wretch! Now you 
 have lost the last scrap of my regard. {He turns to go, 
 but is stopped by the retur^i of Sylvia. Julia turns away 
 and stands pretending to read a paper which she picks 
 up from the table.) 
 
 Sylvia {offhandedly). Hallo^ Charteris: how are 
 you getting on.^ {She takes his arm familiarly and 
 walks down the room with him.) Have you seen Grace 
 Tranfield this morning.^ {Julia drops the paper and 
 comes a step nearer to listen.) You generally know 
 where she is to be found. 
 
 Charteris. I shall never know any more^ Sylvia. 
 She's quarrelled with me. 
 
 Sylvia. Sylvia ! How often am I to tell you that 
 I am not Sylvia at the club } 
 
 Charteris. I forgot. I beg your pardon^ Craven^ 
 old chap {slaps her on the shoulder). 
 
 Sylvia. That's better — a little overdone, but better. 
 
 Julia. Don't be a fool, Silly. 
 
Act II The Philanderer 117 
 
 Sylvia. Remember^ Julia^ if you please, that here 
 we are members of the club, not sisters. I don't take 
 liberties with you here on family grounds : don't you take 
 any with me. (She goes to the settee and resumes her 
 former place,) 
 
 Charteris. Quite right, Craven. Down with the 
 tyranny of the elder sister ! 
 
 Julia. You ought to know better than to encourage a 
 child to make herself ridiculous, Leonard, even at my 
 expense. 
 
 Charteris (^seating himself on the edge of the table). 
 Your lunch will be cold, Julia. {Julia is about to retort 
 furiously when she is checked by the reappearance of 
 Cuthbertson at the left hand door,) 
 
 CuTHBERTSON. What has become of you. Miss Cra- 
 ven? Your father is getting quite uneasy. We're all 
 waiting for you. 
 
 Julia. So I have just been reminded, thank you. {She 
 goes out angrily past him, Sylvia looking round to see,) 
 
 Cuthbertson {looking first after her, then at Char- 
 teris). More neurasthenia. {He follows her,) 
 
 Sylvia {jumping up on her knees on the settee and 
 speaking over the back of it). What's up, Charteris? 
 Julia been making love to you ? 
 
 Charteris {speaking to her over his shoulder). No. 
 Blowing me up for making love to Grace. 
 
 Sylvia. Serve you right. You are an awful devil 
 for philandering. 
 
 Charteris {calmly). Do you consider it good club 
 form to talk that way to a man who might nearly be your 
 father ? 
 
 Sylvia {knowingly). Oh, I know you, my lad. 
 
 Charteris. Then you know that I never pay any 
 special attention to any woman. 
 
 Sylvia {thoughtfully). Do you know, Leonard, I 
 really believe you. I don't think you care a bit more for 
 one woman than for another. 
 
118 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 Charteris. You mean I don't care a bit less for one 
 woman than another. 
 
 Sylvia. That makes it worse. But what I mean is 
 that you never bother about their being only women : you 
 talk to them just as you do to me or any other fellow. 
 That's the secret of your success. You can't think how 
 sick they get of being treated with the respect due to 
 their sex. 
 
 Charteris. Ah^ if Julia only had your wisdom^ Cra- 
 ven ! {He gets off the table with a sigh and perches him- 
 self reflectively on the stepladder,) 
 
 Sylvia. She can't take things easy^ can she, old man ? 
 But don't you be afraid of breaking her heart: she gets 
 over her little tragedies. We found that out at home 
 when our great sorrow came. 
 
 Charteris. What was that.^ 
 
 Sylvia. I mean when we learned that poor papa had 
 Paramore's disease. But it was too late to inoculate papa. 
 All they could do was to prolong his life for two years 
 more by putting him on a strict diet. Poor old boy! 
 they cut off his liquor; and he's not allowed to eat meat. 
 
 Charteris. Your father appears to me to be uncom- 
 monly well. 
 
 Sylvia. Yes, you would think he was a great deal 
 better. But the microbes are at work, slowly but surely. 
 In another year it will be all over. Poor old Dad! it's 
 unfeeling to talk about him in this attitude: I must sit 
 down properly. {She comes down from the settee and 
 takes the chair near the bookstand.) 1 should like papa 
 to live for ever just to take the conceit out of Paramore. 
 I believe he's in love with Julia. 
 
 Charteris {starting up excitedly). In love with Julia ! 
 A ray of hope on the horizon I Do you really mean it ? 
 
 Sylvia. I should think I do. Why do you suppose 
 he's hanging about the club to-day in a beautiful new coat 
 and tie instead of attending to his patients } That lunch 
 with Julia will finish him. He'll ask Daddy's consent 
 
Act II The Philanderer 119 
 
 before they come back — 111 bet you three to one he 
 will, in anything you please. 
 
 Charteris. Gloves ? 
 
 Sylvia. No: cigarettes. 
 
 Charteris. Done! But vrhat does she think about 
 it.'^ Does she give him any encouragement.^ 
 
 Sylvia. Oh, the usual thing. Enough to keep any 
 other woman from getting him. 
 
 Charteris. Just so. I understand. Now listen to 
 me: I am going to speak as a philosopher. Julia is 
 jealous of everybody — everybody. If she saw you 
 flirting with Paramore she'd begin to value him directly. 
 You might play up a little. Craven, for my sake — eh.^ 
 
 Sylvia {rising). You're too awful, Leonard. For 
 shame .^ However, anything to oblige a fellow Ibsenite. 
 I'll bear your affair in mind. But I think it would be 
 more effective if you got Grace to do it. 
 
 Charteris. Think so? Hm! perhaps you're right. 
 
 Page Boy {outside as before). Dr. Paramore, Dr. 
 Paramore, Dr. Paramore 
 
 Sylvia. They ought to get that boy's voice properly 
 cultivated: it's a disgrace to the club. {She goes into the 
 recess on Ibsen's left. The page enters carrying the 
 British Medical Journal,) 
 
 Charteris {calling to the page). Dr. Paramore is in 
 the dining room. 
 
 Page Boy. Thank you, sir. {He is about to go into 
 the dining room when Sylvia swoops on him,) 
 
 Sylvia. Here: where are you taking that paper? It 
 belongs to this room. 
 
 Page Boy. It's Dr. Paramore's particular orders, 
 miss. The British Medical Journal has always to be 
 brought to him dreckly it comes. 
 
 Sylvia. What cheek ? Charteris : oughtn't we to stop 
 this on principle? 
 
 Charteris. Certainly not. Principle's the poorest 
 reason I know for making yourself nasty. 
 
120 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 Sylvia. Bosh ! Ibsen ! 
 
 Charteris {to the page). Off with you^ my boy: Dr. 
 Paramore's waiting breathless with expectation. 
 
 Page Boy {seriously). Indeed^ sir. {He hurries 
 
 of.) 
 
 Charteris. That boy will make his way in this coun- 
 try. He has no sense of humour. {Grace comes in. Her 
 dress, very convenient and businesslike, is made to please 
 herself and serve her own purposes without the slightest 
 regard to fashion, though by no means without a careful 
 concern for her personal elegance. She enters briskly, 
 like an habitually busy woman.) 
 
 Sylvia {running to her). Here you are at last Tran- 
 field^ old girl. IVe been waiting for you this last hour. 
 I'm starving. 
 
 Grace. All right, dear. {To Charteris.) Did you 
 get my letter .^^ 
 
 Charteris. Yes. I wish you wouldn't write on 
 those confounded blue letter cards. 
 
 Sylvia {to Grace). Shall I go down first and secure 
 a table? 
 
 Charteris {taking the reply out of Grace's mouth). 
 Do, old boy. 
 
 Sylvia. Don't be too long. {She goes into the din- 
 ing room.) 
 
 Grace. Well.?^ 
 
 Charteris. I'm afraid to face you after last night. 
 Can you imagine a more horrible scene .^ Don't you hate 
 the very sight of me after it.'^ 
 
 Grace. Oh, no. 
 
 Charteris. Then you ought to. Ugh ! it was hideous 
 — an insult — an outrage. A nice end to all my plans 
 for making you happy — for making you an exception 
 to all the women who swear I have made them miserable ! 
 
 Grace {sitting down placidly), I am not at all miser- 
 able. I'm sorry; but I shan't break my heart. 
 
 Charteris. No: yours is a thoroughbred heart: you 
 
Act II The Philanderer 121 
 
 don't scream and cry every time it's pinched. That's 
 why you are the only possible woman for me. 
 
 Grace {shaking her head). Not now. Never any 
 more. 
 
 Charteris. Never ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Grace. What I say, Leonard. 
 
 Charteris. Jilted again ! The fickleness of women 
 I love is only equaled by the infernal constancy of the 
 women who love me. Well, well ! I see how it is, Grace : 
 you can't get over that horrible scene last night. Imagine 
 her saying I had kissed her within the last two days ! 
 
 Grace {rising eagerly). Was that not true? 
 
 Charteris. True! No: a thumping lie. 
 
 Grace. Oh, I'm so glad. That was the only thing 
 that really hurt me. 
 
 Charteris. Just why she said it. How adorable of 
 you to care! My darling. {He seizes her hands and 
 presses them to his breast,) 
 
 Grace. Remember ! it's all broken ofi*. 
 
 Charteris. Ah yes: you have my heart in your 
 hands. Break it. Throw my happiness out of the win- 
 dow. 
 
 Grace. Oh, Leonard, does your happiness really de- 
 pend on me.^ 
 
 Charteris {tenderly) , Absolutely. {She beams with 
 delight. A sudden revulsion comes to him at the sight: 
 he recoils, dropping her hands and crying) Ah no: why 
 should I lie to you.^ {He folds his arms and adds 
 firmly) My happiness depends on nobody but myself. 
 I can do without you. 
 
 Grace {nerving herself). So you shall. Thank you 
 for the truth. Now I will tell you the truth. 
 
 Charteris {unfolding his arms and again recoiling). 
 No, please. Don't. As a philosopher, it's my busi- 
 ness to tell other people the truth; but it's not their 
 business to tell it to me. I don't like it: it hurts. 
 
 Grace {quietly). It's only that I love you. 
 
122 The Philanderer Act II 
 
 Charteris. Ah! that's not a philosophic truth. You 
 may tell me that as often as you like. {He takes her 
 in his arms,) 
 
 Grace. Yes, Leonard; but I'm an advanced woman. 
 {He checks himself and looks at her in some consterna- 
 tion,) I'm what my father calls a New Woman. {He 
 lets her go and stares at her,) I quite agree with all 
 your ideas. 
 
 Charteris {scandalized) , That's a nice thing for a 
 respectable woman to say ! You ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself. 
 
 Grace. I am quite in earnest about them too, though 
 you are not ; and I will never marry a man I love too 
 much. It would give him a terrible advantage over me: 
 I should be utterly in his power. That's what the New 
 Woman is like. Isn't she right, Mr. Philosopher.^ 
 
 Charteris. The struggle between the Philosopher 
 and the Man is fearful, Grace. But the Philosopher says 
 you are right. 
 
 Grace. I know I am right. And so we must part. 
 
 Charteris. Not at all. You must marry some one 
 else; and then I'll come and philander with you. {Sylvia 
 comes back,) 
 
 Sylvia {holding the door open). Oh, I say: come 
 along. I'm starving. 
 
 Charteris. So am I. I'll lunch with you if I may. 
 
 Sylvia. I thought you would. I've ordered soup for 
 three. {Grace passes out. Sylvia continues, to Char- 
 teris) You can watch Paramore from our table: he's 
 pretending to read the British Medical Journal; but he 
 must be making up his mind for the plunge: he looks 
 green with nervousness. 
 
 Charteris. Good luck to him. {He goes out, fol- 
 lowed by Sylvia,) 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 Still the library. Ten minutes later, Julia, angry and 
 miserable, comes in from the dining room, followed by 
 Craven, She crosses the room tormentedly, and throws 
 herself into a chair. 
 
 Craven (impatiently). What is the matter? Has 
 everyone gone mad to-day? What do you mean by sud- 
 denly getting up from the table and tearing away like 
 that? What does Paramore mean by reading his paper 
 and not answering when he's spoken to? (Julia writhes 
 impatiently.) Come^ come (tenderly): won't my pet 
 tell her own father what — (irritably) what the devil is 
 wrong with everybody ? Do pull yourself straight^ Julia^ 
 before Cuthbertson comes. He's only paying the bill: 
 he'll be here in a moment. 
 
 Julia. I couldn't bear it any longer. Oh^ to see 
 them sitting there at lunch together^ laughing^ chatting^ 
 making game of me ! I should have screamed out in 
 another moment — I should have taken a knife and killed 
 her — I should have — (Cuthbertson appears with the 
 luncheon bill in his hand. He stuffs it into his waistcoat 
 pocket as he comes to them. He begins speaking the mo- 
 ment he enters,) 
 
 Cuthbertson. I'm afraid you've had a very poor 
 lunch^ Dan. It's disheartening to see you picking at a 
 few beans and drinking soda water. I wonder how you 
 live! 
 
 Julia. That's all he ever takes^ Mr. Cuthbertson, I 
 assure you. He hates to be bothered about it. 
 
 Craven. Where's Paramore? 
 
124 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN. Reading his paper. I asked him 
 wasn't he coming; but he didn't hear me. It's amazing 
 how anything scientific absorbs him. Clever man ! Mon- 
 strously clever man! 
 
 Craven (pettishly). Oh yes^ that's all very well^ Jo; 
 but it's not good manners at table: he should shut up the 
 shop sometimes. Heaven knows I am only too anxious 
 to forget his science_, since it has pronounced my doom. 
 (He sits down with a melancholy air.) 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN (compassionately) . You mustn't think 
 about that^ Craven : perhaps he was mistaken. {He sighs 
 deeply and sits down.) But he is certainly a very clever 
 fellow. He thinks twice before he commits himself. 
 {They sit in silence, full of the gloomiest thoughts. Sud- 
 denly Paramore enters, pale and in the utmost disorder, 
 with the British Medical Journal in his clenched hand. 
 They rise in alarm. He tries to speak, hut chokes, 
 clutches at his throat, and staggers. Cuthhertson quickly 
 takes his chair and places it behind Paramore, who sinks 
 into it as they crowd about him. Craven at his right shoul- 
 der, Cuthbertson on his left, and Julia behind Craven.) 
 
 Craven. What's the matter^ Paramore? 
 
 Julia. Are you ill? 
 
 Cuthbertson. No bad news, I hope? 
 
 Paramore {despairingly). The worst of news ! Ter- 
 rible news ! Fatal news ! My disease 
 
 Craven {quickly). Do you mean my disease? 
 
 Paramore {fiercely). I mean my disease — Para- 
 more's disease — the disease I discovered — the work of 
 my life. Look here {pointing to the B. M. J. with a 
 ghastly expression of horror.) If this is true^ it was all 
 a mistake: there is no such disease. {Cuthbertson and 
 Julia look at one another, hardly daring to believe the 
 good news.) 
 
 Craven {in strong remonstrance). And you call this 
 bad news! Now really^ Paramore 
 
 Paramore {cutting him short ^Jioarsely) . It's natural 
 
Act III The Philanderer 125 
 
 for you to think only of yourself. I don't blame you: 
 all invalids are selfish. Only a scientific man can feel 
 what I feel now. (^Writhing under a sense of intolerable 
 injustice,) It's the fault of the wickedly sentimental 
 laws of this country. I was not able to make experi- 
 ments enough — only three dogs and a monkey. Think 
 of that, with all Europe full of my professional rivals — 
 men burning to prove me wrong! There is freedom in 
 France — enlightened republican France. One French- 
 man experiments on two hundred monkeys to disprove 
 my theory. Another sacrifices £S6 — three hundred dogs 
 at three francs apiece — to upset the monkey experiments. 
 A third proves them to be both wrong by a single experi- 
 ment in which he gets the temperature of a camel's liver 
 60 degrees below zero. And now comes this cursed Ital- 
 ian who has ruined me. He has a government grant to 
 buy animals with_, besides the run of the largest hospital 
 in Italy. (With desperate resolution) But I won't be 
 beaten by any Italian. I'll go to Italy myself. I'll re- 
 discover my disease: I know it exists; I feel it; and I'll 
 prove it if I have to experiment on every mortal animal 
 that's got a liver at all. (He folds his arms and breathes 
 hard at them.) 
 
 Craven (his sense of injury growing upon him). Am 
 I to understand^ Paramore^ that you took it on yourself 
 to pass sentence of death — yes, of Death — on me, on the 
 strength of three dogs and an infernal monkey? 
 
 Paramore (utterly contemptuous of Craven's narrow 
 personal view of the matter). Yes. That was all I 
 could get a license for. 
 
 Craven. Now upon my soul, Paramore, I'm vexed at 
 this. I don't wish to be unfriendly; but I'm extremely 
 vexed, really. Why, confound it, do you realize what 
 you've done? You've cut off my meat and drink for a 
 year — made me an object of public scorn — a miserable 
 vegetarian and a teetotaller. 
 
 Paramore (rising). Well, you can make up for lost 
 
126 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 time now. {Bitterly, shewing Craven the Journal) 
 There! you can read for yourself. The camel was fed 
 on beef dissolved in alcohol; and he gained weight under 
 it. Eat and drink as much as you please. {Still unable 
 to stand without support, he makes his way past Cuth- 
 hertson to the revolving bookcase and stands there with 
 his back to them, leaning on it with his head on his hand,) 
 
 Craven {grumbling). Oh yes^ it's very easy for you 
 to talk^ Paramore. But what am I to say to the Humani- 
 tarian societies and the Vegetarian societies that have 
 made me a Vice President? 
 
 CuTHBERTsoN {chuckUng), Aha! You made a virtue 
 of it^ did you^ Dan? 
 
 Craven {warmly). I made a virtue of necessity, Jo. 
 No one can blame me. 
 
 Julia {soothing him). Well, never mind. Daddy. 
 Come back to the dining room and have a good beefsteak. 
 
 Craven {shuddering). Ugh! {Plaintively) No: 
 I've lost my old manly taste for it. My very nature's 
 been corrupted by living on pap. {To Paramore.) 
 That's what comes of all this vivisection. You go ex- 
 perimenting on horses; and of course the result is that 
 you try to get me into condition by feeding me on beans. 
 
 Paramore {curtly, without changing his position). 
 Well, if they've done you good, so much the better for 
 you. 
 
 Craven {querulously). That's all very well; but it's 
 very vexing. You don't half see how serious it is to 
 make a man believe that he has only another year to live : 
 you really don't, Paramore: I can't help saying it. I've 
 made my will, which was altogether unnecessary; and 
 I've been reconciled to a lot of people I'd quarrelled with 
 — people I can't stand under ordinary circumstances. 
 Then I've let the girls get round me at home to an extent 
 I should never have done if I'd had my life before me. 
 I've done a lot of serious thinking and reading and extra 
 church going. And now it turns out simple waste of 
 
Act m The Philanderer 127 
 
 time. On my soul^ it's too disgusting: I'd far rather die 
 like a man when I said I would. 
 
 Paramore (as before). Perhaps you may. Your 
 heart's shaky^ if that's any satisfaction to you. 
 
 Craven {offended). You must excuse me^ Paramore, 
 if I say that I no longer feel any confidence in your 
 opinion as a medical man. {Paramore's eye flashes: he 
 straightens himself and listens.) I paid you a pretty 
 stiff fee for that consultation when you condemned me; 
 and I can't say I think you gave me value for it. 
 
 Paramore {turning and facing Craven with dignity). 
 That's unanswerable. Colonel Craven. I shall return 
 the fee. 
 
 Craven. Oh, it's not the money; but I think you 
 ought to realize your position. {Paramore turns stiffly 
 arvay. Craven follows him impulsively, exclaiming re- 
 morsefully) Well, perhaps it was a nasty thing of me 
 to allude to it. {He offers Paramore his hand,) 
 
 Paramore {conscientiously taking it). Not at all. 
 You are quite in the right. Colonel Craven. My diag- 
 nosis was wrong; and I must take the consequences. 
 
 Craven {holding his hand). No, don't say that. It 
 was natural enough: my liver is enough to set any man's 
 diagnosis wrong. {A long handshake, very trying to 
 Paramore' s nerves, Paramore then retires to the recess 
 on Ibsen's left, and throws himself on the divan with a 
 half suppressed sob, bending over the British Medical 
 Journal with his head on his hands and his elbows on 
 his knees,) 
 
 CuTHBERTSoN {who has been rejoicing with Julia at 
 the other side of the room). Well, let's say no more 
 about it. I congratulate you. Craven, and hope you may 
 long be spared. {Craven offers his hand,) No, Dan: 
 your daughter first. {He takes Julia's hand gently and 
 hands her across to Craven, into whose arms she flies 
 with a gush of feeling.) 
 
 Julia. Dear old Daddy! 
 
128 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 Craven. Ah^ is Julia glad that the old Dad is let off 
 for a few years more? 
 
 Julia {almost crying). Oh, so glad: so glad! (Cuth- 
 bertson sobs audibly. The Colonel is. affected. Sylvia, 
 entering from the dining room, stops abruptly at the door 
 on seeing the three. Paramore, in the recess^ escapes her 
 notice.) 
 
 Sylvia. Hallo! 
 
 Craven. Tell her the news^ Julia: it would sound 
 ridiculous from me. (He goes to the rveeping Cuthbert- 
 son, and pats him consolingly on the shoulder.) 
 
 Julia. Silly: only think! Dad's not ill at all. It 
 was only a mistake of Dr. Paramore's. Oh^ dear ! {She 
 catches Craven's left hand and stoops to kiss it, his right 
 hand being still on Cuthbertson's shoulder.) 
 
 Sylvia {contemptuously). I knew it. Of course it 
 was nothing but eating too much. I always said Para- 
 more was an ass. {Sensation. Cuthbertson, Craven and 
 Julia turn in consternation.) 
 
 Paramore {without malice). Never mind^ Miss 
 Craven. That is what is being said all over Europe now. 
 Never mind. 
 
 Sylvia {a little abashed). I'm so sorry^ Dr. Para- 
 more. You must excuse a daughter's feelings. 
 
 Craven {huffed). It evidently doesn't make much 
 difference to you_, Sylvia. 
 
 Sylvia. I'm not going to be sentimental over it^ Dad^ 
 you may bet. {Coming to Craven.) Besides^ I knew it 
 was nonsense all along. {Petting him.) Poor dear old 
 Dad! why should your days be numbered any more than 
 any one else's? {He pats her cheek, mollified. Julia 
 impatiently turns away from them.) Come to the smok- 
 ing room^ and let's see what you can do after teetotalling 
 for a year. 
 
 Crayen {playfully). Vulgar little girl ! {He pinches 
 her ear.) Shall we come^ Jo! You'll be the better for 
 a pick-me-up after all this emotion. 
 
Act III The Philanderer 129 
 
 CuTHBERTSON. I'm not ashamed of it^ Dan. It has 
 done me good. {He goes up to the table and shakes his 
 fist at the bust over the mantelpiece.^ It would do you 
 good too if you had eyes and ears to take it in. 
 
 Craven {astonished). Who? 
 
 Sylvia. Why^ good old Henrik^ of course. 
 
 Craven {puzzled). Henrik? 
 
 CuTHBERTSON {impatiently). Ibsen^ man: Ibsen. 
 {He goes out by the staircase door followed by Sylvia, 
 who kisses her hand to the bust as she passes. Craven 
 stares blankly after her, and then up at the bust. Giv- 
 ing the problem up as insoluble, he shakes his head and 
 follows them. Near the door he checks himself and 
 comes back.) 
 
 Craven {softly). By the way^ Paramore? — 
 
 Paramore {rousing himself with an effort). Yes? 
 
 Craven. You weren't in earnest that time about my 
 hearty were you? 
 
 Paramore. Oh^ nothings nothing. There's a slight 
 murmur — mitral valves a little worn^ perhaps ; but they'll 
 last your time if you're careful. Don't smoke too much. 
 
 Craven. ¥/hat! More privations! Now really^ 
 Paramore^ really 
 
 Paramore {rising distractedly). Excuse me: I can't 
 pursue the subject. I — I 
 
 Julia. Don't worry him now^ Daddy. 
 
 Craven. Well^ well: I won't. {He comes to Para- 
 more, who is pacing restlessly up and down the middle 
 of the room.) Come^ Paramore, I'm not selfish^ believe 
 me: I can feel for your disappointment. But you must 
 face it like a man. And after all^ now really^ doesn't 
 this shew that there's a lot of rot about modern science? 
 Between ourselves_, you know^ it's horribly cruel: you 
 must admit that it's a deuced nasty thing to go ripping 
 up and crucifying camels and monkeys. It must blunt 
 all the finer feelings sooner or later. 
 
 Paramore {turning on him). How many camels and 
 
130 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 horses and men were ripped up in that Soudan campaign 
 where you won your Victoria Cross_, Colonel Craven? 
 
 Craven {firing up). That was fair fighting — a very 
 different things Paramore. 
 
 Paramore. Yes^ Martinis and machine guns against 
 naked spearmen. 
 
 Craven (hotly). I took my chance with the rest. Dr. 
 Paramore. I risked my own life: don't forget that. 
 
 Paramore (with equal spirit). And I have risked 
 mine, as all doctors do, oftener than any soldier. 
 
 Craven. That's true. I didn't think of that. I beg 
 your pardon, Paramore: I'll never say another word 
 against your profession. But I hope you'll let me stick 
 to the good old-fashioned shaking up treatment for my 
 liver — a clinking run across country with the hounds. 
 
 Paramore (with bitter irony). Isn't that rather cruel 
 — a pack of dogs ripping up a fox.^ 
 
 Julia {coming coaxingly between them). Oh, please 
 don't begin arguing again. Do go to the smoking room. 
 Daddy: Mr. Cuthbertson will wonder what has become 
 of you. 
 
 Craven. Very well, very well: I'll go. But you're 
 really not reasonable to-day, Paramore, to talk that way 
 of fair sport 
 
 Julia. Sh — sh {coaxing him torvard the door). 
 
 Craven. Well, well, I'm off. {He goes good- 
 humoredly, pushed out by Julia.) 
 
 Julia {turning at the door rvith her utmost rvitchery 
 of manner). Don't look so disappointed. Dr. Paramore. 
 Cheer- up. You've been most kind to us ; and you've done 
 papa a lot of good. 
 
 Paramore {delighted, rushing over to her). How 
 beautiful it is of you to say that to me. Miss Craven ! 
 
 Julia. I hate to see any one unhappy. I can't bear 
 unhappiness. {She runs out, casting a Parthian glance 
 at him as she flies. Paramore stands enraptured, gazing 
 after her through the glass door. Whilst he is thus ab- 
 
Act III The Philanderer 131 
 
 sorhed Chart eris comes in from the dining room and 
 touches him on the arm,) 
 
 Paramore (starting). Eh! What's the matter? 
 
 Charteris {significantly). Charming woman_, isn't 
 she^ Paramore? (Looking admiringly at him,) How 
 have you managed to fascinate her? 
 
