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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5698-h.zip b/5698-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c4ba8e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/5698-h.zip diff --git a/5698-h/5698-h.htm b/5698-h/5698-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a258008 --- /dev/null +++ b/5698-h/5698-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4987 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Fanny's First Play, by Bernard Shaw + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fanny's First Play, by George Bernard Shaw + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fanny's First Play + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: March 28, 2009 [EBook #5698] +Last Updated: December 10, 2012 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY'S FIRST PLAY *** + + + + +Produced by Ron Burkey, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Bernard Shaw + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1911 + </h3> + <div class="mynote"> + <p> + This text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays + "Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets", "Fanny's First Play", and + the essay "A Treatise on Parents and Children". + </p> + <p> + Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text. Shaw + intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard system. For + example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe), "Dr." is given + as "Dr" (without a period at the end), and "Shakespeare" is given as + "Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). Where several characters in the play + are speaking at once, I have indicated it with vertical bars ("|"). The + pound (currency) symbol has been replaced by the word "pounds". + </p> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> FANNY'S FIRST PLAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> INDUCTION </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> <b>THE PLAY</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> ACT III </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + </h2> + <p> + Fanny's First Play, being but a potboiler, needs no preface. But its + lesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded. Mere morality, or the + substitution of custom for conscience was once accounted a shameful and + cynical thing: people talked of right and wrong, of honor and dishonor, of + sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of morality and immorality. + The word morality, if we met it in the Bible, would surprise us as much as + the word telephone or motor car. Nowadays we do not seem to know that + there is any other test of conduct except morality; and the result is that + the young had better have their souls awakened by disgrace, capture by the + police, and a month's hard labor, than drift along from their cradles to + their graves doing what other people do for no other reason than that + other people do it, and knowing nothing of good and evil, of courage and + cowardice, or indeed anything but how to keep hunger and concupiscence and + fashionable dressing within the bounds of good taste except when their + excesses can be concealed. Is it any wonder that I am driven to offer to + young people in our suburbs the desperate advice: Do something that will + get you into trouble? But please do not suppose that I defend a state of + things which makes such advice the best that can be given under the + circumstances, or that I do not know how difficult it is to find out a way + of getting into trouble that will combine loss of respectability with + integrity of self-respect and reasonable consideration for other peoples' + feelings and interests on every point except their dread of losing their + own respectability. But when there's a will there's a way. I hate to see + dead people walking about: it is unnatural. And our respectable middle + class people are all as dead as mutton. Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I + have delivered on them the judgment of her God. + </p> + <p> + The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction to this play under the + names of Trotter, Vaughan, and Gunn will forgive me: in fact Mr Trotter + forgave me beforehand, and assisted the make-up by which Mr Claude King so + successfully simulated his personal appearance. The critics whom I did not + introduce were somewhat hurt, as I should have been myself under the same + circumstances; but I had not room for them all; so I can only apologize + and assure them that I meant no disrespect. + </p> + <p> + The concealment of the authorship, if a <i>secret de Polichinelle</i> can + be said to involve concealment, was a necessary part of the play. In so + far as it was effectual, it operated as a measure of relief to those + critics and playgoers who are so obsessed by my strained legendary + reputation that they approach my plays in a condition which is really one + of derangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play of mine as + anything but a trap baited with paradoxes, and designed to compass their + ethical perversion and intellectual confusion. If it were possible, I + should put forward all my plays anonymously, or hire some less disturbing + person, as Bacon is said to have hired Shakespear, to father my plays for + me. + </p> + <p> + Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time at the Little Theatre + in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, April 19th 1911. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INDUCTION + </h2> + <p> + <i>The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence Towers, + the property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form a stage for + a private theatrical performance. A footman in grandiose Spanish livery + enters before the curtain, on its O.P. side.</i> + </p> + <p> + FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savoyard comes in: a + middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat. He is surprised + to find nobody to receive him. So is the Footman]. Oh, beg pardon, sir: I + thought the Count was here. He was when I took up your name. He must have + gone through the stage into the library. This way, sir. [He moves towards + the division in the middle of the curtains]. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When does the play begin? + Half-past eight? + </p> + <p> + FOOTMAN. Nine, sir. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my wife at the George that + it's not until nine? + </p> + <p> + FOOTMAN. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget. + </p> + <p> + THE FOOTMAN. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The Count comes in through the + curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. [Announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard, sir. + [He withdraws]. + </p> + <p> + COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied elegance a + hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake hands with his + visitor] Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly recollected that all the + bookcases in the library were locked—in fact theyve never been + opened since we came from Venice—and as our literary guests will + probably use the library a good deal, I just ran in to unlock everything. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose theres a + smoking room? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. My study is available. An old-fashioned house, you understand. + Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his host's obsolete + costume, continues] I had no idea you were going to appear in the piece + yourself. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. I am not. I wear this costume because—well, perhaps I had + better explain the position, if it interests you. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Certainly. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in your + world. I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word. I'm not + really an Englishman: my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life in Italy—in + Venice mostly—my very title is a foreign one: I am a Count of the + Holy Roman Empire. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Where's that? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. At present, nowhere, except as a memory and an ideal. [Savoyard + inclines his head respectfully to the ideal]. But I am by no means an + idealogue. I am not content with beautiful dreams: I want beautiful + realities. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Hear, hear! I'm all with you there—when you can get them. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Why not get them? The difficulty is not that there are no + beautiful realities, Mr Savoyard: the difficulty is that so few of us know + them when we see them. We have inherited from the past a vast treasure of + beauty—of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of painting, of + sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite fashions in dress, in + furniture, in domestic decoration. We can contemplate these treasures. We + can reproduce many of them. We can buy a few inimitable originals. We can + shut out the nineteenth century— + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. [correcting him] The twentieth. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. To me the century I shut out will always be the nineteenth + century, just as your national anthem will always be God Save the Queen, + no matter how many kings may succeed. I found England befouled with + industrialism: well, I did what Byron did: I simply refused to live in it. + You remember Byron's words: "I am sure my bones would not rest in an + English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe + the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed could I suppose that any of + my friends would be base enough to convey my carcase back to her soil. I + would not even feed her worms if I could help it." + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Did Byron say that? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. He did, sir. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. It dont sound like him. I saw a good deal of him at one time. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. You! But how is that possible? You are too young. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. I was quite a lad, of course. But I had a job in the original + production of Our Boys. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. My dear sir, not that Byron. Lord Byron, the poet. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were talking of the Byron. + So you prefer living abroad? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. I find England ugly and Philistine. Well, I dont live in it. I + find modern houses ugly. I dont live in them: I have a palace on the grand + canal. I find modern clothes prosaic. I dont wear them, except, of course, + in the street. My ears are offended by the Cockney twang: I keep out of + hearing of it and speak and listen to Italian. I find Beethoven's music + coarse and restless, and Wagner's senseless and detestable. I do not + listen to them. I listen to Cimarosa, to Pergolesi, to Gluck and Mozart. + Nothing simpler, sir. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. It's all right when you can afford it. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Afford it! My dear Mr Savoyard, if you are a man with a sense + of beauty you can make an earthly paradise for yourself in Venice on 1500 + pounds a year, whilst our wretched vulgar industrial millionaires are + spending twenty thousand on the amusements of billiard markers. I assure + you I am a poor man according to modern ideas. But I have never had + anything less than the very best that life has produced. It is my good + fortune to have a beautiful and lovable daughter; and that girl, sir, has + never seen an ugly sight or heard an ugly sound that I could spare her; + and she has certainly never worn an ugly dress or tasted coarse food or + bad wine in her life. She has lived in a palace; and her perambulator was + a gondola. Now you know the sort of people we are, Mr Savoyard. You can + imagine how we feel here. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Rather out of it, eh? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Out of it, sir! Out of what? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Well, out of everything. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Out of soot and fog and mud and east wind; out of vulgarity and + ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, superstition and stupidity. Out of all + this, and in the sunshine, in the enchanted region of which great artists + alone have had the secret, in the sacred footsteps of Byron, of Shelley, + of the Brownings, of Turner and Ruskin. Dont you envy me, Mr Savoyard? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Some of us must live in England, you know, just to keep the + place going. Besides—though, mind you, I dont say it isnt all right + from the high art point of view and all that—three weeks of it would + drive me melancholy mad. However, I'm glad you told me, because it + explains why it is you dont seem to know your way about much in England. I + hope, by the way, that everything has given satisfaction to your daughter. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. She seems quite satisfied. She tells me that the actors you + sent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice people to + work with. I understand she had some difficulties at the first rehearsals + with the gentleman you call the producer, because he hadnt read the play; + but the moment he found out what it was all about everything went + smoothly. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Havnt you seen the rehearsals? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Oh no. I havnt been allowed even to meet any of the company. + All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman [Savoyard is rather + scandalized]: I asked her not to have an English hero. That is all I know. + [Ruefully] I havnt been consulted even about the costumes, though there, I + think, I could have been some use. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. [seriously shocked] What! No costumes! Do you mean to say it is + a modern play? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. I dont know: I didnt read it. I handed it to Billy Burjoyce—the + producer, you know—and left it to him to select the company and so + on. But I should have had to order the costumes if there had been any. + There wernt. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand. She has + taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in beautiful + costumes. I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what you are about + to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau. The + heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a dainty Harlequin, her + father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet who hoodwinks the father and + brings about the happiness of the lovers a grotesque but perfectly + tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or Sganarelle. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman will + make five. Thats why you wanted five men in the company. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly, silly, + senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of a + nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it after all but + a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of Grimaldi a + hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the existence of such a + thing. I refer to the graceful and charming fantasies of the Italian and + French stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are rot. + Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy Burjoyce + told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, and had + seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been away in Venice all the + time. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that two years + ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge. Cambridge + was my own University; and though of course there were no women there in + my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the eighteenth century + still existed anywhere in England, it would be at Cambridge. About three + months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I wished to give her a + present on her next birthday. Of course I said yes; and she then + astonished and delighted me by telling me that she had written a play, and + that the present she wanted was a private performance of it with real + actors and real critics. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was easy enough to engage a + company for a private performance: it's done often enough. But the notion + of having critics was new. I hardly knew how to set about it. They dont + expect private engagements; and so they have no agents. Besides, I didnt + know what to offer them. I knew that they were cheaper than actors, + because they get long engagements: forty years sometimes; but thats no + rule for a single job. Then theres such a lot of them: on first nights + they run away with all your stalls: you cant find a decent place for your + own mother. It would have cost a fortune to bring the lot. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Of course I never dreamt of having them all. Only a few + first-rate representative men. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Just so. All you want is a few sample opinions. Out of a hundred + notices you wont find more than four at the outside that say anything + different. Well, Ive got just the right four for you. And what do you + think it has cost me? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. [shrugging his shoulders] I cannot guess. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give Flawner Bannal ten. He + wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it, because if we + hadnt had him we might just as well have had nobody at all. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. But what about the others, if Mr Flannel— + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. [shocked] Flawner Bannal. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. —if Mr Bannal got the whole ten? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class sort of thing, the + first man I went for was Trotter. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Oh indeed. I am very glad you have secured Mr Trotter. I have + read his Playful Impressions. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Well, I was rather in a funk about him. Hes not exactly what I + call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off at first. But when I + explained and told him your daughter— + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. [interrupting in alarm] You did not say that the play was by + her, I hope? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. No: thats been kept a dead secret. I just said your daughter has + asked for a real play with a real author and a real critic and all the + rest of it. The moment I mentioned the daughter I had him. He has a + daughter of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment! Offered to come just to + please her! Quite human. I was surprised. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Extremely kind of him. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as the + drama: and you said you thought there would be music. I told him Trotter + would feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird. Then I thought + youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that go for the newest things + and swear theyre oldfashioned. So I nailed Gilbert Gunn. The four will + give you a representative team. By the way [looking at his watch] theyll + be here presently. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hints + about them that would help me to make a little conversation with them? I + am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might unwittingly say + something tactless. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Well, let me see. As you dont like English people, I dont know + that youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English: never + happy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so unnecessarily well + that everybody there spots him as an Englishman the moment he opens his + mouth. Very witty and all that. Pretends to turn up his nose at the + theatre and says people make too much fuss about art [the Count is + extremely indignant]. But thats only his modesty, because art is his own + line, you understand. Mind you dont chaff him about Aristotle. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Why should I chaff him about Aristotle? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Well, I dont know; but its one of the recognized ways of + chaffing him. However, youll get on with him all right: hes a man of the + world and a man of sense. The one youll have to be careful about is + Vaughan. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. In what way, may I ask? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and if you joke with him + he'll think youre insulting him on purpose. Mind: it's not that he doesnt + see a joke: he does; and it hurts him. A comedy scene makes him sore all + over: he goes away black and blue, and pitches into the play for all hes + worth. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. But surely that is a very serious defect in a man of his + profession? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Yes it is, and no mistake. But Vaughan is honest, and dont care + a brass farthing what he says, or whether it pleases anybody or not; and + you must have one man of that sort to say the things that nobody else will + say. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. It seems to me to carry the principle of division of labor too + far, this keeping of the honesty and the other qualities in separate + compartments. What is Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Gunn is one of the intellectuals. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. But arnt they all intellectuals? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Lord! no: heaven forbid! You must be careful what you say about + that: I shouldnt like anyone to call me an Intellectual: I dont think any + Englishman would! They dont count really, you know; but still it's rather + the thing to have them. Gunn is one of the young intellectuals: he writes + plays himself. Hes useful because he pitches into the older intellectuals + who are standing in his way. But you may take it from me that none of + these chaps really matter. Flawner Bannal's your man. Bannal really + represents the British playgoer. When he likes a thing, you may take your + oath there are a hundred thousand people in London thatll like it if they + can only be got to know about it. Besides, Bannal's knowledge of the + theatre is an inside knowledge. We know him; and he knows us. He knows the + ropes: he knows his way about: he knows what hes talking about. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. [with a little sigh] Age and experience, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Age! I should put him at twenty at the very outside, myself. + It's not an old man's job after all, is it? Bannal may not ride the + literary high horse like Trotter and the rest; but I'd take his opinion + before any other in London. Hes the man in the street; and thats what you + want. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. I am almost sorry you didnt give the gentleman his full terms. + I should not have grudged the fifty guineas for a sound opinion. He may + feel shabbily treated. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Well, let him. It was a bit of side, his asking fifty. After + all, what is he? Only a pressman. Jolly good business for him to earn ten + guineas: hes done the same job often enough for half a quid, I expect. + </p> + <p> + <i>Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, excited and + nervous. A girl of nineteen in a dress synchronous with her father's.</i> + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Papa, papa, the critics have come. And one of them has a cocked hat + and sword like a— [she notices Savoyard] Oh, I beg your pardon. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my dear. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. [shaking hands] How do you do? + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Dowda. The cocked hat is all right. + Trotter is a member of the new Academic Committee. He induced them to go + in for a uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him to wear it. + </p> + <p> + THE FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, Mr Gunn, Mr Flawner + Bannal. [The four critics enter. Trotter wears a diplomatic dress, with + sword and three-cornered hat. His age is about 50. Vaughan is 40. Gunn is + 30. Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike the others. They can be + classed at sight as professional men: Bannal is obviously one of those + unemployables of the business class who manage to pick up a living by a + sort of courage which gives him cheerfulness, conviviality, and bounce, + and is helped out positively by a slight turn for writing, and negatively + by a comfortable ignorance and lack of intuition which hides from him all + the dangers and disgraces that keep men of finer perception in check. The + Count approaches them hospitably]. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Count O'Dowda, gentlemen. Mr Trotter. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [looking at the Count's costume] Have I the pleasure of meeting a + confrere? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. No, sir: I have no right to my costume except the right of a + lover of the arts to dress myself handsomely. You are most welcome, Mr + Trotter. [Trotter bows in the French manner]. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Mr Vaughan. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. How do you do, Mr Vaughan? + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. Quite well, thanks. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Mr Gunn. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Gunn. + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Very pleased. + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. Mr Flawner Bannal. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Very kind of you to come, Mr Bannal. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Dont mention it. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Gentlemen, my daughter. [They all bow]. We are very greatly + indebted to you, gentlemen, for so kindly indulging her whim. [The + dressing bell sounds. The Count looks at his watch]. Ah! The dressing + bell, gentlemen. As our play begins at nine, I have had to put forward the + dinner hour a little. May I shew you to your rooms? [He goes out, followed + by all the men, except Trotter, who, going last, is detained by Fanny]. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Mr Trotter: I want to say something to you about this play. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. No: thats forbidden. You must not attempt to <i>souffler</i> the + critic. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Oh, I would not for the world try to influence your opinion. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. But you do: you are influencing me very shockingly. You invite me + to this charming house, where I'm about to enjoy a charming dinner. And + just before the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming young lady to be + talked to about the play. How can you expect me to be impartial? God + forbid that I should set up to be a judge, or do more than record an + impression; but my impressions can be influenced; and in this case youre + influencing them shamelessly all the time. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Dont make me more nervous than I am already, Mr Trotter. If you + knew how I feel! + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Naturally: your first party: your first appearance in England as + hostess. But youre doing it beautifully. Dont be afraid. Every <i>nuance</i> + is perfect. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. It's so kind of you to say so, Mr Trotter. But that isnt whats the + matter. The truth is, this play is going to give my father a dreadful + shock. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say. Half the young ladies + in London spend their evenings making their fathers take them to plays + that are not fit for elderly people to see. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Oh, I know all about that; but you cant understand what it means to + Papa. Youre not so innocent as he is. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [remonstrating] My dear young lady— + </p> + <p> + FANNY. I dont mean morally innocent: everybody who reads your articles + knows youre as innocent as a lamb. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. What! + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Yes, Mr Trotter: Ive seen a good deal of life since I came to + England; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby: a dear, good, + well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a wee lamb + in a world of wolves. Cambridge is not what it was in my father's time. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Well, I must say! + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge Fabian + Society. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Classifications? I dont understand. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. We classify our aunts into different sorts. And one of the sorts is + the "I must says." + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I withdraw "I must say." I substitute "Blame my cats!" No: I + substitute "Blame my kittens!" Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I say again + in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens. Impertinent + little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess what is on your + conscience. This play to which you have lured me is one of those in which + members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers in the art of + milking ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your father. Well, I hope + it will. And if he consults me about it I shall recommend him to smack you + soundly and pack you off to bed. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter; but it + doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much more conscious of what you really are + than you are yourself, because weve discussed you thoroughly at Cambridge; + and youve never discussed yourself, have you? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I— + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Trottering! + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Thats what we call it at Cambridge. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. If it were not so obviously a stage <i>cliche</i>, I should say + Damn Cambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. And now let me warn you. If + youre going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you may coax me. + If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, I'll treat you as + my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. [adoringly] But how few men are your intellectual equals, Mr + Trotter! + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I'm getting the worst of this. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Oh no. Why do you say that? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. What does it matter? We're both ready. I havnt told you yet what I + want you to do for me. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except out of + pure magnanimity. What is it? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. I dont mind this play shocking my father morally. It's good for him + to be shocked morally. It's all that the young can do for the old, to + shock them and keep them up to date. But I know that this play will shock + him artistically; and that terrifies me. No moral consideration could make + a breach between us: he would forgive me for anything of that kind sooner + or later; but he never gives way on a point of art. I darent let him know + that I love Beethoven and Wagner; and as to Strauss, if he heard three + bars of Elektra, it'd part us for ever. Now what I want you to do is this. + If hes very angry—if he hates the play, because it's a modern play—will + you tell him that it's not my fault; that its style and construction, and + so forth, are considered the very highest art nowadays; that the author + wrote it in the proper way for repertory theatres of the most superior + kind—you know the kind of plays I mean? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [emphatically] I think I know the sort of entertainments you + mean. But please do not beg a vital question by calling them plays. I dont + pretend to be an authority; but I have at least established the fact that + these productions, whatever else they may be, are certainly not plays. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. The authors dont say they are. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [warmly] I am aware that one author, who is, I blush to say, a + personal friend of mine, resorts freely to the dastardly subterfuge of + calling them conversations, discussions, and so forth, with the express + object of evading criticism. But I'm not to be disarmed by such tricks. I + say they are not plays. Dialogues, if you will. Exhibitions of character, + perhaps: especially the character of the author. Fictions, possibly, + though a little decent reticence as to introducing actual persons, and + thus violating the sanctity of private life, might not be amiss. But + plays, no. I say NO. Not plays. If you will not concede this point I cant + continue our conversation. I take this seriously. It's a matter of + principle. I must ask you, Miss O'Dowda, before we go a step further, Do + you or do you not claim that these works are plays? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. I assure you I dont. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Not in any sense of the word? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Not in any sense of the word. I loathe plays. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [disappointed] That last remark destroys all the value of your + admission. You admire these—these theatrical nondescripts? You enjoy + them? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Dont you? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose I + prefer popular melodramas? Have I not written most appreciative notices of + them? But I say theyre not plays. Theyre not plays. I cant consent to + remain in this house another minute if anything remotely resembling them + is to be foisted on me as a play. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. I fully admit that theyre not plays. I only want you to tell my + father that plays are not plays nowadays—not in your sense of the + word. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Ah, there you go again! In my sense of the word! You believe that + my criticism is merely a personal impression; that— + </p> + <p> + FANNY. You always said it was. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Pardon me: not on this point. If you had been classically + educated— + </p> + <p> + FANNY. But I have. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Pooh! Cambridge! If you had been educated at Oxford, you would + know that the definition of a play has been settled exactly and + scientifically for two thousand two hundred and sixty years. When I say + that these entertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense of the + word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the immortal Stagirite. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Who is the Stagirite? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [shocked] You dont know who the Stagirite was? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Sorry. Never heard of him. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. And this is Cambridge education! Well, my dear young lady, I'm + delighted to find theres something you don't know; and I shant spoil you + by dispelling an ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly becoming to + your age and sex. So we'll leave it at that. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. But you will promise to tell my father that lots of people write + plays just like this one—that I havnt selected it out of mere + heartlessness? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to your father about + the play until Ive seen the play. But I'll tell you what I shall say to + him about you. I shall say that youre a very foolish young lady; that + youve got into a very questionable set; and that the sooner he takes you + away from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, the better. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a heavy father. In + Cambridge we regard you as a <i>bel esprit</i>, a wit, an Irresponsible, a + Parisian Immoralist, <i>tres chic</i>. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I! + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Theres quite a Trotter set. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Well, upon my word! + </p> + <p> + FANNY. They go in for adventures and call you Aramis. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. They wouldnt dare! + </p> + <p> + FANNY. You always make such delicious fun of the serious people. Your <i>insouciance</i>— + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [frantic] Stop talking French to me: it's not a proper language + for a young girl. Great heavens! how is it possible that a few innocent + pleasantries should be so frightfully misunderstood? Ive tried all my life + to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and kindly. Ive lived a + blameless life. Ive supported the Censorship in the face of ridicule and + insult. And now I'm told that I'm a centre of Immoralism! of Modern + Minxism! a trifler with the most sacred subjects! a Nietzschean!! perhaps + a Shavian!!! + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Do you mean you are really on the serious side, Mr Trotter? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Of course I'm on the serious side. How dare you ask me such a + question? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Then why dont you play for it? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I do play for it—short, of course, of making myself + ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. What! not make yourself ridiculous for the sake of a good cause! + Oh, Mr Trotter. Thats <i>vieux jeu</i>. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [shouting at her] Dont talk French. I will not allow it. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out of date. The + Cambridge Fabian Society— + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society to me. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without making yourself + ridiculous." + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Skate! What has that to do with it? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Thats not all. It goes on, "The ice of life is slippery." + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Ice of life indeed! You should be eating penny ices and enjoying + yourself. I wont hear another word. + </p> + <p> + <i>The Count returns.</i> + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my dear. Have you been + detaining Mr Trotter all this time? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I'm so sorry. I must have just a little brush up: I [He hurries + out]. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. My dear, you should be in the drawing-room. You should not have + kept him here. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. I know. Dont scold me: I had something important to say to him. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. I shall ask him to take you in to dinner. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Yes, papa. Oh, I hope it will go off well. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Yes, love, of course it will. Come along. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Just one thing, papa, whilst we're alone. Who was the Stagirite? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. The Stagirite? Do you mean to say you dont know? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Havnt the least notion. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. The Stagirite was Aristotle. By the way, dont mention him to Mr + Trotter. + </p> + <p> + <i>They go to the dining-room.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE PLAY + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + <p> + <i>In the dining-room of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly lady sits at + breakfast reading the newspaper. Her chair is at the end of the oblong + dining-table furthest from the fire. There is an empty chair at the other + end. The fireplace is behind this chair; and the door is next the + fireplace, between it and the corner. An arm-chair stands beside the + coal-scuttle. In the middle of the back wall is the sideboard, parallel to + the table. The rest of the furniture is mostly dining-room chairs, ranged + against the walls, and including a baby rocking-chair on the lady's side + of the room. The lady is a placid person. Her husband, Mr Robin Gilbey, + not at all placid, bursts violently into the room with a letter in his + hand.</i> + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [grinding his teeth] This is a nice thing. This is a b—— + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [cutting him short] Leave it at that, please. Whatever it is, + bad language wont make it better. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [bitterly] Yes, put me in the wrong as usual. Take your boy's part + against me. [He flings himself into the empty chair opposite her]. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. When he does anything right, hes your son. When he does + anything wrong hes mine. Have you any news of him? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Ive a good mind not to tell you. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. Thats a comfort, at all + events. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at the bottom of the river + for all you care. [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and paces the + room distractedly]. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Then what have you got in your hand? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. From New York. Dropping + us. Cutting us. [Turning fiercely on her] Thats a nice thing, isnt it? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. What for? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [flinging away towards his chair] How do <i>I</i> know what for? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. What does he say? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles] This is + what he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The news about Bobby had to follow me + across the Atlantic: it did not reach me until to-day. I am afraid he is + incorrigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels that this last + escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think, myself, that Bobby ought + to be made to feel that such scrapes involve a certain degree of + reprobation." "As you may imagine"! And we know no more about it than the + babe unborn. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. What else does he say? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. "I think my brother must have been just a little to blame himself; + so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressive formality, forgive + Bobby later on; but for the present I think it had better be understood + that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer on visiting terms. As + ever, yours sincerely." [His agitation masters him again] Thats a nice + slap in the face to get from a man in his position! This is what your son + has brought on me. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Well, I think it's rather a nice letter. He as good as tells + you hes only letting on to be offended for Bobby's good. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Oh, very well: have the letter framed and hang it up over the + mantelpiece as a testimonial. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Dont talk nonsense, Rob. You ought to be thankful to know that + the boy is alive after his disappearing like that for nearly a week. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Nearly a week! A fortnight, you mean. Wheres your feelings, woman? + It was fourteen days yesterday. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if the boy was in + prison. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. How do you know hes not in prison? It's got on my nerves so, that + I'd believe even that. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Dont talk silly, Rob. Bobby might get into a scrape like any + other lad; but he'd never do anything low. + </p> + <p> + <i>Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver. He is a rather + low-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good appearance and address, + and iron self-command.</i> + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey] Lady wishes to see Mr + Bobby's parents, sir. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [pointing to Mrs Gilbey] Theres Mr Bobby's parent. I disown him. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey]. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. You mustnt mind what your master says, Juggins: he doesnt mean + it. [She takes the card and reads it]. Well, I never! + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Whats up now? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [reading] "Miss D. Delaney. Darling Dora." Just like that—in + brackets. What sort of person, Juggins? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Whats her address? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. The West Circular Road. Is that a respectable address, + Juggins? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. A great many most respectable people live in the West Circular + Road, madam; but the address is not a guarantee of respectability. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. So it's come to that with him, has it? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Dont jump to conclusions, Rob. How do you know? [To Juggins] + Is she a lady, Juggins? You know what I mean. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. In the sense in which you are using the word, no, madam. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. I'd better try what I can get out of her. [To Juggins] Shew + her up. You dont mind, do you, Rob? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. So long as you dont flounce out and leave me alone with her. [He + rises and plants himself on the hearth-rug]. + </p> + <p> + <i>Juggins goes out.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. I wonder what she wants, Rob? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. If she wants money, she shant have it. Not a farthing. A nice + thing, everybody seeing her on our doorstep! If it wasnt that she may tell + us something about the lad, I'd have Juggins put the hussy into the + street. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [returning and announcing] Miss Delaney. [He waits for express + orders before placing a chair for this visitor]. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss Delaney comes in. She is a young lady of hilarious disposition, + very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes. She is so affable and + confidential that it is very difficult to keep her at a distance by any + process short of flinging her out of the house.</i> + </p> + <p> + DORA. [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into the middle of + the room] How d'ye do, both. I'm a friend of Bobby's. He told me all about + you once, in a moment of confidence. Of course he never let on who he was + at the police court. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Police court! + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [looking apprehensively at Juggins] Tch—! Juggins: a + chair. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, Ive let it out, have I! [Contemplating Juggins approvingly as he + places a chair for her between the table and the sideboard] But hes the + right sort: I can see that. [Buttonholing him] You wont let on downstairs, + old man, will you? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. The family can rely on my absolute discretion. [He withdraws]. + </p> + <p> + DORA. [sitting down genteelly] I dont know what youll say to me: you know + I really have no right to come here; but then what was I to do? You know + Holy Joe, Bobby's tutor, dont you? But of course you do. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [with dignity] I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the brother of Monsignor + Grenfell, if it is of him you are speaking. + </p> + <p> + DORA. [wide-eyed and much amused] No!!! You dont tell me that old geezer + has a brother a Monsignor! And youre Catholics! And I never knew it, + though Ive known Bobby ever so long! But of course the last thing you find + out about a person is their religion, isnt it? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. We're not Catholics. But when the Samuelses got an + Archdeacon's son to form their boy's mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobby ought + to have a chance too. And the Monsignor is a customer. Mr Gilbey consulted + him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother of his that was more sinned + against than sinning. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [on tenderhooks] She dont want to hear about that, Maria. [To + Dora] Whats your business? + </p> + <p> + DORA. I'm afraid it was all my fault. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. What was all your fault? I'm half distracted. I dont know what has + happened to the boy: hes been lost these fourteen days— + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. A fortnight, Rob. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. —and not a word have we heard of him since. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Dont fuss, Rob. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [yelling] I will fuss. Youve no feeling. You dont care what + becomes of the lad. [He sits down savagely]. + </p> + <p> + DORA. [soothingly] Youve been anxious about him. Of course. How + thoughtless of me not to begin by telling you hes quite safe. Indeed hes + in the safest place in the world, as one may say: safe under lock and key. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [horrified, pitiable] Oh my— [his breath fails him]. Do you + mean that when he was in the police court he was in the dock? Oh, Maria! + Oh, great Lord! What has he done? What has he got for it? [Desperate] Will + you tell me or will you see me go mad on my own carpet? + </p> + <p> + DORA. [sweetly] Yes, old dear— + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [starting at the familiarity] Well! + </p> + <p> + DORA. [continuing] I'll tell you: but dont you worry: hes all right. I + came out myself this morning: there was such a crowd! and a band! they + thought I was a suffragette: only fancy! You see it was like this. Holy + Joe got talking about how he'd been a champion sprinter at college. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. A what? + </p> + <p> + DORA. A sprinter. He said he was the fastest hundred yards runner in + England. We were all in the old cowshed that night. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. What old cowshed? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [groaning] Oh, get on. Get on. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, of course you wouldnt know. How silly of me! It's a rather + go-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney. We call it the old cowshed. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music halls? + </p> + <p> + DORA. No. Bobby takes him. But Holy Joe likes it: fairly laps it up like a + kitten, poor old dear. Well, Bobby says to me, "Darling—" + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [placidly] Why does he call you Darling? + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, everybody calls me Darling: it's a sort of name Ive got. Darling + Dora, you know. Well, he says, "Darling, if you can get Holy Joe to sprint + a hundred yards, I'll stand you that squiffer with the gold keys." + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face [Gilbey clutches + at his hair in his impatience]. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, what would he call him? After all, Holy Joe is Holy Joe; and + boys will be boys. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Whats a squiffer? + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, of course: excuse my vulgarity: a concertina. Theres one in a + shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, with gold keys and Russia leather + bellows; and Bobby knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt afford it, + poor lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Maria: if you keep interrupting with silly questions, I shall go + out of my senses. Heres the boy in gaol and me disgraced for ever; and all + you care to know is what a squiffer is. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, remember it has gold keys. The man wouldnt take a penny less + than 15 pounds for it. It was a presentation one. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [shouting at her] Wheres my son? Whats happened to my son? Will + you tell me that, and stop cackling about your squiffer? + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, aint we impatient! Well, it does you credit, old dear. And you + neednt fuss: theres no disgrace. Bobby behaved like a perfect gentleman. + Besides, it was all my fault. I'll own it: I took too much champagne. I + was not what you might call drunk; but I was bright, and a little beyond + myself; and—I'll confess it—I wanted to shew off before Bobby, + because he was a bit taken by a woman on the stage; and she was pretending + to be game for anything. You see youve brought Bobby up too strict; and + when he gets loose theres no holding him. He does enjoy life more than any + lad I ever met. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Never you mind how hes been brought up: thats my business. Tell me + how hes been brought down: thats yours. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob. + </p> + <p> + DORA. I'm coming to it, old dear: dont you be so headstrong. Well, it was + a beautiful moonlight night; and we couldnt get a cab on the nod; so we + started to walk, very jolly, you know: arm in arm, and dancing along, + singing and all that. When we came into Jamaica Square, there was a young + copper on point duty at the corner. I says to Bob: "Dearie boy: is it a + bargain about the squiffer if I make Joe sprint for you?" "Anything you + like, darling," says he: "I love you." I put on my best company manners + and stepped up to the copper. "If you please, sir," says I, "can you + direct me to Carrickmines Square?" I was so genteel, and talked so sweet, + that he fell to it like a bird. "I never heard of any such Square in these + parts," he says. "Then," says I, "what a very silly little officer you + must be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that knocked it over his + eyes, and did a bunk. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Did a what? + </p> + <p> + DORA. A bunk. Holy Joe did one too all right: he sprinted faster than he + ever did in college, I bet, the old dear. He got clean off, too. Just as + he was overtaking me half-way down the square, we heard the whistle; and + at the sound of it he drew away like a streak of lightning; and that was + the last I saw of him. I was copped in the Dock Road myself: rotten luck, + wasn't it? I tried the innocent and genteel and all the rest; but Bobby's + hat done me in. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. And what happened to the boy? + </p> + <p> + DORA. Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper! He thought the copper + would see the joke, poor lamb. He was arguing about it when the two that + took me came along to find out what the whistle was for, and brought me + with them. Of course I swore I'd never seen him before in my life; but + there he was in my hat and I in his. The cops were very spiteful and laid + it on for all they were worth: drunk and disorderly and assaulting the + police and all that. I got fourteen days without the option, because you + see—well, the fact is, I'd done it before, and been warned. Bobby + was a first offender and had the option; but the dear boy had no money + left and wouldnt give you away by telling his name; and anyhow he couldnt + have brought himself to buy himself off and leave me there; so hes doing + his time. Well, it was two forty shillingses; and Ive only twenty-eight + shillings in the world. If I pawn my clothes I shant be able to earn any + more. So I cant pay the fine and get him out; but if youll stand 3 pounds + I'll stand one; and thatll do it. If youd like to be very kind and nice + you could pay the lot; but I cant deny that it was my fault; so I wont + press you. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [heart-broken] My son in gaol! + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, cheer up, old dear: it wont hurt him: look at me after fourteen + days of it; I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet. You mustnt let + it prey on your mind. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. The disgrace of it will kill me. And it will leave a mark on him + to the end of his life. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Not a bit of it. Dont you be afraid: Ive educated Bobby a bit: hes + not the mollycoddle he was when you had him in hand. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle. They wanted him to go in + for singlestick at the Young Men's Christian Association; but, of course, + I couldnt allow that: he might have had his eye knocked out. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [to Dora, angrily] Listen here, you. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, aint we cross! + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. I want none of your gaiety here. This is a respectable household. + Youve gone and got my poor innocent boy into trouble. It's the like of you + thats the ruin of the like of him. + </p> + <p> + DORA. So you always say, you old dears. But you know better. Bobby came to + me: I didnt come to him. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Would he have gone if you hadnt been there for him to go to? Tell + me that. You know why he went to you, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + DORA. [charitably] It was dull for him at home, poor lad, wasnt it? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Oh no. I'm at home on first Thursdays. And we have the Knoxes + to dinner every Friday. Margaret Knox and Bobby are as good as engaged. Mr + Knox is my husband's partner. Mrs Knox is very religious; but shes quite + cheerful. We dine with them on Tuesdays. So thats two evenings pleasure + every week. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [almost in tears] We done what we could for the boy. Short of + letting him go into temptations of all sorts, he can do what he likes. + What more does he want? + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, old dear, he wants me; and thats about the long and short of + it. And I must say youre not very nice to me about it. Ive talked to him + like a mother, and tried my best to keep him straight; but I dont deny I + like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit giddy when we're + lighthearted. Him and me is a pair, I'm afraid. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Dont talk foolishness, girl. How could you and he be a pair, you + being what you are, and he brought up as he has been, with the example of + a religious woman like Mrs Knox before his eyes? I cant understand how he + could bring himself to be seen in the street with you. [Pitying himself] I + havnt deserved this. Ive done my duty as a father. Ive kept him sheltered. + [Angry with her] Creatures like you that take advantage of a child's + innocence ought to be whipped through the streets. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady to lose my temper; + and I dont think Bobby would like me to tell you what I think of you; for + when I start giving people a bit of my mind I sometimes use language thats + beneath me. But I tell you once for all I must have the money to get Bobby + out; and if you wont fork out, I'll hunt up Holy Joe. He might get it off + his brother, the Monsignor. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. You mind your own concerns. My solicitor will do what is right. + I'll not have you paying my son's fine as if you were anything to him. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Thats right. Youll get him out today, wont you? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it? + </p> + <p> + DORA. I'd like to know when theyll let him out. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. You would, would you? Youre going to meet him at the prison door. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of a + lady? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [bitterly] Oh yes: I know. Here! I must buy the lad's salvation, I + suppose. How much will you take to clear out and let him go? + </p> + <p> + DORA. [pitying him: quite nice about it] What good would that do, old + dear? There are others, you know. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Thats true. I must send the boy himself away. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Where to? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your like. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old dear. + I'm sorry for you: I really am, though you mightnt believe it; and I think + your feelings do you real credit. But I cant give him up just to let him + fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [beside himself, rising] Wheres the police? Wheres the Government? + Wheres the Church? Wheres respectability and right reason? Whats the good + of them if I have to stand here and see you put my son in your pocket as + if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly out of gaol as a common drunk + and disorderly? Whats the world coming to? + </p> + <p> + DORA. It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr Gilbey rushes from the room, distracted.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [unruffled] Where did you buy that white lace? I want some to + match a collaret of my own; and I cant get it at Perry and John's. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Knagg and Pantle's: one and fourpence. It's machine hand-made. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. I never give more than one and tuppence. But I suppose youre + extravagant by nature. My sister Martha was just like that. Pay anything + she was asked. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Whats tuppence to you, Mrs Bobby, after all? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [correcting her] Mrs Gilbey. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Of course, Mrs Gilbey. I am silly. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Bobby must have looked funny in your hat. Why did you change + hats with him? + </p> + <p> + DORA. I dont know. One does, you know. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. I never did. The things people do! I cant understand them. + Bobby never told me he was keeping company with you. His own mother! + </p> + <p> + DORA. [overcome] Excuse me: I cant help smiling. + </p> + <p> + <i>Juggins enters.</i> + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, madam. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Have you ever been in a police court, Juggins? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, madam. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY [rather shocked] I hope you had not been exceeding, Juggins. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, madam, I had. I exceeded the legal limit. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Oh, that! Why do they give a woman a fortnight for wearing a + man's hat, and a man a month for wearing hers? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I didnt know that they did, madam. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. It doesnt seem justice, does it, Juggins? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. No, madam. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY [to Dora, rising] Well, good-bye. [Shaking her hand] So pleased + to have made your acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + DORA. [standing up] Dont mention it. I'm sure it's most kind of you to + receive me at all. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. I must go off now and order lunch. [She trots to the door]. + What was it you called the concertina? + </p> + <p> + DORA. A squiffer, dear. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [thoughtfully] A squiffer, of course. How funny! [She goes + out]. + </p> + <p> + DORA. [exploding into ecstasies of mirth] Oh my! isnt she an old love? How + do you keep your face straight? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. It is what I am paid for. + </p> + <p> + DORA. [confidentially] Listen here, dear boy. Your name isnt Juggins. + Nobody's name is Juggins. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. My orders are, Miss Delaney, that you are not to be here when Mr + Gilbey returns from Wormwood Scrubbs. + </p> + <p> + DORA. That means telling me to mind my own business, doesnt it? Well, I'm + off. Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling. [She kisses her hand to him and goes]. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> + <p> + <i>On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in her + drawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall. Anyone + placed so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door on the + right and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs Knox, whose + back is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the opposite side of the + room. The sofa is near the piano. There is a small table in the middle of + the room, with some gilt-edged books and albums on it, and chairs near it.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner, + harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a soft stoutish + man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox has coarse black + hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving can whiten. Mrs Knox is + a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion, with thoughtful eyes and + thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere of peace and some solemnity. She + is surprised to see her husband at home during business hours.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. What brings you home at this hour? Have you heard anything? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. No. Have you? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. No. Whats the matter? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [sitting down on the sofa] I believe Gilbey has found out. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. What makes you think that? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Well, I dont know: I didnt like to tell you: you have enough to + worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever since it + happened. I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I was depending + on him. But hes worse than me. Hes not looking after anything; and he + keeps out of my way. His manner's not natural. He hasnt asked us to + dinner; and hes never said a word about our not asking him to dinner, + after all these years when weve dined every week as regular as clockwork. + It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop me socially. Well, why should + he do that if he hasnt heard? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I wonder! Bobby hasnt been near us either: thats what I cant + make out. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Oh, thats nothing. I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall with her + aunt. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Jo! [She takes her handkerchief from the + writing-table and cries a little]. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Well, I got to tell lies, aint I? You wont. Somebody's got to tell + em. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [putting away her handkerchief] It only ends in our not knowing + what to believe. Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton for the sea air. + Theres something queer about that. Gilbey would never let the boy loose by + himself among the temptations of a gay place like Brighton without his + tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington High Street the very day she told + me. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby and + Margaret, and all over between us and them. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. It's all over between us and everybody. When a girl runs away + from home like that, people know what to think of her and her parents. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. She had a happy, respectable home—everything— + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [interrupting him] Theres no use going over it all again, Jo. If + a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy anywhere. Youd better + go back to the shop and try to keep your mind off it. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [rising restlessly] I cant. I keep fancying everybody knows it and + is sniggering about it. I'm at peace nowhere but here. It's a comfort to + be with you. It's a torment to be with other people. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [going to him and drawing her arm through his] There, Jo, there! + I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could. But it cant be. God's work + must go on from day to day, no matter what comes. We must face our trouble + and bear it. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [wandering to the window arm in arm with her] Just look at the + people in the street, going up and down as if nothing had happened. It + seems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking up + at us. You shouldnt keep thinking about it. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. I know I shouldnt. You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm sure I'm + glad it comforts you. But it doesnt come to me that way. Ive worked hard + to get a position and be respectable. Ive turned many a girl out of the + shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres my own daughter gone + for a fortnight without word or sign, except a telegram to say shes not + dead and that we're not to worry about her. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [suddenly pointing to the street] Jo, look! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Margaret! With a man! + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Run down, Jo, quick. Catch her: save her. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [lingering] Shes shaking bands with him: shes coming across to the + door. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [energetically] Do as I tell you. Catch the man before hes out + of sight. + </p> + <p> + <i>Knox rushes from the room. Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly from + the window. Then she throws up the sash and leans out. Margaret Knox comes + in, flustered and annoyed. She is a strong, springy girl of eighteen, with + large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily resolute manner, even + peremptory on occasions like the present, when she is annoyed.</i> + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Mother. Mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [sternly] Well, miss? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene in the + street. He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away my + daughter" loud enough for all the people to hear. Everybody stopped. We + shall have a crowd round the house. Do do something to stop him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer.</i> + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry—so ashamed. Mother: + this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me. Monsieur + Duvallet: my mother. [Duvallet bows]. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. A Frenchman! It only needed this. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [much annoyed] Father: do please be commonly civil to a + gentleman who has been of the greatest service to me. What will he think + of us? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. [debonair] But it's very natural. I understand Mr Knox's + feelings perfectly. [He speaks English better than Knox, having learnt it + on both sides of the Atlantic]. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize. But I want to know + where my daughter has been for the last fortnight. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Will you tell me what place? I can judge for myself how safe it was. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Holloway Gaol. Was that safe enough? + </p> + <p> + KNOX AND MRS KNOX. Holloway Gaol! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Youve joined the Suffragets! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. No. I wish I had. I could have had the same experience in better + company. Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet. [She sits between the table + and the sofa. Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the other side of the table. + Knox remains standing in the middle of the room]. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. [sitting down on the sofa] It was nothing. An adventure. + Nothing. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [obdurately] Drunk and assaulting the police! Forty shillings or + a month! + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Margaret! Who accused you of such a thing? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. The policeman I assaulted. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. You mean to say that you did it! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I did. I had that satisfaction at all events. I knocked two of + his teeth out. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. And you sit there coolly and tell me this! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Well, where do you want me to sit? Whats the use of saying + things like that? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. My daughter in Holloway Gaol! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters. Really, + father, you must make up your mind to it. If you had sat in that cell for + fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would understand that I'm not + in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying to persuade yourself that + it cant be real. These things really do happen to real people every day; + and you read about them in the papers and think it's all right. Well, + theyve happened to me: thats all. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [feeble-forcible] But they shouldnt have happened to you. Dont you + know that? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose. But they do. [Rising + impatiently] And really I'd rather go out and assault another policeman + and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and round it like this. If + youre going to turn me out of the house, turn me out: the sooner I go the + better. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. [rising quickly] That is impossible, mademoiselle. Your father + has his position to consider. To turn his daughter out of doors would ruin + him socially. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Oh, youve put her up to that, have you? And where did you come in, + may I ask? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. I came in at your invitation—at your amiable insistence, + in fact, not at my own. But you need have no anxiety on my account. I was + concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your daughter's + incarceration. I got a fortnight without the option of a fine on the + ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the policeman with my fist. + I should have done so with pleasure had I known; but, as it was, I struck + him on the ear with my boot—a magnificent <i>moulinet</i>, I must + say—and was informed that I had been guilty of an act of cowardice, + but that for the sake of the <i>entente cordiale</i> I should be dealt + with leniently. Yet Miss Knox, who used her fist, got a month, but with + the option of a fine. I did not know this until I was released, when my + first act was to pay the fine. And here we are. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [reddening] Oh, certainly. [He takes out some money]. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Oh please! it does not matter. [Knox hands him two sovereigns]. + If you insist— [he pockets them] Thank you. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you dont + mind. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Perfectly. Madame [bow]—Mademoiselle [bow]—Monsieur + [bow]—[He goes out]. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Dont ring, Jo. See the gentleman out yourself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Knox hastily sees Duvallet out. Mother and daughter sit looking + forlornly at one another without saying a word. Mrs Knox slowly sits down. + Margaret follows her example. They look at one another again. Mr Knox + returns.</i> + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [shortly and sternly] Amelia: this is your job. [To Margaret] I + leave you to your mother. I shall have my own say in the matter when I + hear what you have to say to her. [He goes out, solemn and offended]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [with a bitter little laugh] Just what the Suffraget said to me + in Holloway. He throws the job on you. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Margaret! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You know it's true. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Margaret: if youre going to be hardened about it, theres no use + my saying anything. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I'm not hardened, mother. But I cant talk nonsense about it. You + see, it's all real to me. Ive suffered it. Ive been shoved and bullied. + Ive had my arms twisted. Ive been made scream with pain in other ways. Ive + been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other poor wretches as if I + were a sack of coals being emptied into a cellar. And the only difference + between me and the others was that I hit back. Yes I did. And I did worse. + I wasnt ladylike. I cursed. I called names. I heard words that I didnt + even know that I knew, coming out of my mouth just as if somebody else had + spoken them. The policeman repeated them in court. The magistrate said he + could hardly believe it. The policeman held out his hand with his two + teeth in it that I knocked out. I said it was all right; that I had heard + myself using those words quite distinctly; and that I had taken the good + conduct prize for three years running at school. The poor old gentleman + put me back for the missionary to find out who I was, and to ascertain the + state of my mind. I wouldnt tell, of course, for your sakes at home here; + and I wouldnt say I was sorry, or apologize to the policeman, or + compensate him or anything of that sort. I wasnt sorry. The one thing that + gave me any satisfaction was getting in that smack on his mouth; and I + said so. So the missionary reported that I seemed hardened and that no + doubt I would tell who I was after a day in prison. Then I was sentenced. + So now you see I'm not a bit the sort of girl you thought me. I'm not a + bit the sort of girl I thought myself. And I dont know what sort of person + you really are, or what sort of person father really is. I wonder what he + would say or do if he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm + with one hand and rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the + other. He couldnt whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down + by a glorious kick on the helmet. Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought + we'd have beaten them. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. But how did it all begin? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh, I dont know. It was boat-race night, they said. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Boat-race night! But what had you to do with the boat race? You + went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall with your aunt. + She put you into the bus that passes the door. What made you get out of + the bus? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I dont know. The meeting got on my nerves, somehow. It was the + singing, I suppose: you know I love singing a good swinging hymn; and I + felt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had been singing so + wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to heaven. I wanted more + music—more happiness—more life. I wanted some comrade who felt + as I did. I felt exalted: it seemed mean to be afraid of anything: after + all, what could anyone do to me against my will? I suppose I was a little + mad: at all events, I got out of the bus at Piccadilly Circus, because + there was a lot of light and excitement there. I walked to Leicester + Square; and went into a great theatre. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [horrified] A theatre! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes. Lots of other women were going in alone. I had to pay five + shillings. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [aghast] Five shillings! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [apologetically] It was a lot. It was very stuffy; and I didnt + like the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying themselves; + but the stage was splendid and the music lovely. I saw that Frenchman, + Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking a cigarette. He + seemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike. I went and stood + beside him, hoping he would speak to me. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [gasps] Margaret! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [continuing] He did, just as if he had known me for years. We + got on together like old friends. He asked me would I have some champagne; + and I said it would cost too much, but that I would give anything for a + dance. I longed to join the people on the stage and dance with them: one + of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever saw. He told me he had come + there to see her, and that when it was over we could go somewhere where + there was dancing. So we went to a place where there was a band in a + gallery and the floor cleared for dancing. Very few people danced: the + women only wanted to shew off their dresses; but we danced and danced + until a lot of them joined in. We got quite reckless; and we had champagne + after all. I never enjoyed anything so much. But at last it got spoilt by + the Oxford and Cambridge students up for the boat race. They got drunk; + and they began to smash things; and the police came in. Then it was quite + horrible. The students fought with the police; and the police suddenly got + quite brutal, and began to throw everybody downstairs. They attacked the + women, who were not doing anything, and treated them just as roughly as + they had treated the students. Duvallet got indignant and remonstrated + with a policeman, who was shoving a woman though she was going quietly as + fast as she could. The policeman flung the woman through the door and then + turned on Duvallet. It was then that Duvallet swung his leg like a + windmill and knocked the policeman down. And then three policemen rushed + at him and carried him out by the arms and legs face downwards. Two more + attacked me and gave me a shove to the door. That quite maddened me. I + just got in one good bang on the mouth of one of them. All the rest was + dreadful. I was rushed through the streets to the police station. They + kicked me with their knees; they twisted my arms; they taunted and + insulted me; they called me vile names; and I told them what I thought of + them, and provoked them to do their worst. Theres one good thing about + being hard hurt: it makes you sleep. I slept in that filthy cell with all + the other drunks sounder than I should have slept at home. I cant describe + how I felt next morning: it was hideous; but the police were quite jolly; + and everybody said it was a bit of English fun, and talked about last + year's boat-race night when it had been a great deal worse. I was black + and blue and sick and wretched. But the strange thing was that I wasnt + sorry; and I'm not sorry. And I dont feel that I did anything wrong, + really. [She rises and stretches her arms with a large liberating breath] + Now that it's all over I'm rather proud of it; though I know now that I'm + not a lady; but whether thats because we're only shopkeepers, or because + nobody's really a lady except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont + know. [She throws herself into a corner of the sofa]. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [lost in wonder] But how could you bring yourself to do it, + Margaret? I'm not blaming you: I only want to know. How could you bring + yourself to do it? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I cant tell you. I dont understand it myself. The prayer meeting + set me free, somehow. I should never have done it if it were not for the + prayer meeting. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [deeply horrified] Oh, dont say such a thing as that. I know + that prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me when I + told you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set free + for evil as well as good. As father says, you cant have anything both ways + at once. When I was at home and at school I was what you call good; but I + wasnt free. And when I got free I was what most people would call not + good. But I see no harm in what I did; though I see plenty in what other + people did to me. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh no. [She sits down again at the table]. I'm a heroine of + reality, if you can call me a heroine at all. And reality is pretty + brutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it. Yet it's glorious + all the same. It's so real and satisfactory. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret. I dont like your + talking to me in that tone. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. It's no use, mother. I dont care for you and Papa any the less; + but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again. Ive made a + sort of descent into hell— + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Margaret! Such a word! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You should have heard all the words that were flying round that + night. You should mix a little with people who dont know any other words. + But when I said that about a descent into hell I was not swearing. I was + in earnest, like a preacher. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I know: the tone that shews they dont mean anything real to him. + They usent to mean anything real to me. Now hell is as real to me as a + turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that. Anyhow, Ive + been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth doing but + redeeming people from it. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it? You + dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist their + arms. Whats the good of pretending? Thats all our respectability is, + pretending, pretending, pretending. Thank heaven Ive had it knocked out of + me once for all! + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [greatly agitated] Margaret: dont talk like that. I cant bear to + hear you talking wickedly. I can bear to hear the children of this world + talking vainly and foolishly in the language of this world. But when I + hear you justifying your wickedness in the words of grace, it's too + horrible: it sounds like the devil making fun of religion. Ive tried to + bring you up to learn the happiness of religion. Ive waited for you to + find out that happiness is within ourselves and doesnt come from outward + pleasures. Ive prayed oftener than you think that you might be + enlightened. But if all my hopes and all my prayers are to come to this, + that you mix up my very words and thoughts with the promptings of the + devil, then I dont know what I shall do: I dont indeed: itll kill me. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you didnt + want me to be enlightened. If the truth were known, I suspect we all want + our prayers to be answered only by halves: the agreeable halves. Your + prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother. Youve got more than you + bargained for in the way of enlightenment. I shall never be the same + again. I shall never speak in the old way again. Ive been set free from + this silly little hole of a house and all its pretences. I know now that I + am stronger than you and Papa. I havnt found that happiness of yours that + is within yourself; but Ive found strength. For good or evil I am set + free; and none of the things that used to hold me can hold me now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense.</i> + </p> + <p> + KNOX. How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia? Do you think + I'm made of iron? Whats the girl done? What are we going to do? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours. I cant even pray + for her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Dont talk nonsense, woman: is this a time for praying? Does anybody + know? Thats what we have to consider now. If only we can keep it dark, I + don't care for anything else. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Dont hope for that, father. Mind: I'll tell everybody. It ought + to be told. It must be told. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house this + instant. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I'm quite ready. [She takes her hat and turns to the door]. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [throwing himself in front of it] Here! where are you going? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [rising] You mustnt turn her out, Jo! I'll go with her if she + goes. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Who wants to turn her out? But is she going to ruin us? To let + everybody know of her disgrace and shame? To tear me down from the + position Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard struggling? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes: I'm going to tear it all down. It stands between us and + everything. I'll tell everybody. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Magsy, my child: dont bring down your father's hairs with sorrow to + the grave. Theres only one thing I care about in the world: to keep this + dark. I'm your father. I ask you here on my knees—in the dust, so to + speak—not to let it out. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I'll tell everybody. + </p> + <p> + <i>Knox collapses in despair. Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot. Margaret + stands inflexible.</i> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + <i>Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table is not laid: it + is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an exercise-book, and + school-books on it. Bobby Gilbey is in the arm-chair, crouching over the + fire, reading an illustrated paper. He is a pretty youth, of very suburban + gentility, strong and manly enough by nature, but untrained and + unsatisfactory, his parents having imagined that domestic restriction is + what they call "bringing up." He has learnt nothing from it except a habit + of evading it by deceit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins answers + the bell.</i> + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Juggins. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Sir? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed! + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [cheerfully] Not at all, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you sir; and + as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. No, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Ive been talking to Dora about you. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Indeed, sir? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have the + manners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadnt any manners. Anyhow, + your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in my set. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. They would be, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of Dora's + notion, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. No, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over the arm + of the chair so as to turn towards the footman] It was part of your + bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an engagement to + a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise or behaving like a + regular cad? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. No, sir. You cant get out of an engagement without behaving like + a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dont really + care for her. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Women dont always marry for happiness, sir. They often marry + because they wish to be married women and not old maids. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Then what am I to do? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [Jumping up] Well, I wont marry her: thats flat. What would you do + if you were in my place? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil my + engagement. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. But youd have to make some excuse, you know. I want to give it a + gentlemanly turn: to say I'm not worthy of her, or something like that. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite the contrary. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I dont see that at all. Do you mean that it's not exactly true? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Not at all, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been. That + would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather + exceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can ever + be of anyone else. You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of a girl's + feelings. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her. If you + hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get credit for + considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare them. She wont + like it. And it will start an argument, of which you will get the worse. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Probably she never supposed you were, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [preparing to go] Anything else, sir? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [querulously] You havnt been much use. [He wanders disconsolately + across the room]. You generally put me up to the correct way of doing + things. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting. It's not + correct in itself. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [hopefully] I'll tell you what. I'll say I cant hold her to an + engagement with a man whos been in quod. Thatll do it. [He seats himself + on the table, relieved and confident]. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny herself the romantic + luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the form of doing + something agreeable. Shes almost sure to say that your misfortune will + draw her closer to you. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. What a nuisance! I dont know what to do. You know, Juggins, your + cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark Hill. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I daresay not, sir. No doubt youd prefer to make it look like an + act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke her to break + the engagement herself. Both plans have been tried repeatedly, but never + with success, as far as my knowledge goes. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law. You know, in + my class you have to wrap up things a bit. Denmark Hill isn't Camberwell, + you know. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the higher you + go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and that only + tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere. Thats a mistake. Tramps are often + shameless; but theyre never sincere. Swells—if I may use that + convenient name for the upper classes—play much more with their + cards on the table. If you tell the young lady that you want to jilt her, + and she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction may leave much to be + desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if you say youre not worthy. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins. The girl isnt a + scullery-maid. I want to do it delicately. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in that + line.—Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell. [He goes out]. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes off + the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes + reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. Juggins returns.</i> + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [announcing] Miss Knox. + </p> + <p> + <i>Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws.</i> + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination, Bobby? + Youll never pass. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [rising] No: I was just writing to you. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. What about? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Oh, nothing. At least— How are you? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [passing round the other end of the table and putting down on it + a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag] Quite well, thank you. How did + you enjoy Brighton? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Brighton! I wasnt at— Oh yes, of course. Oh, pretty well. Is + your aunt all right? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. My aunt! I suppose so. I havent seen her for a month. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I thought you were down staying with her. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh! was that what they told you? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Yes. Why? Werent you really? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. No. Ive something to tell you. Sit down and lets be comfortable. + </p> + <p> + <i>She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and puts his arm + wearily round her waist.</i> + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby. Suppose we get off + duty for the day, just to see what it's like. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Off duty? What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You know very well what I mean. Bobby: did you ever care one + little scrap for me in that sort of way? Dont funk answering: <i>I</i> + dont care a bit for you—that way. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your pardon, I'm sure. I + thought you did. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Well, did you? Come! Dont be mean. Ive owned up. You can put it + all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more than I do. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Well, it's not that I dont care for you: in fact, no girl can ever + be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much together + that it feels more like brother and sister than—well, than the other + thing, doesnt it? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Just so. How did you find out the difference? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [blushing] Oh, I say! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I found out from a Frenchman. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his consternation]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? You know you must have + learnt it from somebody. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Not a Frenchwoman. Shes quite a nice woman. But shes been rather + unfortunate. The daughter of a clergyman. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [startled] Oh, Bobby! That sort of woman! + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. What sort of woman? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do you, you + silly boy? It's a stock joke. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Do you mean to say you dont believe me? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. No: I mean to say I dont believe her. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table beside + her]. What do you know about her? What do you know about all this sort of + thing? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. What sort of thing, Bobby? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Well, about life. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasnt at my aunt's. All + that time that you were in Brighton, I mean. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better tell you: youre bound to find + out sooner or later. [He begins his confession humbly, avoiding her gaze]. + Meg: it's rather awful: youll think me no end of a beast. Ive been in + prison. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You! + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Do you mean to say that you—oh! this is a let-down for me. + [She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the end + of it furthest from the hearth]. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that. I was + writing to you to break it off. [He also descends from the table and makes + slowly for the hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and assaulting + the police? How long were you in? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. A fortnight. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Thats what I was in for. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. What are you talking about? In where? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. In quod. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. But I'm serious: I'm not rotting. Really and truly— + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. What did you do to the copper? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated grossly. I only laughed + at him. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [jumping up, triumphant] Ive beaten you hollow. I knocked out + two of his teeth. Ive got one of them. He sold it to me for ten shillings. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you I'm not rotting. [He + sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him] And I + tell you I'm not either. Look! Heres a report of it. The daily papers are + no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid. [She sits on the arm of the + chair]. See! [Reading]: "Hardened at Eighteen. A quietly dressed, + respectable-looking girl who refuses her name"—thats me. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [pausing a moment in his perusal] Do you mean to say that you went + on the loose out of pure devilment? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I did no harm. I went to see a lovely dance. I picked up a nice + man and went to have a dance myself. I cant imagine anything more innocent + and more happy. All the bad part was done by other people: they did it out + of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here we are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, + disgraced forever. Isnt it a relief? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [rising stiffly] But you know, it's not the same for a girl. A man + may do things a woman maynt. [He stands on the hearthrug with his back to + the fire]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Are you scandalized, Bobby? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg? I never + thought you were that sort of girl. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [rising indignantly] I'm not. You mustnt pretend to think that + <i>I</i>'m a clergyman's daughter, Bobby. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I wish you wouldnt chaff about that. Dont forget the row you got + into for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back on him + quickly]—a footman! And what about the Frenchman? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [facing him again] I know nothing about the Frenchman except + that hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like the hand of a + clock and knock a policeman down with it. He was in Wormwood Scrubbs with + you. I was in Holloway. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit + thick, you know. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [hastily] No. I never said that. It might even give a woman a + greater claim on a man. Any girl, if she were thoughtless and a bit on, + perhaps, might get into a scrape. Anyone who really understood her + character could see there was no harm in it. But youre not the larky sort. + At least you usent to be. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I'm not; and I never will be. [She walks straight up to him]. I + didnt do it for a lark, Bob: I did it out of the very depths of my nature. + I did it because I'm that sort of person. I did it in one of my religious + fits. I'm hardened at eighteen, as they say. So what about the match, now? + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg. Of course it + would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or anything of that + sort. I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and I dont pretend to. I + can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as long as it is understood + that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go on the loose on principle; to + talk about religion in connection with it; to—to—well, Meg, I + do find that a bit thick, I must say. I hope youre not in earnest when you + talk that way. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Bobby: youre no good. No good to me, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [huffed] I'm sorry, Miss Knox. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Goodbye, Mr Gilbey. [She turns on her heel and goes to the other + end of the table]. I suppose you wont introduce me to the clergyman's + daughter. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I dont think she'd like it. There are limits, after all. [He sits + down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books: a hint to her to + go]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [on her way to the door] Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell Juggins + to shew me out. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [reddening] I'm not a cad, Meg. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [coming to the table] Then do something nice to prevent us + feeling mean about this afterwards. Youd better kiss me. You neednt ever + do it again. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh, it'd be no fun. If I wanted what you call fun, I should ask + the Frenchman to kiss me—or Juggins. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [rising and retreating to the hearth] Oh, dont be disgusting, Meg. + Dont be low. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [determinedly, preparing to use force] Now, I'll make you kiss + me, just to punish you. [She seizes his wrist; pulls him off his balance; + and gets her arm round his neck]. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. No. Stop. Leave go, will you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Juggins appears at the door.</i> + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Miss Delaney, Sir. [Dora comes in. Juggins goes out. Margaret + hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the room.] + </p> + <p> + DORA. [through the door, to the departing Juggins] Well, you are a Juggins + to shew me up when theres company. [To Margaret and Bobby] It's all right, + dear: all right, old man: I'll wait in Juggins's pantry til youre + disengaged. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Dont you know me? + </p> + <p> + DORA. [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very + attentively] Why, it's never No. 406! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Yes it is. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform. How did you + get out? You were doing a month, wernt you? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself. + </p> + <p> + DORA. A real gentleman! [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring open-mouthed] + Look at him. He cant take it in. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg. But when it + comes to talking about blokes and all that—well! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it. It's another barrier + broken down. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. It's not so much the language, Meg. But I think [he looks at Dora + and stops]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [suddenly dangerous] What do you think, Bobby? + </p> + <p> + DORA. He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie. It does him + credit: he always was a gentleman, you know. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Does him credit! To insult you like that! Bobby: say that that + wasnt what you meant. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I didnt say it was. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Well, deny that it was. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. No. I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think it's + not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Of course it isnt, old man. [To Margaret] I'll just trot off and + come back in half an hour. You two can make it up together. I'm really not + fit company for you, dearie: I couldnt live up to you. [She turns to go]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Stop. Do you believe he could live up to me? + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and a + respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself. I + have a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's behaving + like a skunk. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [much ruffled] Nice language that! + </p> + <p> + DORA. Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep up + their respectability. But you cant blame them for that, can you? Ive met + Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead. I wont + pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in countenance. + Well, I shant: not if my whole family were there. But I'll cut him dead if + he doesnt treat you properly. [To Bobby, with a threatening move in his + direction] I'll educate you, you young beast. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [furious, meeting her half way] Who are you calling a young beast? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. You. + </p> + <p> + DORA. [peacemaking] Now, dearies! + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly well clouted. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be the + beginning of a collection. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Now, loveys, be good. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at + Margaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended countenance a + box on the cheek. He hurls himself her. They wrestle.</i> + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Cat! I'll teach you. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Pig! Beast! [She forces him backwards on the table]. Now where + are you? + </p> + <p> + DORA. [calling] Juggins, Juggins. Theyll murder one another. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [throwing open the door, and announcing] Monsieur Duvallet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence. The + combatants separate by the whole width of the room. Juggins withdraws.</i> + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. I fear I derange you. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: Monsieur Duvallet + will think I'm always fighting. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling. Admirable, Miss + Knox. The athletic young Englishwoman is an example to all Europe. + [Indicating Bobby] Your instructor, no doubt. Monsieur— [he bows]. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [bowing awkwardly] How d'y' do? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [to Bobby] I'm so sorry, Bobby: I asked Monsieur Duvallet to + call for me here; and I forgot to tell you. [Introducing] Monsieur + Duvallet: Miss Four hundred and seven. Mr Bobby Gilbey. [Duvallet bows]. I + really dont know how to explain our relationships. Bobby and I are like + brother and sister. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Perfectly. I noticed it. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Bobby and Miss—Miss—— + </p> + <p> + DORA. Delaney, dear. [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to real + friends. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Bobby and Dora are—are—well, not brother and sister. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension] Perfectly. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison. You dont mind, do + you? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. No, naturally. <i>I</i> have spent the last fortnight in prison. + </p> + <p> + <i>The conversation drops. Margaret renews it with an effort.</i> + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement. + </p> + <p> + DORA. <i>Trop merci</i>, as they say in Boulogne. No call to be stiff with + one another, have we? + </p> + <p> + <i>Juggins comes in.</i> + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Beg pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the street. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Let me absquatulate [making for the door]. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step into + my pantry and leave afterwards. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Right oh! [She bursts into song] Hide me in the meat safe til the + cop goes by. Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh. [She goes out + on tiptoe]. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I wont stay here if she has to hide. I'll keep her company in + the pantry. [She follows Dora]. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Lets all go. We cant have any fun with the Mar here. I say, + Juggins: you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Certainly, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Right. Say nothing to my mother. You dont mind, Mr. Doovalley, do + you? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. I shall be charmed. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Right you are. Come along. [At the door] Oh, by the way, Juggins, + fetch down that concertina from my room, will you? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him to the door]. You + understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely <i>comme il faut</i>? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Perfectly. But the other? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately described + in your native idiom as a daughter of joy. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. It is what I thought. These English domestic interiors are very + interesting. [He goes out, followed by Juggins]. + </p> + <p> + <i>Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in. They take their accustomed places: + he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. No, I didnt. And I dont want to smell it. Dont you go looking for + trouble, Maria. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere] Shes been here. [Gilbey + rings the bell]. What are you ringing for? Are you going to ask? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. No, I'm not going to ask. Juggins said this morning he wanted to + speak to me. If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not going to ask; + and dont you either. [Juggins appears at the door]. You said you wanted to + say something to me. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. When it would be convenient to you, sir. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, what is it? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. He knows that. [He sits down. Then, to Juggins] What is it? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [advancing to the middle of the table] Would it inconvenience + you, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [taken aback] What! Why? Aint you satisfied? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better myself, I assure + you. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, what do you want to leave for, then? Do you want to worse + yourself? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. No, sir. Ive been well treated in your most comfortable + establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbey + were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [paternally] Now you listen to me, Juggins. I'm an older man than + you. Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh. Dont get too big + for your boots. Youre like all servants nowadays: you think youve only to + hold up your finger to get the pick of half a dozen jobs. But you wont be + treated everywhere as youre treated here. In bed every night before + eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on Mrs Gilbey's day once a month; + and no other manservant to interfere with you. It may be a bit quiet + perhaps; but youre past the age of adventure. Take my advice: think over + it. You suit me; and I'm prepared to make it suit you if youre + dissatisfied—in reason, you know. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private reasons— + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug in + dudgeon] Oh, I know. Very well: go. The sooner the better. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Oh, not until we're suited. He must stay his month. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [sarcastic] Do you want to lose him his character, Maria? Do you + think I dont see what it is? We're prison folk now. Weve been in the + police court. [To Juggins] Well, I suppose you know your own business + best. I take your notice: you can go when your month is up, or sooner, if + you like. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Believe me, sir— + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Thats enough: I dont want any excuses. I dont blame you. You can + go downstairs now, if youve nothing else to trouble me about. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I really cant leave it at that, sir. I assure you Ive no + objection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison. You may do six months + yourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me. I'm + leaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement, and + feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets over + it. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend your + savings in comforting him? Have some sense, man: how can you afford such + things? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. My brother can afford to keep me, sir. The truth is, he objects + to my being in service. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him? Dont do it, + Juggins: pay your own way like an honest lad; and dont eat your brother's + bread while youre able to earn your own. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. There is sound sense in that, sir. But unfortunately it is a + tradition in my family that the younger brothers should spunge to a + considerable extent on the eldest. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent one. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Radical! What do you mean? Dont you begin to take liberties, + Juggins, now that you know we're loth to part with you. Your brother isnt + a duke, you know. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Unfortunately, he is, sir. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GILBEY. | What! | + | | <i>together</i> + | | + MRS GILBEY. | Juggins! | +</pre> + <p> + JUGGINS. Excuse me, sir: the bell. [He goes out]. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [overwhelmed] Maria: did you understand him to say his brother was + a duke? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Fancy his condescending! Perhaps if youd offer to raise his + wages and treat him as one of the family, he'd stay. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. And have my own servant above me! Not me. Whats the world coming + to? Heres Bobby and— + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [entering and announcing] Mr and Mrs Knox. + </p> + <p> + <i>The Knoxes come in. Juggins takes two chairs from the wall and places + them at the table, between the host and hostess. Then he withdraws.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [to Mrs Knox] How are you, dear? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Nicely, thank you. Good evening, Mr Gilbey. [They shake hands; + and she takes the chair nearest Mrs Gilbey. Mr Knox takes the other + chair]. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [sitting down] I was just saying, Knox, What is the world coming + to? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [appealing to his wife] What was I saying myself only this morning? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. This is a strange time. I was never one to talk about the end of + the world; but look at the things that have happened! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Earthquakes! + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. San Francisco! + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Jamaica! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Martinique! + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Messina! + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. The plague in China! + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. The floods in France! + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Margaret in Holloway! + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. And now my footman tells me his brother's a duke! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + KNOX. | No! + | + MRS KNOX. | Whats that? +</pre> + <p> + GILBEY. Just before he let you in. A duke! Here has everything been + respectable from the beginning of the world, as you may say, to the + present day; and all of a sudden everything is turned upside down. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. It's like in the book of Revelations. But I do say that unless + people have happiness within themselves, all the earthquakes, all the + floods, and all the prisons in the world cant make them really happy. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. It isnt alone the curious things that are happening, but the + unnatural way people are taking them. Why, theres Margaret been in prison, + and she hasnt time to go to all the invitations shes had from people that + never asked her before. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. I never knew we could live without being respectable. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Oh, Rob, what a thing to say! Who says we're not respectable? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, it's not what I call respectable to have your children in + and out of gaol. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Oh come, Gilbey! we're not tramps because weve had, as it were, an + accident. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. It's no use, Knox: look it in the face. Did I ever tell you my + father drank? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. No. But I knew it. Simmons told me. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Yes: he never could keep his mouth quiet: he told me your aunt was + a kleptomaniac. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. It wasnt true, Mr Gilbey. She used to pick up handkerchiefs if + she saw them lying about; but you might trust her with untold silver. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller. My father used to say to me: Rob, + he says, dont you ever have a weakness. If you find one getting a hold on + you, make a merit of it, he says. Your Uncle Phil doesnt like spirits; and + he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of the Blue Ribbon Committee. I do + like spirits; and I make a merit of it, and I'm the King Cockatoo of the + Convivial Cockatoos. Never put yourself in the wrong, he says. I used to + boast about what a good boy Bobby was. Now I swank about what a dog he is; + and it pleases people just as well. What a world it is! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. It turned my blood cold at first to hear Margaret telling people + about Holloway; but it goes down better than her singing used to. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I never thought she sang right after all those lessons we paid + for. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Lord, Knox, it was lucky you and me got let in together. I tell + you straight, if it hadnt been for Bobby's disgrace, I'd have broke up the + firm. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. I shouldnt have blamed you: I'd have done the same only for + Margaret. Too much straightlacedness narrows a man's mind. Talking of + that, what about those hygienic corset advertisements that Vines & + Jackson want us to put in the window? I told Vines they werent decent and + we couldnt shew them in our shop. I was pretty high with him. But what am + I to say to him now if he comes and throws this business in our teeth? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Oh, put em in. We may as well go it a bit now. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Youve been going it quite far enough, Rob. [To Mrs Knox] He + wont get up in the mornings now: he that was always out of bed at seven to + the tick! + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. You hear that, Jo? [To Mrs Gilbey] Hes taken to whisky and soda. + A pint a week! And the beer the same as before! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Oh, dont preach, old girl. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [To Mrs Gilbey] Thats a new name hes got for me. [to Knox] I + tell you, Jo, this doesnt sit well on you. You may call it preaching if + you like; but it's the truth for all that. I say that if youve happiness + within yourself, you dont need to seek it outside, spending money on drink + and theatres and bad company, and being miserable after all. You can sit + at home and be happy; and you can work and be happy. If you have that in + you, the spirit will set you free to do what you want and guide you to do + right. But if you havent got it, then youd best be respectable and stick + to the ways that are marked out for you; for youve nothing else to keep + you straight. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [angrily] And is a man never to have a bit of fun? See whats come of + it with your daughter! She was to be content with your happiness that + youre always talking about; and how did the spirit guide her? To a month's + hard for being drunk and assaulting the police. Did <i>I</i> ever assault + the police? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. You wouldnt have the courage. I dont blame the girl. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MRS GILBEY. | Oh, Maria! What are you saying? + | + + GILBEY. | What! And you so pious! +</pre> + <p> + MRS KNOX. She went where the spirit guided her. And what harm there was in + it she knew nothing about. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Oh, come, Mrs Knox! Girls are not so innocent as all that. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I dont say she was ignorant. But I do say that she didnt know + what we know: I mean the way certain temptations get a sudden hold that no + goodness nor self-control is any use against. She was saved from that, and + had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no earthly protection that did + that. But dont think, you two men, that youll be protected if you make + what she did an excuse to go and do as youd like to do if it wasnt for + fear of losing your characters. The spirit wont guide you, because it isnt + in you; and it never had been: not in either of you. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [with ironic humility] I'm sure I'm obliged to you for your good + opinion, Mrs Knox. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Well, I will say for you, Mr Gilbey, that youre better than my + man here. Hes a bitter hard heathen, is my Jo, God help me! [She begins to + cry quietly]. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Now, dont take on like that, Amelia. You know I always give in to + you that you were right about religion. But one of us had to think of + other things, or we'd have starved, we and the child. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. How do you know youd have starved? All the other things might + have been added unto you. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Come, Mrs Knox, dont tell me Knox is a sinner. I know better. I'm + sure youd be the first to be sorry if anything was to happen to him. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [bitterly to his wife] Youve always had some grudge against me; and + nobody but yourself can understand what it is. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I wanted a man who had that happiness within himself. You made + me think you had it; but it was nothing but being in love with me. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. And do you blame him for that? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I blame nobody. But let him not think he can walk by his own + light. I tell him that if he gives up being respectable he'll go right + down to the bottom of the hill. He has no powers inside himself to keep + him steady; so let him cling to the powers outside him. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [rising angrily] Who wants to give up being respectable? All this + for a pint of whisky that lasted a week! How long would it have lasted + Simmons, I wonder? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [gently] Oh, well, say no more, Jo. I wont plague you about it. + [He sits down]. You never did understand; and you never will. Hardly + anybody understands: even Margaret didnt til she went to prison. She does + now; and I shall have a companion in the house after all these lonely + years. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [beginning to cry] I did all I could to make you happy. I never said + a harsh word to you. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [rising indignantly] What right have you to treat a man like that? + an honest respectable husband? as if he were dirt under your feet? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Let her alone, Gilbey. [Gilbey sits down, but mutinously]. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and if it wasnt what I + wanted, that wasnt your fault. But I'd rather have you as you were than + since you took to whisky and soda. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. I dont want any whisky and soda. I'll take the pledge if you like. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. No: you shall have your beer because you like it. The whisky was + only brag. And if you and me are to remain friends, Mr Gilbey, youll get + up to-morrow morning at seven. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [defiantly] Damme if I will! There! + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. [with gentle pity] How do you know, Mr Gilbey, what youll do + to-morrow morning? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Why shouldnt I know? Are we children not to be let do what we + like, and our own sons and daughters kicking their heels all over the + place? [To Knox] I was never one to interfere between man and wife, Knox; + but if Maria started ordering me about like that— + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Now dont be naughty, Rob. You know you mustnt set yourself up + against religion? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Whos setting himself up against religion? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. It doesnt matter whether you set yourself up against it or not, + Mr. Gilbey. If it sets itself up against you, youll have to go the + appointed way: it's no use quarrelling about it with me that am as great a + sinner as yourself. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Oh, indeed! And who told you I was a sinner? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Now, Rob, you know we are all sinners. What else is religion? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. I say nothing against religion. I suppose were all sinners, in a + manner of speaking; but I dont like to have it thrown at me as if I'd + really done anything. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Mrs Knox is speaking for your good, Rob. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, I dont like to be spoken to for my good. Would anybody like + it? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Dont take offence where none is meant, Mr Gilbey. Talk about + something else. No good ever comes of arguing about such things among the + like of us. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. The like of us! Are you throwing it in our teeth that your people + were in the wholesale and thought Knox and Gilbey wasnt good enough for + you? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. No, Jo: you know I'm not. What better were my people than yours, + for all their pride? But Ive noticed it all my life: we're ignorant. We + dont really know whats right and whats wrong. We're all right as long as + things go on the way they always did. We bring our children up just as we + were brought up; and we go to church or chapel just as our parents did; + and we say what everybody says; and it goes on all right until something + out of the way happens: theres a family quarrel, or one of the children + goes wrong, or a father takes to drink, or an aunt goes mad, or one of us + finds ourselves doing something we never thought we'd want to do. And then + you know what happens: complaints and quarrels and huff and offence and + bad language and bad temper and regular bewilderment as if Satan possessed + us all. We find out then that with all our respectability and piety, weve + no real religion and no way of telling right from wrong. Weve nothing but + our habits; and when theyre upset, where are we? Just like Peter in the + storm trying to walk on the water and finding he couldnt. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [piously] Aye! He found out, didnt he? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [reverently] I never denied that youve a great intellect, Mrs Knox— + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you begin talking about my + intellect. Give us some tea, Maria. Ive said my say; and Im sure I beg the + company's pardon for being so long about it, and so disagreeable. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Ring, Rob. [Gilbey rings]. Stop. Juggins will think we're + ringing for him. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [appalled] It's too late. I rang before I thought of it. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Step down and apologize, Rob. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Is it him that you said was brother to a— + </p> + <p> + <i>Juggins comes in with the tea-tray. All rise. He takes the tray to Mrs. + Gilbey.</i> + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. I didnt mean to ask you to do this, Mr Juggins. I wasnt thinking + when I rang. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [trying to take the tray from him] Let me, Juggins. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Please sit down, madam. Allow me to discharge my duties just as + usual, sir. I assure you that is the correct thing. [They sit down, ill at + ease, whilst he places the tray on the table. He then goes out for the + curate]. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [lowering his voice] Is this all right, Gilbey? Anybody may be the + son of a duke, you know. Is he legitimate? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Good lord! I never thought of that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Juggins returns with the cakes. They regard him with suspicion.</i> + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [whispering to Knox] You ask him. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [to Juggins] Just a word with you, my man. Was your mother married + to your father? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I believe so, sir. I cant say from personal knowledge. It was + before my time. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, but look here you know—[he hesitates]. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, sir? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. I know whatll clinch it, Gilbey. You leave it to me. [To Juggins] + Was your mother the duchess? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir, I assure you. [To Mrs Gilbey] That + is the milk, madam. [She has mistaken the jugs]. This is the water. + </p> + <p> + <i>They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. What did I tell you? Heres something out of the common happening + with a servant; and we none of us know how to behave. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. It's quite simple, madam. I'm a footman, and should be treated as + a footman. [He proceeds calmly with his duties, handing round cups of tea + as Mrs Knox fills them]. + </p> + <p> + <i>Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the company.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Whats that noise? Is Master Bobby at home? I heard his laugh. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. I'm sure I heard Margaret's. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Not a bit of it. It was that woman. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I can explain, sir. I must ask you to excuse the liberty; but I'm + entertaining a small party to tea in my pantry. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. But youre not entertaining Master Bobby? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, madam. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Who's with him? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Miss Knox, sir. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Miss Knox! Are you sure? Is there anyone else? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Only a French marine officer, sir, and—er—Miss + Delaney. [He places Gilbey's tea on the table before him]. The lady that + called about Master Bobby, sir. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Do you mean to say theyre having a party all to themselves + downstairs, and we having a party up here and knowing nothing about it? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Yes, sir. I have to do a good deal of entertaining in the pantry + for Master Bobby, sir. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, this is a nice state of things! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Whats the meaning of it? What do they do it for? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Enjoy themselves! Did ever anybody hear of such a thing? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Knox's daughter shewn into my pantry! + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a footman— [Suddenly + realizing that the footman is offering him cake.] She doesnt know about—about + His Grace, you know. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Perhaps she does. Does she, Mr Juggins? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. The other lady suspects me, madam. They call me Rudolph, or the + Long Lost Heir. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. It's a much nicer name than Juggins. I think I'll call you by + it, if you dont mind. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Not at all, madam. + </p> + <p> + <i>Roars of merriment from below.</i> + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Go and tell them to stop laughing. What right have they to make a + noise like that? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir. But the French + gentleman always sets them off again. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Do you mean to tell me that my daughter laughs at a Frenchman's + jokes? + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. We all know what French jokes are. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Believe me: you do not, sir. The noise this afternoon has all + been because the Frenchman said that the cat had whooping cough. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [laughing heartily] Well, I never! + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Dont be a fool, Maria. Look here, Knox: we cant let this go on. + People cant be allowed to behave like this. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Just what I say. + </p> + <p> + <i>A concertina adds its music to the revelry.</i> + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. [excited] Thats the squiffer. Hes bought it for her. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, of all the scandalous— [Redoubled laughter from + below]. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. I'll put a stop to this. [He goes out to the landing and shouts] + Margaret! [Sudden dead silence]. Margaret, I say! + </p> + <p> + MARGARET'S VOICE. Yes, father. Shall we all come up? We're dying to. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like wild Indians. + </p> + <p> + DORA'S VOICE [screaming] Oh! oh! oh! Dont Bobby. Now—oh! [In + headlong flight she dashes into and right across the room, breathless, and + slightly abashed by the company]. I beg your pardon, Mrs Gilbey, for + coming in like that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby, he + pretends it's a cat biting my ankles; and I just must scream. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently in high + spirits. Bobby places himself near his father, on the hearthrug, and + presently slips down into the arm-chair.</i> + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey? [She posts herself behind her + mother]. + </p> + <p> + <i>Duvallet comes in behaving himself perfectly. Knox follows.</i> + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh—let me introduce. My friend Lieutenant Duvallet. Mrs + Gilbey. Mr Gilbey. [Duvallet bows and sits down on Mr Knox's left, Juggins + placing a chair for him]. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Now, Bobby: introduce me: theres a dear. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [a little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his spirits] Miss + Delaney: Mr and Mrs Knox. [Knox, as he resumes his seat, acknowledges the + introduction suspiciously. Mrs Knox bows gravely, looking keenly at Dora + and taking her measure without prejudice]. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Pleased to meet you. [Juggins places the baby rocking-chair for her + on Mrs Gilbey's right, opposite Mrs Knox]. Thank you. [She sits and turns + to Mrs Gilbey] Bobby's given me the squiffer. [To the company generally] + Do you know what theyve been doing downstairs? [She goes off into + ecstasies of mirth]. Youd never guess. Theyve been trying to teach me + table manners. The Lieutenant and Rudolph say I'm a regular pig. I'm sure + I never knew there was anything wrong with me. But live and learn [to + Gilbey] eh, old dear? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney. [He retires to the end of + the sideboard nearest the door]. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh get out! I must call a man something. He doesnt mind: do you, + Charlie? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. His name isnt Charlie. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Excuse me. I call everybody Charlie. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. You mustnt. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold my tongue + altogether; and then how sorry youd be! Lord, how I do run on! Dont mind + me, Mrs Gilbey. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. What I want to know is, whats to be the end of this? It's not for me + to interfere between you and your son, Gilbey: he knows his own intentions + best, no doubt, and perhaps has told them to you. But Ive my daughter to + look after; and it's my duty as a parent to have a clear understanding + about her. No good is ever done by beating about the bush. I ask + Lieutenant—well, I dont speak French; and I cant pronounce the name— + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Mr Duvallet, father. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. I ask Mr Doovalley what his intentions are. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Oh father: how can you? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. I'm afraid my knowledge of English is not enough to understand. + Intentions? How? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. He wants to know will you marry me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MRS GILBEY. | What a thing to say! + | + + KNOX. | Silence, miss. + | + + DORA. | Well, thats straight, aint it? +</pre> + <p> + DUVALLET. But I am married already. I have two daughters. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [rising, virtuously indignant] You sit there after carrying on with + my daughter, and tell me coolly youre married. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Papa: you really must not tell people that they sit there. [He + sits down again sulkily]. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Pardon. Carrying on? What does that mean? + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. It means— + </p> + <p> + KNOX. [violently] Hold your tongue, you shameless young hussy. Dont you + dare say what it means. + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. [shrugging his shoulders] What does it mean, Rudolph? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. If it's not proper for her to say, it's not proper for a man to + say, either. Mr Doovalley: youre a married man with daughters. Would you + let them go about with a stranger, as you are to us, without wanting to + know whether he intended to behave honorably? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls. That is very + different. It would not be correct for a French girl to go about alone and + speak to men as English and American girls do. That is why I so immensely + admire the English people. You are so free—so unprejudiced—your + women are so brave and frank—their minds are so—how do you + say?—wholesome. I intend to have my daughters educated in England. + Nowhere else in the world but in England could I have met at a Variety + Theatre a charming young lady of perfect respectability, and enjoyed a + dance with her at a public dancing saloon. And where else are women + trained to box and knock out the teeth of policemen as a protest against + injustice and violence? [Rising, with immense elan] Your daughter, madam, + is superb. Your country is a model to the rest of Europe. If you were a + Frenchman, stifled with prudery, hypocrisy and the tyranny of the family + and the home, you would understand how an enlightened Frenchman admires + and envies your freedom, your broadmindedness, and the fact that home life + can hardly be said to exist in England. You have made an end of the + despotism of the parent; the family council is unknown to you; everywhere + in these islands one can enjoy the exhilarating, the soul-liberating + spectacle of men quarrelling with their brothers, defying their fathers, + refusing to speak to their mothers. In France we are not men: we are only + sons—grown-up children. Here one is a human being—an end in + himself. Oh, Mrs Knox, if only your military genius were equal to your + moral genius—if that conquest of Europe by France which inaugurated + the new age after the Revolution had only been an English conquest, how + much more enlightened the world would have been now! We, alas, can only + fight. France is unconquerable. We impose our narrow ideas, our + prejudices, our obsolete institutions, our insufferable pedantry on the + world by brute force—by that stupid quality of military heroism + which shews how little we have evolved from the savage: nay, from the + beast. We can charge like bulls; we can spring on our foes like gamecocks; + when we are overpowered by reason, we can die fighting like rats. And we + are foolish enough to be proud of it! Why should we be? Does the bull + progress? Can you civilize the gamecock? Is there any future for the rat? + We cant even fight intelligently: when we lose battles, it is because we + have not sense enough to know when we are beaten. At Waterloo, had we + known when we were beaten, we should have retreated; tried another plan; + and won the battle. But no: we were too pigheaded to admit that there is + anything impossible to a Frenchman: we were quite satisfied when our + Marshals had six horses shot under them, and our stupid old grognards died + fighting rather than surrender like reasonable beings. Think of your great + Wellington: think of his inspiring words, when the lady asked him whether + British soldiers ever ran away. "All soldiers run away, madam," he said; + "but if there are supports for them to fall back on it does not matter." + Think of your illustrious Nelson, always beaten on land, always victorious + at sea, where his men could not run away. You are not dazzled and misled + by false ideals of patriotic enthusiasm: your honest and sensible + statesmen demand for England a two-power standard, even a three-power + standard, frankly admitting that it is wise to fight three to one: whilst + we, fools and braggarts as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a host + in himself, and that when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is + guilty of an act of cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikes a + woman. It is folly: it is nonsense: a Frenchman is not really stronger + than a German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman. Sir: if all + Frenchwomen were like your daughter—if all Frenchmen had the good + sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm judgment, + the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true courage, + which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are hardly conscious + of possessing them, France would become the greatest nation in the world. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Three cheers for old England! [She shakes hands with him + warmly]. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Hurra-a-ay! And so say all of us. + </p> + <p> + <i>Duvallet, having responded to Margaret's handshake with enthusiasm, + kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping his + perspiring brow.</i> + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, this sort of talk is above me. Can you make anything out of + it, Knox? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. The long and short of it seems to be that he cant lawfully marry my + daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her. + </p> + <p> + DORA. I'm ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. No you dont. Not if I know it. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. He ought to, Mr Gilbey. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of it. + Would you invite them to your house if he married her? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. He ought to marry her whether or no. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Hold your tongue. Mind your own business. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. [wildly] If I'm not let marry her, I'll do something downright + disgraceful. I'll enlist as a soldier. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. That is not a disgrace, sir. + </p> + <p> + BOBBY. Not for you, perhaps. But youre only a footman. I'm a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. Dont dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr Rudolph, Bobby. For + shame! + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. [coming forward to the middle of the table] It is not gentlemanly + to regard the service of your country as disgraceful. It is gentlemanly to + marry the lady you make love to. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [aghast] My boy is to marry this woman and be a social outcast! + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably condemned by + respectable society to spend the rest of their days in precisely the sort + of company they seem to like best and be most at home in. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. And my daughter? Whos to marry my daughter? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. Your daughter, sir, will probably marry whoever she makes up her + mind to marry. She is a lady of very determined character. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Yes: if he'd have her with her character gone. But who would? Youre + the brother of a duke. Would— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BOBBY. | Whats that? + | + MARGARET. | Juggins a duke? + | + DUVALLET. | <i>Comment!</i> + | + DORA. | What did I tell you? +</pre> + <p> + KNOX. Yes: the brother of a duke: thats what he is. [To Juggins] Well, + would you marry her? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I was about to propose that solution of your problem, Mr Knox. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MRS GILBEY. | Well I never! + | + KNOX. | D'ye mean it? + | + MRS KNOX. | Marry Margaret! +</pre> + <p> + JUGGINS. [continuing] As an idle younger son, unable to support myself, or + even to remain in the Guards in competition with the grandsons of American + millionaires, I could not have aspired to Miss Knox's hand. But as a + sober, honest, and industrious domestic servant, who has, I trust, given + satisfaction to his employer [he bows to Mr Gilbey] I feel I am a man with + a character. It is for Miss Knox to decide. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. I got into a frightful row once for admiring you, Rudolph. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I should have got into an equally frightful row myself, Miss, had + I betrayed my admiration for you. I looked forward to those weekly + dinners. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. But why did a gentleman like you stoop to be a footman? + </p> + <p> + DORA. He stooped to conquer. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. Shut up, Dora: I want to hear. + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I will explain; but only Mrs Knox will understand. I once + insulted a servant—rashly; for he was a sincere Christian. He + rebuked me for trifling with a girl of his own class. I told him to + remember what he was, and to whom he was speaking. He said God would + remember. I discharged him on the spot. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. Very properly. + </p> + <p> + KNOX. What right had he to mention such a thing to you? + </p> + <p> + MRS GILBEY. What are servants coming to? + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Did it come true, what he said? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. It stuck like a poisoned arrow. It rankled for months. Then I + gave in. I apprenticed myself to an old butler of ours who kept a hotel. + He taught me my present business, and got me a place as footman with Mr + Gilbey. If ever I meet that man again I shall be able to look him in the + face. + </p> + <p> + MRS KNOX. Margaret: it's not on account of the duke: dukes are vanities. + But take my advice and take him. + </p> + <p> + MARGARET. [slipping her arm through his] I have loved Juggins since the + first day I beheld him. I felt instinctively he had been in the Guards. + May he walk out with me, Mr Gilbey? + </p> + <p> + KNOX. Dont be vulgar, girl. Remember your new position. [To Juggins] I + suppose youre serious about this, Mr—Mr Rudolph? + </p> + <p> + JUGGINS. I propose, with your permission, to begin keeping company this + afternoon, if Mrs Gilbey can spare me. + </p> + <p> + GILBEY. [in a gust of envy, to Bobby] Itll be long enough before youll + marry the sister of a duke, you young good-for-nothing. + </p> + <p> + DORA. Dont fret, old dear. Rudolph will teach me high-class manners. I + call it quite a happy ending: dont you, lieutenant? + </p> + <p> + DUVALLET. In France it would be impossible. But here—ah! [kissing + his hand] la belle Angleterre! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE + </h2> + <p> + <i>Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4 + critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats.</i> + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold your + opinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have believed + it. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art? Is it + agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is it delicate? + Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I speak from a wounded + heart. There are private reasons for my discomposure. This play implies + obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches and menaces to all of us who are + parents. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing has amusing + passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist. + [Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat, making + a noise like a pheasant]. You see hundreds of plays every year. But to me, + who have never seen anything of this kind before, the effect of this play + is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been what people call an immoral + play, I shouldnt have minded a bit. [Vaughan is shocked]. Love beautifies + every romance and justifies every audacity. [Bannal assents gravely]. But + there are reticences which everybody should respect. There are decencies + too subtle to be put into words, without which human society would be + unbearable. People could not talk to one another as those people talk. No + child could speak to its parent—no girl could speak to a youth—no + human creature could tear down the veils— [Appealing to Vaughan, who + is on his left flank, with Gunn between them] Could they, sir? + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. Well, I dont see that. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. You dont see it! dont feel it! [To Gunn] Sir: I appeal to you. + </p> + <p> + GUNN. [with studied weariness] It seems to me the most ordinary sort of + old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT [turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him and + Bannal] Mr Trotter: will you tell me that you are not amazed, outraged, + revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by every word of + this play, every tone, every implication; that you did not sit there + shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might come next? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind of + thing by the yard. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return. I must + believe what you tell me. I perceive that you are not agitated, not + surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes, gentlemen, horror—horror + of the very soul) appears unaccountable to you, ludicrous, absurd, even to + you, Mr Trotter, who are little younger than myself. Sir: if young people + spoke to me like that, I should die of shame: I could not face it. I must + go back. The world has passed me by and left me. Accept the apologies of + an elderly and no doubt ridiculous admirer of the art of a bygone day, + when there was still some beauty in the world and some delicate grace in + family life. But I promised my daughter your opinion; and I must keep my + word. Gentlemen: you are the choice and master spirits of this age: you + walk through it without bewilderment and face its strange products without + dismay. Pray deliver your verdict. Mr Bannal: you know that it is the + custom at a Court Martial for the youngest officer present to deliver his + judgment first; so that he may not be influenced by the authority of his + elders. You are the youngest. What is your opinion of the play? + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Well, whos it by? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. That is a secret for the present. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I dont + know who the author is, do you? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Why not? + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Why not! Why not!! Suppose you had to write about a play by Pinero + and one by Jones! Would you say exactly the same thing about them? + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. I presume not. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Then how could you write about them until you knew which was + Pinero and which was Jones? Besides, what sort of play is this? thats what + I want to know. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce or a melodrama? + Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying stuff? + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Cant you tell from seeing it? + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to take + it? Is it serious, or is it spoof? If the author knows what his play is, + let him tell us what it is. If he doesnt, he cant complain if I dont know + either. <i>I</i>'m not the author. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats a simple question. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a good author, it's a good + play, naturally. That stands to reason. Who is the author? Tell me that; + and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name. The + author desires that the play should be judged on its merits. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. But what merits can it have except the author's merits? Who would + you say it's by, Gunn? + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a rotten old-fashioned + domestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets. The hero's a naval + lieutenant. All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants. The heroine + gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into trouble, + thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as hard as she + can. Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father when hes going to + put her out of the house, and says she'll go too. Then theres the comic + relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic shopkeeper's wife, the comic + footman who turns out to be a duke in disguise, and the young scapegrace + who gives the author his excuse for dragging in a fast young woman. All as + old and stale as a fried fish shop on a winter morning. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. But— + </p> + <p> + GUNN [interrupting him] I know what youre going to say, Count. Youre going + to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new and unusual and + original. The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who cracks up the English + and runs down the French: the hackneyed old Shaw touch. The characters are + second-rate middle class, instead of being dukes and millionaires. The + heroine gets kicked through the mud: real mud. Theres no plot. All the old + stage conventions and puppets without the old ingenuity and the old + enjoyment. And a feeble air of intellectual pretentiousness kept up all + through to persuade you that if the author hasnt written a good play it's + because hes too clever to stoop to anything so commonplace. And you three + experienced men have sat through all this, and cant tell me who wrote it! + Why, the play bears the author's signature in every line. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Who? + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey is straight out of The + Madras House. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Poor old Barker! + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the difference in style? + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. No. + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. [contemptuously] Do you know what style is? + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style. But it's not my + style—since you ask me. + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play. To begin with, + it's intensely disagreeable. Therefore it's not by Barrie, in spite of the + footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He was an earl, you + may remember. You notice, too, the author's offensive habit of saying + silly things that have no real sense in them when you come to examine + them, just to set all the fools in the house giggling. Then what does it + all come to? An attempt to expose the supposed hypocrisy of the Puritan + middle class in England: people just as good as the author, anyhow. With, + of course, the inevitable improper female: the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so + forth. Well, if you cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken your + professions: thats all I have to say. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch that Gunn + spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw. + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Rubbish! + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor as this + play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow that beneath + all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she really loves Bobby + and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly proved that Shaw is + physiologically incapable of the note of passion. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I always say + that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart. + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heart and + brain—Shakespear would have called it liver and wits—is really + schoolboyish. Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer. Even + such a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been ashamed of it. + Heart and brain, indeed! + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. Youre decadent. + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian word! + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in this + play were quite distinguishable from one another. That proves it's not by + Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself: mere puppets stuck up to + spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them seem different. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. There can be no doubt of that: everybody knows it. But Shaw doesnt + write his plays as plays. All he wants to do is to insult everybody all + round and set us talking about him. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [wearily] And naturally, here we are all talking about him. For + heaven's sake, let us change the subject. + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. Still, my articles about Shaw— + </p> + <p> + GUNN. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive always told you about Shaw + is— + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chuck it. If you want to know + my opinion about Shaw— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TROTTER. | No, please, we dont. | + | | + VAUGHAN. | Shut your head, Bannal. | [yelling] + | | + GUNN. | Oh, do drop it. | +</pre> + <p> + <i>The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies from the + centre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan.</i> + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. [sulkily] Oh, very well. Sorry I spoke, I'm sure. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TROTTER. | Shaw— | + | | [beginning again + VAUGHAN. | Shaw— | simultaneously] + | | + GUNN. | Shaw— | +</pre> + <p> + <i>They are cut short by the entry of Fanny through the curtains. She is + almost in tears.</i> + </p> + <p> + FANNY. [coming between Trotter and Gunn] I'm so sorry, gentlemen. And it + was such a success when I read it to the Cambridge Fabian Society! + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Miss O'Dowda: I was about to tell these gentlemen what I guessed + before the curtain rose: that you are the author of the play. [General + amazement and consternation]. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. And you all think it beastly. You hate it. You think I'm a + conceited idiot, and that I shall never be able to write anything decent. + </p> + <p> + <i>She is almost weeping. A wave of sympathy carries away the critics.</i> + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN. No, no. Why, I was just saying that it must have been written by + Pinero. Didnt I, Gunn? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. [enormously flattered] Really? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. I thought Pinero was much too popular for the Cambridge Fabian + Society. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Oh yes, of course; but still—Oh, did you really say that, Mr + Vaughan? + </p> + <p> + GUNN. I owe you an apology, Miss O'Dowda. I said it was by Barker. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. [radiant] Granville Barker! Oh, you couldnt really have thought it + so fine as that. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. <i>I</i> said Bernard Shaw. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Oh, of course it would be a little like Bernard Shaw. The Fabian + touch, you know. + </p> + <p> + BANNAL. [coming to her encouragingly] A jolly good little play, Miss + O'Dowda. Mind: I dont say it's like one of Shakespear's—Hamlet or + The Lady of Lyons, you know—but still, a firstrate little bit of + work. [He shakes her hand]. + </p> + <p> + GUNN. [following Bannal's example] I also, Miss O'Dowda. Capital. + Charming. [He shakes hands]. + </p> + <p> + VAUGHAN [with maudlin solemnity] Only be true to yourself, Miss O'Dowda. + Keep serious. Give up making silly jokes. Sustain the note of passion. And + youll do great things. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. You think I have a future? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. You have a past, Miss O'Dowda. + </p> + <p> + FANNY. [looking apprehensively at her father] Sh-sh-sh! + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. A past! What do you mean, Mr Trotter? + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. [to Fanny] You cant deceive me. That bit about the police was + real. Youre a Suffraget, Miss O'Dowda. You were on that Deputation. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Fanny: is this true? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. It is. I did a month with Lady Constance Lytton; and I'm prouder of + it than I ever was of anything or ever shall be again. + </p> + <p> + TROTTER. Is that any reason why you should stuff naughty plays down my + throat? + </p> + <p> + FANNY. Yes: itll teach you what it feels like to be forcibly fed. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. She will never return to Venice. I feel now as I felt when the + Campanile fell. + </p> + <p> + <i>Savoyard comes in through the curtains.</i> + </p> + <p> + SAVOYARD. [to the Count] Would you mind coming to say a word of + congratulation to the company? Theyre rather upset at having had no + curtain call. + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Certainly, certainly. I'm afraid Ive been rather remiss. Let us + go on the stage, gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + <i>The curtains are drawn, revealing the last scene of the play and the + actors on the stage. The Count, Savoyard, the critics, and Fanny join + them, shaking hands and congratulating.</i> + </p> + <p> + THE COUNT. Whatever we may think of the play, gentlemen, I'm sure you will + agree with me that there can be only one opinion about the acting. + </p> + <p> + THE CRITICS. Hear, hear! [They start the applause]. + </p> + <p> + AYOT ST. LAWRENCE, March 1911. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Fanny's First Play, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY'S FIRST PLAY *** + +***** This file should be named 5698-h.htm or 5698-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/9/5698/ + +Produced by Ron Burkey, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fanny's First Play + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5698] +Posting Date: March 28, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY'S FIRST PLAY *** + + + + +Produced by Ron Burkey + + + + + + + + + +FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + +BY BERNARD SHAW + +1911 + + + +This text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays +"Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets", "Fanny's First Play", and +the essay "A Treatise on Parents and Children". + +Notes on the editing: Italicized text is delimited with underlines +("_ _"). Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text. Shaw +intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard system. For +example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe), "Dr." is given +as "Dr" (without a period at the end), and "Shakespeare" is given as +"Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). Where several characters in the play +are speaking at once, I have indicated it with vertical bars ("|"). The +pound (currency) symbol has been replaced by the word "pounds". + + + + + +PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + +Fanny's First Play, being but a potboiler, needs no preface. But its +lesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded. Mere morality, or the +substitution of custom for conscience was once accounted a shameful and +cynical thing: people talked of right and wrong, of honor and dishonor, +of sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of morality and +immorality. The word morality, if we met it in the Bible, would surprise +us as much as the word telephone or motor car. Nowadays we do not seem +to know that there is any other test of conduct except morality; and +the result is that the young had better have their souls awakened by +disgrace, capture by the police, and a month's hard labor, than drift +along from their cradles to their graves doing what other people do for +no other reason than that other people do it, and knowing nothing of +good and evil, of courage and cowardice, or indeed anything but how to +keep hunger and concupiscence and fashionable dressing within the bounds +of good taste except when their excesses can be concealed. Is it any +wonder that I am driven to offer to young people in our suburbs the +desperate advice: Do something that will get you into trouble? But +please do not suppose that I defend a state of things which makes such +advice the best that can be given under the circumstances, or that I do +not know how difficult it is to find out a way of getting into trouble +that will combine loss of respectability with integrity of self-respect +and reasonable consideration for other peoples' feelings and interests +on every point except their dread of losing their own respectability. +But when there's a will there's a way. I hate to see dead people walking +about: it is unnatural. And our respectable middle class people are all +as dead as mutton. Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I have delivered on them +the judgment of her God. + +The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction to this play under +the names of Trotter, Vaughan, and Gunn will forgive me: in fact Mr +Trotter forgave me beforehand, and assisted the make-up by which Mr +Claude King so successfully simulated his personal appearance. The +critics whom I did not introduce were somewhat hurt, as I should have +been myself under the same circumstances; but I had not room for them +all; so I can only apologize and assure them that I meant no disrespect. + +The concealment of the authorship, if a _secret de Polichinelle_ can be +said to involve concealment, was a necessary part of the play. In so far +as it was effectual, it operated as a measure of relief to those critics +and playgoers who are so obsessed by my strained legendary reputation +that they approach my plays in a condition which is really one of +derangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play of mine as anything +but a trap baited with paradoxes, and designed to compass their ethical +perversion and intellectual confusion. If it were possible, I should put +forward all my plays anonymously, or hire some less disturbing person, +as Bacon is said to have hired Shakespear, to father my plays for me. + +Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time at the Little +Theatre in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, April +19th 1911. + + + + +FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + + + + +INDUCTION + + +_The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence Towers, +the property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form a stage +for a private theatrical performance. A footman in grandiose Spanish +livery enters before the curtain, on its O.P. side._ + + +FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savoyard comes in: +a middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat. He is +surprised to find nobody to receive him. So is the Footman]. Oh, beg +pardon, sir: I thought the Count was here. He was when I took up your +name. He must have gone through the stage into the library. This way, +sir. [He moves towards the division in the middle of the curtains]. + +SAVOYARD. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When does the play begin? +Half-past eight? + +FOOTMAN. Nine, sir. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my wife at the George +that it's not until nine? + +FOOTMAN. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir? + +SAVOYARD. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget. + +THE FOOTMAN. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The Count comes in through +the curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. [Announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard, +sir. [He withdraws]. + +COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied elegance +a hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake hands with his +visitor] Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly recollected that all +the bookcases in the library were locked--in fact theyve never been +opened since we came from Venice--and as our literary guests will +probably use the library a good deal, I just ran in to unlock +everything. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose theres a +smoking room? + +THE COUNT. My study is available. An old-fashioned house, you +understand. Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard? + +SAVOYARD. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his host's obsolete +costume, continues] I had no idea you were going to appear in the piece +yourself. + +THE COUNT. I am not. I wear this costume because--well, perhaps I had +better explain the position, if it interests you. + +SAVOYARD. Certainly. + +THE COUNT. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in your +world. I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word. I'm +not really an Englishman: my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life in +Italy--in Venice mostly--my very title is a foreign one: I am a Count of +the Holy Roman Empire. + +SAVOYARD. Where's that? + +THE COUNT. At present, nowhere, except as a memory and an ideal. +[Savoyard inclines his head respectfully to the ideal]. But I am by +no means an idealogue. I am not content with beautiful dreams: I want +beautiful realities. + +SAVOYARD. Hear, hear! I'm all with you there--when you can get them. + +THE COUNT. Why not get them? The difficulty is not that there are no +beautiful realities, Mr Savoyard: the difficulty is that so few of +us know them when we see them. We have inherited from the past a vast +treasure of beauty--of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of painting, +of sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite fashions in +dress, in furniture, in domestic decoration. We can contemplate these +treasures. We can reproduce many of them. We can buy a few inimitable +originals. We can shut out the nineteenth century-- + +SAVOYARD. [correcting him] The twentieth. + +THE COUNT. To me the century I shut out will always be the nineteenth +century, just as your national anthem will always be God Save the Queen, +no matter how many kings may succeed. I found England befouled with +industrialism: well, I did what Byron did: I simply refused to live in +it. You remember Byron's words: "I am sure my bones would not rest in an +English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe +the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed could I suppose that any +of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcase back to her +soil. I would not even feed her worms if I could help it." + +SAVOYARD. Did Byron say that? + +THE COUNT. He did, sir. + +SAVOYARD. It dont sound like him. I saw a good deal of him at one time. + +THE COUNT. You! But how is that possible? You are too young. + +SAVOYARD. I was quite a lad, of course. But I had a job in the original +production of Our Boys. + +THE COUNT. My dear sir, not that Byron. Lord Byron, the poet. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were talking of the +Byron. So you prefer living abroad? + +THE COUNT. I find England ugly and Philistine. Well, I dont live in it. +I find modern houses ugly. I dont live in them: I have a palace on the +grand canal. I find modern clothes prosaic. I dont wear them, except, of +course, in the street. My ears are offended by the Cockney twang: I keep +out of hearing of it and speak and listen to Italian. I find Beethoven's +music coarse and restless, and Wagner's senseless and detestable. I do +not listen to them. I listen to Cimarosa, to Pergolesi, to Gluck and +Mozart. Nothing simpler, sir. + +SAVOYARD. It's all right when you can afford it. + +THE COUNT. Afford it! My dear Mr Savoyard, if you are a man with a sense +of beauty you can make an earthly paradise for yourself in Venice on +1500 pounds a year, whilst our wretched vulgar industrial millionaires +are spending twenty thousand on the amusements of billiard markers. I +assure you I am a poor man according to modern ideas. But I have never +had anything less than the very best that life has produced. It is my +good fortune to have a beautiful and lovable daughter; and that girl, +sir, has never seen an ugly sight or heard an ugly sound that I could +spare her; and she has certainly never worn an ugly dress or tasted +coarse food or bad wine in her life. She has lived in a palace; and her +perambulator was a gondola. Now you know the sort of people we are, Mr +Savoyard. You can imagine how we feel here. + +SAVOYARD. Rather out of it, eh? + +THE COUNT. Out of it, sir! Out of what? + +SAVOYARD. Well, out of everything. + +THE COUNT. Out of soot and fog and mud and east wind; out of vulgarity +and ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, superstition and stupidity. Out of +all this, and in the sunshine, in the enchanted region of which great +artists alone have had the secret, in the sacred footsteps of Byron, of +Shelley, of the Brownings, of Turner and Ruskin. Dont you envy me, Mr +Savoyard? + +SAVOYARD. Some of us must live in England, you know, just to keep the +place going. Besides--though, mind you, I dont say it isnt all right +from the high art point of view and all that--three weeks of it would +drive me melancholy mad. However, I'm glad you told me, because it +explains why it is you dont seem to know your way about much in England. +I hope, by the way, that everything has given satisfaction to your +daughter. + +THE COUNT. She seems quite satisfied. She tells me that the actors you +sent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice people +to work with. I understand she had some difficulties at the first +rehearsals with the gentleman you call the producer, because he hadnt +read the play; but the moment he found out what it was all about +everything went smoothly. + +SAVOYARD. Havnt you seen the rehearsals? + +THE COUNT. Oh no. I havnt been allowed even to meet any of the company. +All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman [Savoyard is rather +scandalized]: I asked her not to have an English hero. That is all I +know. [Ruefully] I havnt been consulted even about the costumes, though +there, I think, I could have been some use. + +SAVOYARD. [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes. + +THE COUNT. [seriously shocked] What! No costumes! Do you mean to say it +is a modern play? + +SAVOYARD. I dont know: I didnt read it. I handed it to Billy +Burjoyce--the producer, you know--and left it to him to select the +company and so on. But I should have had to order the costumes if there +had been any. There wernt. + +THE COUNT. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand. She +has taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in beautiful +costumes. I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what you are about +to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau. The +heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a dainty Harlequin, +her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet who hoodwinks the +father and brings about the happiness of the lovers a grotesque but +perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or Sganarelle. + +SAVOYARD. I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman will +make five. Thats why you wanted five men in the company. + +THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly, +silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of +a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it after +all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of +Grimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the existence +of such a thing. I refer to the graceful and charming fantasies of the +Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are rot. +Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy Burjoyce +told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, and +had seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been away in Venice all +the time. + +THE COUNT. Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that two +years ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge. +Cambridge was my own University; and though of course there were no +women there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the +eighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be at +Cambridge. About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I +wished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of course I said +yes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that she +had written a play, and that the present she wanted was a private +performance of it with real actors and real critics. + +SAVOYARD. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was easy enough to engage +a company for a private performance: it's done often enough. But the +notion of having critics was new. I hardly knew how to set about it. +They dont expect private engagements; and so they have no agents. +Besides, I didnt know what to offer them. I knew that they were cheaper +than actors, because they get long engagements: forty years sometimes; +but thats no rule for a single job. Then theres such a lot of them: on +first nights they run away with all your stalls: you cant find a decent +place for your own mother. It would have cost a fortune to bring the +lot. + +THE COUNT. Of course I never dreamt of having them all. Only a few +first-rate representative men. + +SAVOYARD. Just so. All you want is a few sample opinions. Out of a +hundred notices you wont find more than four at the outside that say +anything different. Well, Ive got just the right four for you. And what +do you think it has cost me? + +THE COUNT. [shrugging his shoulders] I cannot guess. + +SAVOYARD. Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give Flawner Bannal ten. +He wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it, because +if we hadnt had him we might just as well have had nobody at all. + +THE COUNT. But what about the others, if Mr Flannel-- + +SAVOYARD. [shocked] Flawner Bannal. + +THE COUNT. --if Mr Bannal got the whole ten? + +SAVOYARD. Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class sort of thing, the +first man I went for was Trotter. + +THE COUNT. Oh indeed. I am very glad you have secured Mr Trotter. I have +read his Playful Impressions. + +SAVOYARD. Well, I was rather in a funk about him. Hes not exactly what +I call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off at first. But when I +explained and told him your daughter-- + +THE COUNT. [interrupting in alarm] You did not say that the play was by +her, I hope? + +SAVOYARD. No: thats been kept a dead secret. I just said your daughter +has asked for a real play with a real author and a real critic and all +the rest of it. The moment I mentioned the daughter I had him. He has +a daughter of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment! Offered to come just to +please her! Quite human. I was surprised. + +THE COUNT. Extremely kind of him. + +SAVOYARD. Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as the +drama: and you said you thought there would be music. I told him Trotter +would feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird. Then I +thought youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that go for the +newest things and swear theyre oldfashioned. So I nailed Gilbert Gunn. +The four will give you a representative team. By the way [looking at his +watch] theyll be here presently. + +THE COUNT. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hints +about them that would help me to make a little conversation with them? +I am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might unwittingly +say something tactless. + +SAVOYARD. Well, let me see. As you dont like English people, I dont know +that youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English: never +happy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so unnecessarily well +that everybody there spots him as an Englishman the moment he opens +his mouth. Very witty and all that. Pretends to turn up his nose at +the theatre and says people make too much fuss about art [the Count is +extremely indignant]. But thats only his modesty, because art is his own +line, you understand. Mind you dont chaff him about Aristotle. + +THE COUNT. Why should I chaff him about Aristotle? + +SAVOYARD. Well, I dont know; but its one of the recognized ways of +chaffing him. However, youll get on with him all right: hes a man of +the world and a man of sense. The one youll have to be careful about is +Vaughan. + +THE COUNT. In what way, may I ask? + +SAVOYARD. Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and if you joke with +him he'll think youre insulting him on purpose. Mind: it's not that he +doesnt see a joke: he does; and it hurts him. A comedy scene makes him +sore all over: he goes away black and blue, and pitches into the play +for all hes worth. + +THE COUNT. But surely that is a very serious defect in a man of his +profession? + +SAVOYARD. Yes it is, and no mistake. But Vaughan is honest, and dont +care a brass farthing what he says, or whether it pleases anybody or +not; and you must have one man of that sort to say the things that +nobody else will say. + +THE COUNT. It seems to me to carry the principle of division of labor +too far, this keeping of the honesty and the other qualities in separate +compartments. What is Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask? + +SAVOYARD. Gunn is one of the intellectuals. + +THE COUNT. But arnt they all intellectuals? + +SAVOYARD. Lord! no: heaven forbid! You must be careful what you say +about that: I shouldnt like anyone to call me an Intellectual: I dont +think any Englishman would! They dont count really, you know; but +still it's rather the thing to have them. Gunn is one of the young +intellectuals: he writes plays himself. Hes useful because he pitches +into the older intellectuals who are standing in his way. But you may +take it from me that none of these chaps really matter. Flawner Bannal's +your man. Bannal really represents the British playgoer. When he likes +a thing, you may take your oath there are a hundred thousand people in +London thatll like it if they can only be got to know about it. Besides, +Bannal's knowledge of the theatre is an inside knowledge. We know him; +and he knows us. He knows the ropes: he knows his way about: he knows +what hes talking about. + +THE COUNT. [with a little sigh] Age and experience, I suppose? + +SAVOYARD. Age! I should put him at twenty at the very outside, myself. +It's not an old man's job after all, is it? Bannal may not ride the +literary high horse like Trotter and the rest; but I'd take his opinion +before any other in London. Hes the man in the street; and thats what +you want. + +THE COUNT. I am almost sorry you didnt give the gentleman his full +terms. I should not have grudged the fifty guineas for a sound opinion. +He may feel shabbily treated. + +SAVOYARD. Well, let him. It was a bit of side, his asking fifty. After +all, what is he? Only a pressman. Jolly good business for him to earn +ten guineas: hes done the same job often enough for half a quid, I +expect. + +_Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, excited and +nervous. A girl of nineteen in a dress synchronous with her father's._ + +FANNY. Papa, papa, the critics have come. And one of them has a cocked +hat and sword like a-- [she notices Savoyard] Oh, I beg your pardon. + +THE COUNT. This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my dear. + +FANNY. [shaking hands] How do you do? + +SAVOYARD. Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Dowda. The cocked hat is all +right. Trotter is a member of the new Academic Committee. He induced +them to go in for a uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him to +wear it. + +THE FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, Mr Gunn, Mr Flawner +Bannal. [The four critics enter. Trotter wears a diplomatic dress, with +sword and three-cornered hat. His age is about 50. Vaughan is 40. Gunn +is 30. Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike the others. They can be +classed at sight as professional men: Bannal is obviously one of those +unemployables of the business class who manage to pick up a living by a +sort of courage which gives him cheerfulness, conviviality, and +bounce, and is helped out positively by a slight turn for writing, and +negatively by a comfortable ignorance and lack of intuition which hides +from him all the dangers and disgraces that keep men of finer perception +in check. The Count approaches them hospitably]. + +SAVOYARD. Count O'Dowda, gentlemen. Mr Trotter. + +TROTTER. [looking at the Count's costume] Have I the pleasure of meeting +a confrere? + +THE COUNT. No, sir: I have no right to my costume except the right of a +lover of the arts to dress myself handsomely. You are most welcome, Mr +Trotter. [Trotter bows in the French manner]. + +SAVOYARD. Mr Vaughan. + +THE COUNT. How do you do, Mr Vaughan? + +VAUGHAN. Quite well, thanks. + +SAVOYARD. Mr Gunn. + +THE COUNT. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Gunn. + +GUNN. Very pleased. + +SAVOYARD. Mr Flawner Bannal. + +THE COUNT. Very kind of you to come, Mr Bannal. + +BANNAL. Dont mention it. + +THE COUNT. Gentlemen, my daughter. [They all bow]. We are very greatly +indebted to you, gentlemen, for so kindly indulging her whim. [The +dressing bell sounds. The Count looks at his watch]. Ah! The dressing +bell, gentlemen. As our play begins at nine, I have had to put forward +the dinner hour a little. May I shew you to your rooms? [He goes out, +followed by all the men, except Trotter, who, going last, is detained by +Fanny]. + +FANNY. Mr Trotter: I want to say something to you about this play. + +TROTTER. No: thats forbidden. You must not attempt to _souffler_ the +critic. + +FANNY. Oh, I would not for the world try to influence your opinion. + +TROTTER. But you do: you are influencing me very shockingly. You invite +me to this charming house, where I'm about to enjoy a charming dinner. +And just before the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming young lady to +be talked to about the play. How can you expect me to be impartial? God +forbid that I should set up to be a judge, or do more than record an +impression; but my impressions can be influenced; and in this case youre +influencing them shamelessly all the time. + +FANNY. Dont make me more nervous than I am already, Mr Trotter. If you +knew how I feel! + +TROTTER. Naturally: your first party: your first appearance in England +as hostess. But youre doing it beautifully. Dont be afraid. Every +_nuance_ is perfect. + +FANNY. It's so kind of you to say so, Mr Trotter. But that isnt whats +the matter. The truth is, this play is going to give my father a +dreadful shock. + +TROTTER. Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say. Half the young +ladies in London spend their evenings making their fathers take them to +plays that are not fit for elderly people to see. + +FANNY. Oh, I know all about that; but you cant understand what it means +to Papa. Youre not so innocent as he is. + +TROTTER. [remonstrating] My dear young lady-- + +FANNY. I dont mean morally innocent: everybody who reads your articles +knows youre as innocent as a lamb. + +TROTTER. What! + +FANNY. Yes, Mr Trotter: Ive seen a good deal of life since I came to +England; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby: a dear, good, +well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a wee +lamb in a world of wolves. Cambridge is not what it was in my father's +time. + +TROTTER. Well, I must say! + +FANNY. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge Fabian +Society. + +TROTTER. Classifications? I dont understand. + +FANNY. We classify our aunts into different sorts. And one of the sorts +is the "I must says." + +TROTTER. I withdraw "I must say." I substitute "Blame my cats!" No: I +substitute "Blame my kittens!" Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I say +again in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens. +Impertinent little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess what is on +your conscience. This play to which you have lured me is one of those in +which members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers in the art +of milking ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your father. Well, +I hope it will. And if he consults me about it I shall recommend him to +smack you soundly and pack you off to bed. + +FANNY. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter; +but it doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much more conscious of what you +really are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you thoroughly +at Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you? + +TROTTER. I-- + +FANNY. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me. + +TROTTER. Trottering! + +FANNY. Thats what we call it at Cambridge. + +TROTTER. If it were not so obviously a stage _cliche_, I should say Damn +Cambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. And now let me warn you. If +youre going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you may coax +me. If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, I'll treat +you as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man. + +FANNY. [adoringly] But how few men are your intellectual equals, Mr +Trotter! + +TROTTER. I'm getting the worst of this. + +FANNY. Oh no. Why do you say that? + +TROTTER. May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently? + +FANNY. What does it matter? We're both ready. I havnt told you yet what +I want you to do for me. + +TROTTER. Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except out +of pure magnanimity. What is it? + +FANNY. I dont mind this play shocking my father morally. It's good for +him to be shocked morally. It's all that the young can do for the old, +to shock them and keep them up to date. But I know that this play will +shock him artistically; and that terrifies me. No moral consideration +could make a breach between us: he would forgive me for anything of that +kind sooner or later; but he never gives way on a point of art. I darent +let him know that I love Beethoven and Wagner; and as to Strauss, if he +heard three bars of Elektra, it'd part us for ever. Now what I want you +to do is this. If hes very angry--if he hates the play, because it's a +modern play--will you tell him that it's not my fault; that its style +and construction, and so forth, are considered the very highest art +nowadays; that the author wrote it in the proper way for repertory +theatres of the most superior kind--you know the kind of plays I mean? + +TROTTER. [emphatically] I think I know the sort of entertainments you +mean. But please do not beg a vital question by calling them plays. I +dont pretend to be an authority; but I have at least established the +fact that these productions, whatever else they may be, are certainly +not plays. + +FANNY. The authors dont say they are. + +TROTTER. [warmly] I am aware that one author, who is, I blush to say, a +personal friend of mine, resorts freely to the dastardly subterfuge of +calling them conversations, discussions, and so forth, with the express +object of evading criticism. But I'm not to be disarmed by such tricks. +I say they are not plays. Dialogues, if you will. Exhibitions of +character, perhaps: especially the character of the author. Fictions, +possibly, though a little decent reticence as to introducing actual +persons, and thus violating the sanctity of private life, might not be +amiss. But plays, no. I say NO. Not plays. If you will not concede this +point I cant continue our conversation. I take this seriously. It's a +matter of principle. I must ask you, Miss O'Dowda, before we go a step +further, Do you or do you not claim that these works are plays? + +FANNY. I assure you I dont. + +TROTTER. Not in any sense of the word? + +FANNY. Not in any sense of the word. I loathe plays. + +TROTTER. [disappointed] That last remark destroys all the value of your +admission. You admire these--these theatrical nondescripts? You enjoy +them? + +FANNY. Dont you? + +TROTTER. Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose I +prefer popular melodramas? Have I not written most appreciative notices +of them? But I say theyre not plays. Theyre not plays. I cant consent to +remain in this house another minute if anything remotely resembling them +is to be foisted on me as a play. + +FANNY. I fully admit that theyre not plays. I only want you to tell my +father that plays are not plays nowadays--not in your sense of the word. + +TROTTER. Ah, there you go again! In my sense of the word! You believe +that my criticism is merely a personal impression; that-- + +FANNY. You always said it was. + +TROTTER. Pardon me: not on this point. If you had been classically +educated-- + +FANNY. But I have. + +TROTTER. Pooh! Cambridge! If you had been educated at Oxford, you +would know that the definition of a play has been settled exactly and +scientifically for two thousand two hundred and sixty years. When I say +that these entertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense of +the word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the immortal +Stagirite. + +FANNY. Who is the Stagirite? + +TROTTER. [shocked] You dont know who the Stagirite was? + +FANNY. Sorry. Never heard of him. + +TROTTER. And this is Cambridge education! Well, my dear young lady, I'm +delighted to find theres something you don't know; and I shant spoil you +by dispelling an ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly becoming to +your age and sex. So we'll leave it at that. + +FANNY. But you will promise to tell my father that lots of people +write plays just like this one--that I havnt selected it out of mere +heartlessness? + +TROTTER. I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to your father about +the play until Ive seen the play. But I'll tell you what I shall say to +him about you. I shall say that youre a very foolish young lady; that +youve got into a very questionable set; and that the sooner he takes you +away from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, the better. + +FANNY. It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a heavy father. In +Cambridge we regard you as a _bel esprit_, a wit, an Irresponsible, a +Parisian Immoralist, _tres chic_. + +TROTTER. I! + +FANNY. Theres quite a Trotter set. + +TROTTER. Well, upon my word! + +FANNY. They go in for adventures and call you Aramis. + +TROTTER. They wouldnt dare! + +FANNY. You always make such delicious fun of the serious people. Your +_insouciance_-- + +TROTTER. [frantic] Stop talking French to me: it's not a proper language +for a young girl. Great heavens! how is it possible that a few innocent +pleasantries should be so frightfully misunderstood? Ive tried all my +life to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and kindly. Ive lived a +blameless life. Ive supported the Censorship in the face of ridicule +and insult. And now I'm told that I'm a centre of Immoralism! of Modern +Minxism! a trifler with the most sacred subjects! a Nietzschean!! +perhaps a Shavian!!! + +FANNY. Do you mean you are really on the serious side, Mr Trotter? + +TROTTER. Of course I'm on the serious side. How dare you ask me such a +question? + +FANNY. Then why dont you play for it? + +TROTTER. I do play for it--short, of course, of making myself +ridiculous. + +FANNY. What! not make yourself ridiculous for the sake of a good cause! +Oh, Mr Trotter. Thats _vieux jeu_. + +TROTTER. [shouting at her] Dont talk French. I will not allow it. + +FANNY. But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out of date. The +Cambridge Fabian Society-- + +TROTTER. I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society to me. + +FANNY. Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without making yourself +ridiculous." + +TROTTER. Skate! What has that to do with it? + +FANNY. Thats not all. It goes on, "The ice of life is slippery." + +TROTTER. Ice of life indeed! You should be eating penny ices and +enjoying yourself. I wont hear another word. + +_The Count returns._ + +THE COUNT. We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my dear. Have you been +detaining Mr Trotter all this time? + +TROTTER. I'm so sorry. I must have just a little brush up: I [He hurries +out]. + +THE COUNT. My dear, you should be in the drawing-room. You should not +have kept him here. + +FANNY. I know. Dont scold me: I had something important to say to him. + +THE COUNT. I shall ask him to take you in to dinner. + +FANNY. Yes, papa. Oh, I hope it will go off well. + +THE COUNT. Yes, love, of course it will. Come along. + +FANNY. Just one thing, papa, whilst we're alone. Who was the Stagirite? + +THE COUNT. The Stagirite? Do you mean to say you dont know? + +FANNY. Havnt the least notion. + +THE COUNT. The Stagirite was Aristotle. By the way, dont mention him to +Mr Trotter. + +_They go to the dining-room._ + + + + + +THE PLAY + + + + +ACT I + +_In the dining-room of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly lady sits at +breakfast reading the newspaper. Her chair is at the end of the oblong +dining-table furthest from the fire. There is an empty chair at the +other end. The fireplace is behind this chair; and the door is next the +fireplace, between it and the corner. An arm-chair stands beside the +coal-scuttle. In the middle of the back wall is the sideboard, parallel +to the table. The rest of the furniture is mostly dining-room chairs, +ranged against the walls, and including a baby rocking-chair on the +lady's side of the room. The lady is a placid person. Her husband, Mr +Robin Gilbey, not at all placid, bursts violently into the room with a +letter in his hand._ + +GILBEY. [grinding his teeth] This is a nice thing. This is a b---- + +MRS GILBEY. [cutting him short] Leave it at that, please. Whatever it +is, bad language wont make it better. + +GILBEY. [bitterly] Yes, put me in the wrong as usual. Take your boy's +part against me. [He flings himself into the empty chair opposite her]. + +MRS GILBEY. When he does anything right, hes your son. When he does +anything wrong hes mine. Have you any news of him? + +GILBEY. Ive a good mind not to tell you. + +MRS GILBEY. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. Thats a comfort, at all +events. + +GILBEY. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at the bottom of the +river for all you care. [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and paces +the room distractedly]. + +MRS GILBEY. Then what have you got in your hand? + +GILBEY. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. From New York. +Dropping us. Cutting us. [Turning fiercely on her] Thats a nice thing, +isnt it? + +MRS GILBEY. What for? + +GILBEY. [flinging away towards his chair] How do _I_ know what for? + +MRS GILBEY. What does he say? + +GILBEY. [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles] This is +what he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The news about Bobby had to follow me +across the Atlantic: it did not reach me until to-day. I am afraid he +is incorrigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels that this last +escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think, myself, that Bobby +ought to be made to feel that such scrapes involve a certain degree of +reprobation." "As you may imagine"! And we know no more about it than +the babe unborn. + +MRS GILBEY. What else does he say? + +GILBEY. "I think my brother must have been just a little to blame +himself; so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressive +formality, forgive Bobby later on; but for the present I think it had +better be understood that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer +on visiting terms. As ever, yours sincerely." [His agitation masters him +again] Thats a nice slap in the face to get from a man in his position! +This is what your son has brought on me. + +MRS GILBEY. Well, I think it's rather a nice letter. He as good as tells +you hes only letting on to be offended for Bobby's good. + +GILBEY. Oh, very well: have the letter framed and hang it up over the +mantelpiece as a testimonial. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont talk nonsense, Rob. You ought to be thankful to know +that the boy is alive after his disappearing like that for nearly a +week. + +GILBEY. Nearly a week! A fortnight, you mean. Wheres your feelings, +woman? It was fourteen days yesterday. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if the boy was in +prison. + +GILBEY. How do you know hes not in prison? It's got on my nerves so, +that I'd believe even that. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont talk silly, Rob. Bobby might get into a scrape like any +other lad; but he'd never do anything low. + +_Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver. He is a rather +low-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good appearance and address, +and iron self-command._ + +JUGGINS. [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey] Lady wishes to see Mr +Bobby's parents, sir. + +GILBEY. [pointing to Mrs Gilbey] Theres Mr Bobby's parent. I disown him. + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey]. + +MRS GILBEY. You mustnt mind what your master says, Juggins: he doesnt +mean it. [She takes the card and reads it]. Well, I never! + +GILBEY. Whats up now? + +MRS GILBEY. [reading] "Miss D. Delaney. Darling Dora." Just like +that--in brackets. What sort of person, Juggins? + +GILBEY. Whats her address? + +MRS GILBEY. The West Circular Road. Is that a respectable address, +Juggins? + +JUGGINS. A great many most respectable people live in the West Circular +Road, madam; but the address is not a guarantee of respectability. + +GILBEY. So it's come to that with him, has it? + +MRS GILBEY. Dont jump to conclusions, Rob. How do you know? [To Juggins] +Is she a lady, Juggins? You know what I mean. + +JUGGINS. In the sense in which you are using the word, no, madam. + +MRS GILBEY. I'd better try what I can get out of her. [To Juggins] Shew +her up. You dont mind, do you, Rob? + +GILBEY. So long as you dont flounce out and leave me alone with her. [He +rises and plants himself on the hearth-rug]. + +_Juggins goes out._ + +MRS GILBEY. I wonder what she wants, Rob? + +GILBEY. If she wants money, she shant have it. Not a farthing. A nice +thing, everybody seeing her on our doorstep! If it wasnt that she may +tell us something about the lad, I'd have Juggins put the hussy into the +street. + +JUGGINS. [returning and announcing] Miss Delaney. [He waits for express +orders before placing a chair for this visitor]. + +_Miss Delaney comes in. She is a young lady of hilarious disposition, +very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes. She is so affable and +confidential that it is very difficult to keep her at a distance by any +process short of flinging her out of the house._ + +DORA. [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into the middle +of the room] How d'ye do, both. I'm a friend of Bobby's. He told me all +about you once, in a moment of confidence. Of course he never let on who +he was at the police court. + +GILBEY. Police court! + +MRS GILBEY. [looking apprehensively at Juggins] Tch--! Juggins: a chair. + +DORA. Oh, Ive let it out, have I! [Contemplating Juggins approvingly as +he places a chair for her between the table and the sideboard] But +hes the right sort: I can see that. [Buttonholing him] You wont let on +downstairs, old man, will you? + +JUGGINS. The family can rely on my absolute discretion. [He withdraws]. + +DORA. [sitting down genteelly] I dont know what youll say to me: you +know I really have no right to come here; but then what was I to do? You +know Holy Joe, Bobby's tutor, dont you? But of course you do. + +GILBEY. [with dignity] I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the brother of +Monsignor Grenfell, if it is of him you are speaking. + +DORA. [wide-eyed and much amused] No!!! You dont tell me that old geezer +has a brother a Monsignor! And youre Catholics! And I never knew it, +though Ive known Bobby ever so long! But of course the last thing you +find out about a person is their religion, isnt it? + +MRS GILBEY. We're not Catholics. But when the Samuelses got an +Archdeacon's son to form their boy's mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobby +ought to have a chance too. And the Monsignor is a customer. Mr Gilbey +consulted him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother of his that was +more sinned against than sinning. + +GILBEY. [on tenderhooks] She dont want to hear about that, Maria. [To +Dora] Whats your business? + +DORA. I'm afraid it was all my fault. + +GILBEY. What was all your fault? I'm half distracted. I dont know what +has happened to the boy: hes been lost these fourteen days-- + +MRS GILBEY. A fortnight, Rob. + +GILBEY. --and not a word have we heard of him since. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont fuss, Rob. + +GILBEY. [yelling] I will fuss. Youve no feeling. You dont care what +becomes of the lad. [He sits down savagely]. + +DORA. [soothingly] Youve been anxious about him. Of course. How +thoughtless of me not to begin by telling you hes quite safe. Indeed hes +in the safest place in the world, as one may say: safe under lock and +key. + +GILBEY. [horrified, pitiable] Oh my-- [his breath fails him]. Do you +mean that when he was in the police court he was in the dock? Oh, Maria! +Oh, great Lord! What has he done? What has he got for it? [Desperate] +Will you tell me or will you see me go mad on my own carpet? + +DORA. [sweetly] Yes, old dear-- + +MRS GILBEY. [starting at the familiarity] Well! + +DORA. [continuing] I'll tell you: but dont you worry: hes all right. I +came out myself this morning: there was such a crowd! and a band! they +thought I was a suffragette: only fancy! You see it was like this. Holy +Joe got talking about how he'd been a champion sprinter at college. + +MRS GILBEY. A what? + +DORA. A sprinter. He said he was the fastest hundred yards runner in +England. We were all in the old cowshed that night. + +MRS GILBEY. What old cowshed? + +GILBEY. [groaning] Oh, get on. Get on. + +DORA. Oh, of course you wouldnt know. How silly of me! It's a rather +go-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney. We call it the old cowshed. + +MRS GILBEY. Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music halls? + +DORA. No. Bobby takes him. But Holy Joe likes it: fairly laps it up like +a kitten, poor old dear. Well, Bobby says to me, "Darling--" + +MRS GILBEY. [placidly] Why does he call you Darling? + +DORA. Oh, everybody calls me Darling: it's a sort of name Ive got. +Darling Dora, you know. Well, he says, "Darling, if you can get Holy Joe +to sprint a hundred yards, I'll stand you that squiffer with the gold +keys." + +MRS GILBEY. Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face [Gilbey clutches +at his hair in his impatience]. + +DORA. Well, what would he call him? After all, Holy Joe is Holy Joe; and +boys will be boys. + +MRS GILBEY. Whats a squiffer? + +DORA. Oh, of course: excuse my vulgarity: a concertina. Theres one in +a shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, with gold keys and Russia leather +bellows; and Bobby knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt afford it, +poor lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me. + +GILBEY. Maria: if you keep interrupting with silly questions, I shall go +out of my senses. Heres the boy in gaol and me disgraced for ever; and +all you care to know is what a squiffer is. + +DORA. Well, remember it has gold keys. The man wouldnt take a penny less +than 15 pounds for it. It was a presentation one. + +GILBEY. [shouting at her] Wheres my son? Whats happened to my son? Will +you tell me that, and stop cackling about your squiffer? + +DORA. Oh, aint we impatient! Well, it does you credit, old dear. And you +neednt fuss: theres no disgrace. Bobby behaved like a perfect gentleman. +Besides, it was all my fault. I'll own it: I took too much champagne. I +was not what you might call drunk; but I was bright, and a little beyond +myself; and--I'll confess it--I wanted to shew off before Bobby, because +he was a bit taken by a woman on the stage; and she was pretending to be +game for anything. You see youve brought Bobby up too strict; and when +he gets loose theres no holding him. He does enjoy life more than any +lad I ever met. + +GILBEY. Never you mind how hes been brought up: thats my business. Tell +me how hes been brought down: thats yours. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob. + +DORA. I'm coming to it, old dear: dont you be so headstrong. Well, it +was a beautiful moonlight night; and we couldnt get a cab on the nod; so +we started to walk, very jolly, you know: arm in arm, and dancing along, +singing and all that. When we came into Jamaica Square, there was a +young copper on point duty at the corner. I says to Bob: "Dearie boy: is +it a bargain about the squiffer if I make Joe sprint for you?" "Anything +you like, darling," says he: "I love you." I put on my best company +manners and stepped up to the copper. "If you please, sir," says I, "can +you direct me to Carrickmines Square?" I was so genteel, and talked so +sweet, that he fell to it like a bird. "I never heard of any such Square +in these parts," he says. "Then," says I, "what a very silly little +officer you must be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that knocked +it over his eyes, and did a bunk. + +MRS GILBEY. Did a what? + +DORA. A bunk. Holy Joe did one too all right: he sprinted faster than he +ever did in college, I bet, the old dear. He got clean off, too. Just as +he was overtaking me half-way down the square, we heard the whistle; and +at the sound of it he drew away like a streak of lightning; and that +was the last I saw of him. I was copped in the Dock Road myself: rotten +luck, wasn't it? I tried the innocent and genteel and all the rest; but +Bobby's hat done me in. + +GILBEY. And what happened to the boy? + +DORA. Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper! He thought the +copper would see the joke, poor lamb. He was arguing about it when the +two that took me came along to find out what the whistle was for, and +brought me with them. Of course I swore I'd never seen him before in +my life; but there he was in my hat and I in his. The cops were very +spiteful and laid it on for all they were worth: drunk and disorderly +and assaulting the police and all that. I got fourteen days without the +option, because you see--well, the fact is, I'd done it before, and been +warned. Bobby was a first offender and had the option; but the dear boy +had no money left and wouldnt give you away by telling his name; and +anyhow he couldnt have brought himself to buy himself off and leave me +there; so hes doing his time. Well, it was two forty shillingses; and +Ive only twenty-eight shillings in the world. If I pawn my clothes I +shant be able to earn any more. So I cant pay the fine and get him out; +but if youll stand 3 pounds I'll stand one; and thatll do it. If youd +like to be very kind and nice you could pay the lot; but I cant deny +that it was my fault; so I wont press you. + +GILBEY. [heart-broken] My son in gaol! + +DORA. Oh, cheer up, old dear: it wont hurt him: look at me after +fourteen days of it; I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet. You +mustnt let it prey on your mind. + +GILBEY. The disgrace of it will kill me. And it will leave a mark on him +to the end of his life. + +DORA. Not a bit of it. Dont you be afraid: Ive educated Bobby a bit: hes +not the mollycoddle he was when you had him in hand. + +MRS GILBEY. Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle. They wanted him to go +in for singlestick at the Young Men's Christian Association; but, of +course, I couldnt allow that: he might have had his eye knocked out. + +GILBEY. [to Dora, angrily] Listen here, you. + +DORA. Oh, aint we cross! + +GILBEY. I want none of your gaiety here. This is a respectable +household. Youve gone and got my poor innocent boy into trouble. It's +the like of you thats the ruin of the like of him. + +DORA. So you always say, you old dears. But you know better. Bobby came +to me: I didnt come to him. + +GILBEY. Would he have gone if you hadnt been there for him to go to? +Tell me that. You know why he went to you, I suppose? + +DORA. [charitably] It was dull for him at home, poor lad, wasnt it? + +MRS GILBEY. Oh no. I'm at home on first Thursdays. And we have the +Knoxes to dinner every Friday. Margaret Knox and Bobby are as good as +engaged. Mr Knox is my husband's partner. Mrs Knox is very religious; +but shes quite cheerful. We dine with them on Tuesdays. So thats two +evenings pleasure every week. + +GILBEY. [almost in tears] We done what we could for the boy. Short of +letting him go into temptations of all sorts, he can do what he likes. +What more does he want? + +DORA. Well, old dear, he wants me; and thats about the long and short of +it. And I must say youre not very nice to me about it. Ive talked to him +like a mother, and tried my best to keep him straight; but I dont deny +I like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit giddy when we're +lighthearted. Him and me is a pair, I'm afraid. + +GILBEY. Dont talk foolishness, girl. How could you and he be a pair, you +being what you are, and he brought up as he has been, with the example +of a religious woman like Mrs Knox before his eyes? I cant understand +how he could bring himself to be seen in the street with you. [Pitying +himself] I havnt deserved this. Ive done my duty as a father. Ive kept +him sheltered. [Angry with her] Creatures like you that take advantage +of a child's innocence ought to be whipped through the streets. + +DORA. Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady to lose my temper; +and I dont think Bobby would like me to tell you what I think of you; +for when I start giving people a bit of my mind I sometimes use language +thats beneath me. But I tell you once for all I must have the money to +get Bobby out; and if you wont fork out, I'll hunt up Holy Joe. He might +get it off his brother, the Monsignor. + +GILBEY. You mind your own concerns. My solicitor will do what is right. +I'll not have you paying my son's fine as if you were anything to him. + +DORA. Thats right. Youll get him out today, wont you? + +GILBEY. It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it? + +DORA. I'd like to know when theyll let him out. + +GILBEY. You would, would you? Youre going to meet him at the prison +door. + +DORA. Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of a +lady? + +GILBEY. [bitterly] Oh yes: I know. Here! I must buy the lad's salvation, +I suppose. How much will you take to clear out and let him go? + +DORA. [pitying him: quite nice about it] What good would that do, old +dear? There are others, you know. + +GILBEY. Thats true. I must send the boy himself away. + +DORA. Where to? + +GILBEY. Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your like. + +DORA. Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old dear. +I'm sorry for you: I really am, though you mightnt believe it; and I +think your feelings do you real credit. But I cant give him up just to +let him fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I? + +GILBEY. [beside himself, rising] Wheres the police? Wheres the +Government? Wheres the Church? Wheres respectability and right reason? +Whats the good of them if I have to stand here and see you put my son in +your pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly out of gaol as +a common drunk and disorderly? Whats the world coming to? + +DORA. It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear? + +_Mr Gilbey rushes from the room, distracted._ + +MRS GILBEY. [unruffled] Where did you buy that white lace? I want some +to match a collaret of my own; and I cant get it at Perry and John's. + +DORA. Knagg and Pantle's: one and fourpence. It's machine hand-made. + +MRS GILBEY. I never give more than one and tuppence. But I suppose youre +extravagant by nature. My sister Martha was just like that. Pay anything +she was asked. + +DORA. Whats tuppence to you, Mrs Bobby, after all? + +MRS GILBEY. [correcting her] Mrs Gilbey. + +DORA. Of course, Mrs Gilbey. I am silly. + +MRS GILBEY. Bobby must have looked funny in your hat. Why did you change +hats with him? + +DORA. I dont know. One does, you know. + +MRS GILBEY. I never did. The things people do! I cant understand them. +Bobby never told me he was keeping company with you. His own mother! + +DORA. [overcome] Excuse me: I cant help smiling. + +_Juggins enters._ + +JUGGINS. Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, madam. + +MRS GILBEY. Have you ever been in a police court, Juggins? + +JUGGINS. Yes, madam. + +MRS GILBEY [rather shocked] I hope you had not been exceeding, Juggins. + +JUGGINS. Yes, madam, I had. I exceeded the legal limit. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, that! Why do they give a woman a fortnight for wearing a +man's hat, and a man a month for wearing hers? + +JUGGINS. I didnt know that they did, madam. + +MRS GILBEY. It doesnt seem justice, does it, Juggins? + +JUGGINS. No, madam. + +MRS GILBEY [to Dora, rising] Well, good-bye. [Shaking her hand] So +pleased to have made your acquaintance. + +DORA. [standing up] Dont mention it. I'm sure it's most kind of you to +receive me at all. + +MRS GILBEY. I must go off now and order lunch. [She trots to the door]. +What was it you called the concertina? + +DORA. A squiffer, dear. + +MRS GILBEY. [thoughtfully] A squiffer, of course. How funny! [She goes +out]. + +DORA. [exploding into ecstasies of mirth] Oh my! isnt she an old love? +How do you keep your face straight? + +JUGGINS. It is what I am paid for. + +DORA. [confidentially] Listen here, dear boy. Your name isnt Juggins. +Nobody's name is Juggins. + +JUGGINS. My orders are, Miss Delaney, that you are not to be here when +Mr Gilbey returns from Wormwood Scrubbs. + +DORA. That means telling me to mind my own business, doesnt it? Well, +I'm off. Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling. [She kisses her hand to him and +goes]. + + + + +ACT II + +_On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in her +drawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall. Anyone +placed so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door on the +right and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs Knox, whose +back is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the opposite side +of the room. The sofa is near the piano. There is a small table in the +middle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and albums on it, and +chairs near it._ + +_Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner, +harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a soft +stoutish man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox has +coarse black hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving can +whiten. Mrs Knox is a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion, +with thoughtful eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere of +peace and some solemnity. She is surprised to see her husband at home +during business hours._ + +MRS KNOX. What brings you home at this hour? Have you heard anything? + +KNOX. No. Have you? + +MRS KNOX. No. Whats the matter? + +KNOX. [sitting down on the sofa] I believe Gilbey has found out. + +MRS KNOX. What makes you think that? + +KNOX. Well, I dont know: I didnt like to tell you: you have enough +to worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever since +it happened. I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I was +depending on him. But hes worse than me. Hes not looking after anything; +and he keeps out of my way. His manner's not natural. He hasnt asked us +to dinner; and hes never said a word about our not asking him to +dinner, after all these years when weve dined every week as regular as +clockwork. It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop me socially. +Well, why should he do that if he hasnt heard? + +MRS KNOX. I wonder! Bobby hasnt been near us either: thats what I cant +make out. + +KNOX. Oh, thats nothing. I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall with +her aunt. + +MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Jo! [She takes her handkerchief from the +writing-table and cries a little]. + +KNOX. Well, I got to tell lies, aint I? You wont. Somebody's got to tell +em. + +MRS KNOX. [putting away her handkerchief] It only ends in our not +knowing what to believe. Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton for +the sea air. Theres something queer about that. Gilbey would never +let the boy loose by himself among the temptations of a gay place like +Brighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington High +Street the very day she told me. + +KNOX. If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby and +Margaret, and all over between us and them. + +MRS KNOX. It's all over between us and everybody. When a girl runs away +from home like that, people know what to think of her and her parents. + +KNOX. She had a happy, respectable home--everything-- + +MRS KNOX. [interrupting him] Theres no use going over it all again, Jo. +If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy anywhere. Youd +better go back to the shop and try to keep your mind off it. + +KNOX. [rising restlessly] I cant. I keep fancying everybody knows it and +is sniggering about it. I'm at peace nowhere but here. It's a comfort to +be with you. It's a torment to be with other people. + +MRS KNOX. [going to him and drawing her arm through his] There, Jo, +there! I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could. But it cant be. +God's work must go on from day to day, no matter what comes. We must +face our trouble and bear it. + +KNOX. [wandering to the window arm in arm with her] Just look at the +people in the street, going up and down as if nothing had happened. It +seems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care. + +MRS KNOX. If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking up +at us. You shouldnt keep thinking about it. + +KNOX. I know I shouldnt. You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm sure +I'm glad it comforts you. But it doesnt come to me that way. Ive worked +hard to get a position and be respectable. Ive turned many a girl out of +the shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres my own daughter +gone for a fortnight without word or sign, except a telegram to say shes +not dead and that we're not to worry about her. + +MRS KNOX. [suddenly pointing to the street] Jo, look! + +KNOX. Margaret! With a man! + +MRS KNOX. Run down, Jo, quick. Catch her: save her. + +KNOX. [lingering] Shes shaking bands with him: shes coming across to the +door. + +MRS KNOX. [energetically] Do as I tell you. Catch the man before hes out +of sight. + +_Knox rushes from the room. Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly from +the window. Then she throws up the sash and leans out. Margaret Knox +comes in, flustered and annoyed. She is a strong, springy girl of +eighteen, with large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily resolute +manner, even peremptory on occasions like the present, when she is +annoyed._ + +MARGARET. Mother. Mother. + +_Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter._ + +MRS KNOX. [sternly] Well, miss? + +MARGARET. Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene in +the street. He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away my +daughter" loud enough for all the people to hear. Everybody stopped. We +shall have a crowd round the house. Do do something to stop him. + +_Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer._ + +MARGARET. Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry--so ashamed. Mother: +this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me. Monsieur +Duvallet: my mother. [Duvallet bows]. + +KNOX. A Frenchman! It only needed this. + +MARGARET. [much annoyed] Father: do please be commonly civil to a +gentleman who has been of the greatest service to me. What will he think +of us? + +DUVALLET. [debonair] But it's very natural. I understand Mr Knox's +feelings perfectly. [He speaks English better than Knox, having learnt +it on both sides of the Atlantic]. + +KNOX. If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize. But I want to know +where my daughter has been for the last fortnight. + +DUVALLET. She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place. + +KNOX. Will you tell me what place? I can judge for myself how safe it +was. + +MARGARET. Holloway Gaol. Was that safe enough? + +KNOX AND MRS KNOX. Holloway Gaol! + +KNOX. Youve joined the Suffragets! + +MARGARET. No. I wish I had. I could have had the same experience in +better company. Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet. [She sits between +the table and the sofa. Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the other side of +the table. Knox remains standing in the middle of the room]. + +DUVALLET. [sitting down on the sofa] It was nothing. An adventure. +Nothing. + +MARGARET. [obdurately] Drunk and assaulting the police! Forty shillings +or a month! + +MRS KNOX. Margaret! Who accused you of such a thing? + +MARGARET. The policeman I assaulted. + +KNOX. You mean to say that you did it! + +MARGARET. I did. I had that satisfaction at all events. I knocked two of +his teeth out. + +KNOX. And you sit there coolly and tell me this! + +MARGARET. Well, where do you want me to sit? Whats the use of saying +things like that? + +KNOX. My daughter in Holloway Gaol! + +MARGARET. All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters. Really, +father, you must make up your mind to it. If you had sat in that cell +for fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would understand that +I'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying to persuade +yourself that it cant be real. These things really do happen to real +people every day; and you read about them in the papers and think it's +all right. Well, theyve happened to me: thats all. + +KNOX. [feeble-forcible] But they shouldnt have happened to you. Dont you +know that? + +MARGARET. They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose. But they do. +[Rising impatiently] And really I'd rather go out and assault another +policeman and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and round it +like this. If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn me out: the +sooner I go the better. + +DUVALLET. [rising quickly] That is impossible, mademoiselle. Your father +has his position to consider. To turn his daughter out of doors would +ruin him socially. + +KNOX. Oh, youve put her up to that, have you? And where did you come in, +may I ask? + +DUVALLET. I came in at your invitation--at your amiable insistence, in +fact, not at my own. But you need have no anxiety on my account. I +was concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your daughter's +incarceration. I got a fortnight without the option of a fine on the +ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the policeman with my +fist. I should have done so with pleasure had I known; but, as it was, +I struck him on the ear with my boot--a magnificent _moulinet_, I must +say--and was informed that I had been guilty of an act of cowardice, +but that for the sake of the _entente cordiale_ I should be dealt with +leniently. Yet Miss Knox, who used her fist, got a month, but with the +option of a fine. I did not know this until I was released, when my +first act was to pay the fine. And here we are. + +MRS KNOX. You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo. + +KNOX. [reddening] Oh, certainly. [He takes out some money]. + +DUVALLET. Oh please! it does not matter. [Knox hands him two +sovereigns]. If you insist-- [he pockets them] Thank you. + +MARGARET. I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet. + +DUVALLET. Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle? + +MARGARET. I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you dont +mind. + +DUVALLET. Perfectly. Madame [bow]--Mademoiselle [bow]--Monsieur +[bow]--[He goes out]. + +MRS KNOX. Dont ring, Jo. See the gentleman out yourself. + +_Knox hastily sees Duvallet out. Mother and daughter sit looking +forlornly at one another without saying a word. Mrs Knox slowly sits +down. Margaret follows her example. They look at one another again. Mr +Knox returns._ + +KNOX. [shortly and sternly] Amelia: this is your job. [To Margaret] I +leave you to your mother. I shall have my own say in the matter when I +hear what you have to say to her. [He goes out, solemn and offended]. + +MARGARET. [with a bitter little laugh] Just what the Suffraget said to +me in Holloway. He throws the job on you. + +MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Margaret! + +MARGARET. You know it's true. + +MRS KNOX. Margaret: if youre going to be hardened about it, theres no +use my saying anything. + +MARGARET. I'm not hardened, mother. But I cant talk nonsense about +it. You see, it's all real to me. Ive suffered it. Ive been shoved and +bullied. Ive had my arms twisted. Ive been made scream with pain in +other ways. Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other poor +wretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a cellar. And +the only difference between me and the others was that I hit back. Yes +I did. And I did worse. I wasnt ladylike. I cursed. I called names. I +heard words that I didnt even know that I knew, coming out of my mouth +just as if somebody else had spoken them. The policeman repeated them +in court. The magistrate said he could hardly believe it. The policeman +held out his hand with his two teeth in it that I knocked out. I said +it was all right; that I had heard myself using those words quite +distinctly; and that I had taken the good conduct prize for three years +running at school. The poor old gentleman put me back for the missionary +to find out who I was, and to ascertain the state of my mind. I wouldnt +tell, of course, for your sakes at home here; and I wouldnt say I was +sorry, or apologize to the policeman, or compensate him or anything of +that sort. I wasnt sorry. The one thing that gave me any satisfaction +was getting in that smack on his mouth; and I said so. So the missionary +reported that I seemed hardened and that no doubt I would tell who I was +after a day in prison. Then I was sentenced. So now you see I'm not a +bit the sort of girl you thought me. I'm not a bit the sort of girl I +thought myself. And I dont know what sort of person you really are, or +what sort of person father really is. I wonder what he would say or do +if he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm with one hand +and rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the other. He couldnt +whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down by a glorious +kick on the helmet. Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought we'd have +beaten them. + +MRS KNOX. But how did it all begin? + +MARGARET. Oh, I dont know. It was boat-race night, they said. + +MRS KNOX. Boat-race night! But what had you to do with the boat race? +You went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall with your +aunt. She put you into the bus that passes the door. What made you get +out of the bus? + +MARGARET. I dont know. The meeting got on my nerves, somehow. It was the +singing, I suppose: you know I love singing a good swinging hymn; and I +felt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had been singing +so wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to heaven. I wanted +more music--more happiness--more life. I wanted some comrade who felt +as I did. I felt exalted: it seemed mean to be afraid of anything: +after all, what could anyone do to me against my will? I suppose I was +a little mad: at all events, I got out of the bus at Piccadilly Circus, +because there was a lot of light and excitement there. I walked to +Leicester Square; and went into a great theatre. + +MRS KNOX. [horrified] A theatre! + +MARGARET. Yes. Lots of other women were going in alone. I had to pay +five shillings. + +MRS KNOX. [aghast] Five shillings! + +MARGARET. [apologetically] It was a lot. It was very stuffy; and I didnt +like the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying themselves; +but the stage was splendid and the music lovely. I saw that Frenchman, +Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking a cigarette. He +seemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike. I went and stood +beside him, hoping he would speak to me. + +MRS KNOX. [gasps] Margaret! + +MARGARET. [continuing] He did, just as if he had known me for years. +We got on together like old friends. He asked me would I have some +champagne; and I said it would cost too much, but that I would give +anything for a dance. I longed to join the people on the stage and dance +with them: one of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever saw. He told +me he had come there to see her, and that when it was over we could go +somewhere where there was dancing. So we went to a place where there was +a band in a gallery and the floor cleared for dancing. Very few people +danced: the women only wanted to shew off their dresses; but we danced +and danced until a lot of them joined in. We got quite reckless; and we +had champagne after all. I never enjoyed anything so much. But at last +it got spoilt by the Oxford and Cambridge students up for the boat race. +They got drunk; and they began to smash things; and the police came in. +Then it was quite horrible. The students fought with the police; and +the police suddenly got quite brutal, and began to throw everybody +downstairs. They attacked the women, who were not doing anything, and +treated them just as roughly as they had treated the students. Duvallet +got indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was shoving a woman +though she was going quietly as fast as she could. The policeman flung +the woman through the door and then turned on Duvallet. It was then that +Duvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the policeman down. +And then three policemen rushed at him and carried him out by the arms +and legs face downwards. Two more attacked me and gave me a shove to the +door. That quite maddened me. I just got in one good bang on the mouth +of one of them. All the rest was dreadful. I was rushed through the +streets to the police station. They kicked me with their knees; they +twisted my arms; they taunted and insulted me; they called me vile +names; and I told them what I thought of them, and provoked them to do +their worst. Theres one good thing about being hard hurt: it makes you +sleep. I slept in that filthy cell with all the other drunks sounder +than I should have slept at home. I cant describe how I felt next +morning: it was hideous; but the police were quite jolly; and everybody +said it was a bit of English fun, and talked about last year's boat-race +night when it had been a great deal worse. I was black and blue and sick +and wretched. But the strange thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm not +sorry. And I dont feel that I did anything wrong, really. [She rises +and stretches her arms with a large liberating breath] Now that it's all +over I'm rather proud of it; though I know now that I'm not a lady; but +whether thats because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's really +a lady except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont know. [She throws +herself into a corner of the sofa]. + +MRS KNOX. [lost in wonder] But how could you bring yourself to do it, +Margaret? I'm not blaming you: I only want to know. How could you bring +yourself to do it? + +MARGARET. I cant tell you. I dont understand it myself. The prayer +meeting set me free, somehow. I should never have done it if it were not +for the prayer meeting. + +MRS KNOX. [deeply horrified] Oh, dont say such a thing as that. I know +that prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me when I +told you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil. + +MARGARET. Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set free +for evil as well as good. As father says, you cant have anything both +ways at once. When I was at home and at school I was what you call good; +but I wasnt free. And when I got free I was what most people would call +not good. But I see no harm in what I did; though I see plenty in what +other people did to me. + +MRS KNOX. I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance. + +MARGARET. Oh no. [She sits down again at the table]. I'm a heroine of +reality, if you can call me a heroine at all. And reality is pretty +brutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it. Yet it's glorious +all the same. It's so real and satisfactory. + +MRS KNOX. I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret. I dont like your +talking to me in that tone. + +MARGARET. It's no use, mother. I dont care for you and Papa any the +less; but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again. Ive +made a sort of descent into hell-- + +MRS KNOX. Margaret! Such a word! + +MARGARET. You should have heard all the words that were flying round +that night. You should mix a little with people who dont know any +other words. But when I said that about a descent into hell I was not +swearing. I was in earnest, like a preacher. + +MRS KNOX. A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice. + +MARGARET. I know: the tone that shews they dont mean anything real to +him. They usent to mean anything real to me. Now hell is as real to me +as a turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that. Anyhow, +Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth doing but +redeeming people from it. + +MRS KNOX. They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it. + +MARGARET. Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it? You +dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist their +arms. Whats the good of pretending? Thats all our respectability is, +pretending, pretending, pretending. Thank heaven Ive had it knocked out +of me once for all! + +MRS KNOX. [greatly agitated] Margaret: dont talk like that. I cant bear +to hear you talking wickedly. I can bear to hear the children of this +world talking vainly and foolishly in the language of this world. But +when I hear you justifying your wickedness in the words of grace, it's +too horrible: it sounds like the devil making fun of religion. Ive tried +to bring you up to learn the happiness of religion. Ive waited for you +to find out that happiness is within ourselves and doesnt come from +outward pleasures. Ive prayed oftener than you think that you might be +enlightened. But if all my hopes and all my prayers are to come to this, +that you mix up my very words and thoughts with the promptings of the +devil, then I dont know what I shall do: I dont indeed: itll kill me. + +MARGARET. You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you didnt +want me to be enlightened. If the truth were known, I suspect we all +want our prayers to be answered only by halves: the agreeable halves. +Your prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother. Youve got more than +you bargained for in the way of enlightenment. I shall never be the same +again. I shall never speak in the old way again. Ive been set free from +this silly little hole of a house and all its pretences. I know now that +I am stronger than you and Papa. I havnt found that happiness of yours +that is within yourself; but Ive found strength. For good or evil I am +set free; and none of the things that used to hold me can hold me now. + +_Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense._ + +KNOX. How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia? Do you +think I'm made of iron? Whats the girl done? What are we going to do? + +MRS KNOX. Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours. I cant even pray +for her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for. + +KNOX. Dont talk nonsense, woman: is this a time for praying? Does +anybody know? Thats what we have to consider now. If only we can keep it +dark, I don't care for anything else. + +MARGARET. Dont hope for that, father. Mind: I'll tell everybody. It +ought to be told. It must be told. + +KNOX. Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house this +instant. + +MARGARET. I'm quite ready. [She takes her hat and turns to the door]. + +KNOX. [throwing himself in front of it] Here! where are you going? + +MRS KNOX. [rising] You mustnt turn her out, Jo! I'll go with her if she +goes. + +KNOX. Who wants to turn her out? But is she going to ruin us? To let +everybody know of her disgrace and shame? To tear me down from the +position Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard struggling? + +MARGARET. Yes: I'm going to tear it all down. It stands between us and +everything. I'll tell everybody. + +KNOX. Magsy, my child: dont bring down your father's hairs with sorrow +to the grave. Theres only one thing I care about in the world: to keep +this dark. I'm your father. I ask you here on my knees--in the dust, so +to speak--not to let it out. + +MARGARET. I'll tell everybody. + +_Knox collapses in despair. Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot. Margaret +stands inflexible._ + + + + +ACT III + +_Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table is not laid: it +is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an exercise-book, and +school-books on it. Bobby Gilbey is in the arm-chair, crouching over +the fire, reading an illustrated paper. He is a pretty youth, of very +suburban gentility, strong and manly enough by nature, but untrained and +unsatisfactory, his parents having imagined that domestic restriction +is what they call "bringing up." He has learnt nothing from it except a +habit of evading it by deceit._ + +_He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins answers +the bell._ + +BOBBY. Juggins. + +JUGGINS. Sir? + +BOBBY. [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed! + +JUGGINS. [cheerfully] Not at all, sir. + +BOBBY. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man. + +JUGGINS. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you sir; +and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain. + +BOBBY. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it? + +JUGGINS. No, sir. + +BOBBY. Ive been talking to Dora about you. + +JUGGINS. Indeed, sir? + +BOBBY. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have the +manners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadnt any manners. Anyhow, +your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in my set. + +JUGGINS. They would be, sir. + +BOBBY. You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of +Dora's notion, I suppose. + +JUGGINS. No, sir. + +BOBBY. [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over the +arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman] It was part of your +bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. + +BOBBY. Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an engagement +to a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise or behaving +like a regular cad? + +JUGGINS. No, sir. You cant get out of an engagement without behaving +like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it. + +BOBBY. But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dont +really care for her. + +JUGGINS. Women dont always marry for happiness, sir. They often marry +because they wish to be married women and not old maids. + +BOBBY. Then what am I to do? + +JUGGINS. Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad. + +BOBBY. [Jumping up] Well, I wont marry her: thats flat. What would you +do if you were in my place? + +JUGGINS. I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil my +engagement. + +BOBBY. But youd have to make some excuse, you know. I want to give it a +gentlemanly turn: to say I'm not worthy of her, or something like that. + +JUGGINS. That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite the contrary. + +BOBBY. I dont see that at all. Do you mean that it's not exactly true? + +JUGGINS. Not at all, sir. + +BOBBY. I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been. +That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather +exceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can +ever be of anyone else. You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of a +girl's feelings. + +JUGGINS. If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her. If +you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get credit +for considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare them. She +wont like it. And it will start an argument, of which you will get the +worse. + +BOBBY. But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her. + +JUGGINS. Probably she never supposed you were, sir. + +BOBBY. Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist. + +JUGGINS. [preparing to go] Anything else, sir? + +BOBBY. [querulously] You havnt been much use. [He wanders disconsolately +across the room]. You generally put me up to the correct way of doing +things. + +JUGGINS. I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting. It's not +correct in itself. + +BOBBY. [hopefully] I'll tell you what. I'll say I cant hold her to an +engagement with a man whos been in quod. Thatll do it. [He seats himself +on the table, relieved and confident]. + +JUGGINS. Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny herself the romantic +luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the form of +doing something agreeable. Shes almost sure to say that your misfortune +will draw her closer to you. + +BOBBY. What a nuisance! I dont know what to do. You know, Juggins, your +cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark Hill. + +JUGGINS. I daresay not, sir. No doubt youd prefer to make it look like +an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke her to +break the engagement herself. Both plans have been tried repeatedly, but +never with success, as far as my knowledge goes. + +BOBBY. You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law. You know, +in my class you have to wrap up things a bit. Denmark Hill isn't +Camberwell, you know. + +JUGGINS. I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the higher +you go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and that +only tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere. Thats a mistake. Tramps +are often shameless; but theyre never sincere. Swells--if I may use that +convenient name for the upper classes--play much more with their cards +on the table. If you tell the young lady that you want to jilt her, and +she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction may leave much to +be desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if you say youre not +worthy. + +BOBBY. Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins. The girl isnt a +scullery-maid. I want to do it delicately. + +JUGGINS. A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in +that line.--Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell. [He goes out]. + +_Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes +off the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes +reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. Juggins returns._ + +JUGGINS. [announcing] Miss Knox. + +_Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws._ + +MARGARET. Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination, +Bobby? Youll never pass. + +BOBBY. [rising] No: I was just writing to you. + +MARGARET. What about? + +BOBBY. Oh, nothing. At least-- How are you? + +MARGARET. [passing round the other end of the table and putting down on +it a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag] Quite well, thank you. +How did you enjoy Brighton? + +BOBBY. Brighton! I wasnt at-- Oh yes, of course. Oh, pretty well. Is +your aunt all right? + +MARGARET. My aunt! I suppose so. I havent seen her for a month. + +BOBBY. I thought you were down staying with her. + +MARGARET. Oh! was that what they told you? + +BOBBY. Yes. Why? Werent you really? + +MARGARET. No. Ive something to tell you. Sit down and lets be +comfortable. + +_She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and puts his arm +wearily round her waist._ + +MARGARET. You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby. Suppose we get off +duty for the day, just to see what it's like. + +BOBBY. Off duty? What do you mean? + +MARGARET. You know very well what I mean. Bobby: did you ever care one +little scrap for me in that sort of way? Dont funk answering: _I_ dont +care a bit for you--that way. + +BOBBY. [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your pardon, I'm sure. I +thought you did. + +MARGARET. Well, did you? Come! Dont be mean. Ive owned up. You can put +it all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more than I +do. + +BOBBY. You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars. + +MARGARET. Yes. + +BOBBY. Well, it's not that I dont care for you: in fact, no girl can +ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much +together that it feels more like brother and sister than--well, than the +other thing, doesnt it? + +MARGARET. Just so. How did you find out the difference? + +BOBBY. [blushing] Oh, I say! + +MARGARET. I found out from a Frenchman. + +BOBBY. Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his consternation]. + +MARGARET. Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? You know you must have +learnt it from somebody. + +BOBBY. Not a Frenchwoman. Shes quite a nice woman. But shes been rather +unfortunate. The daughter of a clergyman. + +MARGARET. [startled] Oh, Bobby! That sort of woman! + +BOBBY. What sort of woman? + +MARGARET. You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do you, +you silly boy? It's a stock joke. + +BOBBY. Do you mean to say you dont believe me? + +MARGARET. No: I mean to say I dont believe her. + +BOBBY. [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table beside +her]. What do you know about her? What do you know about all this sort +of thing? + +MARGARET. What sort of thing, Bobby? + +BOBBY. Well, about life. + +MARGARET. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasnt at my aunt's. +All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean. + +BOBBY. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better tell you: youre bound to +find out sooner or later. [He begins his confession humbly, avoiding +her gaze]. Meg: it's rather awful: youll think me no end of a beast. Ive +been in prison. + +MARGARET. You! + +BOBBY. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police. + +MARGARET. Do you mean to say that you--oh! this is a let-down for me. +[She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the +end of it furthest from the hearth]. + +BOBBY. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that. I was +writing to you to break it off. [He also descends from the table and +makes slowly for the hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter. + +MARGARET. Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and +assaulting the police? How long were you in? + +BOBBY. A fortnight. + +MARGARET. Thats what I was in for. + +BOBBY. What are you talking about? In where? + +MARGARET. In quod. + +BOBBY. But I'm serious: I'm not rotting. Really and truly-- + +MARGARET. What did you do to the copper? + +BOBBY. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated grossly. I only +laughed at him. + +MARGARET. [jumping up, triumphant] Ive beaten you hollow. I knocked +out two of his teeth. Ive got one of them. He sold it to me for ten +shillings. + +BOBBY. Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you I'm not rotting. [He +sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily]. + +MARGARET. [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him] And +I tell you I'm not either. Look! Heres a report of it. The daily papers +are no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid. [She sits on the arm +of the chair]. See! [Reading]: "Hardened at Eighteen. A quietly dressed, +respectable-looking girl who refuses her name"--thats me. + +BOBBY. [pausing a moment in his perusal] Do you mean to say that you +went on the loose out of pure devilment? + +MARGARET. I did no harm. I went to see a lovely dance. I picked up a +nice man and went to have a dance myself. I cant imagine anything more +innocent and more happy. All the bad part was done by other people: +they did it out of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here we are, two +gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever. Isnt it a relief? + +BOBBY. [rising stiffly] But you know, it's not the same for a girl. A +man may do things a woman maynt. [He stands on the hearthrug with his +back to the fire]. + +MARGARET. Are you scandalized, Bobby? + +BOBBY. Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg? I never +thought you were that sort of girl. + +MARGARET. [rising indignantly] I'm not. You mustnt pretend to think that +_I_'m a clergyman's daughter, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I wish you wouldnt chaff about that. Dont forget the row you got +into for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back on him +quickly]--a footman! And what about the Frenchman? + +MARGARET. [facing him again] I know nothing about the Frenchman except +that hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like the hand of +a clock and knock a policeman down with it. He was in Wormwood Scrubbs +with you. I was in Holloway. + +BOBBY. It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit +thick, you know. + +MARGARET. Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison? + +BOBBY. [hastily] No. I never said that. It might even give a woman a +greater claim on a man. Any girl, if she were thoughtless and a bit +on, perhaps, might get into a scrape. Anyone who really understood her +character could see there was no harm in it. But youre not the larky +sort. At least you usent to be. + +MARGARET. I'm not; and I never will be. [She walks straight up to him]. +I didnt do it for a lark, Bob: I did it out of the very depths of my +nature. I did it because I'm that sort of person. I did it in one of my +religious fits. I'm hardened at eighteen, as they say. So what about the +match, now? + +BOBBY. Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg. Of course +it would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or anything of +that sort. I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and I dont pretend +to. I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as long as it is +understood that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go on the loose on +principle; to talk about religion in connection with it; to--to--well, +Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say. I hope youre not in earnest +when you talk that way. + +MARGARET. Bobby: youre no good. No good to me, anyhow. + +BOBBY. [huffed] I'm sorry, Miss Knox. + +MARGARET. Goodbye, Mr Gilbey. [She turns on her heel and goes to +the other end of the table]. I suppose you wont introduce me to the +clergyman's daughter. + +BOBBY. I dont think she'd like it. There are limits, after all. [He sits +down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books: a hint to her +to go]. + +MARGARET. [on her way to the door] Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell +Juggins to shew me out. + +BOBBY. [reddening] I'm not a cad, Meg. + +MARGARET. [coming to the table] Then do something nice to prevent us +feeling mean about this afterwards. Youd better kiss me. You neednt ever +do it again. + +BOBBY. If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you. + +MARGARET. Oh, it'd be no fun. If I wanted what you call fun, I should +ask the Frenchman to kiss me--or Juggins. + +BOBBY. [rising and retreating to the hearth] Oh, dont be disgusting, +Meg. Dont be low. + +MARGARET. [determinedly, preparing to use force] Now, I'll make you +kiss me, just to punish you. [She seizes his wrist; pulls him off his +balance; and gets her arm round his neck]. + +BOBBY. No. Stop. Leave go, will you. + +_Juggins appears at the door._ + +JUGGINS. Miss Delaney, Sir. [Dora comes in. Juggins goes out. Margaret +hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the room.] + +DORA. [through the door, to the departing Juggins] Well, you are a +Juggins to shew me up when theres company. [To Margaret and Bobby] It's +all right, dear: all right, old man: I'll wait in Juggins's pantry til +youre disengaged. + +MARGARET. Dont you know me? + +DORA. [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very +attentively] Why, it's never No. 406! + +MARGARET. Yes it is. + +DORA. Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform. How did +you get out? You were doing a month, wernt you? + +MARGARET. My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself. + +DORA. A real gentleman! [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring open-mouthed] +Look at him. He cant take it in. + +BOBBY. I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg. But when it +comes to talking about blokes and all that--well! + +MARGARET. Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it. It's another +barrier broken down. + +BOBBY. It's not so much the language, Meg. But I think [he looks at Dora +and stops]. + +MARGARET. [suddenly dangerous] What do you think, Bobby? + +DORA. He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie. It does him +credit: he always was a gentleman, you know. + +MARGARET. Does him credit! To insult you like that! Bobby: say that that +wasnt what you meant. + +BOBBY. I didnt say it was. + +MARGARET. Well, deny that it was. + +BOBBY. No. I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think it's +not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her. + +DORA. Of course it isnt, old man. [To Margaret] I'll just trot off and +come back in half an hour. You two can make it up together. I'm really +not fit company for you, dearie: I couldnt live up to you. [She turns to +go]. + +MARGARET. Stop. Do you believe he could live up to me? + +DORA. Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and a +respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself. I +have a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some. + +MARGARET. You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's behaving +like a skunk. + +BOBBY. [much ruffled] Nice language that! + +DORA. Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep up +their respectability. But you cant blame them for that, can you? Ive +met Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead. I wont +pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear? + +MARGARET. And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in +countenance. Well, I shant: not if my whole family were there. But +I'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat you properly. [To Bobby, with a +threatening move in his direction] I'll educate you, you young beast. + +BOBBY. [furious, meeting her half way] Who are you calling a young +beast? + +MARGARET. You. + +DORA. [peacemaking] Now, dearies! + +BOBBY. If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly well +clouted. + +MARGARET. If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be the +beginning of a collection. + +DORA. Now, loveys, be good. + +_Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at +Margaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended countenance a +box on the cheek. He hurls himself her. They wrestle._ + +BOBBY. Cat! I'll teach you. + +MARGARET. Pig! Beast! [She forces him backwards on the table]. Now where +are you? + +DORA. [calling] Juggins, Juggins. Theyll murder one another. + +JUGGINS. [throwing open the door, and announcing] Monsieur Duvallet. + +_Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence. The +combatants separate by the whole width of the room. Juggins withdraws._ + +DUVALLET. I fear I derange you. + +MARGARET. Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: Monsieur Duvallet +will think I'm always fighting. + +DUVALLET. Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling. Admirable, +Miss Knox. The athletic young Englishwoman is an example to all Europe. +[Indicating Bobby] Your instructor, no doubt. Monsieur-- [he bows]. + +BOBBY. [bowing awkwardly] How d'y' do? + +MARGARET. [to Bobby] I'm so sorry, Bobby: I asked Monsieur Duvallet +to call for me here; and I forgot to tell you. [Introducing] Monsieur +Duvallet: Miss Four hundred and seven. Mr Bobby Gilbey. [Duvallet bows]. +I really dont know how to explain our relationships. Bobby and I are +like brother and sister. + +DUVALLET. Perfectly. I noticed it. + +MARGARET. Bobby and Miss--Miss---- + +DORA. Delaney, dear. [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to real +friends. + +MARGARET. Bobby and Dora are--are--well, not brother and sister. + +DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension] Perfectly. + +MARGARET. Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison. You dont mind, +do you? + +DUVALLET. No, naturally. _I_ have spent the last fortnight in prison. + +_The conversation drops. Margaret renews it with an effort._ + +MARGARET. Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison. + +DUVALLET. Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement. + +DORA. _Trop merci_, as they say in Boulogne. No call to be stiff with +one another, have we? + +_Juggins comes in._ + +JUGGINS. Beg pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the street. + +DORA. Let me absquatulate [making for the door]. + +JUGGINS. If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step +into my pantry and leave afterwards. + +DORA. Right oh! [She bursts into song] Hide me in the meat safe til the +cop goes by. Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh. [She goes +out on tiptoe]. + +MARGARET. I wont stay here if she has to hide. I'll keep her company in +the pantry. [She follows Dora]. + +BOBBY. Lets all go. We cant have any fun with the Mar here. I say, +Juggins: you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you? + +JUGGINS. Certainly, sir. + +BOBBY. Right. Say nothing to my mother. You dont mind, Mr. Doovalley, do +you? + +DUVALLET. I shall be charmed. + +BOBBY. Right you are. Come along. [At the door] Oh, by the way, Juggins, +fetch down that concertina from my room, will you? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him to the door]. +You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely _comme il +faut_? + +DUVALLET. Perfectly. But the other? + +JUGGINS. The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately described +in your native idiom as a daughter of joy. + +DUVALLET. It is what I thought. These English domestic interiors are +very interesting. [He goes out, followed by Juggins]. + +_Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in. They take their accustomed places: +he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table._ + +MRS GILBEY. Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob? + +GILBEY. No, I didnt. And I dont want to smell it. Dont you go looking +for trouble, Maria. + +MRS GILBEY. [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere] Shes been here. +[Gilbey rings the bell]. What are you ringing for? Are you going to ask? + +GILBEY. No, I'm not going to ask. Juggins said this morning he wanted to +speak to me. If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not going to ask; +and dont you either. [Juggins appears at the door]. You said you wanted +to say something to me. + +JUGGINS. When it would be convenient to you, sir. + +GILBEY. Well, what is it? + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea. + +GILBEY. He knows that. [He sits down. Then, to Juggins] What is it? + +JUGGINS. [advancing to the middle of the table] Would it inconvenience +you, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice? + +GILBEY. [taken aback] What! Why? Aint you satisfied? + +JUGGINS. Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better myself, I +assure you. + +GILBEY. Well, what do you want to leave for, then? Do you want to worse +yourself? + +JUGGINS. No, sir. Ive been well treated in your most comfortable +establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbey +were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction. + +GILBEY. [paternally] Now you listen to me, Juggins. I'm an older man +than you. Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh. Dont +get too big for your boots. Youre like all servants nowadays: you think +youve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a dozen jobs. +But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated here. In bed every +night before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on Mrs Gilbey's +day once a month; and no other manservant to interfere with you. It may +be a bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of adventure. Take my +advice: think over it. You suit me; and I'm prepared to make it suit you +if youre dissatisfied--in reason, you know. + +JUGGINS. I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private reasons-- + +GILBEY. [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug in +dudgeon] Oh, I know. Very well: go. The sooner the better. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, not until we're suited. He must stay his month. + +GILBEY. [sarcastic] Do you want to lose him his character, Maria? Do +you think I dont see what it is? We're prison folk now. Weve been in the +police court. [To Juggins] Well, I suppose you know your own business +best. I take your notice: you can go when your month is up, or sooner, +if you like. + +JUGGINS. Believe me, sir-- + +GILBEY. Thats enough: I dont want any excuses. I dont blame you. You can +go downstairs now, if youve nothing else to trouble me about. + +JUGGINS. I really cant leave it at that, sir. I assure you Ive no +objection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison. You may do six months +yourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me. I'm +leaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement, and +feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets over +it. + +GILBEY. And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend your +savings in comforting him? Have some sense, man: how can you afford such +things? + +JUGGINS. My brother can afford to keep me, sir. The truth is, he objects +to my being in service. + +GILBEY. Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him? Dont +do it, Juggins: pay your own way like an honest lad; and dont eat your +brother's bread while youre able to earn your own. + +JUGGINS. There is sound sense in that, sir. But unfortunately it is +a tradition in my family that the younger brothers should spunge to a +considerable extent on the eldest. + +GILBEY. Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man. + +JUGGINS. A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent one. + +GILBEY. Radical! What do you mean? Dont you begin to take liberties, +Juggins, now that you know we're loth to part with you. Your brother +isnt a duke, you know. + +JUGGINS. Unfortunately, he is, sir. + + GILBEY. | What! | + | | _together_ + | | + MRS GILBEY. | Juggins! | + +