 Paramore. I ! Do you really mean — (He looks at 
 him; then recovers himself and adds coldly,) Excuse 
 me: this is a subject I do not care to jest about. (He 
 rvalks ajvay from Charteris down the side of the room, 
 and sits dorvn in an easy chair reading his Journal to in- 
 timate that he does not wish to pursue the conversation,) 
 
 Charteris (ignoring the hint and coolly taking a chair 
 beside him). Why don't you get married^ Paramore? 
 You know it's a scandalous thing for a man in your pro- 
 fession to be single. 
 
 Paramore (shortly, still pretending to read). That's 
 my own business^ not yours. 
 
 Charteris. Not at all: it's pre-eminently a social 
 question. You're going to get married^ aren't you? 
 
 Paramore. Not that I am aware of. 
 
 Charteris (alarmed). No! Don't say that. Why? 
 
 Paramore (rising angrily and rapping one of the 
 SILENCE placards). Allow me to call your attention to 
 that. (He crosses to the easy chair near the revolving 
 bookstand, and flings himself into it with determined 
 hostility, ) 
 
 Charteris (following him, too deeply concerned to 
 mind the rebuff), Paramore: you alarm me more than 
 I can say. You've been and muffed this business some- 
 how. I know perfectly well what you've been up to ; and 
 I fully expected to find you a joyful accepted suitor. 
 
 Paramore (angrily), Yes^ you have been watching 
 me because you admire Miss Craven yourself. Well, 
 you may go in and win now. You will be pleased to hear 
 that I am a ruined man. 
 
 Charteris. You! Ruined! How? The turf? 
 
132 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 Paramore {contemptuously). The turf!! Certainly 
 not. 
 
 Charteris. Paramore: if the loan of all I possess 
 will help you over this difficulty, you're welcome to it. 
 
 Paramore {rising in surprise), Charteris! I — {sus- 
 piciously,) Are you joking? 
 
 Charteris. Why on earth do you always suspect me 
 of joking.^ I never was more serious in my life. 
 
 Paramore {shamed hy Charteris's generosity). Then 
 I beg your pardon. I thought the news would please you. 
 
 Charteris {deprecating this injustice to his good feel- 
 ing). My dear fellow ! 
 
 Paramore. I see I was wrong. I am really very 
 sorry. {They shake hands,) And now you may as well 
 learn the truth. I had rather you heard it from me than 
 from the gossip of the club. My liver discovery has 
 been — er — er — {he cannot bring himself to say it), 
 
 Charteris {helping him out). Confirmed.^ {Sadly,) 
 I see: the poor Colonel's doomed. 
 
 Paramore. No: on the contrary^ it has been — er — 
 called in question. The Colonel now believes himself to 
 be in perfectly good health; and my friendly relations 
 with the Cravens are entirely spoiled. 
 
 Charteris. Who told him about it.^^ 
 
 Paramore. I did^ of course^ the moment I read the 
 news in this. {He shews the Journal and puts it down 
 on the bookstand.) 
 
 Charteris. Why^ man^ youVe been a messenger of 
 glad tidings ! Didn't you congratulate him ? 
 
 Paramore {scandalized). Congratulate him! Con- 
 gratulate a man on the worst blow pathological science 
 has received for the last three hundred years ! 
 
 Charteris. No^ no^ no. Congratulate him on having 
 his life saved. Congratulate Julia on having her father 
 spared. Swear that your discovery and your reputation 
 are as nothing to you compared with the pleasure of 
 restoring happiness to the household in which the best 
 
Act III The Philanderer 133 
 
 hopes of your life are centred. Confound it^ man^ youll 
 never get married if you can't turn things to account with 
 a woman in these little ways. 
 
 Paramore {gravely^. Excuse me; but my self-respect 
 is dearer to me even than Miss Craven. I cannot trifle 
 with scientific questions for the sake of a personal advan- 
 tage. {He turns away coldly and goes toward the table,) 
 
 Charteris. Well^ this beats me ! The nonconformist 
 conscience is bad enough; but the scientific conscience is 
 the very devil. (^He follows Paramore and puts Ms arm 
 familiarly round his shoulder, bringing him bach again 
 whilst he speaks.) Now look here^ Paramore: I've got 
 no conscience in that sense at all: I loathe it as I loathe 
 all the snares of idealism; but I have some common hu- 
 manity and common sense. {He replaces him in the easy 
 chair and sits down opposite him,) Come: what is a 
 really scientific theory? — a true theory, isn't it.^ 
 
 Paramore. No doubt. 
 
 Charteris. For instance, you have a theory about 
 Craven's liver, eh? 
 
 Paramore. I still believe that to be a true theory, 
 though it has been upset for the moment. 
 
 Charteris. And you have a theory that it would be 
 pleasant to be married to Julia ? 
 
 Paramore. I suppose so — in a sense. 
 
 Charteris. That theory also will be upset, probably, 
 before you're a year older. 
 
 Paramore. Always cynical, Charteris. 
 
 Charteris. Never mind that. Now it's a perfectly 
 damnable thing for you to hope that your liver theory is 
 true, because it amounts to hoping that Craven will die 
 an agonizing death. {This strikes Paramore as para- 
 doxical; but it startles him,) But it's amiable and hu- 
 man to hope that your theory about Julia is right, because 
 it amounts to hoping that she may live happily ever after. 
 
 Paramore. I do hope that with all my soul — {cor- 
 recting himself) I mean with all my function of hoping. 
 
134 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 Charteris. Then^ since both theories are equally sci- 
 entific^ why not devote yourself^ as a humane man, to 
 proving the amiable theory rather than the damnable 
 one? 
 
 Paramore. But how? 
 
 Charteris. I'll tell you. You think I'm fond of 
 Julia myself. So I am; but then I'm fond of every- 
 body; so I don't count. Besides, if you try the scientific 
 experiment of asking her whether she loves me, she'll 
 tell you that she hates and despises me. So I'm out 
 of the running. Nevertheless, like you, I hope that 
 she may be happy with all my — what did you call your 
 soul? 
 
 Paramore {impatiently). Oh, go on, go on: finish 
 what you were going to say. 
 
 Charteris {suddenly affecting complete indifference, 
 and rising carelessly). I don't know that I have any- 
 thing more to say. If I were you I should invite the 
 Cravens to tea in honor of the Colonel's escape from a 
 horrible doom. By the way, if you've done with that 
 British Medical Journal, I should like to see how they've 
 smashed your theory up. 
 
 Paramore {wincing as he also rises). Oh, certainly, 
 if you wish it. I have no obj ection. {He takes the Jour- 
 nal from the bookstand.) I admit that the Italian ex- 
 periments apparently upset my theory. But please 
 remember that it is doubtful — extremely doubtful — 
 whether anything can be proved by experiments on ani- 
 mals. {He hands Charteris the Journal.) 
 
 Charteris {taking it). It doesn't matter: I don't in- 
 tend to make any. {He retires to the recess on Ibsen's 
 right, picking up the step ladder as he passes and placing 
 it so that he is able to use it for a leg rest as he settles 
 himself to read on the divan with his back to the corner 
 of the mantelpiece. Paramore goes to the left hand door, 
 and is about to leave the library when he meets Grace 
 entering.) 
 
Act III The Philanderer 135 
 
 Grace. How do you do^ Dr. Paramore. So glad to 
 see you. {They shake hands.) 
 
 Paramore. Thanks. Quite well^ I hope.'^ 
 
 Grace. Quite, thank you. You're looking over- 
 worked. We must take more care of you, Doctor. 
 
 Paramore. You are very kind. 
 
 Grace.. It is you who are too kind — ^to your patients. 
 You sacrifice yourself. Have a little rest. Come and 
 talk to me — tell me all about the latest scientific discov- 
 eries, and what I ought to read to keep myself up to date. 
 But perhaps you're busy. 
 
 Paramore. No, not at all. Only too delighted. 
 {They go into the recess on Ibsen's left, and sit there 
 chatting in whispers, very confidentially,) 
 
 Charteris. How they all love a doctor! They can 
 say what they like to him! (Julia returns. He takes 
 his feet down from the ladder and sits up.) Whew! 
 (Julia wanders down his side of the room, apparently 
 looking for someone. Charteris steals after her.) 
 
 Charteris (in a low voice). Looking for me, Julia? 
 
 Julia (starting violently). Oh! How you startled 
 me! 
 
 Charteris. Sh! I want to shew you something. 
 Look! (He points to the pair in the recess.) 
 
 Julia (jealously). That woman! 
 
 Charteris. My young woman, carrying off your 
 young man. 
 
 Julia. What do you mean ? Do you dare insinuate — 
 
 Charteris. Sh — sh — sh ! Don't disturb them. (Para- 
 more rises; takes down a book; and sits on a footstool at 
 Grace's feet.) 
 
 Julia. Why are they whispering like that.^ 
 
 Charteris. Because they don't want anyone to hear 
 what they are saying to one another. (Paramore shews 
 Grace a picture in the book. They both laugh heartily 
 over it.) 
 
 Julia. What is he shewing her.'^ 
 
136 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 Charteris. Probably a diagram of the liver. (^Julia, 
 with an exclamation of disgust makes for the recess, 
 Charteris catches her sleeve.) Stop: be careful^ Julia. 
 {She frees herself hy giving him a 'push which upsets 
 him into the easy chair; then crosses to the recess and 
 stands looking down at Grace and Paramore from the 
 corner next the fireplace.) 
 
 Julia {with suppressed fury). You seem to have 
 found a very interesting book^ Dr. Paramore. {They 
 look up, astonished.) May I ask what it is.^ {She stoops 
 swiftly J snatches the hook from Paramore; and comes 
 down to the table quickly to look at it whilst they rise in 
 amazement.) Good Words! {She flings it on the table 
 and sweeps back past Charteris, exclaiming contemptu- 
 ously) You fool! {Paramore and Grace, meanwhile, 
 come from the recess; Paramore bewildered, Grace very 
 determined.) 
 
 Charteris {aside to Julia as he gets out of the easy 
 chair). Idiot! She'll have you turned out of the club 
 for this. 
 
 Julia {terrified). She can't — can she.'* 
 
 Paramore. What is the matter^ Miss Craven? 
 
 Charteris {hastily). Nothing — my fault — a stupid, 
 practical joke. I beg your pardon and Mrs. Tranfield's. 
 
 Grace {firmly). It is not your fault in the least, Mr. 
 Charteris. Dr. Paramore: will you oblige me by finding 
 Sylvia Craven for me, if you can? 
 
 Paramore {hesitating). But 
 
 Grace. I want you to go now, if you please. 
 
 Paramore {succumbing). Certainly. {He bows and 
 goes out by the staircase door.) 
 
 Grace. You are going with him, Charteris. 
 
 Julia. You will not leave me here to be insulted by 
 this woman, Mr. Charteris. {She takes his arm as if to 
 go with him,) 
 
 Grace. When two ladies quarrel in this club, it is 
 against the rules to settle it when there are gentlemen 
 
Act III The Philanderer 137 
 
 present — especially the gentleman they are quarrelling 
 about. I presume you do not wish to break that rule^ 
 Miss Craven. (Julia sullenly drops Charteris's arm, 
 Grace turns to Charteris and adds) Now ! Trot off. 
 
 Charteris. Certainly^ certainly. (He follows Para- 
 more ignominiously,) 
 
 Grace (to Julia, with quiet peremptoriness). Now: 
 what have you to say to me.^ 
 
 Julia (suddenly throwing herself tragically on her 
 knees at Grace's feet). Don't take him from me. Oh 
 don't — don't be so cruel. Give him back to me. You 
 don't know what you're doing — what our past has been — 
 how I love him. You don't know 
 
 Grace. Get up; and don't be a fool. Suppose any- 
 one comes in and sees you in that ridiculous attitude ! 
 
 Julia. I hardly know what I'm doing. I don't care 
 what I'm doing: I'm too miserable. Oh^ won't you listen 
 to me? 
 
 Grace. Do you suppose I am a man to be imposed 
 on by this sort of rubbish .^^ 
 
 Julia (getting up and looking darkly at her). You 
 intend to take him from me^ then? 
 
 Grace. Do you expect me to help you to keep him 
 after the way you have behaved? 
 
 Julia (trying her theatrical method in a milder form 
 — reasonable and impulsively goodnatured instead of 
 tragic). I know I was wrong to act as I did last night. 
 I beg your pardon. I am sorry. I was mad. 
 
 Grace. Not a bit mad. You calculated to an inch 
 how far you could go. When he is present to stand be- 
 tween us and play out the scene with you^ I count for 
 nothing. When we are alone you fall back on your 
 natural way of getting anything you want — crying for 
 it like a baby until it is given to you. 
 
 Julia (with unconcealed hatred). You learnt this 
 from him. 
 
 Grace. I learnt it from yourself, last night and now. 
 
138 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 How I hate to be a woman when I see^ by you, what 
 wretched childish creatures we are ! Those two men 
 would cut you dead and have you turned out of the club 
 if you were a man and had behaved in such a way before 
 them. But because you are only a woman_, they are for- 
 bearing, sympathetic, gallant — Oh, if you had a scrap 
 of self-respect, their indulgence would make you creep 
 all over. I understand now why Charteris has no respect 
 for women. 
 
 Julia. How dare you say that? 
 
 Grace. Dare! I love him. And I have refused his 
 offer to marry me. 
 
 Julia (incredulous but hopeful). You have refused! 
 
 Grace. Yes: because I will not give myself to any 
 man who has learnt how to treat women from you and 
 your like. I can do without his love, but not without his 
 respect; and it is your fault that I cannot have both. 
 Take his love then ; and much good may it do you ! Run 
 to him and beg him to have mercy on you and take you 
 back. 
 
 Julia. Oh, what a liar you are ! He loved me before 
 he ever saw you — before he ever dreamt of you, you piti- 
 ful thing. Do you think I need go down on my knees to 
 men to make them come to me.^ That may be your ex- 
 perience, you creature with no figure: it is not mine. 
 There are dozens of men who would give their souls for 
 a look from me. I have only to lift my finger. 
 
 Grace. Lift it then ; and see whether h e will come. 
 
 Julia. How I should like to kill you! I don't know 
 why I don't. 
 
 Grace. Yes: you like to get out of your difficulties 
 cheaply — at other people's expense. It is something to 
 boast of, isn't it, that dozens of men would make love 
 to you if you invited them? 
 
 Julia (sullenly). I suppose it's better to be like you, 
 with a cold heart and a serpent's tongue. Thank Heaven, 
 I have a heart: that is why you can hurt me as I cannot 
 
Act III The Philanderer 139 
 
 hurt you. And you are a coward. You are giving him 
 up to me without a struggle. 
 
 Grace. Yes^ it is for you to struggle. I wish you 
 success. {She turns away contemptuously and is going 
 to the dining-room door when Sylvia enters on the oppo- 
 site side^ followed by Cuthbertson and Craven, who come 
 to Julia, whilst Sylvia crosses to Grace,) 
 
 Sylvia. Here I am^ sent by the faithful Paramore. 
 He hinted that I'd better bring the elder members of the 
 family too: here they are. What's the row? 
 
 Grace (quietly). Nothings dear. There's no row. 
 
 Julia (hysterically, tottering and stretching out her 
 arms to Craven). Daddy! 
 
 Craven (taking her in his arms). My precious! 
 What's the matter.^ 
 
 Julia (through her tears). She's going to have me 
 expelled from the club; and we shall all be disgraced. 
 Can she do it^ Daddy .^ 
 
 Craven. Well^ really^ the rules of this club are so 
 extraordinary that I don't know. (To Grace.) May I 
 ask, Mrs. Tranfield, whether you have any complaint to 
 make of my daughter's conduct.^ 
 
 Grace. Yes, Colonel Craven. I am going to com- 
 plain to the committee. 
 
 Sylvia. I knew you'd overdo it some day, Julia, 
 (Craven, at a loss, looks at Cuthbertson.) 
 
 Cuthbertson. Don't look at me, Dan. Within these 
 walls a father's influence counts for nothing. 
 
 Craven. May I ask the ground of complaint, Mrs. 
 Tranfield? 
 
 Grace. Simply that Miss Craven is essentially a 
 womanly woman, and, as such, not eligible for mem- 
 bership. 
 
 Julia. It's false. I'm not a womanly woman. I 
 was guaranteed when I joined just as you were. 
 
 Grace. By Mr. Charteris, I think, at your own re- 
 quest. I shall call him as a witness to your thoroughly 
 
140 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 womanly conduct just now in his presence and Dr. Para- 
 more's. 
 
 Craven. Cuthbertson: are they joking; or am I 
 dreaming ? 
 
 Cuthbertson {grimly^. It's real^ Dan: you're awake. 
 
 Sylvia {taking Craven's left arm and hugging it affec- 
 tionately). Dear old Rip Van Winkle! 
 
 Craven. Well^ Mrs. Tranfield^ all I can say is that 
 I hope you will succeed in establishing your complaint, 
 and that Julia may soon see the last of this most out- 
 rageous institution. {Sylvia, still caressing his arm, 
 laughs at him; Charteris returns.) 
 
 Charteris {at the door). May I come in? 
 
 Sylvia {releasing the Colonel), Yes: you're wanted 
 here as a witness. {Charteris comes in,) It's a bad case 
 of womanliness. 
 
 Grace {half aside to him, significantly). You under- 
 stand. {Julia, watching them jealously, leaves her father 
 and gets close to Charteris, Grace adds aloud) I shall 
 expect your support before the committee. 
 
 Julia. If you have a scrap of manhood you will take 
 my part. 
 
 Charteris. But then I shall be expelled for being a 
 manly man. Besides, I'm on the committee myself; I 
 can't act as judge and witness, too. You must apply to 
 Paramore: he saw it all. 
 
 Grace. Where is Dr. Paramore? 
 
 Charteris. Just gone home. 
 
 Julia {with sudden resolution). What is Dr. Para- 
 more's number in Savile Row? 
 
 Charteris. Seventy-nine. {Julia goes out quickly by 
 the staircase door, to their astonishment, Charteris fol- 
 lows her to the door, which swings back in his face, leav- 
 ing him staring after her through the glass, Sylvia runs 
 to Grace,) 
 
 Sylvia. Grace: go after her. Don't let her get be- 
 forehand with Paramore. She'll tell him the most heart- 
 
Act III The Philanderer 141 
 
 breaking stories about how she's been treated^ and get 
 him round completely. 
 
 Craven (thundering), Sylvia! Is that the way to 
 speak of your sister^ miss? (Grace squeezes Sylvia's 
 hand to console her, and sits down calmly, Sylvia posts 
 herself behind Grace's chair, leaning over the back to 
 rvatch the ensuing colloquy between the three men.) I 
 assure you^ Mrs. Tranfield^ Dr. Paramore has just in- 
 vited us all to take afternoon tea with him; and if my 
 daughter has gone to his house^ she is simply taking ad- 
 vantage of his invitation to extricate herself from a very 
 embarrassing scene here. We're all going there. Come^ 
 Sylvia. (He turns to go, followed by Cuthbertson,) 
 
 Charteris (in consternation). Stop! (He gets be- 
 tween Craven and Cuthbertson,) What hurry is there? 
 Can't you give the man time? 
 
 Craven. Time! What for? 
 
 Charteris (talking foolishly in his agitation), Well^ 
 to get a little rest^ you know — a busy professional man 
 like that ! He's not had a moment to himself all day. 
 
 Craven. But Julia's with him. 
 
 Charteris. Well^ no matter: she's only one person. 
 And she ought to have an opportunity of laying her case 
 before him. As a member of the committee^ I think that's 
 only just. Be reasonable^ Craven: give him half an hour. 
 
 Cuthbertson (sternly). What do you mean by this, 
 Charteris ? 
 
 Charteris. Nothing, I assure you. Only common 
 consideration for poor Paramore. 
 
 Cuthbertson. You've some motive. Craven: I 
 strongly advise that we go at once. (He grasps the door 
 handle.) 
 
 Charteris (coaxingly). No, no. (He puts his hand 
 persuasively on Craven's arm, adding) It's not good for 
 your liver. Craven, to rush about immediately after lunch. 
 
 Cuthbertson. His liver's cured. Come on. Craven. 
 (He opens the door.) 
 
142 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 Charteris (catching Cuthbertson by the sleeve). 
 Cuthbertson^ you're mad. Paramore's going to propose 
 to Julia. We must give him time: he's not the man to 
 come to the point in three minutes as you or I would. 
 (Turning to Craven) Don't you see? — that will get me 
 out of the difficulty we were speaking of this morning — 
 you and I and Cuthbertson. You remember.^ 
 
 Craven. Now^ is this a thing to say plump out be- 
 fore everybody^ Charteris.^ Confound it^ have you no 
 decency } 
 
 Cuthbertson (severely). None whatever. 
 
 Charteris (turning to Cuthbertson). No — don't be 
 unkind^ Cuthbertson. Back me up. My future^ her 
 future, Mrs. Tranfield's future. Craven's future, every- 
 body's future depends on our finding Julia Paramore's 
 affianced bride when we go over to Savile Row. He's 
 certain to propose if you'll only give him time. You 
 know you're a kindly and sensible man as well as a 
 deucedly clever one, Cuthbertson, in spite of all your 
 nonsense. Say a word for me. 
 
 Craven. I'm quite willing to leave the decision to 
 Cuthbertson; and I have no doubt whatever as to what 
 that decision will be. (Cuthbertson carefully shuts the 
 door, and comes back into the room with an air of weighty 
 reflection,) 
 
 Cuthbertson. I am now going to speak as a man of 
 the world: that is, without moral responsibility. 
 
 Craven. Quite so, Jo. Of course. 
 
 Cuthbertson. Therefore, though I have no sym- 
 pathy whatever with Charteris 's views, I think we can 
 do no harm by waiting — say ten minutes or so. (He sits 
 down.) 
 
 Charteris (delighted). Ah, there's nobody like you 
 after all, Cuthbertson, when there's a difficult situation 
 to be judged. 
 
 Craven (deeply disappointed). Oh, well, Jo, if that 
 is your decision, I must keep my word and abide by it. 
 
Act III The Philanderer 143 
 
 Better sit down and make ourselves comfortable^ I sup- 
 pose. {He sits also, under protest,) 
 
 Charteris (fidgeting about), I can't sit down: I'm 
 too restless. The fact is^ Julia has made me so nervous 
 that I can't answer for myself until I know her decision. 
 Mrs. Tranfield will tell you what a time I've had lately. 
 Julia's really a most determined woman^ you know. 
 
 Craven (starting up), Well_, upon my life! Upon 
 my honor and conscience ! ! Now really ! ! ! I shall go 
 this instant. Come on, Sylvia. Cuthbertson: I hope 
 you'll mark your sense of this sort of thing by coming on 
 to Paramore's with us at once. (He marches to the door,) 
 
 Charteris (desperately/). Craven: you're trifling with 
 your daughter's happiness. I only ask five minutes more. 
 
 Craven. Not ^ve seconds^ sir. Fie for shame^ Char- 
 teris! (He goes out,) 
 
 Cuthbertson (to Charteris, as he passes him on his 
 rvay to the door). Bungler! (He follows Craven,) 
 
 Sylvia. Serve you rights you duffer! (She follows 
 Cuthbertson,) 
 
 Charteris. Oh^ these headstrong old men! (To 
 Grace) Nothing to be done now but go with them and 
 delay the Colonel as much as possible. So I'm afraid I 
 must leave you. 
 
 Grace (rising). Not at all. Paramore invited me^ 
 too^ when we were talking over there. 
 
 Charteris (aghast). You don't mean to say you're 
 coming ! 
 
 Grace. Most certainly. Do you suppose I will let 
 that woman think I am afraid to meet her.^ (Charteris 
 sinks on a chair with a prolonged groan.) Come: don't 
 be silly : you'll not overtake the Colonel if you delay any 
 longer. 
 
 Charteris. Why was I ever born^ child of misfortune 
 that I am! (He rises despairingly.) Well^ if you must 
 come, you must. (He offers his arm, which she takes,) 
 By the way, what happened after I left you.^ 
 
144 The Philanderer Act III 
 
 Grace. I gave her a lecture on her behavior which 
 she will remember to the last day of her life. 
 
 Charteris (^approvingly). That was rights darling. 
 {He slips his arm round her waist,) Just one kiss — to 
 soothe me. 
 
 Grace (complacently offering her cheek). Foolish 
 boy! (He kisses her,) Now come along. (They go 
 out together,) 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Sitting-room in Paramore's apartments in Savile Rorv, 
 The darkly respectable furniture is, so to speak, en suite 
 with Paramore's frock coat and cuffs. Viewing the room 
 from the front windows, the door is seen in the opposite 
 wall near the left hand corner. Another door, a light, 
 noiseless partition one covered with a green haize, is in 
 the right hand wall toward the back, leading to Para- 
 more's consulting room. The fireplace is on the left. At 
 the nearest corner of it a couch is placed at right angles 
 to the wall, settle wise. On the right the wall is occupied 
 by a bookcase, further forward than the green baize door. 
 Beyond the door is a cabinet of anatomical preparations, 
 with a framed photograph of Rembrandt's School of 
 Anatomy hanging on the wall above it. In front, a little 
 to the right, a tea-table, 
 
 Paramore is seated in a round-backed chair, on castors, 
 pouring out tea. Julia sits opposite him, with her back 
 to the fire. He is in high spirits: she very downcast. 
 
 Paramore (handing her the cup he has just filled). 
 There ! Making tea is one of the few things I consider 
 myself able to do thoroughly well. Cake? 
 
 Julia. No^ thank you. I don't like sweet things. 
 {She sets down the cup untasted.) 
 
 Paramore. Anything wrong with the tea? 
 
 Julia. No^ it's very nice. 
 
 Paramore. I'm afraid I'm a very bad entertainer. 
 The fact is^ I'm too professional. I only shine in con- 
 sultation. I almost wish you had something the matter 
 
146 The Philanderer Act IV 
 
 with you; so that you might call out my knowledge and 
 sympathy. As it is^ I can only admire you^ and feel how 
 pleasant it is to have you here. 
 
 Julia (bitterly). And pet me^ and say pretty things 
 to me! I wonder you don't offer me a saucer of milk 
 at once.'* 
 
 Paramore (astonished), Why.f^ 
 
 Julia. Because you seem to regard me very much as 
 if I were a Persian cat. 
 
 Paramore (in strong remonstrance). Miss Cra 
 
 Julia (cutting him short). Oh, you needn't protest. 
 I'm used to it: It's the only sort of attachment I seem 
 always to inspire. (Ironically) You can't think how 
 flattering it is ! 
 
 Paramore. My dear Miss Craven, what a cynical 
 thing to say! You! who are loved at first sight by the 
 people in the street as you pass. Why, in the club I can 
 tell by the faces of the men whether you have been lately 
 in the room or not. 
 
 Julia (shrinking fiercely). Oh, I hate that look in 
 their faces. Do you know that I have never had one 
 human being care for me since I was born? 
 
 Paramore. That's not true. Miss Craven. Even if it 
 were true of your father, and of Charteris, who loves you 
 madly in spite of your dislike for him, it is not true of me. 
 
 Julia (startled). Who told you that about Charteris? 
 
 Paramore. Why, he himself. 
 
 Julia (rvith deep, poignant conviction). He cares for 
 only one person in the world ; and that is himself. There 
 is not in his whole nature one unselfish spot. He would 
 not spend one hour of his real life with — (a sob chokes 
 her: she rises passionately, crying) You are all alike, 
 every one of you. Even my father only makes a pet of 
 me. (She goes away to the fireplace and stands rvith her 
 back to him.) 
 
 Paramore (follorving her humbly). I don't deserve 
 this from you: indeed I do not. 
 
Act IV The Philanderer 147 
 
 Julia {rating him). Then why do you talk about me 
 with Charteris^ behind my back? 
 
 Paramore. We said nothing disparaging of you. 
 Nobody shall ever do that in my presence. We spoke 
 of the subject nearest our hearts. 
 
 Julia. His heart! Oh^ God, his heart! {She sits 
 down on the couch and hides her face,) 
 
 Paramore {sadly). I am afraid you love him, for all 
 that. Miss Craven. 
 
 Julia {raising her head instantly). If he says that, 
 he lies. If ever you hear it said that I cared for him, 
 contradict it: it is false. 
 
 Paramore {quickly advancing to her). Miss Craven: 
 is the way clear for me then.^ 
 
 Julia {pettishly — losing interest in the conversation 
 and looking crossly into the fire). What do you mean.^ 
 
 Paramore {impetuously). You must see what I mean. 
 Contradict the rumour of your attachment to Charteris, 
 not by words — it has gone too far for that — ^but by be- 
 coming my wife. {Earnestly,) Believe me: it is not 
 merely your beauty that attracts me: {Julia, interested, 
 looks up at him quickly) I know other beautiful women. 
 It is your heart, your sincerity, your sterling reality, 
 {Julia rises and gazes at him, breathless with a new 
 hope) your great gifts of character that are only half 
 developed because you have never been understood by 
 those about you. 
 
 Julia {looking intently at him, and yet beginning to 
 be derisively sceptical in spite of herself). Have you 
 really seen all that in me? 
 
 Paramore. I have felt it. I have been alone in the 
 world; and I need you, Julia. That is how I have 
 divined that you, also, are alone in the world. 
 
 Julia {with theatrical pathos). You are right there. 
 I am indeed alone in the world. 
 
 Paramore {timidly approaching her). With you I 
 should not be alone. And you? — with me? 
 
148 The Philanderer Act IV 
 
 Julia. You ! {She gets quickly out of his reach, 
 taking refuge at the tea-table,) No_, no. I can't bring 
 myself — {She breaks off, 'per'plexed, and looks uneasily 
 about her.) Oh, I don't know what to do. You will 
 expect too much from me. {She sits down.) 
 
 Paramore. I have more faith in you than you have 
 in yourself. Your nature is richer than you think. 
 
 Julia {doubtfully). Do you really believe that I 
 am not the shallow^ jealous^ devilish tempered creature 
 they all pretend I am? 
 
 Paramore. I am reacjy to place my happiness in 
 your hands. Does that prove what I think of you.^ 
 
 Julia. Yes: I believe you really care for me. {He 
 approaches her eagerly: she has a violent revulsion, and 
 rises with her hand raised as if to beat him off, crying) 
 No^ no^ no^ no. I cannot. It's impossible. {She goes 
 towards the door.) 
 
 Paramore {looking wistfully after her). Is it Char- 
 teris ? 
 
 Julia {stopping and turning). Ah^ you think that! 
 {She comes back.) Listen to me. If I say yes^ will you 
 promise not to touch me — to give me time to accustom 
 myself to the idea of our new relations? 
 
 Paramore. I promise most faithfully. I would not 
 press you for the world. 
 
 Julia. Then — then — yes: I promise. {He is about 
 to utter his rapture; she will not have it.) Now, not an- 
 other word of it. Let us forget it. {She resumes her 
 seat at the table.) Give me some more tea. {He hastens 
 to his former seat. As he passes, she puts her left hand 
 on his arm and says) Be good to me, Percy, I need it 
 sorely. 
 
 Paramore {transported). You have called me Percy! 
 Hurrah! {Charteris and Craven come in. Paramore 
 hastens to meet them, beaming.) Delighted to see you 
 here with me. Colonel Craven. And you, too, Charteris. 
 Sit down. {The Colonel sits down on the end of the 
 couch.) Where are the others? 
 
Act IV The Philanderer 149 
 
 Charteris. Sylvia has dragged Cuthbertson off into 
 the Burlington Arcade to buy some caramels. He likes 
 to encourage her in eating caramels: he thinks it's a 
 womanly taste. Besides^ he likes them himself. They'll 
 be here presently. (^He strolls across to the cabinet and 
 pretends to study the Rembrandt photograph, so as to 
 be as far out of Julia's reach as possible.^ 
 
 Craven. Yes; and Charteris has been trying to per- 
 suade me that there's a short cut between Cork Street 
 and Savile Row somewhere in Conduit Street. Now did 
 you ever hear such nonsense ? Then he said my coat was 
 getting shabby^ and wanted me to go into Poole's and 
 order a new one. Paramore : is my coat shabby } 
 
 Paramore. Not that I can see. 
 
 Craven. I should think not. Then he wanted to 
 draw me into a dispute about the Egyptian war. We 
 should have been here quarter of an hour ago only for 
 his nonsense. 
 
 Charteris (^still contemplating Rembrandt), I did 
 my best to keep him from disturbing you^ Paramore. 
 
 Paramore (^gratefully). You have come in the nick 
 of time. Colonel Craven: I have something very par- 
 ticular to say to you. 
 
 Craven {springing up in alarm). In private^ Para- 
 more: now really it must be in private. 
 
 Paramore {surprised). Of course. I was about to 
 suggest my consulting room: there's nobody there. Miss 
 Craven: will you excuse me: Charteris will entertain you 
 until I return. (^He leads the way to the green baize 
 door,) 
 
 Charteris (aghast). Oh, I say, hadn't you better 
 wait until the others come.'* 
 
 Paramore {exultant). No need for further delay 
 now, my best friend. {He wrings Charteris' s hand,) 
 Will you come. Colonel? 
 
 Craven. At your service, Paramore: at your service. 
 {Craven and Paramore go into the consulting room. 
 
150 The Philanderer Act IV 
 
 Julia turns her head and stares insolently at Charteris. 
 His nerves play him false: he is completely out of 
 countenance in a moment. She rises suddenly. He 
 starts, and comes hastily forward hetvjeen the table and 
 the bookcase. She crosses to that side behind the table; 
 and he immediately crosses to the opposite side in front 
 of it, dodging her.) 
 
 Charteris (nervously). T>on% Julia. Now don't 
 abuse your advantage. You've got me here at your mercy. 
 Be good for once; and don't make a scene. 
 
 Julia (contemptuously). Do you suppose I am going 
 to touch you.^ 
 
 Charteris. No. Of course not. (She comes for- 
 ward on her side of the table. He retreats on his side 
 of it. She looks at him with utter scorn; sweeps across 
 to the couch; and sits down imperially. With a great 
 sigh of relief he drops into Paramore's chair.) 
 
 Julia. Come here. I have something to say to you. 
 
 Charteris. Yes.^ (He rolls the chair a few inches 
 towards her.) 
 
 Julia. Come here^ I say. I am not going to shout 
 across the room at you. Are you afraid of me? 
 
 Charteris. Horribly. (He moves the chair slowly, 
 with great misgiving, to the end of the couch.) 
 
 Julia (with studied insolence). Has that woman 
 told you that she has given you up to me without an 
 attempt to defend her conquest.'* 
 
 Charteris (whispering persuasively). Shew that you 
 are capable of the same sacrifice. Give me up^ too. 
 
 Julia. Sacrifice! And so you think I'm dying to 
 marry you^ do you? 
 
 Charteris. I am afraid your intentions have been 
 honourable^ Julia. 
 
 Julia. You cad! 
 
 Charteris (with a sigh), I confess I am something 
 either more or less than a gentleman, Julia. You once 
 gave me the benefit of the doubt. 
 
Act IV The Philanderer 151 
 
 Julia. Indeed ! I never told you so. If you cannot 
 behave like a gentleman^ you had better go back to the 
 society of the woman who has given you up — if such a 
 cold-blooded^ cowardly creature can be called a woman. 
 (^She rises majestically ; he makes his chair fly hack to 
 the table.) I know you now^ Leonard Charteris^ through 
 and through^ in all your falseness^ your petty spite^ your 
 cruelty and your vanity. The place you coveted has been 
 won by a man more worthy of it. 
 
 Charteris (^springing up, and coming close to her, 
 gasping with eagerness). What do you mean? Out 
 with it. Have you accep 
 
 Julia. I am engaged to Dr. Paramore. 
 
 Charteris (enraptured). My own Julia! {He at- 
 tempts to embrace her.) 
 
 Julia {recoiling — he catching her hands and holding 
 them). How dare you! Are you mad.^ Do you wish 
 me to call Dr. Paramore? 
 
 Charteris. Call everybody^ my darling — everybody 
 in London. Now I shall no longer have to be brutal — 
 to defend myself — ^to go in fear of you. How I have 
 looked forward to this day! You know now that I don't 
 want you to marry me or to love me: Paramore can 
 have all that. I only want to look on and rejoice disin- 
 terestedly in the happiness of {kissing her hand) my 
 dear Julia {kissing the other) ^ my beautiful Julia. {She 
 tears her hands arvay and raises them as if to strike him, 
 as she did the night before at Cuthbertson^s.) No use 
 to threaten me now: I am not afraid of those hands — ^the 
 loveliest hands in the world. 
 
 Julia. How have you the face to turn round like this 
 after insulting and torturing me! 
 
 Charteris. Never mind^ dearest: you never did un- 
 derstand me ; and you never will. Our vivisecting friend 
 has made a successful experiment at last. 
 
 Julia {earnestly). It is you who are the vivisector 
 — a far crueller^ more wanton vivisector than he. 
 
152 The Philanderer Act iv 
 
 Charteris. Yes ; but then I learn so much more from 
 my experiments than he does ! And the victims learn 
 as much as I do. That's where my moral superiority 
 comes in. 
 
 Julia {sitting down again on the couch with rueful 
 humour), Well^ you shall not experiment on me any 
 more. Go to your Grace if you want a victim. She'll 
 be a tough one. 
 
 Charteris (reproachfully sitting down beside her). 
 And you drove me to propose to her to escape from you! 
 Suppose she had accepted me^ where should I be now.^ 
 
 Julia. Where I am, I suppose, now that I have ac- 
 cepted Paramore. 
 
 Charteris. But I should have made Grace unhappy. 
 {Julia sneers). However, now I come to think of it, 
 you'll make Paramore unhappy. And yet if you refused 
 him he would be in despair. Poor devil ! 
 
 Julia {her temper flashing up for a moment again). 
 He is a better man than you. 
 
 Charteris {humbly). I grant you that, my dear. 
 
 Julia {impetuously). Don't call me your dear. And 
 what do you mean by saying that I shall make him un- 
 happy.^ Am I not good enough for him? 
 
 Charteris {dubiously). Well, that depends on what 
 you mean by good enough. 
 
 Julia {earnestly). You might have made me good 
 if you had chosen to. You had a great power over me. 
 I was like a child in your hands; and you knew it. 
 
 Charteris {with comic acquiescence) . Yes, my dear. 
 That means that whenever you got jealous and flew into 
 a violent rage, I could always depend on it's ending 
 happily if I only waited long enough, and petted you 
 very hard all the time. When you had had your fling, 
 and called the object of your jealousy every name you 
 could lay your tongue to, and abused me to your heart's 
 content for a couple of hours, then the reaction would 
 come ; and you would at last subside into a soothing rap- 
 
Act IV The Philanderer 153 
 
 ture of affection which gave you a sensation of being 
 angelically good and forgiving. Oh^ I know that sort of 
 goodness! You may have thought on these occasions 
 that I was bringing out your latent amiability; but I 
 thought you were bringing out mine^ and using up rather 
 more than your fair share of it. 
 
 Julia. According to you^ then^ I have no good in me ! 
 I am an utterly vile^ worthless woman. Is that it.^ 
 
 Charteris. Yes^ if you are to be judged as you judge 
 others. From the conventional point of view^ there's 
 nothing to be said for you^ Julia — nothing. That's w^hy 
 I have to find some other point of view to save my self- 
 respect when I remember how I have loved you. Oh, 
 what I have learnt from you! — from you_, who could 
 learn nothing from me ! I made a fool of you ; and you 
 brought me wisdom: I broke your heart; and you brought 
 i^^ Joy« ^ made you curse your womanhood; and you 
 revealed my manhood to me. Blessings forever and ever 
 on my Julia's name! (With genuine emotion, he takes 
 her hand to kiss it again,) 
 
 Julia {snatching her hand away in disgust). Oh, 
 stop talking that nasty sneering stuff. 
 
 Charteris {laughingly appealing to the heavens). 
 She calls it nasty sneering stuff! Well, well: I'll never 
 talk like that to you again, dearest. It only means that 
 you are a beautiful woman, and that we all love you. 
 
 Julia. Don't say that: I hate it. It sounds as if I 
 were a mere animal. 
 
 Charteris. Hm ! A fine animal is a very wonderful 
 thing. Don't let us disparage animals, Julia. 
 
 Julia. That is what you really think me. 
 
 Charteris. Come, Julia: you don't expect me to ad- 
 mire you for your moral qualities, do you.^ (She turns 
 and looks hard at him. He starts up apprehensively and 
 backs away from her. She rises and follows him up 
 slowly and intently,) 
 
 Julia (deliberately). I have seen you very much in- 
 
154 The Philanderer Act IV 
 
 fatuated with this depraved creature who has no moral 
 qualities. 
 
 Charteris (retreating). Keep off, Julia. Remember 
 your new obligations to Paramore. 
 
 Julia (overtaking him in the middle of the room). 
 Never mind Paramore : that is my business. (She grasps 
 the lappels of his coat in her hands, and loohs fixedly at 
 him.) Oh, if the people you talk so cleverly to could 
 only know you as I know you! Sometimes I wonder at 
 myself for ever caring for you. 
 
 Charteris {beaming at her). Only sometimes.'* 
 
 Julia. You fraud! You humbug! You miserable 
 little plaster saint! (He loohs delighted,) Oh! {In a 
 paroxysm half of rage, half of tenderness, she shakes 
 him, grorvling over him like a tigress over her cub, Para- 
 more and Craven at this moment return from the con- 
 sulting room, and are thunderstruck at the spectacle.) 
 
 Craven {shouting, utterly scandalized). Julia!! 
 {Julia releases Charteris, but stands her ground disdain- 
 fully as they come forward. Craven on her left, Para- 
 more on her right.) 
 
 Paramore. What's the matter.^ 
 
 Charteris. Nothings nothing. You'll soon get used 
 to this, Paramore. 
 
 Craven. Now really, Julia, this is a very extraor- 
 dinary way to behave. It's not fair to Paramore. 
 
 Julia {coldly). If Dr. Paramore objects he can 
 break off our engagement. {To Paramore) Pray don't 
 hesitate. 
 
 Paramore {looking doubtfully and anxiously at her). 
 Do you wish me to break it off ? 
 
 Charteris {alarmed). Nonsense! don't act so 
 hastily. It was my fault. I annoyed Miss Craven — in- 
 sulted her. Hang it all, don't go and spoil everything 
 like this. 
 
 Craven. This is most infernally perplexing. I can't 
 believe that you insulted Julia, Charteris. I've no doubt 
 
Act IV The Philanderer 155 
 
 you annoyed her — you'd annoy anybody: upon my soul 
 you would — but insult ! — ^now what do you mean by 
 that? 
 
 Paramore {very earnestly). Miss Craven: in all 
 delicacy and sincerity I ask you to be frank with me. 
 What are the relations between you and Charteris ? 
 
 Julia. Ask him. {She goes to the fireplace, turning 
 her hack on them,) 
 
 Charteris. Certainly: 111 confess. I'm in love with 
 Miss Craven — always have been; and I've persecuted 
 her with my addresses ever since I knew her. It's been 
 no use: she utterly despises me. A moment ago the 
 spectacle of a rival's happiness stung me to make a nasty^ 
 sneering speech; and she — well^ she just shook me a 
 little, as you saw. 
 
 Paramore {chivalrously), I shall never forget that 
 you helped me to win her, Charteris. {Julia turns 
 quickly, a spasm of fury in her face,) 
 
 Charteris. Sh! For Heaven's sake don't mention 
 it. 
 
 Craven. This is a very diiFerent story to the one you 
 told Cuthbertson and myself this morning. You'll ex- 
 cuse my saying that it sounds much more like the truth. 
 Come: you were humbugging us, weren't you.^ 
 
 Charteris. Ask Julia. {Paramore and Craven turn 
 to Julia, Charteris remains doggedly looking straight 
 before him,) 
 
 Julia. It's quite true. He has been in love with me; 
 he has persecuted me; and I utterly despise him. 
 
 Craven. Don't rub it in, Julia: it's not kind. No 
 man is quite himself when he's crossed in love. {To 
 Charteris,) Now listen to me, Charteris. When I was 
 a young fellow, Cuthbertson and I fell in love with the 
 same woman. She preferred Cuthbertson. I was taken 
 aback: I won't deny it. But I knew my duty; and I did 
 it. I gave her up and wished Cuthbertson joy. He told 
 me this morning, when we met after many years, that he 
 
156 The Philanderer Act IV 
 
 has respected and liked me ever since for it. And I 
 believe him and feel the better for it. {Impressively,) 
 Now^ Charteris^ Paramore and you stand to-day where 
 Cuthbertson and I stood on a certain July evening thirty- 
 five years ago. How are you going to take it? 
 
 Julia (indignantly). How is he going to take it^ in- 
 deed! Really^ papa^ this is too much. If Mrs. Cuth- 
 bertson wouldn't have you^ it may have been very noble 
 of you to make a virtue of giving her up^ just as you 
 made a virtue of being a teetotaller when Percy cut oiF 
 your wine. But he shan't be virtuous over me. I have 
 refused him ; and if he doesn't like it he can — he can 
 
 Charteris. I can lump it. Precisely. Craven: you 
 can depend on me. I'll lump it. {He moves off non- 
 chalantly, and leans against the bookcase with his hands 
 in his pockets.) 
 
 Craven {hurt). Julia: you don't treat me respect- 
 fully. I don't wish to complain; but that was not a 
 becoming speech. 
 
 Julia {bursting into tears and throrving herself into 
 the large chair). Is there anyone in the world who has 
 any feeling for me — who does not think me utterly vile.^ 
 {Craven and Paramore hurry to her in the greatest con- 
 sternation,) 
 
 Craven {remorsefully). My pet: I didn't for a mo- 
 ment mean 
 
 Julia. Must I stand to be bargained for by two men 
 — passed from one to the other like a slave in the market^ 
 and not say a word in my own defence .^^ 
 
 Craven. But^ my love 
 
 Julia. Oh^ go away, all of you. Leave me. I — 
 oh — {She gives way to a passion of tears.) 
 
 Paramore {reproachfully to Craven). You've wounded 
 her cruelly. Colonel Craven — cruelly. 
 
 Craven. But I didn't mean to: I said nothing. 
 Charteris: was I harsh .^^ 
 
 Charteris. You forget the revolt of the daughters. 
 
Act IV The Philanderer 157 
 
 Craven. And you certainly wouldn't have gone on like 
 that to any grown up woman who was not your daughter. 
 
 Craven. Do you mean to say that I am expected to 
 treat my daughter the same as I would any other girl ? 
 
 Paramore. I should say certainly^ Colonel Craven. 
 
 Craven. Well^ dash me if I will. There ! 
 
 Paramore. If you take that tone^ I have nothing 
 more to say. {He crosses the room rvith offended dignity 
 and posts himself rvith his hack to the bookcase beside 
 Charteris. ) 
 
 Julia (rvith a sob). Daddy. 
 
 Craven (turning solicitously to her), Yes^ my love. 
 
 Julia (looking up at him tearfully and kissing his 
 hand). Don't mind them. You didn't mean it^ Daddy, 
 did you.^ 
 
 Craven. No, no, my precious. Come: don't cry. 
 
 Paramore (to Charteris, looking at Julia with de- 
 light) . How beautiful she is ! 
 
 Charteris (throwing up his hands). Oh, Lord help 
 you, Paramore ! (He leaves the bookcase and sits at the 
 end of the couch farthest from the fire. Meanwhile 
 Sylvia arrives.) 
 
 Sylvia (contemplating Julia). Crying again! Well, 
 you are a womanly one! 
 
 Craven. Don't worry your sister, Sylvia. You know 
 she can't bear it. 
 
 Sylvia. I speak for her good. Dad. All the world 
 can't be expected to know that she's the family baby. 
 
 Julia. You will get your ears boxed presently. Silly. 
 
 Craven. Now, now, now, my dear children, really 
 now! Come, Julia: put up your handkerchief before 
 Mrs. Tranfield sees you. She's coming along with Jo. 
 
 Julia (rising). That woman again! 
 
 Sylvia. Another row! Go it, Julia! 
 
 Craven. Hold your tongue, Sylvia. (He turns com- 
 mandingly to Julia.) Now look here, Julia. 
 
 Charteris. Hallo ! A revolt of the fathers ! 
 
158 The Philanderer Act IV 
 
 Craven. Silence^ Charteris. {To Julia, unanswer- 
 ably.) The test of a man or woman's breeding is how 
 they behave in a quarrel. Anybody can behave well 
 when things are going smoothly. Now you said to-day^ 
 at that iniquitous club^ that you were not a womanly 
 woman. Very well: I don't mind. But if you are not 
 going to behave like a lady when Mrs. Tranfield comes 
 into this room_, you've got to behave like a gentleman; 
 or fond as I am of you^ I'll cut you dead exactly as I 
 would if you were my son. 
 
 Paramore {remonstrating). Colonel Craven 
 
 Craven {cutting him short). Don't be a fool, Para- 
 more. 
 
 Julia {tearfully excusing herself), I'm sure. 
 Daddy 
 
 Craven. Stop snivelling. I'm not speaking as your 
 Daddy now: I'm speaking as your commanding officer. 
 
 Sylvia. Good old Victoria Cross! {Craven turns 
 sharply on her; and she darts arvay behind Charteris, and 
 presently seats herself on the couch, so that she and Char- 
 teris are shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite rvays, 
 Cuthbertson arrives rvith Grace, who remains near the 
 door whilst her father joins the others,) 
 
 Craven. Ah, Jo, here you are. Now, Paramore, tell 
 'em the news. 
 
 Paramore. Mrs. Tranfield — Cuthbertson — allow me 
 to introduce you to my future wife. 
 
 Cuthbertson {coming forward to shake hands with 
 Paramore), My heartiest congratulations! {Paramore 
 goes to shake hands with Grace,) Miss Craven: you will 
 accept Grace's congratulations as well as mine, I hope. 
 
 Craven. She will, Jo. {In a tone of command,) 
 Now, Julia. {Julia slowly rises.) 
 
 Cuthbertson. Now, Grace. {He conducts her to 
 Julia's right; then posts himself on the hearthrug, with 
 his back to the fire, watching them. The Colonel keeps 
 guard on the other side,) 
 
Act IV The Philanderer 161 
 
 Craven. Julia: Charteris has not congratulated you 
 yet. He's coming to do it. {Julia rises and fixes a dan- 
 gerous look on Charteris,) 
 
 Sylvia (whispering quickly behind Charteris as he is 
 about to advance). Take care. She's going to hit you. 
 I know her. {Charteris stops and looks cautiously at 
 Julia, measuring the situation. They regard one another 
 steadfastly for a moment, Grace softly rises and gets 
 close to Julia,) 
 
 Charteris (whispering over his shoulder to Sylvia), 
 I'll chance it. (He walks confidently up to Julia,) 
 Julia .^ (He proffers his hand,) 
 
 Julia (exhausted, allowing herself to take it). You 
 are right. I am a worthless woman. 
 
 Charteris (triumphant, and gaily remonstrating). 
 Oh, why.^ 
 
 Julia. Because I am not brave enough to kill you. 
 
 Grace (taking her in her arms as she sinks, almost 
 fainting, away from him), Oh^ no. Never make a hero 
 of a philanderer. (Charteris, amused and untouched, 
 shakes his head laughingly. The rest look at Julia with 
 concern, and even a little awe, feeling for the first time 
 the presence of a keen sorrow,) 
 
 curtain. 
 
MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION 
 
MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern 
 slope of a hill a little south of Haslemere in Surrey, 
 Looking up the hill, the cottage is seen in the left hand 
 corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and porch, 
 and a large latticed rvindow to the left of the porch. 
 Farther back a little wing is built out, making an angle 
 with the right side wall. From the end of this wing a 
 paling curves across and forward, completely shutting 
 in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The com- 
 mon rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some 
 folded canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side 
 bench in the porch, A lady's bicycle is propped against 
 the wall, under the window, A little to the right of the 
 porch, a hammock is slung from two posts, A big can- 
 vas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the 
 hammock, in which a young lady lies reading and making 
 notes, her head towards the cottage and her feet towards 
 the gate. In front of the hammock, and within reach 
 of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of 
 serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper 
 upon it, 
 
 A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight 
 from behind the cottage. He is hardly past middle age, 
 with something of the artist about him, unconventionally 
 but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven except for a 
 
166 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 moustache, with an eager, susceptible face and very 
 amiable and considerate manners. He has silky black 
 hair, with waves of grey and white in it. His eyebrows 
 are white, his moustache black. He seems not certain 
 of his way. He looks over the paling; takes stock of the 
 place; and sees the young lady. 
 
 The Gentleman {taking off his hat). I beg your 
 pardon. Can you direct me to Hindhead View — Mrs. 
 Alison's ? 
 
 The Young Lady (glancing up from her book). This 
 is Mrs. Alison's. (She resumes her work,) 
 
 The Gentleman. Indeed! Perhaps — ^may I ask 
 are you Miss Vivie Warren? 
 
 The Young Lady (sharply, as she turns on her elbow 
 to get a good look at him). Yes. 
 
 The Gentleman (daunted and conciliatory), I'm 
 afraid I appear intrusive. My name is Praed. (Vivie at 
 once throws her books upon the chair, and gets out of 
 the hammock,) Oh_, pray don't let me disturb you. 
 
 Vivie (striding to the gate and opening it for him). 
 Come in^ Mr. Praed. (He comes in,) Glad to see you. 
 (She proffers her hand and takes his with a resolute and 
 hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the sen- 
 sible, able, highly-educated young middle-class English- 
 woman. Age 22. Prompt, strong, confident, self- 
 possessed. Plain, business-like dress, but not dowdy. 
 She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen 
 and a paper knife among its pendants,) 
 
 Praed. Very kind of you indeed^ Miss Warren. 
 (She shuts the gate with a vigorous slam: he passes in 
 to the middle of the garden, exercising his fingers, which 
 are slightly numbed by her greeting,) Has your mother 
 arrived ? 
 
 Vivie (quickly, evidently scenting aggression). Is 
 she coming.^ 
 
 Praed (surprised). Didn't you expect us? 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 167 
 
 ViviE. No. 
 
 Praed. Now^ goodness me^ I hope I've not mistaken 
 the day. That would be just like me^ you know. Your 
 mother arranged that she was to come down from Lon- 
 don and that I was to come over from Horsham to be 
 introduced to you. 
 
 ViviE (not at all pleased). Did she? H'm! My 
 mother has rather a trick of taking me by surprise — ^to 
 see how I behave myself when she's away^ I suppose. I 
 fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one 
 of these days^ if she makes arrangements that concern 
 me without consulting me beforehand. She hasn't come. 
 
 Praed (embarrassed). I'm really very sorry. 
 
 ViviE (throwing off her displeasure). It's not your 
 faulty Mr. Praed/ is it.^ And I'm very glad you've come^ 
 believe me. You are the only one of my mother's friends 
 I have asked her to bring to see me. 
 
 Praed (relieved and delighted). Oh^ now this is 
 really very good of you^ Miss Warren! 
 
 ViviE. Will you come indoors; or would you rather 
 sit out here whilst we talk? 
 
 Praed. It will be nicer out here, don't you think? 
 
 ViviE. Then I'll go and get you a chair. (She goes 
 to the porch for a garden chair.) 
 
 Praed (following her). Oh^ P^ay, pray! Allow me. 
 (He lays hands on the chair.) 
 
 ViviE (letting him take it). Take care of your fin- 
 gers : they're rather dodgy things, those chairs. (She 
 goes across to the chair with the books on it; pitches them 
 into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with one 
 swing.) 
 
 Praed (who has just unfolded his chair). Oh, now 
 do let me take that hard chair! I like hard chairs. 
 
 ViviE. So do I. (She sits down.) Sit down, Mr. 
 Praed. (This invitation is given with genial peremptori- 
 ness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as a 
 sign of weakness of character on his part.) 
 
168 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 Praed. By the way^ though^ hadn't we better go to 
 the station to meet your mother? 
 
 ViviE {coolly). Why? She knows the way. {Praed 
 hesitates, and then sits down in the garden chair, rather 
 disconcerted.) Do you know^ you are just like what I 
 expected. I hope you are disposed to be friends with 
 
 me 
 
 ? 
 
 Praed {again beaming). Thank you, my dear Miss 
 Warren; thank you. Dear me! I'm so glad your mother 
 hasn't spoilt you! 
 
 ViviE. How? 
 
 Praed. Well, in making you too conventionale You 
 know, my dear Miss Warren, I am a born anarchist. I 
 hate authority. It spoils the relations between parent 
 and child — even between mother and daughter. Now I 
 was always afraid that your mother would strain her 
 authority to make you very conventional. It's such a 
 relief to find that she hasn't. 
 
 Vivie. Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally? 
 
 Praed. Oh, no : oh, dear no. At least not convention- 
 ally unconventionally, you understand. {She nods. He 
 goes on, with a cordial outburst.) But it was so charm- 
 ing of you to say that you were disposed to be friends 
 with me! You modern young ladies are splendid — per- 
 fectly splendid ! 
 
 Vivie {dubiously) Eh? {watching him with dawning 
 disappointment as to the quality of his brains and char- 
 acter.) 
 
 Praed. When I was your age, young men and women 
 were afraid of each other: there was no good fellowship 
 — nothing real — only gallantry copied out of novels, and 
 as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly reserve ! 
 — gentlemanly chivalry ! — always saying no when you 
 meant yes ! — simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls ! 
 
 Vivie. Yes, I imagine there must have been a fright- 
 ful waste of time — especially women's time. 
 
 Praed. Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 169 
 
 things are improving. Do you know^ I have been in a 
 positive state of excitement about meeting you ever since 
 your magnificent achievements at Cambridge — a thing 
 unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid^ your 
 tieing with the third wrangler. Just the right place, 
 you know. The first wrangler is always a dreamy, mor- 
 bid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the length of 
 a disease. 
 
 ViviE. It doesn't pay. I wouldn't do it again for the 
 same money. 
 
 Praed (aghast). The same money! 
 
 ViviE. I did it for £50, Perhaps you don't know 
 how it was. Mrs. Latham, my tutor at Newnham, told 
 my mother that I could distinguish myself in the mathe- 
 matical tripos if I went for it in earnest. The papers 
 were full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the 
 senior wrangler — you remember about it; and nothing 
 would please my mother but that I should do the same 
 thing. I said flatly that it was not worth my while to 
 face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; 
 but I offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts 
 for £50, She closed with me at that, after a little 
 grumbling; and I was better than my bargain. But I 
 wouldn't do it again for that. .£200 would have been 
 nearer the mark. 
 
 Praed (much damped). Lord bless me! That's a 
 very practical way of looking at it. 
 
 ViviE. Did you expect to find me an unpractical 
 person ? 
 
 Praed. No, no. But surely it's practical to consider 
 not only the work these honors cost, but also the culture 
 they bring. 
 
 ViviE. Culture ! My dear Mr. Praed : do you know 
 what the mathematical tripos means? It means grind, 
 grind, grind, for six to eight hours a day at mathematics, 
 and nothing but mathematics. I'm supposed to know 
 something about science; but I know nothing except the 
 
170 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for 
 engineers^ electricians^ insurance companies^ and so on; 
 but I know next to nothing about engineering or elec- 
 tricity or insurance. I don't even know arithmetic well. 
 Outside mathematics^ lawn-tennis^ eatings sleeping, cy- 
 cling, and walking, I'm a more ignorant barbarian than 
 any woman could possibly be who hadn't gone in for the 
 tripos. 
 
 Praed (revolted). What a monstrous, wicked, ras- 
 cally system! I knew it! I felt at once that it meant 
 destroying all that makes womanhood beautiful. 
 
 ViviE. I don't object to it on that score in the least. 
 I shall turn it to very good account, I assure you. 
 
 Praed. Pooh ! In what way ? 
 
 ViviE. I shall set up in chambers in the city and 
 work at actuarial calculations and conveyancing. Under 
 cover of that I shall do some law, with one eye on the 
 Stock Exchange all the time. I've come down here by 
 myself to read law — not for a holiday, as my mother 
 imagines. I hate holidays. 
 
 Praed. You make my blood run cold. Are you to 
 have no romance, no beauty in your life? 
 
 ViviE. I don't care for either, I assure you. 
 
 Praed. You can't mean that. 
 
 ViviE. Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid 
 for it. When I'm tired of working, I like a comfortable 
 chair, a cigar, a little whisky, and a novel with a good 
 detective story in it. 
 
 Praed (m a frenzy of repudiation), I don't believe 
 it. I am an artist ; and I can't believe it : I refuse to be- 
 lieve it. (Enthusiastically,) Ah, my dear Miss Warren, 
 you haven't discovered yet, I see, what a wonderful world 
 art can open up to you. 
 
 ViviE. Yes, I have. Last May I spent six weeks in 
 London with Honoria Fraser. Mamma thought we were 
 doing a round of sight-seeing together; but I was really 
 at Honoria's chambers in Chancery Lane every day, 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 171 
 
 working away at actuarial calculations for her^ and help- 
 ing her as well as a greenhorn could. In the evenings 
 we smoked and talked^ and never dreamt of going out 
 except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more 
 in my life. I cleared all my expenses and got initiated 
 into the business without a fee into the bargain. 
 
 Praed. But bless my heart and soul^ Miss Warren, 
 do you call that trying art? 
 
 ViviE. Wait a bit. That wasn't the beginning. I 
 went up to town on an invitation from some artistic 
 people in Fitz John's Avenue; one of the girls was a 
 Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery, 
 to the Opera, and to a concert where the band played all 
 the evening — Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I 
 wouldn't go through that experience again for anything 
 you could oJfFer me. I held out for civility's sake until 
 the third day ; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn't 
 stand any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. 
 Now you know the sort of perfectly splendid modern 
 young lady I am. How do you think I shall get on with 
 my mother.^ 
 
 Praed (startled). Well, I hope — er 
 
 ViviE. It's not so much what you hope as what you 
 believe, that I want to know. 
 
 Praed. Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will 
 be a little disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on 
 your part — I don't mean that. But you are so different 
 from her ideal. 
 
 ViviE. What is her ideal like? 
 
 Praed. Well, you must have observed. Miss Warren, 
 that people who are dissatisfied with their own bringing 
 up generally think that the world would be all right 
 if everybody were to be brought up quite differently. 
 Now your mother's life has been — er — I suppose you 
 know 
 
 ViviE. I know nothing. (Praed is appalled. His 
 consternation grows as she continues,) That's exactly 
 
172 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 my difficulty. You forget^ Mr. Praed^ that I hardly 
 know my mother. Since I was a child I have lived in 
 England^ at school or college^ or with people paid to 
 take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my 
 life; and my mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and 
 never let me go to her. I only see her when she visits 
 England for a few days. I don't complain: it's been 
 very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; 
 and there has always been plenty of money to make 
 things smooth. But don't imagine I know anything about 
 my mother. I know far less than you do. 
 
 Praed {very ill at ease). In that case — (He stops, 
 quite at a loss. Then, with a forced attempt at gaiety.) 
 But what nonsense we are talking! Of course you and 
 your mother will get on capitally. (He rises, and looks 
 abroad at the view.) What a charming little place you 
 have here! 
 
 ViviE {unmoved). If you think you are doing any- 
 thing but confirming my worst suspicions by changing 
 the subject like that^ you must take me for a much 
 greater fool than I hope I am. 
 
 Praed. Your worst suspicions ! Oh^ pray don't say 
 that. Now don't. 
 
 ViviE. Why won't my mother's life bear being talked 
 about } 
 
 Praed. Pray think^ Miss Vivie. It is natural that I 
 should have a certain delicacy in talking to my old 
 friend's daughter about her behind her back. You will 
 have plenty of opportunity of talking to her about it 
 when she comes. {Anxiously,) I wonder what is keep- 
 ing her. 
 
 Vivie. No: she won't talk about it either. {Rising.) 
 However, I won't press you. Only mind this, Mr. Praed. 
 I strongly suspect there will be a battle royal when my 
 mother hears of my Chancery Lane project. 
 
 Praed {ruefully), I'm afraid there will. 
 
 Vivie. I shall win the battle, because I want nothing 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 173 
 
 but my fare to London to start there to-morrow earning 
 my own living by devilling for Honoria. Besides^ I have 
 no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall 
 use that advantage over her if necessary. 
 
 Praed {greatly shocked). Oh, no. No, pray. You'd 
 not do such a thing. 
 
 ViviE. Then tell me why not. 
 
 Praed. I really cannot. I appeal to your good feel- 
 ing. {She smiles at his sentimentality,) Besides, you 
 may be too bold. Your mother is not to be trifled with 
 when she's angry. 
 
 ViviE. You can't frighten me, Mr. Praed. In that 
 month at Chancery Lane I had opportunities of taking 
 the measure of one or two women, very like my mother 
 who came to consult Honoria. You may back me to win. 
 But if I hit harder in my ignorance than I need, remem- 
 ber that it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now let 
 us drop the subject. (She takes her chair and replaces 
 it near the hammock with the same vigorous swing as 
 before,) 
 
 Praed {taking a desperate resolution). One word. 
 Miss Warren. I had better tell you. It's very difficult; 
 but 
 
 {Mrs. Warren and Sir George Crofts arrive at the 
 gate. Mrs. Warren is a woman between JjD and 50, good- 
 looking, showily dressed in a brilliant hat and a gay 
 blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by fash- 
 ionable sleeves. Rather spoiled and domineering, but, 
 on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old black- 
 guard of a woman. 
 
 Crofts is a tall, powerfully-built man of about 50, 
 fashionably dressed in the style of a young man. Nasal 
 voice, reedier than might be expected from his strong 
 frame. Clean-shaven, bull-dog jaws, large flat ears, and 
 thick neck, gentlemanly combination of the most brutal 
 types of city man, sporting man, and man about town.) 
 
 ViviE. Here they are. {Coming to them as they enter 
 
174 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 the garden,) How do^ mater. Mr. Praed's been here 
 this half hour^ waiting for you. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well^ if you've been waiting, Praddy, 
 it's your own fault: I thought you'd have had the gump- 
 tion to know I was coming by the 3:10 train. Vivie, put 
 your hat on, dear: youll get sunburnt. Oh, forgot to 
 introduce you. Sir George Crofts, my little Vivie. 
 
 (^Crofts advances to Vivie with his most courtly man- 
 ner. She nods, hut makes no motion to shake hands,) 
 
 Crofts. May I shake hands with a young lady whom 
 I have known by reputation very long as the daughter 
 of one of my oldest friends.^ 
 
 Vivie {rvho has been looking him up and down 
 sharply). If you like. (She take his tenderly proffered 
 hand and gives it a squeeze that makes him open his eyes; 
 then turns away and says to her mother) Will you come 
 in, or shall I get a couple more chairs.'^ {She goes into 
 the porch for the chairs.) 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well, George, what do you think of 
 her? 
 
 Crofts (ruefully). She has a powerful fist. Did you 
 shake hands with her, Praed? 
 
 Praed. Yes : it will pass off presently. 
 
 Crofts. I hope so. (Vivie reappears with two more 
 chairs. He hurries to her assistance,) Allow me. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (patronizingly) , Let Sir George help 
 you with the chairs, dear. 
 
 Vivie (almost pitching two into his arms). Here you 
 are. (She dusts her hands and turns to Mrs, Warren,) 
 You'd like some tea, wouldn't you? 
 
 Mrs. Warren (sitting in Praed^s chair and fanning 
 herself), I'm dying for a drop to drink. 
 
 Vivie. I'll see about it. (She goes into the cottage. 
 Sir George has by this time managed to unfold a chair 
 and plant it beside Mrs, Warren, on her left. He throws 
 the other on the grass and sits down, looking dejected 
 and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in his 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 175 
 
 mouth. Praed, still very uneasy, fidgets about the gar- 
 den on their right,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren {to Praed, looking at Crofts), Just 
 look at him^ Praddy: he looks cheerful, don't he? He's 
 been worrying my life out these three years to have that 
 little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that IVe done 
 it^ he's quite out of countenance. {Briskly.) Come! sit 
 up^ George; and take your stick out of your mouth. 
 {Crofts sulkily obeys,) 
 
 Praed. I think^ you know — if you don't mind my say- 
 ing so — that we had better get out of the habit of think- 
 ing of her as a little girl. You see she has really dis- 
 tinguished herself; and I'm not sure^ from what I have 
 seen of her, that she is not older than any of us. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {greatly amused). Only listen to him, 
 George! Older than any of us! Well, she has been 
 stuffing you nicely with her importance. 
 
 Praed. But young people are particularly sensitive 
 about being treated in that way. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Yes ; and young people have to get all 
 that nonsense taken out of them, and a good deal more 
 besides. Don't you interfere, Praddy. I know how to 
 treat my own child as well as you do. {Praed, with a 
 grave shake of his head, walks up the garden with his 
 hands behind his back. Mrs. Warren pretends to laugh, 
 hut looks after him with perceptible concern. Then she 
 whispers to Crofts.) What's the matter with him? 
 What does he take it like that for? 
 
 Crofts {morosely) . You're afraid of Praed. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. What! Me! Afraid of dear old 
 Praddy ! Why, a fly wouldn't be afraid of him. 
 
 Crofts. You're afraid of him. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {angry). I'll trouble you to mind your 
 own business, and not try any of your sulks on me. I'm 
 not afraid of you, anyhow. If you can't make yourself 
 agreeable, you'd better go home. {She gets up, and, 
 turning her back on him, finds herself face to face with 
 
176 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 Praed.) Come^ Praddy, I know it was only your tender- 
 heartedness. You're afraid 111 bully her. 
 
 Praed. My dear Kitty: you think I'm offended. 
 Don't imagine that: pray don't. But you know I often 
 notice things that escape you ; and though you never take 
 my advice^ you sometimes admit afterwards that you 
 ought to have taken it. 
 
 Mrs. Warren* Well^ what do you notice now? 
 
 Praed. Only that Vivie is a grown woman. Pray^ 
 Kitty^ treat her with every respect. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {with genuine amazement). Respect! 
 Treat my own daughter with respect ! What next, pray ! 
 
 Vivie (appearing at the cottage door and calling to 
 Mrs, Warren). Mother: will you come up to my room 
 and take your bonnet off before tea? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Yes, dearie. (She laughs indulgently 
 at Praed and pats him on the cheek as she passes him on 
 her rvay to the porch. She follows Vivie into the cottage.) 
 
 Crofts {furtively), I say, Praed. 
 
 Praed. Yes. 
 
 Crofts. I want to ask you a rather particular question. 
 
 Praed. Certainly. {He takes Mrs, Warren's chair 
 and sits close to Crofts,) 
 
 Crofts. That's right: they might hear us from the 
 window. Look here: did Kitty ever tell you who that 
 girl's father is? 
 
 Praed. Never. 
 
 Crofts. Have you any suspicion of who it might be? 
 
 Praed. None. 
 
 Crofts {not believing him), I know, of course, that 
 you perhaps might feel bound not to tell if she had said 
 anything to you. But it's very awkward to be uncertain 
 about it now that we shall be meeting the girl every day. 
 We don't exactly know how we ought to feel towards her. 
 
 Praed. What difference can that make? We take 
 her on her own merits. What does it matter who her 
 father was ? 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 177 
 
 Crofts {suspiciously). Then you know who he was? 
 
 Praed {with a touch of temper), I said no just now. 
 Did you not hear me? 
 
 Crofts. Look here^ Praed. I ask you as a particular 
 favor. If you do know {movement of protest from 
 Praed) — I only say^ if you know_, you might at least set 
 my mind at rest about her. The fact is I feel attracted 
 towards her. Oh^ don't be alarmed: it's quite an inno- 
 cent feeling. That's what puzzles me about it. Why, 
 for all I know^ / might be her father. 
 
 Prx^ed. You ! Impossible ! Oh^ no^ nonsense ! 
 
 Crofts {catching him up cunningly). You know for 
 certain that I'm not? 
 
 Praed. I know nothing about it^ I tell you^ any more 
 than you. But really^ Crofts — oh^ no^ it's out of the 
 question. There's not the least resemblance. 
 
 Crofts. As to that^ there's no resemblance between 
 her and her mother that I can see. I suppose she's not 
 your daughter^ is she? 
 
 Praed {He meets the question rvith an indignant stare; 
 then recovers himself with an effort and answers gently 
 and gravely). Now listen to me^ my dear Crofts. I 
 have nothing to do with that side of Mrs. Warren's life^ 
 and never had. She has never spoken to me about it; 
 and of course I have never spoken to her about it. Your 
 delicacy will tell you that a handsome woman needs some 
 friends who are not — well^ not on that footing with her. 
 The effect of her own beauty would become a torment to 
 her if she could not escape from it occasionally. You are 
 probably on much more confidential terms with Kitty 
 than I am. Surely you can ask her the question yourself. 
 
 Crofts {rising impatiently). I have asked her often 
 enough. But she's so determined to keep the child all to 
 herself that she would deny that it ever had a father if 
 she could. No: there's nothing to be got out of her — 
 nothing that one can believe, anyhow. I'm thoroughly 
 uncomfortable about it, Praed. 
 
178 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 Praed (rising also), Well^ as you are^ at all events, 
 old enough to be her father^ I don't mind agreeing that 
 we both regard Miss Vivie in a parental way^ as a young- 
 girl whom we are bound to protect and help. All the 
 more^ as the real father^ whoever he was, was probably 
 a blackguard. What do you say? 
 
 Crofts (aggressively). I'm no older than you, if you 
 come to that. 
 
 Praed. Yes, j^ou are, my dear fellow: you were born 
 old. I was born a boy: I've never been able to feel the 
 assurance of a grown-up man in my life. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (calling from within the cottage), 
 Prad-dee ! George ! Tea-ea-ea-ea ! 
 
 Crofts (hastily). She's calling us. (He hurries in, 
 Praed shakes his head hodingly, and is following slowly 
 when he is hailed by a young gentleman who has just 
 appeared on the common, and is making for the gate. 
 He is a pleasant, pretty, smartly dressed, and entirely 
 good-for-nothing young fellow, not long turned 20, with 
 a charming voice and agreeably disrespectful manner. 
 He carries a very light sporting magazine rifle,) 
 
 The Young Gentleman. Hallo ! Praed ! 
 
 Praed. Why, Frank Gardner ! (Frank comes in and 
 shakes hands cordially.) What on earth are you doing 
 here } 
 
 Frank. Staying with my father. 
 
 Praed. The Roman father.^ 
 
 Frank. He's rector here. I'm living with my people 
 this autunm for the sake of economy. Things came to a 
 crisis in July: the Roman father had to pay my debts. 
 He's stony broke in consequence ; and so am I. What are 
 you up to in these parts t Do you know the people here ? 
 
 Praed. Yes: I'm spending the day with a Miss 
 Warren. 
 
 Frank (enthusiastically). What! Do you know 
 Vivie .^ Isn't she a jolly girl! I'm teaching her to shoot 
 — you see (shewing the rifle,) ! I'm so glad she knows 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 179 
 
 you: you're just the sort of fellow she ought to know. 
 {He smiles, and raises the charming voice almost to a 
 singing tone as he exclaims) It's ever so jolly to find 
 you here^ Praed. Ain't it^ now? 
 
 Praed. I'm an old friend of her mother's. Mrs. 
 Warren brought me over to make her daughter's ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Frank. The mother! Is she here? 
 
 Praed. Yes — inside at tea. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {calling from rvithin). Prad-dee-ee- 
 ee-eee ! The tea-cake'U be cold. 
 
 Praed (calling). Yes^ Mrs. Warren. In a moment. 
 IVe just met a friend here. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. A what? 
 
 Praed (louder). A friend. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Bring him up. 
 
 Praed. All right. (To Frank.) Will you accept the 
 invitation ? 
 
 Frank (incredulous, but immensely amused). Is that 
 Vivie's mother? 
 
 Praed. Yes. 
 
 Frank. By Jove ! What a lark ! Do you think she'll 
 like me? 
 
 Praed. I've no doubt you'll make yourself popular^ 
 as usual. Come in and try (moving towards the house). 
 
 Frank. Stop a bit. (Seriously.) I want to take you 
 into my confidence. 
 
 Praed. Pray don't. It's only some fresh folly^ like 
 the barmaid at Redhill. 
 
 Frank. It's ever so much more serious than that. 
 You say you've only just met Vivie for the first time? 
 
 Praed. Yes. 
 
 Frank (rhapsodically) . Then you can have no idea 
 what a girl she is. Such character ! Such sense ! And 
 her cleverness ! Oh^ my eye^ Praed^ but I can tell you 
 she is clever ! And the most loving little heart that 
 
 Crofts (putting his head out of the rvindorv). I say. 
 
180 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 Praed: what are you about? Do come along. {He dis- 
 appears,^ 
 
 Frank. Hallo ! Sort of chap that would take a prize 
 at a dog show, ain't he? Who's he? 
 
 Praed. Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs. 
 Warren's. I think we had better come in. 
 
 {On their way to the porch they are interrupted hy a 
 call from the gate. Turning, they see an elderly clergy- 
 man looking over it,) 
 
 The Clergyman (calling). Frank! 
 
 Frank. Hallo! (To Praed,) The Roman father. 
 (To the clergyman.) Yes, gov'nor: all right: presently. 
 (To Praed,) Look here, Praed: you'd better go in to 
 tea. I'll join you directly. 
 
 Praed. Very good. (He raises his hat to the clergy- 
 man, who acknowledges the salute distantly. Praed goes 
 into the cottage. The clergyman remains stiffly outside 
 the gate, with his hands on the top of it. The Rev. Sam- 
 uel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established 
 Church, is over 50. He is a pretentious, booming, noisy 
 person, hopelessly asserting himself as a father and a 
 clergyman without being able to command respect in 
 either capacity,) 
 
 Rev. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I 
 may ask? 
 
 Frank. Oh, it's all right, gov'nor ! Come in. 
 
 Rev. S. No, sir ; not until I know whose garden I am 
 entering. 
 
 Frank. It's all right. It's Miss Warren's. 
 
 Rev. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. 
 
 Frank. Of course not: she's a third wrangler — ever 
 so intellectual! — took a higher degree than you did; so 
 why should she go to hear you preach? 
 
 Rev. S. Don't be disrespectful, sir. 
 
 Frank. Oh, it don't matter: nobody hears us. Come 
 in. (He opens the gate, unceremoniously pulling his 
 father with it into the garden.) I want to introduce you 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 181 
 
 to her. She and I get on rattling well together: she's 
 charming. Do you remember the advice you gave me 
 last July, gov'nor.^ 
 
 Rev. S. {severely). Yes. I advised you to conquer 
 your idleness and flippancy, and to work your way into 
 an honorable profession and live on it and not upon me. 
 
 Frank. No: that's what you thought of afterwards. 
 What you actually said was that since I had neither 
 brains nor money, I'd better turn my good looks to ac- 
 count by marrying somebody with both. Well, look here. 
 Miss Warren has brains: you can't deny that. 
 
 Rev. S. Brains are not everything. 
 
 Frank. No, of course not: there's the money 
 
 Rev. S. {interrupting him austerely), I was not think- 
 ing of money, sir. I was speaking of higher things — 
 social position, for instance. 
 
 Frank. I don't care a rap about that. 
 
 Rev. S. But I do, sir. 
 
 Frank. Well, nobody wants you to marry her. Any- 
 how, she has what amounts to a high Cambridge degree; 
 and she seems to have as much money as she wants. 
 
 Rev. S. {sinking into a feeble vein of humor). I 
 greatly doubt whether she has as much money as you 
 will want. 
 
 Frank. Oh, come: I haven't been so very extrava- 
 gant. I live ever so quietly ; I don't drink ; I don't bet 
 much; and I never go regularly on the razzle-dazzle as 
 you did when you were my age. 
 
 Rev. S. {booming hollowly). Silence, sir. 
 
 Frank. Well, you told me yourself, when I was mak- 
 ing ever such an ass of myself about the barmaid at 
 Redhill, that you once offered a woman «£50 for the let- 
 ters you wrote to her when 
 
 Rev. S. {terrified), Sh-sh-sh, Frank, for Heaven's 
 sake! {He looks round apprehensively. Seeing no one 
 within earshot he plucks up courage to boom again, hut 
 more subduedly,) You are taking an ungentlemanly ad- 
 
182 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act I 
 
 vantage of what I confided to you for your own good^ to 
 save you from an error you would have repented all your 
 life long. Take warning by your father's follies^ sir; 
 and don't make them an excuse for your own. 
 
 Frank. Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of 
 Wellington and his letters? 
 
 Rev. S. No^ sir; and I don't want to hear it. 
 
 Frank. The old Iron Duke didn't throw away .£50 — 
 not he. He just wrote: " My dear Jenny: Publish and 
 be damned! Yours affectionately^ Wellington." That's 
 what you should have done. 
 
 Rev. S. (piteously), Frank, my boy: when I wrote 
 those letters I put myself into that woman's power. 
 When I told you about her I put myself^ to some ex- 
 tent^ I am sorry to say^ in your power. She refused my 
 money with these words^ which I shall never forget: 
 " Knowledge is power^" she said; " and I never 
 sell power." That's more than twenty years ago; and 
 she has never made use of her power or caused me 
 a moment's uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me 
 than she did^ Frank. 
 
 Frank. Oh^ yes^ I dare say! Did you ever preach 
 at her the way you preach at me every day? 
 
 Rev. S. {wounded almost to tears), I leave you_, sir. 
 You are incorrigible. (He turns torvards the gate.) 
 
 Frank (utterly unmoved). Tell them I shan't be 
 home to tea^ will you^ gov'nor^ like a good fellow? (He 
 goes torvards the cottage door and is met by Vivie coming 
 out, follorved by Praed, Crofts, and Mrs. Warren.) 
 
 Vivie (to Frank). Is that your father, Frank? I do 
 so want to meet him. 
 
 Frank. Certainly. (Calling after his father.) Gov'- 
 nor. (The Rev. S. turns at the gate, fumbling nervously 
 at his hat. Praed comes down the garden on the opposite 
 sidCy beaming in anticipation of civilities. Crofts prowls 
 about near the hammock, poking it with his stick to make 
 it swing. Mrs. Warren halts on the threshold, staring 
 
Act I Mrs. Warren's Profession 183 
 
 hard at the clergyman.) Let me introduce — my father: 
 Miss Warren. 
 
 ViviE {going to the clergyman and shaking his hand). 
 Very glad to see you here^ Mr. Gardner. Let me intro- 
 duce everybody. Mr. Gardner — Mr. Frank Gardner — 
 Mr. Praed — Sir George Crofts^ and — {As the men are 
 raising their hats to one another, Vivie is interrupted by 
 an exclamation from her mother, rvho swoops down on 
 the Reverend Samuel). 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Why^ it's Sam Gardner, gone into the 
 church! Don't you know us, Sam.^ This is George 
 Crofts, as large as life and twice as natural. Don't you 
 remember me.^* 
 
 Rev. S. {very red). I really — er 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Of course you do. Why, I have a 
 whole album of your letters still: I came across them 
 only the other day. 
 
 Rev. S. {miserably confused). Miss Vavasour, I be- 
 lieve. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {correcting him quickly in a loud whis- 
 per). Teh! Nonsense — Mrs. Warren: don't you see my 
 daughter there .^ 
 
 end of act I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 Inside the cottage after nightfall. Looking eastward 
 from within instead of westward from without^ the lat- 
 ticed window, with its curtains drawn, is now seen in the 
 middle of the front wall of the cottage, with the porch 
 door to the left of it. In the left-hand side wall is the 
 door leading to the wing. Farther hack against the same 
 wall is a dresser with a candle and matches on it, and 
 FranJc^s rifle standing beside them, with the barrel rest- 
 ing in the plate-rack. In the centre a table stands with 
 a lighted lamp on it, Vivie's boohs and writing materials 
 are on a table to the right of the window, against the wall. 
 The fireplace is on the right, with a settle: there is no 
 fire. Two of the chairs are set right and left of the table. 
 
 The cottage door opens, shewing a fine starlit night 
 without; and Mrs, Warren, her shoulders wrapped in a 
 shawl borrowed from Vivie, enters, followed by Frank, 
 She has had enough of walking, and gives a gasp of re- 
 lief as she unpins her hat; takes it off; sticks the pin 
 through the crown; and puts it on the table, 
 
 Mrs. Warren. O Lord! I don't know which is the 
 worst of the country^ the walking or the sitting at home 
 with nothing to do: I could do a whisky and soda now 
 very well^ if only they had such a thing in the place. 
 
 Frank (helping her to take off her shawl, and giving 
 her shoulders the most delicate possible little caress with 
 his fingers as he does so). Perhaps Vivie's got some. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {glancing back at him for an instant 
 from the corner of her eye as she detects the pressure). 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 185 
 
 Nonsense! What would a young girl like her be doing 
 with such things! Never mind: it don't matter. {She 
 throws herself rvearily into a chair at the table,) I won- 
 der how she passes her time here ! I'd a good deal rather 
 be in Vienna. 
 
 Frank. Let me take you there. {He folds the sharvl 
 neatly; hangs it on the hack of the other chair; and sits 
 down opposite Mrs, Warren,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Get out! I'm beginning to think 
 you're a chip of the old block. 
 
 Frank. Like the gov'nor^ eh? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Never you mind. What do you know 
 about such things.'^ You're only a boy. 
 
 Frank. Do come to Vienna with me? It'd be ever 
 such larks. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. No^ thank you. Vienna is no place 
 for you — at least not until you're a little older. {She 
 nods at him to emphasize this piece of advice. He makes 
 a mock-piteous face, belied by his laughing eyes. She 
 looks at him; then rises and goes to him,) Now^ look 
 here^ little boy {taking his face in her hands and turning 
 it up to her) : I know you through and through by your 
 likeness to your father^ better than you know yourself. 
 Don't you go taking any silly ideas into your head about 
 me. Do you hear? 
 
 Frank {gallantly wooing her with his voice). Can't 
 help it, my dear Mrs. Warren: it runs in the family. 
 {She pretends to box his ears; then looks at the pretty^ 
 laughing, upturned face for a moment, tempted. At last 
 she kisses him and immediately turns away, out of pa- 
 tience with herself,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren. There! I shouldn't have done that. 
 I am wicked. Never you mind, my dear: it's only a 
 motherly kiss. Go and make love to Vivie. 
 
 Frank. So I have. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {turning on him with a sharp note of 
 alarm in her voice). What! 
 
186 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 Frank. Vivie and I are ever such chums. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. What do you mean? Now^ see here: 
 I won't have any young scamp tampering with my little 
 girl. Do you hear.^ I won't have it. 
 
 Frank (quite unabashed). My dear Mrs. Warren: 
 don't you be alarmed. My intentions are honorable — 
 ever so honorable; and your little girl is jolly well able 
 to take care of herself. She don't need looking after 
 half so much as her mother. She ain't so handsome, you 
 know. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {taken aback by his assurance). Well, 
 you have got a nice, healthy two inches thick of cheek 
 all over you. I don't know where you got it — not from 
 your father, anyhow. {Voices and footsteps in the 
 porch.) Sh! I hear the others coming in. {She sits 
 down hastily.) Remember: you've got your warning. 
 {The Rev. Samuel comes in, followed by Crofts.) Well, 
 what became of you two? And where's Praddy and 
 Vivie ? 
 
 Crofts {putting his hat on the settle and his stick in 
 the chimney corner). They went up the hill. We went 
 to the village. I wanted a drink. {He sits down on the 
 settle, putting his legs up along the seat.) 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well, she oughtn't to go off like that 
 without telling me. {To Frank.) Get your father a 
 chair, Frank: where are your manners? {Frank springs 
 up and gracefully offers his father his chair; then takes 
 another from the wall and sits down at the table, in the 
 middle, with his father on his right and Mrs. Warren on 
 his left.) George: where are you going to stay to-night? 
 You can't stay here. And what's Praddy going to do? 
 
 Crofts. Gardner'U put me up. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh, no doubt you've taken care of 
 yourself! But what about Praddy? 
 
 Crofts. Don't know. I suppose he can sleep at 
 the inn. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Haven't you room for him, Sam? 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 187 
 
 Rev. S. Well^ er — you see^ as rector here^ I am not 
 free to do as I like exactly. Er — what is Mr. Praed's 
 social position? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh^ he's all right: he's an architect. 
 What an old-stick-in-the-mud you are^ Sam! 
 
 Frank. Yes^ it's all rights gov'nor. He built that 
 place down in Monmouthshire for the Duke of Beaufort 
 — Tintern Abbey they call it. You must have heard of 
 it. {He winks with lightning smartness at Mrs. Warren, 
 and regards his father blandly,) 
 
 Rev. S. Oh^ in that case^ of course we shall only be 
 too happy. I suppose he knows the Duke of Beaufort 
 personally. 
 
 Frank. Oh^ ever so intimately ! We can stick him in 
 Georgina's old room. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well^ that's settled. Now^ if those 
 two would only come in and let us have supper. They've 
 no right to stay out after dark like this. 
 
 Crofts (aggressively). What harm are they doing 
 you? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well^ harm or not^ I don't like it. 
 
 Frank. Better not wait for them^ Mrs. Warren. 
 Praed will stay out as long as possible. He has never 
 known before what it is to stray over the heath on a 
 summer night with my Vivie. 
 
 Crofts (sitting up in some consternation) . I say^ you 
 know. Come ! 
 
 Rev. S. (startled out of his professional manner into 
 real force and sincerity). Frank, once for all^ it's out 
 of the question. Mrs. Warren will tell you that it's not 
 to be thought of. 
 
 Crofts. Of course not. 
 
 Frank (with enchanting placidity). Is that so^ Mrs. 
 Warren ? 
 
 Mrs. Warren (reflectively). Well, Sam, I don't 
 know. If the girl wants to get married, no good can 
 come of keeping her unmarried. 
 
188 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 Rev. S. (astounded). But married to him! — your 
 daughter to my son! Only think: it's impossible. 
 
 Crofts. Of course it's impossible. Don't be a fool^ 
 Kitty. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (nettled). Why not? Isn't my daugh- 
 ter good enough for your son? 
 
 Rev. S. But surely, my dear Mrs. Warren, you know 
 the reason — ^ 
 
 Mrs. Warren (defiantly). I know no reasons. If 
 you know any, you can tell them to the lad, or to the 
 girl, or to your congregation, if you like. 
 
 Rev. S. (helplessly). You know very well that I 
 couldn't tell anyone the reasons. But my boy will be- 
 lieve me when I tell him there are reasons. 
 
 Frank. Quite right. Dad: he will. But has your 
 boy's conduct ever been influenced by your reasons? 
 
 Crofts. You can't marry her; and that's all about it. 
 (He gets up and stands on the hearth, with his back to 
 the fireplace, frowning determinedly.) 
 
 Mrs. Warren (turning on him sharply). What have 
 you got to do with it, pray? 
 
 Frank (with his prettiest lyrical cadence). Precisely 
 what I was going to ask, myself, in my own graceful 
 fashion. 
 
 Crofts (to Mrs. Warren). I suppose you don't want 
 to marry the girl to a man younger than herself and 
 without either a profession or twopence to keep her on. 
 Ask Sam, if you don't believe me. (To the Rev. S.) 
 How much more money are you going to give him? 
 
 Rev. S. Not another penny. He has had his patri- 
 mony; and he spent the last of it in July. (Mrs. War- 
 ren's face falls.) 
 
 Crofts (watching her). There! I told you. (He 
 resumes his place on the settle and puts up his legs 
 on the seat again, as if the matter were finally disposed 
 of.) 
 
 Frank (plaintively). This is ever so mercenary. Do 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 189 
 
 you suppose Miss Warren's going to marry for money? 
 If we love one another — 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Thank you. Your love's a pretty 
 cheap commodity^ my lad. If you have no means of 
 keeping a wife^ that settles it: you can't have Vivie. 
 
 Frank {much amused). What do you say^ gov'nor^ 
 eh.^ 
 
 Rev. S. I agree with Mrs. Warren. 
 
 Frank. And good old Crofts has already expressed 
 his opinion. 
 
 Crofts {turning angrily on his elbow). Look here: 
 I want none of your cheek. 
 
 Frank (pointedly), I'm ever so sorry to surprise 
 you^ Crofts; but you allowed yourself the liberty of 
 speaking to me like a father a moment ago. One father 
 is enough^ thank you. 
 
 Crofts (contemptuously). Yah! (He turns away 
 again,) 
 
 Frank (rising), Mrs. Warren: I cannot give my 
 Vivie up even for your sake. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (muttering). Young scamp! 
 
 Frank (continuing). And as you no doubt intend to 
 hold out other prospects to her^ I shall lose no time in 
 placing my case before her. (They stare at him; and 
 he begins to declaim gracefully) 
 
 He either fears his fate too much. 
 
 Or his deserts are small. 
 That dares not put it to the touch 
 
 To gain or lose it all. 
 
 (The cottage door opens whilst he is reciting; and 
 Vivie and Praed come in. He breaks off, Praed puts 
 his hat on the dresser. There is an immediate improve- 
 ment in the company's behaviour. Crofts takes down his 
 legs from the settle and pulls himself together as Praed 
 joins him at the fireplace, Mrs, Warren loses her ease 
 of manner, and takes refuge in querulousness,) 
 
190 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Wherever have you been^ Vivie? 
 
 ViviE (taking off her hat and throwing it carelessly 
 on the table). On the hill. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well^ you shouldn't go off like that 
 without letting me knovr. How could I tell what had 
 become of you — and night coming on^ too ! 
 
 Vivie {going to the door of the inner room and open- 
 ing it, ignoring her mother). Now^ about supper.^ We 
 shall be rather crowded in here_, I'm afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Did you hear what I said^ Vivie? 
 
 Vivie {quietly). Yes^ mother. {Reverting to the sup- 
 per difficulty.) How many are we? {Counting.) One, 
 two^ three^ four^ five^ six. Well^ two will have to wait 
 until the rest are done: Mrs. Alison has only plates and 
 knives for four. 
 
 Praed. Oh, it doesn't matter about me. I 
 
 Vivie. You have had a long walk and are hungry, 
 Mr. Praed: you shall have your supper at once. I can 
 wait myself. I want one person to wait with me. Frank : 
 are you hungry? 
 
 Frank. Not the least in the world — completely off 
 my peck, in fact. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {to Crofts). Neither are you, George. 
 You can wait. 
 
 Crofts. Oh, hang it, I've eaten nothing since tea- 
 time. Can't Sam do it? 
 
 Frank. Would you starve my poor father? 
 
 Rev. S. {testily). Allow me to speak for myself, sir. 
 I am perfectly willing to wait. 
 
 Vivie {decisively). There's no need. Only two are 
 wanted. {She opens the door of the inner room.) Will 
 you take my mother in, Mr. Gardner. {The Rev. S. 
 takes Mrs. Warren; and they pass into the next room. 
 Praed and Crofts follow. All except Praed clearly dis- 
 approve of the arrangement, hut do not know how to 
 resist it. Vivie stands at the door looking in at them.) 
 Can you squeeze past to that corner, Mr. Praed: it's 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 191 
 
 rather a tight fit. Take care of your coat against the 
 white-wash — that's right. Now, are you all comfortable ? 
 
 Praed (within), Quite^ thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (within). Leave the door open^ dearie. 
 (Frank looks at Vivie; then steals to the cottage door and 
 so fill/ sets it wide open,) Oh^ Lor'^ what a draught! 
 You'd better shut it_, dear. (Vivie shuts it promptly. 
 Frank noiselessly shuts the cottage door.) 
 
 Frank (exulting). Aha! Got rid of 'em. Well^ 
 Vivvums: what do you think of my governor! 
 
 Vivie (preoccupied and serious). I've hardly spoken 
 to him. He doesn't strike me as being a particularly 
 able person. 
 
 Frank. Well^ you know^ the old man is not altogether 
 such a fool as he looks. You see^ he's rector here; and 
 in trying to live up to it he makes a much bigger ass of 
 himself than he really is. No^ the gov'nor ain't so bad_, 
 poor old chap; and I don't dislike him as much as you 
 might expect. He means well. How do you think you'll 
 get on with him.^ 
 
 Vivie (rather grimly). I don't think my future life 
 will be much concerned with him^ or with any of that 
 old circle of my mother's^ except perhaps Praed. What 
 do you think of my mother.^ 
 
 Frank. Really and truly .'^ 
 
 Vivie. Yes^ really and truly. 
 
 Frank. Well^ she's ever so jolly. But she's rather a 
 caution^ isn't she ? And Crofts ! Oh, my eye, Crofts ! 
 
 Vivie. What a lot^ Frank! 
 
 Frank. What a crew! 
 
 Vivie (with intense contempt for them). If I thought 
 that I was like that — that I was going to be a waster^ 
 shifting along from one meal to another with no purpose^ 
 and no character^ and no grit in me^ I'd open an artery 
 and bleed to death without one moment's hesitation. 
 
 Frank. Oh^ no^ you wouldn't. Why should they take 
 any grind when they can afford not to? I wish I had 
 
192 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 their luck. No: what I object to is their form. It isn't 
 the thing: it's slovenly, ever so slovenly. 
 
 ViviE. Do you think your form will be any better 
 when you're as old as Crofts, if you don't work? 
 
 Frank. Of course I do — ever so much better. Viv- 
 vums mustn't lecture: her little boy's incorrigible. {He 
 attempts to take her face caressingly in Ms hands.) 
 
 ViviE {striking his hands down sharply). Off with 
 you: Vivvums is not in a humor for petting her little 
 boy this evening. 
 
 Frank. How unkind! 
 
 ViviE (stamping at him). Be serious. I'm serious. 
 
 Frank. Good. Let us talk learnedly. Miss War- 
 ren : do you know that all the most advanced thinkers are 
 agreed that half the diseases of modern civilization are 
 due to starvation of the affections in the young. Now, 
 I 
 
 ViviE (cutting him short). You are getting tiresome. 
 (She opens the inner door.) Have you room for Frank 
 there .^ He's complaining of starvation. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (rvithin). Of course there is (clatter 
 of knives and glasses as she moves the things on the 
 table). Here: there's room now beside me. Come along, 
 Mr. Frank. 
 
 Frank (aside to Vivie, as he goes). Her little boy 
 will be ever so even with his Vivvums for this. (He goes 
 into the other room.) 
 
 Mrs. Warren (within). Here, Vivie: come on, you 
 too, child. You must be famished. (She enters, fol- 
 lowed by Crofts, who holds the door open for Vivie with 
 marked deference. She goes out without looking at him; 
 and he shuts the door after her.) Why, George, you 
 can't be done: you've eaten nothing. 
 
 Crofts. Oh, all I wanted was a drink. (He thrusts 
 his hands in his pockets and begins prowling about the 
 room, restless and sulky.) 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well, I like enough to eat. But a 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 193 
 
 little of that cold beef and cheese and lettuce goes a 
 long way. (With a sigh of only half repletion she sits 
 down lazily at the table.) 
 
 Crofts. What do you go encouraging that young pup 
 for.? 
 
 Mrs. Warren (on the alert at once). Now see here^ 
 George: what are you up to about that girl.^^ IVe been 
 watching your way of looking at her. Remember : I know 
 you and what your looks mean. 
 
 Crofts. There's no harm in looking at her, is 
 there } 
 
 Mrs. Warren. I'd put you out and pack you back to 
 London pretty soon if I saw any of your nonsense. My 
 girl's little finger is more to me than your whole body 
 and soul. (^Crofts receives this with a sneering grin. 
 Mrs. Warren, flushing a little at her failure to impose on 
 him in the character of a theatrically devoted mother, 
 adds in a lower key.) Make your mind easy, the young 
 pup has no more chance than you have. 
 
 Crofts. Mayn't a man take an interest in a girl.? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Not a man like you. 
 
 Crofts. How old is she? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Never you mind how old she is. 
 
 Crofts. Why do you make such a secret of it.? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Because I choose. 
 
 Crofts. Well^, I'm not fifty yet; and my property is 
 as good as ever it was 
 
 Mrs. Warren (^interrupting him). Yes; because 
 you're as stingy as you're vicious. 
 
 Crofts (continuing). And a baronet isn't to be 
 picked up every day. No other man in my position would 
 put up with you for a mother-in-law. Why shouldn't 
 she marry me.? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. You! 
 
 Crofts. We three could live together quite comfort- 
 ably. I'd die before her and leave her a bouncing widow 
 with plenty of money. Why not.? It's been growing 
 
194 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 in my mind all the time I've been walking with that fool 
 inside there. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (revolted). Yes; it's the sort of thing 
 that would grow in your mind. (He halts in his prowl- 
 ing; and the two look at one another, she steadfastly, 
 with a sort of awe behind her contemptuous disgust: 
 he stealthily, with a carnal gleam in his eye and a loose 
 grin, tempting her,) 
 
 Crofts (suddenly becoming anxious and urgent as he 
 sees no sign of sympathy in her). Look here^ Kitty: 
 you're a sensible woman: you needn't put on any moral 
 airs. I'll ask no more questions; and you need answer 
 none. I'll settle the whole property on her; and if you 
 want a cheque for yourself on the wedding day^ you can 
 name any figure you like — in reason. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Faugh! So it's come to that with 
 you^ George^ like all the other worn out old creatures. 
 
 Crofts (savagely). Damn you! (She rises and 
 turns fiercely on him; but the door of the inner room is 
 opened just then; and the voices of the others are heard 
 returning. Crofts, unable to recover his presence of 
 mind, hurries out of the cottage. The clergyman comes 
 bach,) 
 
 Rev. S. (looking round). Where is Sir George? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Gone out to have a pipe. (She goes 
 to the fireplace, turning her bach on him to compose her- 
 self. The clergyman goes to the table for his hat. 
 Meanwhile Vivie comes in, followed by Franh, who col- 
 lapses into the nearest chair with an air of extreme ex- 
 haustion, Mrs, Warren loohs round at Vivie and says, 
 with her affectation of maternal patronage even more 
 forced than usual,) Well^ dearie: have you had a good 
 supper } 
 
 Vivie. You know what Mrs. Alison's suppers are. 
 (She turns to Franh and pets him,) Poor Frank! was 
 all the beef gone ? did it get nothing but bread and cheese 
 and ginger beer.^* (Seriously, as if she had done quite 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 195 
 
 enough trifling for one evening,^ Her butter is really 
 awful. I must get some down from the stores. 
 
 Frank. Do^ in Heaven's name! 
 
 {Vivie goes to the rvriting-tahle and makes a memo- 
 randum to order the butter, Praed comes in from the 
 inner room, putting up his handkerchief, which he has 
 been using as a napkin,) 
 
 Rev. S. Franks my boy: it is time for us to be 
 thinking of home. Your mother does not know yet that 
 we have visitors. 
 
 Praed. I'm afraid we're giving trouble. 
 
 Frank. Not the least in the worlds Praed: my mother 
 will be delighted to see you. She's a genuinely intel- 
 lectual^ artistic woman; and she sees nobody here from 
 one year's end to another except the gov'nor; so you 
 can imagine how jolly dull it pans out for her. {To the 
 Rev. S,) You're not intellectual or artistic^ are you, 
 pater .^ So take Praed home at once; and I'll stay here 
 and entertain Mrs. Warren. You'll pick up Crofts in 
 the garden. He'll be excellent company for the bull-pup. 
 
 Praed {taking his hat from the dresser, and coming 
 close to Frank), Come with us, Frank. Mrs. Warren 
 has not seen Miss Vivie for a long time ; and we have pre- 
 vented them from having a moment together yet. 
 
 Frank (quite softened, and looking at Praed rvith 
 romantic admiration). Of course: I forgot. Ever so 
 thanks for reminding me. Perfect gentleman, Praddy. 
 Always were — my ideal through life. {He rises to go, 
 but pauses a moment between the two older men, and 
 puts his hand on Praed' s shoulder. ) Ah, if you had only 
 been my father instead of this unworthy old man ! {He 
 puts his other hand on his father's shoulder,) 
 
 Rev. S. {blustering). Silence, sir, silence: you are 
 profane. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {laughing heartily). You should keep 
 him in better order, Sam. Good-night. Here: take 
 George his hat and stick with my compliments. 
 
196 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 Rev. S. (taking them). Good-night. {They shake 
 hands. As he passes Vivie he shakes hands with her 
 also and bids her good-night. Then, in booming com- 
 mand, to Frank,) Come along^ sir^ at once. (He goes 
 out. Meanwhile Frank has taken his cap from the 
 dresser and his rifle from the rack, Praed shakes hands 
 with Mrs, Warren and Vivie and goes out, Mrs, War- 
 ren accompanying him idly to the door, and looking out 
 after him as he goes across the garden, Frank silently 
 begs a kiss from Vivie; but she, dismissing him with a 
 stern glance, takes a couple of books and some paper 
 from the writing-table, and sits ' ' )wn with them at the 
 middle table, so as to have the bt^nefit of the lamp,) 
 
 Frank (^at the door, taking Mrs, Warren's hand). 
 Good-nighty dear Mrs. Warren. {He squeezes her hand. 
 She snatches it away, her lips tightening, and looks more 
 than half disposed to box his ears. He laughs mis- 
 chievously and runs off, clapping-to the door behind 
 him. ) 
 
 Mrs. Warren {coming back to her place at the table, 
 opposite Vivie, resigning herself to an evening of bore- 
 dom now that the men are gone). Did you ever in your 
 life hear anyone rattle on so? Isn't he a tease? {She 
 sits down,) Now that I think of it^ dearie^ don't you 
 go encouraging him. I'm sure he's a regular good-for- 
 nothing. 
 
 Vivie. Yes: I'm afraid poor Frank is a thorough 
 good-for-nothing. I shall have to get rid of him; but 
 I shall feel sorry for him^ though he's not worth it^ poor 
 lad. That man Crofts does not seem to me to be good 
 for much either^ is he? 
 
 Mrs. Warren {galled by Viviens cool tone). What 
 do you know of men^ child;, to talk that way about them ? 
 You'll have to make up your mind to see a good deal 
 of Sir George Crofts^ as he's a friend of mine. 
 
 Vivie {quite unmoved). Why? Do you expect that 
 we shall be much together — you and 1, I mean? 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 197 
 
 Mrs. Warren {staring at her). Of course — un- 
 til you're married. You're not going back to college 
 again. 
 
 ViviE. Do you think my way of life would suit you? 
 I doubt it. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Your way of life! What do you 
 mean? 
 
 ViviE {cutting a page of her book with the paper 
 knife on her chatelaine). Has it really never occurred 
 to you^ mother^ that I have a way of life like other 
 people ? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. 7s^^^^ nonsense is this you're trying 
 to talk? Do you w^^it to shew your independence^ now 
 that you're a great little person at school? Don't be 
 a fool^ child. 
 
 Vivie (indulgently). That's all you have to say on 
 the subject^ is it^ mother? 
 
 Mrs. Warren {puzzled, then angry). Don't you 
 keep on asking me questions like that. {Violently.) 
 Hold your tongue. {Vivie works on, losing no time, and 
 saying nothing.) You and your way of life^ indeed! 
 What next? {She looks at Vivie again. No reply.) 
 Your way of life will be what I please^ so it will. {An- 
 other pause.) I've been noticing these airs in you ever 
 since you got that tripos or whatever you call it. If 
 you think I'm going to put up with them you're mis- 
 taken; and the sooner you find it out^ the better. {Mut- 
 tering.) All I have to say on the subject^ indeed! 
 {Again raising her voice angrily.) Do you know who 
 you're speaking to^ Miss? 
 
 Vivie {looking across at her without raising her head 
 from her book). No. Who are you? What are you? 
 
 Mrs. Warren {rising breathless). You young imp! 
 
 Vivie. Everybody knows my reputation^ my social 
 standings and the profession I intend to pursue. I know 
 nothing about you. What is that way of life which you 
 invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts^ pray ? 
 
198 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Take care. I shall do something III 
 be sorry for after^ and you^ too. 
 
 ViviE (putting aside her books with cool decision), 
 Well^ let us drop the subject until you are better able 
 to face it. {Looking critically at her mother,) You 
 want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set 
 you up. You are shockingly out of condition: you were 
 not able to manage twenty yards uphill to-day without 
 stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere rolls of fat. 
 Look at mine. (She holds out her wrists,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren (after looking at her helplessly , begins 
 to whimper), Vivie 
 
 ViviE (springing up sharply). Now pray don't be- 
 gin to cry. Anything but that. I really cannot stand 
 whimpering. I will go out of the room if you do. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (piteously), Oh^ my darlings how can 
 you be so hard on me.^* Have I no rights over you as 
 your mother.^ 
 
 Vivie. Are you my mother? 
 
 Mrs. Warren (appalled). Am I your mother! Oh, 
 Vivie ! 
 
 Vivie. Then where are our relatives — ^my father — 
 our family friends? You claim the rights of a mother: 
 the right to call me fool and child; to speak to me as 
 no woman in authority over me at college dare speak 
 to me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me 
 the acquaintance of a brute whom anyone can see to be 
 the most vicious sort of London man about town. Be- 
 fore I give myself the trouble to resist such claims^ I 
 may as well find out whether they have any real ex- 
 istence. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (distracted, throwing herself on her 
 knees). Oh, no, no. Stop, stop. I am your mother: 
 I swear it. Oh, you can't mean to turn on me — my own 
 child : it's not natural. You believe me, don't you ? Say 
 you believe me. 
 
 Vivie. Who was my father? 
 
J 
 
 Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 199 
 
 Mrs. Warren. You don't know what you're asking. 
 I can't tell you. 
 
 ViviE {determinedly^. Oh, yes^ you can^ if you like. 
 I have a right to know; and you know very well that 
 I have that right. You can refuse to tell me^ if you 
 please; but if you do^ you will see the last of me to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh^ it's too horrible to hear you talk 
 like that. You wouldn't — you couldn't leave me. 
 
 ViviE {ruthlessly^, Yes^ without a moment's hesi- 
 tation^ if you trifle with me about this. {Shivering 
 rvith disgust,) How can I feel sure that I may not 
 have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my 
 veins ? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. No^ no. On my oath it's not he^ nor 
 any of the rest that you have ever met. I'm certain of 
 that^ at least. {Viviens eyes fasten sternly on her mother 
 as the significance of this flashes on her,) 
 
 Vivie {slowly). You are certain of that^ at least. 
 Ah! You mean that that is all you are certain of. 
 {Thoughtfully.) I see. {Mrs. Warren buries her face 
 in her hands,) Don't do that^ mother: you know you 
 don't feel it a bit. {Mrs, Warren takes dorvn her hands 
 and looks up deplorably at Vivie, who takes out her 
 watch and says) Well_, that is enough for to-night. At 
 what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight 
 too early for you? 
 
 Mrs. Warren {wildly). My God^ what sort of wom- 
 an are you? 
 
 Vivie {coolly). The sort the world is mostly made of, 
 I should hope. Otherwise I don't understand how it 
 gets its business done. Come {taking her mother by the 
 wrist, and pulling her up pretty resolutely) : pull your- 
 self together. That's right. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {querulously). You're very rough 
 with me, Vivie. 
 
 Vivie. Nonsense. What about bed? It's past ten. 
 
 I 
 
200 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 Mrs. Warren (passionately). What's the use of my 
 going to bed? Do you think I could sleep? 
 
 ViviE. Why not? I shall. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. You! you've no heart. (She sud- 
 denly breaks out vehemently in her natural tongue — the 
 dialect of a rvoman of the people — with all her affecta- 
 tions of maternal authority and conventional manners 
 gone, and an overwhelming inspiration of true conviction 
 and scorn in her.) Oh^ I won't bear it: I won't put up 
 with the injustice of it. What right have you to set 
 yourself up above me like this? You boast of what you 
 are to me — to me^ who gave you the chance of being 
 what you are. What chance had I ? Shame on you for 
 a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude! 
 
 ViviE (cool and determined, but no longer confident; 
 for her replies, which have sounded convincingly sensible 
 and strong to her so far, now begin to ring rather wood- 
 enly and even priggishly against the new tone of her 
 mother). Don't think for a moment I set myself 
 above you in any way. You attacked me with the con- 
 ventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with 
 the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. 
 Frankly^ I am not going to stand any of your nonsense; 
 and when you drop it I shall not expect you to stand 
 any of mine. I shall always respect your right to your 
 own opinions and your own way of life. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. My own opinions and my own way 
 of life ! Listen to her talking ! Do you think I was 
 brought up like you — able to pick and choose my own 
 way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I 
 liked it^ or thought it rights or wouldn't rather have gone 
 to college and been a lady if I'd had the chance? 
 
 ViviE. Everybody has some choice^ mother. The 
 poorest girl alive may not be able to choose between 
 being Queen of England or Principal of Newnham; but 
 she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling^ ac- 
 cording to her taste. People are always blaming their 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 201 
 
 circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in cir- 
 cumstances. The people who get on in this world are the 
 people who get up and look for the circumstances they 
 want^ and_, if they can't find them^ make them. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh^ it's easy to talk^ very easy^ isn't 
 it.^ Here! — would you like to know what my circum- 
 stances were? 
 
 ViviE. Yes: you had better tell me. Won't you sit 
 down } 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh^ I'll sit down: don't you be 
 afraid. (She plants her chair farther forward with 
 brazen energy, and sits down, Vivie is impressed in 
 spite of herself.) D'you know what your gran'mother 
 was.'^ 
 
 Vivie. No. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. No^ you don't. I do. She called 
 herself a widow and had a fried-fish shop down by the 
 Mint^ and kept herself and four daughters out of it. 
 Two of us were sisters : that was me and Liz ; and we 
 were both good-looking and well made. I suppose our 
 father was a well-fed man: mother pretended he was a 
 gentleman; but I don't know. The other two were only 
 half sisters — undersized^ ugly^ starved looking^ hard- 
 workings honest poor creatures: Liz and I would have 
 half -murdered them if mother hadn't half -murdered us 
 to keep our hands off them. They were the respectable 
 ones. Well, what did they get by their respectability.'^ 
 I'll tell you. One of them worked in a whitelead factory 
 twelve hours a day for nine shillings a week until she 
 died of lead poisoning. She only expected to get her 
 hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other was 
 always held up to us as a model because she married a 
 Government laborer in the Deptford victualling yard, 
 and kept his room and the three children neat and tidy 
 on eighteen shillings a week — until he took to drink. 
 That was worth being respectable for, wasn't it.'^ 
 
202 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 ViviE {now thoughtfully attentive). Did you and 
 your sister think so? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Liz didn% I can tell you: she had 
 more spirit. We both went to a church school — that was 
 part of the ladylike airs we gave ourselves to be su- 
 perior to the children that knew nothing and went no- 
 where — and we stayed there until Liz went out one 
 night and never came back. I know the schoolmistress 
 thought I'd soon follow her example; for the clergyman 
 was always warning me that Lizzie'd end by jumping 
 off Waterloo Bridge. Poor fool: that was all he knew 
 about it ! But I was more afraid of the whitelead factory 
 than I was of the river; and so would you have been in 
 my place. That clergyman got me a situation as scul- 
 lery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent 
 out for anything you liked. Then I was waitress; and 
 then I went to the bar at Waterloo station — fourteen 
 hours a day serving drinks and washing glasses for four 
 shillings a week and my board. That was considered a 
 great promotion for me. Well^ one cold^ wretched nighty 
 when I was so tired I could hardly keep myself awake^ 
 who should come up for a half of Scotch but Lizzie, in 
 a long fur cloak, elegant and comfortable, with a lot of 
 sovereigns in her purse. 
 
 ViviE (grimly). My aunt Lizzie! 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Yes: and a very good aunt to have, 
 too. She's living down at Winchester now, close to the 
 cathedral, one of the most respectable ladies there — 
 chaperones girls at the county ball, if you please. No 
 river for Liz, thank you ! You remind me of Liz a little : 
 she was a first-rate business woman — saved money from 
 the beginning — never let herself look too like what she 
 was — never lost her head or threw away a chance. When 
 she saw I'd grown up good-looking she said to me 
 across the bar : " What are you doing there, you little 
 fool? wearing out your health and your appearance for 
 other people's profit ! " Liz was saving money then to 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 203 
 
 take a house for herself in Brussels: and she thought 
 we two could save faster than one. So she lent me some 
 money and gave me a start; and I saved steadily and first 
 paid her back^ and then went into business with her 
 as her partner. Why shouldn't I have done it? The 
 house in Brussels was real high class — a much better 
 place for a woman to be in than the factory where Anne 
 Jane got poisoned. None of our girls were ever treated 
 as I was treated in the scullery of that temperance place^ 
 or at the Waterloo bar^ or at home. Would you have had 
 me stay in them and become a worn out old drudge be- 
 fore I was forty? 
 
 ViviE {intensely interested hy this time). No; but 
 why did you choose that business? Saving money and 
 good management will succeed in any business. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Yes^ saving money. But where can 
 a woman get the money to save in any other business? 
 Could you save out of four shillings a week and keep 
 yourself dressed as well ? Not you. Of course^ if you're 
 a plain woman and can't earn anything more; or if you 
 have a turn for music^ or the stage^ or newspaper-writ- 
 ing: that's different. But neither Liz nor I had any 
 turn for such things : all we had was our appearance and 
 our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such 
 fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by 
 employing us as shopgirls^ or barmaids^ or waitresses^ 
 when we could trade in them ourselves and get all the 
 profits instead of starvation wages? Not likely. 
 
 ViviE. You were certainly quite justified — from the 
 business point of view. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Yes; or any other point of view. 
 What is any respectable girl brought up to do but to 
 catch some rich man's fancy and get the benefit of his 
 money by marrying him.^ — as if a marriage ceremony 
 could make any difference in the right or wrong of the 
 thing ! Oh, the hypocrisy of the world makes me sick ! 
 Liz and I had to work and save and calculate just like 
 
204 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 other people ; elseways we should be as poor as any good- 
 for-nothings drunken waster of a woman that thinks her 
 luck will last for ever. {With great energy,) I despise 
 such people: they've no character; and if there's a thing 
 I hate in a woman^ it's want of character. 
 
 ViviE. Come^ now^ mother: frankly! Isn't it part 
 of what you call character in a woman that she should 
 greatly dislike such a way of making money? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Why^ of course. Everybody dislikes 
 having to work and make money; but they have to do it 
 all the same. I'm sure I've often pitied a poor girl^ 
 tired out and in low spirits^ having to try to please some 
 man that she doesn't care two straws for — some half- 
 drunken fool that thinks he's making himself agreeable 
 when he's teasing and worrying and disgusting a woman 
 so that hardly any money could pay her for putting up 
 with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and 
 take the rough with the smooth^ just like a nurse in a 
 hospital or anyone else. It's not work that any woman 
 would do for pleasure^ goodness knows; though to hear 
 the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed 
 of roses. 
 
 ViviE. Still you consider it worth while. It pays. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Of course it's worth while to a poor 
 girl, if she can resist temptation and is good-looking and 
 well conducted and sensible. It's far better than any 
 other employment open to her. I always thought that 
 oughtn't to be. It can't be rights Vivie^ that there 
 shouldn't be better opportunities for women. I stick to 
 that: it's wrong. But it's so^ right or wrong; and a girl 
 must make the best of it. But, of course^ it's not worth 
 while for a lady. If you took to it you'd be a fool; 
 but I should have been a fool if I'd taken to anything 
 else. 
 
 ViviE {more and more deeply moved). Mother: sup- 
 pose we were both as poor as you were in those wretched 
 old days^ are you quite sure that you wouldn't advise 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 205 
 
 me to try the Waterloo bar^ or marry a labourer^ or even 
 go into the factory? 
 
 Mrs. Warren (indignantly). Of course not. What 
 sort of mother do you take me for ! How could you keep 
 your self-respect in such starvation and slavery? And 
 what's a woman worth? what's life worth? without self- 
 respect! Why am I independent and able to give my 
 daughter a first-rate education^ when other women that 
 had just as good opportunities are in the gutter? Be- 
 cause I always knew how to respect myself and control 
 myself. Why is Liz looked up to in a cathedral town? 
 The same reason. Where would we be now if we'd 
 minded the clergyman's foolishness? Scrubbing floors 
 for one and sixpence a day and nothing to look forward 
 to but the workhouse infirmary. Don't you be led astray 
 by people who don't know the worlds my girl. The only 
 way for a woman to provide for herself decently is for 
 her to be good to some man that can afford to be good 
 to her. If she's in his own station of life^ let her make 
 him marry her ; but if she's far beneath him she can't 
 expect it — ^why should she? It wouldn't be for her own 
 happiness. Ask any lady in London society that has 
 daughters; and she'll tell you the same^ except that I 
 tell you straight and she'll tell you crooked. That's all 
 the difference. 
 
 ViviE (fascinated, gazing at her). My dear mother: 
 you are a wonderful woman — you are stronger than all 
 England. And are you really and truly not one wee bit 
 doubtful — or — or — ashamed ? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well^ of course^ dearie^ it's only good 
 manners to be ashamed of it; it's expected from a 
 woman. Women have to pretend to feel a great deal 
 that they don't feel. Liz used to be angry with me for 
 plumping out the truth about it. She used to say that 
 when every woman could learn enough from what was 
 going on in the world before her eyes^ there was no need 
 to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a per- 
 
206 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act II 
 
 feet lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I 
 was always a bit of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased 
 when you sent me your photographs to see that you 
 were growing up like Liz: youVe just her ladylike_, de- 
 termined way. But I can't stand saying one thing when 
 everyone knows I mean another. What's the use in such 
 hypocrisy.^ If people arrange the world that way for 
 women^ there's no good pretending that it's arranged the 
 other way. I never was a bit ashamed really. I con- 
 sider that I had a right to be proud that we managed 
 everything so respectably^ and never had a word against 
 us^ and that the girls were so well taken care of. Some 
 of them did very well: one of them married an ambas- 
 sador. But of course now I daren't talk about such 
 things: whatever would they think of us ! (She yawns.) 
 Oh^ dear! I do believe I'm getting sleepy after all. 
 (She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her 
 explosion, and placidly ready for her night^s rest,) 
 
 ViviE. I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep 
 now. {She goes to the dresser and lights the candle. 
 Then she extinguishes the lamp, darkening the room a 
 good deal.) Better let in some fresh air before lock- 
 ing up. {She opens the cottage door, and finds that it 
 is broad moonlight,) What a beautiful night! Look! 
 {She drarvs aside the curtains of the rvindorv. The land- 
 scape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon 
 rising over Blachdorvn,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren {with a perfunctory glance at the 
 scene), Yes^ dear: but take care you don't catch your 
 death of cold from the night air. 
 
 ViviE {contemptuously). Nonsense. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {querulously). Oh^ yes: everything I 
 say is nonsense^ according to you. 
 
 ViviE {turning to her quickly). No: really that is 
 not so^ mother. You have got completely the better of 
 me to-night^ though I intended it to be the other way. 
 Let us be good friends now. 
 
Act II Mrs. Warren's Profession 207 
 
 Mrs. Warren (shaking her head a little ruefully). 
 So it has been the other way. But I suppose I must 
 give in to it. I always got the worst of it from Liz; 
 and now I suppose it'll be the same with you. 
 
 ViviE. Well^ never mind. Come; good-nighty dear 
 old mother. {She takes her mother in her arms,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren (fondly). 1 brought you up well, 
 didn't I, dearie.'* 
 
 ViviE. You did. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. And you'll be good to your poor old 
 mother for it, won't you? 
 
 ViviE. I will, dear. (Kissing her.) Good-night. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (with unction). Blessings on my own 
 dearie darling — a mother's blessing! (She embraces her 
 daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward as if 
 to call down a blessing,) 
 
 END OF ACT 11. 
 
ACT III 
 
 In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun 
 shining and the birds in full song. The garden wall has 
 a five-barred wooden gate, wide enough to admit a car- 
 riage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell on 
 a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The 
 carriage drive comes down the middle of the garden and 
 then swerves to its left, where it ends in a little gravelled 
 circus opposite the rectory porch. Beyond the gate is 
 seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, bounded 
 on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced 
 pine wood. On the lawn, between the house and the 
 drive, is a clipped yew tree, with a garden bench in its 
 shade. On the opposite side the garden is shut in by 
 a box hedge; and there is a sundial on the turf, with 
 an iron chair near it. A little path leads off through the 
 box hedge, behind the sundial. 
 
 Frank, seated on the chair near the sundial, on which 
 he has placed the morning papers, is reading the Stand- 
 ard. His father comes from the house, red-eyed and 
 shivery, and meets Frank's eye with misgiving. 
 
 Frank {looking at his watch). Half -past eleven. 
 Nice hour for a rector to come down to breakfast! 
 
 Rev. S. Don't mock, Frank: don't mock. I'm a little 
 — er — {Shivering.) 
 
 Frank. OiF colour? 
 
 Rev. S. (repudiating the expression). No, sir: un- 
 well this morning. Where's your mother? 
 
 Frank. Don't be alarmed: she's not here. Gone to 
 
Act III Mrs. Warren's Profession 209 
 
 town by the 11:13 with Bessie. She left several mes- 
 sages for you. Do you feel equal to receiving them now, 
 or shall I wait till you Ve breakfasted ? 
 
 Rev. S. I have breakfasted, sir. I am surprised at 
 your mother going to town when we have people staying 
 with us. They'll think it very strange. 
 
 Frank. Possibly she has considered that. At all 
 events, if Crofts is going to stay here, and you are going 
 to sit up every night with him until four, recalling the 
 incidents of your iiery youth, it is clearly my mother's 
 dut}^, as a prudent housekeeper, to go up to the stores 
 and order a barrel of whisky and a few hundred siphons. 
 
 Rev. S. I did not observe that Sir George drank ex- 
 cessively. 
 
 Frank. You were not in a condition to, gov'nor. 
 
 Rev. S. Do you mean to say that I 
 
 Frank {calmly), I never saw a beneficed clergyman 
 less sober. The anecdotes you told about your past ca- 
 reer were so awful that I really don't think Praed would 
 have passed the night under your roof if it hadn't been 
 for the way my mother and he took to one another. 
 
 Rev. S. Nonsense, sir. I am Sir George Crofts' 
 host. I must talk to him about something; and he has 
 only one subject. Where is Mr. Praed now.^ 
 
 Frank. He is driving my mother and Bessie to the 
 station. 
 
 Rev. S. Is Crofts up yet? 
 
 Frank. Oh, long ago. He hasn't turned a hair: he's 
 in much better practice than you — has kept it up ever 
 since, probably. He's taken himself off somewhere to 
 smoke. {Frank resumes Ms 'paper. The Rev, S, turns 
 disconsolately towards the gate; then comes back ir- 
 resolutely,) 
 
 Rev. S. Er— Frank. 
 
 Frank. Yes. 
 
 Rev. S. Do you think the Warrens will expect to be 
 asked here after yesterday afternoon.^ 
 
210 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 Frank. They've been asked already. Crofts in- 
 formed us at breakfast that you told him to bring Mrs. 
 Warren and Vivie over here to-day^ and to invite them 
 to make this house their home. It was after that com- 
 munication that my mother found she must go to town 
 by the 11 :13 train. 
 
 Rev. S. (with despairing vehemence), I never gave 
 any such invitation. I never thought of such a thing. 
 
 Frank (compassionately). How do you know^ gov- 
 'nor^ what you said and thought last night? Hallo! 
 here's Praed back again. 
 
 Praed (coming in through the gate). Good morning. 
 
 Rev. S. Good morning. I must apologize for not 
 having met you at breakfast. I have a touch of — of 
 
 Frank. Clergyman's sore throaty Praed. Fortu- 
 nately not chronic. 
 
 Praed (changing the subject). Well, I must say 
 your house is in a charming spot here. Really most 
 charming. 
 
 Rev. S. Yes: it is indeed. Frank will take you for 
 a walk, Mr. Praed, if you like. I'll ask you to excuse 
 me : I must take the opportunity to write my sermon while 
 Mrs. Gardner is away and you are all amusing your- 
 selves. You won't mind, will you? 
 
 Praed. Certainly not. Don't stand on the slightest 
 ceremony with me. 
 
 Rev. S. Thank you. I'll — er — er — (He stammers 
 his way to the porch and vanishes into the house), 
 
 Praed (sitting down on the turf near Frank, and 
 hugging his ankles). Curious thing it must be writing 
 a sermon every week. 
 
 Frank. Ever so curious, if he did it. He buys 'em. 
 He's gone for some soda water. 
 
 Praed. My dear boy: I wish you would be more 
 respectful to your father. You know you can be so nice 
 when you like. 
 
 Frank. My dear Praddy: you forget that I have to 
 
Act III Mrs. Warren's Profession 211 
 
 live with the governor. When tv70 people live together — 
 it don't matter whether they're father and son, husband 
 and wife, brother and sister — ^they can't keep up the 
 polite humbug which comes so easy for ten minutes on 
 an afternoon call. Now the governor, who unites to many 
 admirable domestic qualities the irresoluteness of a sheep 
 and the pompousness and aggressiveness of a jackass 
 
 Praed. No, pray, pray, my dear Frank, remember! 
 He is your father, 
 
 Frank. I give him due credit for that. But just 
 imagine his telling Crofts to bring the Warrens over 
 here ! He must have been ever so drunk. You know, my 
 dear Praddy, my mother wouldn't stand Mrs. Warren 
 for a moment. Vivie mustn't come here until she's gone 
 back to town. 
 
 Praed. But your mother doesn't know anything 
 about Mrs. Warren, does she? 
 
 Frank. I don't know. Her journey to town looks 
 as if she did. Not that my mother would mind in the 
 ordinary way: she has stuck like a brick to lots of 
 women who had got into trouble. But they were all nice 
 women. That's what makes the real difference. Mrs. 
 Warren, no doubt, has her merits; but she's ever so 
 rowdy; and my mother simply wouldn't put up with 
 her. So — hallo! (This exclamation is provoked by the 
 reappearance of the clergyman, who comes out of the 
 house in haste and dismay,) 
 
 Rev. S. Frank: Mrs. Warren and her daughter are 
 coming across the heath with Crofts: I saw them from 
 the study windows. What am I to say about your 
 mother ? 
 
 Frank (jumping up energetically). Stick on your 
 hat and go out and say how delighted you are to see 
 them; and that Frank's in the garden; and that mother 
 and Bessie have been called to the bedside of a sick rela- 
 tive, and were ever so sorry they couldn't stop ; and that 
 you hope Mrs. Warren slept well; and — and — say any 
 
212 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 blessed thing except the truth^ and leave the rest to 
 Providence. 
 
 Rev. S. But how are we to get rid of them after- 
 wards ? 
 
 Frank. There's no time to think of that now. Here! 
 {He hounds into the 'porch and returns immediately with 
 a clerical felt hat, rvhich he claps on his father's head,) 
 Now: off with you. Praed and I'll wait here^ to give the 
 thing an unpremeditated air. (The clergyman, dazed, 
 hut ohedient, hurries off through the gate. Praed gets 
 up from the turf, and dusts himself.) 
 
 Frank. We must get that old lady back to town 
 somehow^ Praed. Come! honestly^ dear Praddy, do you 
 like seeing them together — Vivie and the old lady? 
 
 Praed. Oh^ why not.^ 
 
 Frank {his teeth on edge). Don't it make your flesh 
 creep ever so little? — that wicked old devil^ up to every 
 villainy under the sun^ I'll swear^ and Vivie — ugh ! 
 
 Praed. Hush^ pray. They're coming. {The clergy- 
 man and Crofts are seen coming along the road, followed 
 hy Mrs. Warren and Vivie walking affectionately to- 
 gether. ) 
 
 Frank. Look: she actually has her arm round the old 
 woman's waist. It's her right arm: she began it. She's 
 gone sentimental^ by God. Ugh ! ugh ! Now do you feel 
 the creeps? {The clergyman opens the gate; and Mrs, 
 Warren and Vivie pass him and stand in the middle of 
 the garden looking at the house, Frank, in an ecstasy 
 of dissimulation, turns gaily to Mrs, Warren, exclaiming) 
 Ever so delighted to see you^ Mrs. Warren. This quiet 
 old rectory garden becomes you perfectly. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well^ I never! Did you hear that, 
 George? He says I look well in a quiet old rectory 
 garden. 
 
 Rev. S. {still holding the gate for Crofts, who loafs 
 through it, heavily hored). You look well everywhere, 
 Mrs. Warren. 
 
Act III Mrs. Warren's Profession 213 
 
 Frank. Bravo^ gov'nor! Now look here: let's have 
 an awful jolly time of it before lunch. First let's see 
 the church. Everyone has to do that. It's a regular old 
 thirteenth century churchy you know: the gov'nor's ever 
 so fond of it, because he got up a restoration fund and 
 had it completely rebuilt six years ago. Praed will be 
 able to show its points. 
 
 Rev. S. (mooning hospitably at them), I shall be 
 pleased, I'm sure, if Sir George and Mrs. Warren really 
 care about it. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh, come along and get it over. It'll 
 do George good: I'll lay he doesn't trouble church much. 
 
 Crofts {turning back towards the gate), I've no 
 ob j ection. 
 
 Rev. S. Not that way. We go through the fields, 
 if you don't mind. Round here. (He leads the way by 
 the little path through the boa: hedge,) 
 
 Crofts. Oh, all right. (He goes with the parson, 
 Praed follows with Mrs, Warren, Vivie does not stir, 
 but watches them until they have gone, with all the lines 
 of purpose in her face marking it strongly,) 
 
 Frank. Ain't you coming. 
 
 Vivie. No. I want to give you a warning, Frank. 
 You were making fun of my mother just now when you 
 said that about the rectory garden. That is barred in 
 future. Please treat my mother with as much respect 
 as you treat your own. 
 
 Frank. My dear Viv: she wouldn't appreciate it. 
 She's not like my mother: the same treatment wouldn't 
 do for both cases. But what on earth has happened to 
 you.^ Last night we were perfectly agreed as to your 
 mother and her set. This morning I find you attitudin- 
 izing sentimentally with your arm roimd your parent's 
 waist. 
 
 Vivie (flushing,) Attitudinizing! 
 
 Frank. That was how it struck me. First time I 
 ever saw you do a second-rate thing. 
 
214 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 ViviE {controlling herself). Yes^ Frank: there has 
 been a change; but I don't think it a change for the 
 worse. Yesterday I was a little prig. 
 
 Frank. And to-day? 
 
 ViviE {wincing; then looking at him steadily). To- 
 day I know my mother better than you do. 
 
 Frank. Heaven forbid! 
 
 ViviE. What do you mean? 
 
 Frank. Viv; there's a freemasonry among thor- 
 oughly immoral people that you know nothing of. YouVe 
 too much character. That's the bond between your 
 mother and me: that's why I know her better than you'll 
 ever know her. 
 
 ViviE. You are wrong: you know nothing about her. 
 If you knew the circumstances against which my mother 
 had to struggle 
 
 Frank {adroitly finishing the sentence for her), I 
 should know why she is what she is^ shouldn't I ? What 
 difference would that make? Circumstances or no cir- 
 cumstances^ Viv, you won't be able to stand your mother. 
 
 ViviE {very angry). Why not? 
 
 Frank. Because she's an old wretch, Viv. If you 
 ever put your arm round her waist in my presence again, 
 I'll shoot myself there and then as a protest against an 
 exhibition which revolts me. 
 
 ViviE. Must I choose between dropping your ac- 
 quaintance and dropping my mother's? 
 
 Frank {gracefully). That would put the old lady 
 at ever such a disadvantage. No, Viv: your infatuated 
 little boy will have to stick to you in any case. But he's 
 all the more anxious that you shouldn't make mistakes. 
 It's no use, Viv: your mother's impossible. She may be 
 a good sort; but she's a bad lot, a very bad lot. 
 
 ViviE {hotly), Frank — ! {He stands his ground. 
 She turns away and sits down on the bench under the 
 yew tree, struggling to recover her self-command. Then 
 she says) Is she to be deserted by all the world be- 
 
Act III Mrs. Warren's Profession 215 
 
 cause she's what you call a bad lot? Has she no right 
 to live? 
 
 Frank. No fear of that^ Viv: she won't ever be de- 
 serted. {He sits on the bench beside her,) 
 
 ViviE. But I am to desert her^ I suppose. 
 
 Frank (babyishly, lulling her and making love to her 
 with his voice). Mustn't go live with her. Little family- 
 group of mother and daughter wouldn't be a success. 
 Spoil our little group. 
 
 ViviE (falling under the spell). What little group? 
 
 Frank. The babes in the wood: Vivie and little 
 Frank. (He slips his arm round her waist and nestles 
 against her like a weary child,) Let's go and get cov- 
 ered up with leaves. 
 
 Vivie (rhythmically, rocking him like a nurse). Fast 
 asleep^ hand in hand^ under the trees. 
 
 Frank. The wise little girl with her silly little boy. 
 
 Vivie. The dear little boy with his dowdy little girl. 
 
 Frank. Ever so peaceful^ and relieved from the im- 
 becility of the little boy's father and the questionableness 
 of the little girl's 
 
 Vivie (smothering the word against her breast), Sh- 
 sh-sh-sh ! little girl wants to forget all about her mother. 
 (They are silent for some moments, rocking one another. 
 Then Vivie wakes up with a shock, exclaiming) What a 
 pair of fools we are! Come: sit up. Gracious! your 
 hair. (She smooths it,) I wonder do all grown up 
 people play in that childish way when nobody is look- 
 ing. I never did it when I was a child. 
 
 Frank. Neither did I. You are my first playmate. 
 (He catches her hand to kiss it, but checks himself to 
 look round first. Very unexpectedly he sees Crofts 
 emerging from the box hedge,) Oh^ damn! 
 
 Vivie. Why damn^ dear? 
 
 Frank (whispering), Sh! Here's this brute Crofts. 
 (He sits farther away from her with an unconcerned 
 air,) 
 
216 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 ViviE. Don't be rude to him_, Frank, I particularly 
 wish to be polite to him. It will please my mother. 
 (Franh makes a wry face,) 
 
 Crofts. Could I have a few words with you^ Miss 
 Vivie? 
 
 ViviE. Certainly. 
 
 Crofts {to Frank), You'll excuse me^ Gardner. 
 They're waiting for you in the churchy if you don't mind. 
 
 Frank {rising). Anything to oblige you Crofts — 
 except church. If you want anything^ Vivie^ ring the 
 gate bell^ and a domestic will appear. {He goes into the 
 house rvith unruffled suavity,) 
 
 Crofts {rvatching him rvith a crafty air as he disap- 
 pears, and speaking to Vivie rvith an assumption of being 
 on privileged terms rvith her). Pleasant young fellow 
 that. Miss Vivie. Pity he has no money, isn't it.^ 
 
 Vivie. Do you think so? 
 
 Crofts. Well, what's he to do? No profession, no 
 property. What's he good for? 
 
 Vivie. I realize his disadvantages. Sir George. 
 
 Crofts {a little taken hack at being so precisely in- 
 terpreted). Oh, it's not that. But while we're in this 
 world we're in it; and money's money. {Vivie does not 
 ansYver,) Nice day, isn't it? 
 
 Vivie {rvith scarcely veiled contempt for this effort 
 at conversation). Very. 
 
 Crofts {rvith brutal good humor, as if he liked her 
 pluck). Well, that's not what I came to say. {Affect- 
 ing frankness,) Now listen. Miss Vivie. I'm quite 
 aware that I'm not a young lady's man. 
 
 Vivie. Indeed, Sir George? 
 
 Croftp. No; and to tell you the honest truth, I 
 don't want to be either. But when I say a thing I mean 
 it; when I feel sentiment I feel it in earnest; and what 
 I value I pay hard money for. That's the sort of man 
 I am. 
 
 Vivie. It does you great credit, I'm sure. 
 
Act III Mrs. Warren's Profession 217 
 
 Crofts. Oh. I don't mean to praise myself. I have 
 my faults^ Heaven knows: no man is more sensible of 
 that than I am. I know I'm not perfect: that's one of 
 the advantages of being a middle-aged man; for I'm 
 not a young man^ and I know it. But my code is a 
 simple one^ and^ I think^ a good one. Honor between 
 man and man; fidelity between man and woman; and no 
 cant about this religion^ or that religion^ but an honest 
 belief that things are making for good on the whole. 
 
 ViviE (with biting irony), "A power^ not ourselves^ 
 that makes for righteousness/' eh.^ 
 
 Crofts (taking her seriously). Oh^ certainly, not 
 ourselves, of course. You understand what I mean. 
 (He sits down beside her^ as one who has found a kin- 
 dred spirit.) Well, now as to practical matters. You 
 may have an idea that I've flung my money about; but I 
 haven't: I'm richer to-day than when I first came into 
 the property. I've used my knowledge of the world to 
 invest my money in ways that other men have overlooked ; 
 and whatever else I may be, I'm a safe man from the 
 money point of view. 
 
 ViviE. It's very kind of you to tell me all this. 
 
 Crofts. Oh, well, come. Miss Vivie: you needn't pre- 
 tend you don't see what I'm driving at. I want to settle 
 down with a Lady Crofts. I suppose you think me very 
 blunt, eh ? 
 
 Vivie. Not at all : I am much obliged to you for being 
 so definite and business-like. I quite appreciate the offer : 
 the money, the position. Lady Crofts, and so on. But 
 I think I will say no, if you don't mind. I'd rather not. 
 (She rises, and strolls across to the sundial to get out of 
 his immediate neighborhood,) 
 
 Crofts (not at all discouraged, and taking advantage 
 of the additional room left him on the seat to spread him- 
 self comfortably, as if a few preliminary refusals were 
 part of the inevitable routine of courtship), I'm in no 
 hurry. It was only just to let you know in case young 
 
218 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 Gardner should try to trap you. Leave the question 
 open. 
 
 ViviE {sharply). My no is final. I won't go back 
 from it. {She looks authoritatively at him. He grins; 
 leans forrvard rvith his elbows on his knees to prod 
 with his stick at some unfortunate insect in the grass; 
 and looks cunningly at her. She turns away impa- 
 tiently.) 
 
 Crofts. I'm a good deal older than you — twenty-five 
 years — quarter of a century. I shan't live for ever; and 
 I'll take care that you shall be well off when I'm gone. 
 
 ViviE. I am proof against even that inducement. Sir 
 George. Don't you think you'd better take your answer ? 
 There is not the slightest chance of my altering it. 
 
 Crofts (risings after a final slash at a daisy, and be- 
 ginning to walk to and fro). Well, no matter. I could 
 tell you some things that would change your mind fast 
 enough; but I won't, because I'd rather win you by 
 honest affection. I was a good friend to your mother: 
 ask her whether I wasn't. She'd never have made the 
 money that paid for your education if it hadn't been 
 for my advice and help, not to mention the money I ad- 
 vanced her. There are not many men would have stood 
 by her as I have. I put not less than £40,000 into it, 
 from first to last. 
 
 ViviE (staring at him). Do you mean to say you were 
 my mother's business partner? 
 
 Crofts. Yes. Now just think of all the trouble and 
 the explanations it would save if we were to keep the 
 whole thing in the family, so to speak. Ask your mother 
 whether she'd like to have to explain all her affairs to 
 a perfect stranger. 
 
 ViviE. I see no difficulty, since I understand that the 
 business is wound up, and the money invested. 
 
 Crofts {stopping short, amazed). Woundup! Wind 
 up a business that's paying 35 per cent in the worst 
 years! Not likely. Who told you that? 
 
Act in Mrs. Warren's Profession 219 
 
 ViviE (Jier color quite gone). Do you mean that it is 
 still — ? {She stops abruptly, and puts her hand on the 
 sundial to support herself. Then she gets quickly to the 
 iron chair and sits dorvn,) What business are you talk- 
 ing about? 
 
 Crofts. Well^ the fact is^ it's not what would be con- 
 sidered exactly a high-class business in my set — the 
 county set^ you know — our set it will be if you think 
 better of my offer. Not that there's any mystery about 
 it: don't think that. Of course you know by your moth- 
 er's being in it that it's perfectly straight and honest. 
 I've known her for many years ; and I can say of her that 
 she'd cut oif her hands sooner than touch anything that 
 was not what it ought to be. I'll tell you all about it if 
 you like. I don't know whether you've found in travelling 
 how hard it is to find a really comfortable private hotel. 
 
 ViviE {sickened, averting her face). Yes: go on. 
 
 Crofts. Well^ that's all it is. Your mother has a 
 genius for managing such things. We've got two in 
 Brussels^ one in Berlin, one in Vienna^ and two in Buda- 
 Pesth. Of course there are others besides ourselves in 
 it; but we hold most of the capital; and your mother's 
 indispensable as managing director. You've noticed, I 
 daresay, that she travels a good deal. But you see you 
 can't mention such things in society. Once let out the 
 word hotel and everybody says you keep a public-house. 
 You wouldn't like people to say that of your mother, 
 would you.^ That's why we're so reserved about it. By 
 the bye, you'll keep it to yourself, won't you.^ Since it's 
 been a secret so long, it had better remain so. 
 
 ViviE. And this is the business you invite me to join 
 you in? 
 
 Crofts. Oh, no. My wife shan't be troubled with 
 business. You'll not be in it more than you've always 
 been. 
 
 ViviE. / always been ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Crofts. Only that you've always lived on it. It paid 
 
220 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 for your education and the dress you have on your back. 
 Don't turn up your nose at business. Miss Vivie: where 
 would your Newnhams and Girtons be without it? 
 
 Vivie {rising, almost beside herself). Take care. I 
 know what this business is. 
 
 Crofts {starting, with a suppressed oath). Who told 
 you? 
 
 Vivie. Your partner — my mother. 
 
 Crofts {black with rage). The old — {Vivie looks 
 quickly at him. He swallows the epithet and stands 
 swearing and raging foully to himself. But he knows 
 that his cue is to be sympathetic. He takes refuge in 
 generous indignation.) She ought to have had more 
 consideration for you. I'd never have told you. 
 
 Vivie. I think you would probably have told me when 
 we were married : it would have been a convenient weapon 
 to break me in with. 
 
 Crofts {quite sincerely). I never intended that. On 
 my word as a gentleman I didn't. 
 
 {Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his 
 protest cools and braces her. She replies with contemp- 
 tuous self-possession.) 
 
 Vivie. It does not matter. I suppose you understand 
 that when we leave here to-day our acquaintance ceases. 
 
 Crofts. Why? Is it for helping your mother? 
 
 Vivie. My mother was a very poor woman who had 
 no reasonable choice but to do as she did. You were a 
 rich gentleman; and you did the same for the sake of 
 35 per cent. You are a pretty common sort of scoundrel, 
 I think. That is my opinion of you. 
 
 Crofts {after a stare — not at all displeased, and much 
 more at his ease on these frank terms than on their for- 
 mer ceremonious ones). Ha, ha, ha, ha! Go it, little 
 missie, go it: it doesn't hurt me and it amuses you. Why 
 the devil shouldn't I invest my money that way? I take 
 the interest on my capital like other people: I hope you 
 don't think I dirty my own hands with the work. Come: 
 
Act III Mrs. Warren's Profession 221 
 
 you wouldn't refuse the acquaintance of my mother's 
 cousin^ the Duke of Belgravia^ because some of the rents 
 he gets are earned in queer ways. You wouldn't cut the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury^ I suppose, because the Ec- 
 clesiastical Commissioners have a few publicans and sin- 
 ners among their tenants ? Do you remember your Crofts 
 scholarship at Newnham? Well, that was founded by 
 my brother the M.P. He gets his 22 per cent out of a 
 factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting 
 wages enough to live on. How d'ye suppose most of them 
 manage? Ask your mother. And do you expect me to 
 turn my back on 35 per cent when all the rest are pocket- 
 ing what they can, like sensible men? No such fool! If 
 you're going to pick and choose your acquaintances on 
 moral principles, you'd better clear out of this country, 
 unless you want to cut yourself out of all decent society. 
 
 ViviE {conscience stricken). You might go on to point 
 out that I myself never asked where the money I spent 
 came from. I believe I am just as bad as you. 
 
 Crofts (greatly reassured). Of course you are; and 
 a very good thing, too ! What harm does it do after all ? 
 (Rallying her jocularly,) So you don't think me such 
 a scoundrel now you come to think it over. Eh? 
 
 ViviE. I have shared profits with you ; and I admitted 
 you just now to the familiarity of knowing what I think 
 of you. 
 
 Crofts (rvith serious friendliness). To be sure you 
 did. You won't find me a bad sort: I don't go in for 
 being superfine intellectually; but I've plenty of honest 
 human feeling; and the old Crofts breed comes out in a 
 sort of instinctive hatred of anything low, in which I'm 
 sure you'll sympathize with me. Believe me. Miss Vivie, 
 the world isn't such a bad place as the croakers make out. 
 So long as you don't fly openly in the face of society, 
 society doesn't ask any inconvenient questions; and it 
 makes precious short work of the cads who do. There 
 are no secrets better kept than the secrets that everybody 
 
222 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 guesses. In the society I can introduce you to^ no lady 
 or gentleman would so far forget themselves as to dis- 
 cuss my business affairs or your mother's. No man can 
 offer you a safer position. 
 
 ViviE (^studying him curiously), I suppose you really 
 think you're getting on famously with me. 
 
 Crofts. Well^ I hope I may flatter myself that you 
 think better of me than you did at first. 
 
 ViviE {quietly), I hardly find you worth thinking 
 about at all now. {She rises and turns towards the gate, 
 pausing on her rvay to contemplate him and say almost 
 gently, but with intense conviction.) When I think of 
 the society that tolerates you^ and the laws that protect 
 you — when I think of how helpless nine out of ten young 
 girls would be in the hands of you and my mother — the 
 unmentionable woman and her capitalist bully 
 
 Crofts {livid). Damn you! 
 
 ViviE. You need not. I feel among the damned 
 already. 
 
 {She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. 
 He follows her and puts his hand heavily on the top bar 
 to prevent its opening,) 
 
 Crofts {panting with fury). Do you think I'll put 
 up with this from you^ you young devil^ you? 
 
 ViviE {unmoved). Be quiet. Some one will answer 
 the bell. {Without flinching a step she strikes the bell 
 with the back of her hand. It clangs harshly; and he 
 starts bach involuntarily. Almost immediately Frank 
 appears at the porch with his rifle,) 
 
 Frank {with cheerful politeness). Will you have the 
 rifle^ Viv; or shall I operate.^ 
 
 ViviE. Frank: have you been listening? 
 
 Frank. Only for the bell^ I assure you; so that you 
 shouldn't have to wait. I think I showed great insight 
 into your character^ Crofts. 
 
 Crofts. For two pins I'd take that gun from you and 
 break it across your head. 
 
Act III Mrs. Warren's Profession 223 
 
 Frank (stalMng him cautiously). Pray don't. I'm 
 ever so careless in handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal 
 accident^ with a reprimand from the coroner's jury for 
 my negligence. 
 
 ViviE. Put the rifle away^ Frank: it's quite un- 
 necessary. 
 
 Frank. Quite rights Viv. Much more sportsmanlike 
 to catch him in a trap. (Crofts^ understanding the in- 
 sult, makes a threatening movement,) Crofts: there are 
 fifteen cartridges in the magazine here; and I am a dead 
 shot at the present distance at an object of your size. 
 
 Crofts. Oh^ you needn't be afraid. I'm not going 
 to touch you. 
 
 Frank. Ever so magnanimous of you under the cir- 
 cumstances ! Thank you. 
 
 Crofts. I'll just tell you this before I go. It may 
 interest you^ since you're so fond of one another. Allow 
 me^ Mister Franks to introduce you to your half-sister, 
 the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. 
 Miss Vivie: your half-brother. Good morning. {He 
 goes out through the gate and along the road,) 
 
 Frank (after a pause of stupefaction, raising the 
 rifle). You'll testify before the coroner that it's an acci- 
 dent^ Viv. (He takes aim at the retreating figure of 
 Crofts, Vivie seizes the muzzle and pulls it round 
 against her breast,) 
 
 Vivie. Fire now. You may. 
 
 Frank (^dropping his end of the rifle hastily). Stop! 
 take care. (She lets it go. It falls on the turf.) Oh^ 
 you've given your little boy such a turn. Suppose it had 
 gone ofi* — ugh ! (He sinks on the garden seat, overcome,) 
 
 Vivie. Suppose it had : do you think it would not have 
 been a relief to have some sharp physical pain tearing 
 through me.^ 
 
 Frank (coaxingly). Take it ever so easy^ dear Viv. 
 Remember : even if the rifle scared that fellow into telling 
 the truth for the first time in his lif e_, that only makes us 
 
224 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act III 
 
 the babes in the wood in earnest. {He holds out his arms 
 to her,) Come and be covered up with leaves again. 
 
 ViviE (with a cry of disgust). Ah^ not that, not that. 
 You make all my flesh creep. 
 
 Frank. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 ViviE. Good-bye. {She makes for the gate.) 
 
 Frank {jumping up). Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! 
 {She turns in the gateway.) Where are you going to.^ 
 Where shall we find you? 
 
 ViviE. At Honoria Fraser's chambers, 67 Chancery 
 Lane, for the rest of my life. {She goes off quickly in 
 the opposite direction to that taken hy Crofts.) 
 
 Frank. But I say — wait — dash it! {He runs after 
 her.) 
 
 END OF act III. 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Honoria Fraser's chambers in Chancery Lane, An 
 office at the top of New Stone Buildings^ with a plate- 
 glass window, distempered walls, electric light, and a 
 patent stove, Saturday afternoon. The chimneys of Lin- 
 coln's Inn and the western shy beyond are seen through 
 the window. There is a double writing table in the mid- 
 dle of the room, with a cigar box, ash pans, and a portable 
 electric reading lamp almost snowed up in heaps of pa- 
 pers and boohs. This table has hnee holes and chairs 
 right and left and is very untidy. The clerh's desh, 
 closed and tidy, with its high stool, is against the wall, 
 near a door communicating with the inner rooms. In the 
 opposite wall is the door leading to the public corridor. 
 Its upper panel is of opaque glass, lettered in blach on 
 the outside, " Fraser and Warren,^' A baize screen hides 
 the corner between this door and the window. 
 
 Franh, in a fashionable light-colored coaching suit, 
 with his stich, gloves, and white hat in his hands, is pac- 
 ing up and down the office. Somebody tries the door 
 with a hey, 
 
 Frank {calling). Come in. It's not locked. 
 
 (Vivie comes in, in her hat and jachet. She stops and 
 stares at him,) 
 
 Vivie (sternly). What are you doing here? 
 
 Frank. Waiting to see you. I've been here for hours. 
 Is this the way you attend to your business.^ (He puts 
 his hat and stich on the table, and perches himself with a 
 vault on the clerh's stool, loohing at her with every ap- 
 
226 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act IV 
 
 pearance of being in a specially restless, teasing, flippant 
 mood,) 
 
 ViviE. I've been away exactly twenty minutes for a 
 cup of tea. {She takes off her hat and jacket and hangs 
 them up behind the screen.) How did you get in? 
 
 Frank. The staff had not left when I arrived. He's 
 gone to play football on Primrose Hill. Why don't you 
 employ a woman^ and give your sex a chance .^^ 
 
 ViviE. What have you come for.^ 
 
 Frank (springing off the stool and coming close to 
 her). Viv: let's go and enjoy the Saturday half -holiday 
 somewhere^ like the staff. What do you say to Rich- 
 mond^ and then a music hall^ and a jolly supper? 
 
 ViviE. Can't afford it. I shall put in another six 
 hours' work before I go to bed. 
 
 Frank. Can't afford it^ can't we ? Aha ! Look here. 
 (He takes out a handful of sovereigns and makes them 
 chink.) Gold^ Viv, gold! 
 
 ViviE. Where did you get it? 
 
 Frank. Gamblings Viv^ gambling. Poker. 
 
 ViviE. Pah! It's meaner than stealing it. No: I'm 
 not coming. (She sits down to rvork at the table, with 
 her back to the glass door, and begins turning over the 
 papers.) 
 
 Frank (remonstrating piteously). But, my dear Viv, 
 I want to talk to you ever so seriously. 
 
 ViviE. Very well: sit down in Honoria's chair and 
 talk here. I like ten minutes' chat after tea. (He mur- 
 murs.) No use groaning: I'm inexorable. (He takes 
 the opposite seat disconsolately.) Pass that cigar box, 
 will you? 
 
 Frank (pushing the cigar box across). Nasty wom- 
 anly habit. Nice men don't do it any longer. 
 
 ViviE. Yes: they object to the smell in the office; and 
 we've had to take to cigarets. See ! (She opens the box 
 and takes out a cigaret, which she lights. She offers him 
 one; but he shakes his head with a wry face. She set- 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 227 
 
 ties herself comfortably in her chair , smoking,) Go 
 ahead. 
 
 Frank. Well^ I want to know what youVe done — 
 what arrangements youVe made. 
 
 ViviE. Everything was settled twenty minutes after I 
 arrived here. Honoria has found the business too much 
 for her this year; and she was on the point of sending 
 for me and proposing a partnership when I walked in 
 and told her I hadn't a farthing in the world. So I in- 
 stalled myself and packed her off for a fortnight's holi- 
 day. What happened at Haslemere when I left? 
 
 Frank. Nothing at all. I said you'd gone to town 
 on particular business. 
 
 ViviE. Well.? 
 
 Frank. Well^ either they were too flabbergasted to 
 say anything, or else Crofts had prepared your mother. 
 Anyhow, she didn't say anything; and Crofts didn't say 
 anything; and Praddy only stared. After tea they got 
 up and went; and I've not seen them since. 
 
 ViviE {nodding placidly with one eye on a wreath of 
 smoke). That's all right. 
 
 Frank {looking round disparagingly). Do you in- 
 tend to stick in this confounded place? 
 
 ViviE {blowing the wreath decisively away and sit- 
 ting straight up). Yes. These two days have given 
 me back all my strength and self-possession. I will 
 never take a holiday again as long as I live. 
 
 Frank {with a very wry face). Mps ! You look 
 quite happy — and as hard as nails. 
 
 ViviE {grimly). Well for me that I am! 
 
 Frank {rising). Look here, Viv: we must have an 
 explanation. We parted the other day under a com- 
 plete misunderstanding. 
 
 ViviE {putting away the cigaret). Well: clear it up. 
 
 Frank. You remember what Crofts said? 
 
 ViviE. Yes. 
 
 Frank. That revelation was supposed to bring about 
 
228 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act rv 
 
 a complete change in the nature of our feeling for one 
 another. It placed us on the footing of brother and 
 sister. 
 
 ViviE. Yes. 
 
 Frank. Have you ever had a brother? 
 
 ViviE. No. 
 
 Frank. Then you don't know what being brother and 
 sister feels like.^ Now I have lots of sisters: Jessie and 
 Georgina and the rest. The fraternal feeling is quite 
 familiar to me; and I assure you my feeling for you is 
 not the least in the world like it. The girls will go their 
 way; I will go mine; and we shan't care if we never see 
 one another again. That's brother and sister. But as 
 to you^ I can't be easy if I have to pass a week without 
 seeing you. That's not brother and sister. It's exactly 
 what I felt an hour before Crofts made his revelation. 
 In short_, dear Viv, it's love's young dream. 
 
 ViviE (hitingly). The same feeling, Frank, that 
 brought your father to my mother's feet. Is that it.^ 
 
 Frank (revolted), I very strongl}^ object, Viv, to 
 have my feelings compared to any which the Reverend 
 Samuel is capable of harboring; and I object still more 
 to a comparison of you to your mother. Besides, I don't 
 believe the story. I have taxed my father with it, and 
 obtained from him what I consider tantamount to a 
 denial. 
 
 ViviE. What did he say } 
 
 Frank. He said he was sure there must be some mis- 
 take. 
 
 ViviE. Do you believe him? 
 
 Frank. I am prepared to take his word against 
 Crofts'. 
 
 ViviE. Does it make any difference? I mean in your 
 imagination or conscience; for of course it makes no real 
 difference. 
 
 Frank (shaking his head). None whatever to me. 
 
 ViviE. Nor to me. 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 229 
 
 Frank (staring). But this is ever so surprising! I 
 thought our whole relations were altered in your imag- 
 ination and conscience^ as you put it^ the moment those 
 words were out of that brute's muzzle. 
 
 ViviE. No: it was not that. I didn't believe him. I 
 only wish I could. 
 
 Frank. Eh.^ 
 
 ViviE. I think brother and sister would be a very suit- 
 able relation for us. 
 
 Frank. You really mean that.^ 
 
 ViviE. Yes. It's the only relation I care for, even if 
 we could afford any other. I mean that. 
 
 Frank {raising his eyehrorvs like one on whom a new 
 light has dawned, and speaking with quite an effusion 
 of chivalrous sentiment). My dear Viv: why didn't you 
 say so before.^ I am ever so sorry for persecuting you. 
 I understand^ of course. 
 
 ViviE {puzzled). Understand what? 
 
 Frank. Oh^ I'm not a fool in the ordinary sense — 
 only in the Scriptural sense of doing all the things the 
 wise man declared to be folly^ after trying them himself 
 on the most extensive scale. I see I am no longer 
 Vivvums' little boy. Don't be alarmed: I shall never 
 call you Vivvums again — at least unless you get tired of 
 your new little boy^ whoever he may be. 
 
 ViviE. My new little boy ! 
 
 Frank {with conviction). Must be a new little boy. 
 Always happens that way. No other way^ in fact. 
 
 ViviE. None that you know of^ fortunately for you. 
 {Someone knocks at the door,) 
 
 Frank. My curse upon yon caller^ whoe'er he be ! 
 
 ViviE. It's Praed. He's going to Italy and wants to 
 say good-bye. I asked him to call this afternoon. Go 
 and let him in. 
 
 Frank. We can continue our conversation after his 
 departure for Italy. I'll stay him out. {He goes to the 
 door and opens it,) How are you_, Praddy? Delighted 
 
230 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act IV 
 
 to see you. Come in. (Praed, dressed for travellings 
 comes in, in high spirits, excited by the beginning of his 
 journey,) 
 
 Praed. How do you do^ Miss Warren. {She presses 
 his hand cordially, though a certain sentimentality in his 
 high spirits jars on her,) I start in an hour from 
 Holborn Viaduct. I wish I could persuade you to try 
 Italy. 
 
 ViviE. What for? 
 
 Praed. Why^ to saturate yourself with beauty and 
 romance^ of course. {Vivie, rvith a shudder, turns her 
 chair to the table, as if the rvorh rvaiting for her there 
 were a consolation and support to her, Praed sits oppo- 
 site to her, Frank places a chair just behind Vivie, and 
 drops lazily and carelessly into it, talking at her over his 
 shoulder,) 
 
 Frank. No use^ Praddy. Viv is a little Philistine. 
 She is indifferent to my romance^ and insensible to my 
 beauty. 
 
 Vivie. Mr. Praed : once for all^ there is no beauty and 
 no romance in life for me. Life is what it is; and I am 
 prepared to take it as it is. 
 
 Praed {enthusiastically). You will not say that if you 
 come to Verona and on to Venice. You will cry with 
 delight at living in such a beautiful world. 
 
 Frank. This is most eloquent^ Praddy. Keep it up. 
 
 Praed. Oh, I assure you I have cried — I shall cry 
 again, I hope — at fifty ! At your age, Miss Warren, you 
 would not need to go so far as Verona. Your spirits 
 would absolutely fly up at the mere sight of Ostend. 
 You would be charmed with the gaiety, the vivacity, the 
 happy air of Brussels. {Vivie recoils,) What's the 
 matter } 
 
 Frank. Hallo, Viv! 
 
 Vivie {to Praed rvith deep reproach). Can you find no 
 better example of your beauty and romance than Brus- 
 sels to talk to me about? 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 231 
 
 Praed {puzzled). Of course it's very different from 
 Verona. I don't suggest for a moment that 
 
 ViviE {bitterly). Probably the beauty and romance 
 come to much the same in both places. 
 
 Praed {completely sobered and much concerned) , My 
 dear Miss Warren: I — {looking enquiringly at Frank). 
 Is anything the matter } 
 
 Frank. She thinks your enthusiasm frivolous^ 
 Praddy. She's had ever such a serious call. 
 
 ViviE {sharply). Hold your tongue^ Frank. Don't 
 be silly. 
 
 Frank {calmly). Do you call this good manners, 
 Praed.?* 
 
 Praed {anxious and considerate). Shall I take him 
 away, Miss Warren? I feel sure we have disturbed you 
 at your work. {He is about to rise.) 
 
 Vivie. Sit down: I'm not ready to go back to work yet. 
 You both think I have an attack of nerves. Not a bit of 
 it. But there are two subjects I want dropped, if you 
 don't mind. One of them {to Frank) is love's young 
 dream in any shape or form: the other {to Praed) is the 
 romance and beauty of life, especially as exemplified by 
 the gaiety of Brussels. You are welcome to any illusions 
 you may have left on these subjects: I have none. If we 
 three are to remain friends, I must be treated as a woman 
 of business, permanently single {to Frank) and per- 
 manently unromantic {to Praed), 
 
 Frank. I also shall remain permanently single until 
 you change your mind. Praddy: change the subject. Be 
 eloquent about something else. 
 
 Praed {diffidently) , I'm afraid there's nothing else in 
 the world that I can talk about. The Gospel of Art is 
 the only one I can preach. I know Miss Warren is a 
 great devotee of the Gospel of Getting On; but we can't 
 discuss that without hurting your feelings, Frank, since 
 you are determined not to get on. 
 
 Frank. Oh, don't mind my feelings. Give me some 
 
232 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act IV 
 
 improving advice by all means; it does me ever so much 
 good. Have another try to make a successful man of 
 me^ Viv. Come: let's have it all: energy^ thrift,, fore- 
 sight, self-respect, character. Don't you hate people 
 who have no character, Viv? 
 
 ViviE {wincing). Oh, stop: stop: let us have no more 
 of that horrible cant. Mr. Praed: if there are really 
 only those two gospels in the world, we had better all 
 kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through and 
 through. 
 
 Frank (looking critically at her). There is a touch 
 of poetry about you to-day, Viv, which has hitherto been 
 lacking. 
 
 Praed (remonstrating) . My dear Frank: aren't you a 
 little unsympathetic.^ 
 
 ViviE (^merciless to herself). No: it's good for me. It 
 keeps me from being sentimental. 
 
 Frank (bantering her). Checks your strong natural 
 propensity that way, don't it ? 
 
 ViviE (almost hysterically). Oh, yes: go on: don't 
 spare me. I was sentimental for one moment in my life 
 — beautifully sentimental — by moonlight; and now 
 
 Frank (quickly). I say, Viv: take care. Don't give 
 yourself away. 
 
 ViviE. Oh, do you think Mr. Praed does not know all 
 about my mother.^ (Turning on Praed,) You had bet- 
 ter have told me that morning, Mr. Praed. You are very 
 old-fashioned in your delicacies, after all. 
 
 Praed. Surely it is you who are a little old-fashioned 
 in your prejudices. Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell 
 you, speaking as an artist, and believing that the most 
 intimate human relationships are far beyond and above 
 the scope of the law, that though I know that your mother 
 is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on 
 that account. I respect her more. 
 
 Frank (airily). Hear, hear! 
 
 ViviE (staring at him). Is that all you know.^ 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 233 
 
 Praed. Certainly that is all. 
 
 ViviE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your 
 guesses are innocence itself compared to the truth. 
 
 Praed {startled and indignant, ^preserving his polite- 
 ness with an effort), I hope not. {More emphatically.) 
 I hope not^ Miss Warren. {Frank's face shows that he 
 does not share Praed's incredulity. Vivie utters an ex- 
 clamation of impatience. Praed' s chivalry droops before 
 their conviction. He adds, slowly) If there is anything 
 worse — that is^ anything else — are you sure you are right 
 to tell us^ Miss Warren? 
 
 Vivie. I am sure that if I had the courage I should 
 spend the rest of my life in telling it to everybody — in 
 stamping and branding it into them until they felt their 
 share in its shame and horror as I feel mine. There is 
 nothing I despise more than the wicked convention that 
 protects these things by forbidding a woman to mention 
 them. And yet I can't tell you. The two infamous 
 words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my 
 ears and struggling on my tongue; but I can't utter 
 them: my instinct is too strong for nae. {She buries her 
 face in her hands. The two men, astonished, stare at 
 one another and then at her. She raises her head again 
 desperately and takes a sheet of paper and a pen.) 
 Here: let me draft you a prospectus. 
 
 Frank. Oh^ she's mad. Do you hear^ Viv_, mad. 
 Come: pull yourself together. 
 
 Vivie. You shall see. {She writes.) " Paid up capi- 
 tal: not less than <£40^000 standing in the name of Sir 
 George Crofts^ Baronet^ the chief shareholder." What 
 comes next } — I forget. Oh^ yes : " Premises at Brus- 
 sels^ Berlin^ Vienna and Buda-Pesth. Managing direc- 
 tor: Mrs. Warren; " and now don't let us forget her 
 qualifications: the two words. There! {She pushes the 
 paper to them.) Oh, no: don't read it: don't! {She 
 snatches it back and tears it to pieces; then seizes her 
 head in her hands and hides her face on the table. 
 
234 Mrs. Warren s Profession Act IV 
 
 Frank, who has watched the writing carefully over her 
 shoulder y and opened his eyes very widely at it, takes a 
 card from his pocket; scribbles a couple of words, and 
 silently hands it to Praed, who looks at it with amaze- 
 ment, Frank then remorsefully stoops over Vivie,) 
 
 Frank (whispering tenderly). Viv, dear: that's all 
 right. I read what you wrote: so did Praddy. We 
 understand. And we remain_, as this leaves us at pres- 
 ent, yours ever so devotedly. {Vivie slowly raises her 
 head,) 
 
 Praed. We do_, indeed. Miss Warren. I declare you 
 are the most splendidly courageous woman I ever met. 
 (This sentimental compliment braces Vivie, She throws 
 it away from her with an impatient shake, and forces 
 herself to stand up, though not without some support 
 from the table,) 
 
 Frank. Don't stir, Viv, if you don't want to. Take 
 it easy. 
 
 Vivie. Thank you. You can always depend on me 
 for two things, not to cry and not to faint. (She moves 
 a few steps towards the door of the inner rooms, and 
 stops close to Praed to say) I shall need much more 
 courage than that when I tell my mother that we have 
 come to the parting of the ways. Now I must go into 
 the next room for a moment to make myself neat again, 
 if you don't mind. 
 
 Praed. Shall we go away ? 
 
 Vivie. No: I'll be back presently. Only for a mo- 
 ment. (She goes into the other room, Praed opening the 
 door for her,) 
 
 Praed. What an amazing revelation! I'm extremely 
 disappointed in Crofts : I am indeed. 
 
 Frank. I'm not in the least. I feel he's perfectly 
 accounted for at last. But what a facer for me, Praddy ! 
 I can't marry her now. 
 
 Praed (sternly), Frank! {The two look at one 
 another, Frank unruffled, Praed deeply indignant,) Let 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 235 
 
 me tell you^ Gardner^ that if you desert her now you will 
 behave very despicably. 
 
 Frank. Good old Praddy! Ever chivalrous! But 
 you mistake: it's not the moral aspect of the case: it's 
 the money aspect. I really can't bring myself to touch 
 the old woman's money now.^ 
 
 Praed. And was that what you were going to marry 
 on.^ 
 
 Frank. What else? I haven't any money, nor the 
 smallest turn for making it. If I married Viv now she 
 would have to support me; and I should cost her more 
 than I am worth. 
 
 Praed. But surely a clever, bright fellow like you can 
 make something by your .owai brains. 
 
 Frank. Oh, yes, a little. {He takes out his money 
 again,) I made all that yesterday — in an hour and a 
 half. But I made it in a highly speculative business. 
 No, dear Praddy: even if Jessie and Georgina marry 
 millionaires and the governor dies after cutting them 
 off with a shilling, I shall have only four hundred a 
 year. And he won't die until he's three score and ten: 
 he hasn't originality enough. I shall be on short allow- 
 ance for the next twenty years. No short allowance for 
 Viv, if I can help it. I withdraw gracefully and leave 
 the field to the gilded youth of England. So that's set- 
 tled. I shan't worry her about it: I'll just send her a 
 little note after we're gone. She'll understand. 
 
 Praed (grasping his hand). Good fellow, Frank! I 
 heartily beg your pardon. But must you never see her 
 again? 
 
 Frank, Never see her again! Hang it all, be rea- 
 sonable. I shall come along as often as possible, and be 
 her brother. I cannot understand the absurd conse- 
 quences you romantic people expect from the most or- 
 dinary transactions. (A knock at the door.) I wonder 
 who this is. Would you mind opening the door? If it's 
 a client it will look more respectable than if I appeared. 
 
236 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act IV 
 
 Praed. Certainly. {He goes to the door and opens 
 it, Frank sits dorvn in Vivie's chair to scribble a note,) 
 My dear Kitty: come in^ come in. 
 
 {Mrs, Warren comes in, looking apprehensively round 
 for Vivie, She has done her best to make herself 
 matronly and dignified. The brilliant hat is replaced by 
 a sober bonnet, and the gay blouse covered by a costly 
 black silk mantle. She is pitiably anxious and ill at ease 
 — evidently panic-stricken,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren (to Frank), What! You're here^ are 
 you.^ 
 
 Frank {turning in his chair from his writing, but not 
 rising,) Here^ and charmed to see you. You come like 
 a breath of spring. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh^ get out with your nonsense. {In 
 a low voice,) Where's Vivie .^ 
 
 {Frank points expressively to the door of the inner 
 room, but says nothing,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren {sitting down suddenly and almost he- 
 ginning to cry), Praddy: won't she see me, don't you 
 think .> 
 
 Praed. My dear Kitty : don't distress yourself. Why 
 should she not? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh, you never can see why not: you're 
 too amiable. Mr. Frank : did she say anything to you ? 
 
 Frank {folding his note). She must see you, if 
 {very expressively) you wait until she comes in. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (frightened). Why shouldn't I wait? 
 
 {Frank looks quizzically at her; puts his note carefully 
 on the ink-bottle, so that Vivie cannot fail to find it when 
 next she dips her pen; then rises and devotes his atten- 
 tion entirely to her,) 
 
 Frank. My dear Mrs. Warren: suppose you were a 
 sparrow — ever so tiny and pretty a sparrow hopping in 
 the roadway — and you saw a steam roller coming in your 
 direction, would you wait for it? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh, don't bother me with your spar- 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 237 
 
 rows. What did she run away from Haslemere like that 
 for? 
 
 Frank. I'm afraid she'll tell you if you wait until sbj& 
 comes back. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Do you want me to go away? 
 
 Frank. No. I always want you to stay. But I 
 advise you to go away. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. What ! And never see her again ! 
 
 Frank. Precisely. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {crying again), Praddy: don't let him 
 be cruel to me. {She hastily checks her tears and wipes 
 her eyes,) Shell be so angry if she sees I've been 
 crying. 
 
 Frank {with a touch of real compassion in his airy 
 tenderness). You know that Praddy is the soul of kind- 
 ness^ Mrs. Warren. Praddy: what do you say? Go or 
 stay? 
 
 Praed {to Mrs, Warren), I really should be very 
 sorry to cause you unnecessary pain ; but I think perhaps 
 you had better not wait. The fact is — {Vivie is heard 
 at the inner door,) 
 
 Frank. Sh! Too late. She's coming. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Don't tell her I was crying. {Vivie 
 comes in. She stops gravely on seeing Mrs. Warren, who 
 greets her with hysterical cheerfulness,) Well, dearie. 
 So here you are at last. 
 
 Vivie. I am glad you have come: I want to speak to 
 you. You said you were goings Frank, I think. 
 
 Frank. Yes. Will you come with me, Mrs. Warren? 
 What do you say to a trip to Richmond, and the theatre 
 in the evening? There is safety in Richmond. No 
 steam roller there. 
 
 Vivie. Nonsense, Frank. My mother will stay here. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {scared), I don't know: perhaps I'd 
 better go. We're disturbing you at your work. 
 
 Vivie {with quiet decision), Mr. Praed: please take 
 Frank aw^y. Sit down, mother. {Mrs. Warren obeys 
 helplessly,) 
 
238 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act IV 
 
 Praed. Come^ Frank. Good-bye^ Miss Vivie. 
 
 ViviE {shaking hands). Good-bye. A pleasant trip. 
 
 Praed. Thank you: thank you. I hope so. 
 
 Frank {to Mrs, Warren). Good-bye: you'd ever so 
 much better have taken my advice. (He shakes hands 
 with her. Then airily to Vivie.) Bye-bye^ Viv. 
 
 Vivie. Good-bye. (He goes out gaily without shak- 
 ing hands with her. Praed follows. Vivie, composed 
 and extremely grave, sits down in Honoria's chair, and 
 waits for her mother to speak. Mrs. Warren, dreading 
 a pause, loses no time in beginning.) 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Well^ Vivie^ what did you go away 
 like that for without saying a word to me.^ How could 
 you do such a thing! And what have you done to poor 
 George.^ I wanted him to come with me; but he shuffled 
 out of it. I could see that he was quite afraid of you. 
 Only fancy: he wanted me not to come. As if {trem- 
 bling) I should be afraid of you^ dearie. ( Viviens gravity 
 deepens.) But of course I told him it was all settled 
 and comfortable between us, and that we were on the 
 best of terms. (She breaks down.) Vivie: what's the 
 meaning of this? (She produces a paper from an en- 
 velope; comes to the table; and hands it across.) I got 
 it from the bank this morning. 
 
 Vivie. It is my month's allowance. They sent it to 
 me as usual the other day. I simply sent it back to be 
 placed to your credit^ and asked them to send you the 
 lodgment receipt. In future I shall support myself. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (not daring to understand). Wasn't it 
 enough? Why didn't you tell me? (With a cunning 
 gleam in her eye.) I'll double it: I was intending to 
 double it. Only let me know how much you want. 
 
 Vivie. You know very well that that has nothing to 
 do with it. From this time I go my own way in my own 
 business and among my own friends. And you will go 
 yours. (She rises.) Good-bye. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (appalled). Good-bye? 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 239 
 
 ViviE. Yes: good-bye. Come: don't let us make a 
 useless scene: you understand perfectly well. Sir 
 George Crofts has told me the whole business. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (^angrily). Silly old — (^She swallows 
 an epithet, and turns white at the narrowness of her 
 escape from uttering it,) He ought to have his tongue 
 cut out. But I explained it all to you; and you said you 
 didn't mind. 
 
 ViviE (steadfastly). Excuse me: I do mind. You ex- 
 plained how it came about. That does not alter it. 
 
 (Mrs, Warren, silenced for a moment, looks forlornly 
 at Vivie, who waits like a statue, secretly hoping that the 
 combat is over. But the cunning compression comes back 
 into Mrs. Warren's face; and she bends across the table, 
 sly and urgent, half whispering,) 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Vivie: do you know how rich I am? 
 
 Vivie. I have no doubt you are very rich. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. But you don't know all that that 
 means: you're too young. It means a new dress every 
 day; it means theatres and balls every night; it means 
 having the pick of all the gentlemen in Europe at your 
 feet; it means a lovely house and plenty of servants; it 
 means the choicest of eating and drinking; it means 
 everything you like^ everything you want^ everything 
 you can think of. And what are you here? A mere 
 drudge^ toiling and moiling early and late for your bare 
 living and two cheap dresses a year. Think over it. 
 (Soothingly,) You're shocked^ I know. I can enter 
 into your feelings; and I think they do you credit; 
 but trust me^ nobody will blame you: you may take my 
 word for that. I know what young girls are ; and 1 know 
 you'll think better of it when you've turned it over in 
 your mind. 
 
 Vivie. So that's how it's done^ is it? You must have 
 said all that to many a woman^ mother^ to have it so pat. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (passionately). What harm am I ask- 
 ing you to do? (Vivie turns away contemptuously, Mrs, 
 
240 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act rv 
 
 Warren follows her desperately.) Vivie: listen to 
 me: you don't understand: you've been taught wrong 
 on purpose: you don't know what the world is really 
 like. 
 
 ViYiB (arrested). Taught wrong on purpose! What 
 do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. I mean that you're throwing away all 
 your chances for nothing. You think that people are 
 what they pretend to be — that the way you were taught 
 at school and college to think right and proper is the 
 way things really are. But it's not: it's all only a pre- 
 tence, to keep the cowardly, slavish, common run of peo- 
 ple quiet. Do you want to find that out, like other 
 women, at forty, when you've thrown yourself away and 
 lost your chances ; or won't you take it in good time now 
 from your own mother, that loves you and swears to you 
 that it's truth — gospel truth .^ (Urgently,) Vivie: the 
 big people, the clever people, the managing people, all 
 know it. They do as I do, and think what I think. I 
 know plenty of them. I know them to speak to, to in- 
 troduce you to, to make friends of for you. I don't 
 mean anything wrong : that's what you don't understand : 
 your head is full of ignorant ideas about me. What do 
 the people that taught you know about life or about 
 people like me? When did they ever meet me, or speak 
 to me, or let anyone tell them about me? — the fools! 
 Would they ever have done anything for you if I hadn't 
 paid them? Haven't I told you that I want you to be 
 respectable? Haven't I brought you up to be respect- 
 able? And how can you keep it up without my money 
 and my influence and Lizzie's friends? Can't you see 
 that you're cutting your own throat as well as breaking 
 my heart in turning your back on me ? 
 
 Vivie. I recognise the Crofts philosophy of life, 
 mother. I heard it all from him that day at the Gard- 
 ners*. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. You think I want to force that 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 241 
 
 played-out old sot on you! I don% Vivie: on my oath 
 I don't. 
 
 Vivie. It would not matter if you did: you would not 
 succeed. {Mrs. Warren rvinces, deeply hurt by the im- 
 plied indifference towards her affectionate intention, 
 Vivie, neither understanding this nor concerning herself 
 about it, goes on calmly) Mother: you don't at all know 
 the sort of person I am. I don't object to Crofts more 
 than to any other coarsely built man of his class. To tell 
 you the truths I rather admire him for being strong- 
 minded enough to enjoy himself in his own way and 
 make plenty of money instead of living the usual shoot- 
 ing, hunting, dining-out, tailoring, loafing life of his set 
 merely because all the rest do it. And I'm perfectly 
 aware that if I'd been in the same circumstances as my 
 aunt Liz, I'd have done exactly what she did. I don't 
 think I'm more prejudiced or straitlaced than you: I 
 think I'm less. I'm certain I'm less sentimental. I know 
 very well that fashionable morality is all a pretence : and 
 that if I took your money and devoted the rest of my 
 life to spending it fashionably, I might be as worthless 
 and vicious as the silliest woman could possibly want to 
 be without having a word said to me about it. But I 
 don't want to be worthless. I shouldn't enjoy trotting 
 about the park to advertise my dressmaker and carriage 
 builder, or being bored at the opera to show ofi* a shop 
 windowful of diamonds. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (bewildered). But 
 
 Vivie. Wait a moment: I've not done. Tell me why 
 you continue your business now that you are independent 
 of it. Your sister, you told me, has left all that behind 
 her. Why don't you do the same? 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Oh, it's all very easy for Liz : she likes 
 good society, and has the air of being a lady. Imagine 
 me in a cathedral town! Why, the very rooks in the 
 trees would find me out even if I could stand the dulness 
 of it. I must have work and excitement, or I should go 
 
242 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act IV 
 
 melancholy mad. And what else is there for me to do? 
 The life suits me: I'm fit for it and not for anything 
 else. If I didn't do it somebody else would; so I don't 
 do any real harm by it. And then it brings in money; 
 and I like making money. No: it's no use: I can't give 
 it up — not for anybody. But what need you know about 
 it? I'll never mention it. I'll keep Crofts away. I'll 
 not trouble you much: you see I have to be constantly 
 running about from one place to another. You'll be quit 
 of me altogether when I die. 
 
 VivlE. No: I am my mother's daughter. I am like 
 you: I must have work_, and must make more money than 
 I spend. But my work is not your work^ and my way 
 not your way. We must part. It will not make much 
 difference to us : instead of meeting one another for per- 
 haps a few months in twenty years^ we shall never meet : 
 that's all. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (her voice stifled in tears), Vivie: I 
 meant to have been more with you: I did indeed. 
 
 Vivie. It's no use_, mother: I am not to be changed 
 by a few cheap tears and entreaties any more than you 
 are^ I dare say. 
 
 Mrs. Warren (wildly), Oh^ you call a mother's tears 
 cheap. 
 
 Vivie. They cost you nothing ; and you ask me to give 
 you the peace and quietness of my whole life in exchange 
 for them. What use would my company be to you if you 
 could get it? What have we two in common that could 
 make either of us happy together ? 
 
 Mrs. Warren (lapsing recklessly into her dialect). 
 We're mother and daughter. I want my daughter. I've 
 a right to you. Who is to care for me when I'm old? 
 Plenty of girls have taken to me like daughters and 
 cried at leaving me; but I let them all go because I had 
 you to look forward to. I kept myself lonely for you. 
 You've no right to turn on me now and refuse to do your 
 duty as a daughter. 
 
Act IV Mrs. Warren's Profession 243 
 
 ViviE (^jarred and antagonized hy the echo of the 
 slums in her mother's voice). My duty as a daughter! 
 I thought we should come to that presently. Now once 
 for all^ mother^ you want a daughter and Frank wants 
 a wife. I don't want a mother; and I don't want a hus- 
 band. I have spared neither Frank nor myself in send- 
 ing him about his business. Do you think I will spare 
 you.^ 
 
 Mrs. Warren {violently). Oh, I know the sort you 
 are— no mercy for yourself or anyone else. I know. 
 My experience has done that for me anyhow: I can tell 
 the pious, canting, hard, selfish woman when I meet her. 
 Well, keep yourself to yourself: I don't want you. But 
 listen to this. Do you know what I would do with you 
 if you were a baby again — aye, as sure as there's a 
 Heaven above us? 
 
 ViviE. Strangle me, perhaps. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. No: I'd bring you up to be a real 
 daughter to me, and not what you are now, with your 
 pride and your prejudices and the college education you 
 stole from me — yes, stole: deny it if you can: what was 
 it but stealing.^ I'd bring you up in my own house, so 
 I would. 
 
 ViviE {quietly). In one of your own houses. 
 
 Mrs. Warren {screaming). Listen to her! listen 
 to how she spits on her mother's grey hairs ! Oh ! may 
 you live to have your own daughter tear and trample on 
 you as you have trampled on me. And you will: you 
 will. No woman ever had luck with a mother's curse 
 on her. 
 
 ViviE. I wish you wouldn't rant, mother. It only 
 hardens me. Come: I suppose I am the only young 
 woman you ever had in your power that you did good 
 to. Don't spoil it all now. 
 
 Mrs. Warren. Yes. Heaven forgive me, it's true; 
 and you are the only one that ever turned on me. Oh, 
 the injustice of it, the injustice, the injustice! I always 
 
244 Mrs. Warren's Profession Act iv 
 
 wanted to be a good woman. I tried honest work; and 
 I was slave-driven until I cursed the day I ever heard of 
 honest work. I was a good mother; and because I made 
 my daughter a good woman she turns me out as if I 
 was a leper. Oh^ if I only had my life to live over again ! 
 I'd talk to that lying clergyman in the school. From 
 this time forth^ so help me Heaven in my last hour^ 111 
 do wrong and nothing but wrong. And I'll prosper 
 on it. 
 
 ViviE. Yes: it's better to choose your line and go 
 through with it. If I had been you^ mother^ I might 
 have done as you did; but I should not have lived one 
 life and believed in another. You are a conventional 
 woman at heart. That is why I am bidding you good- 
 bye now. I am rights am I not? 
 
 Mrs. Warren {taken aback). Right to throw away 
 all my money! 
 
 ViviE. No: right to get rid of you? I should be a 
 fool not to ? Isn't that so ? 
 
 Mrs. Warren {sulkily). Oh, well^ yes^ if you come 
 to that^ I suppose you are. But Lord help the world if 
 everybody took to doing the right thing! And now I'd 
 better go than stay where I'm not wanted. {She turns 
 to the door,) 
 
 ViviE {kindly). Won't you shake hands? 
 
 Mrs. Warren {after looking at her fiercely for a mo^ 
 ment with a savage impulse to strike her), No^ thank 
 you. Good-bye. 
 
 Vivie {matter-of-factly). Good-bye. {Mrs, Warren 
 goes out, slamming the door behind her. The strain on 
 Viviens face relaxes; her grave expression breaks up into 
 one of joyous content; her breath goes out in a half sob, 
 half laugh of intense relief. She goes buoyantly to her 
 place at the writing-table; pushes the electric lamp out 
 of the way; pulls over a great sheaf of papers; and is 
 in the act of dipping her pen in the ink when she finds 
 Frank's note. She opens it unconcernedly and reads it 
 
Act-TV Mrs. Warren's Profession 245 
 
 quickly, giving a little laugh at some quaint turn of ex- 
 pression in it,) And good-bye^ Frank. {She tears the 
 note up and tosses the pieces into the wastepaper basket 
 without a second thought. Then she goes at her rvorh 
 with a plunge J and soon becomes absorbed in her figures,) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 THE END OF VOLUME I. 
 

 f 
 
 C64 
 
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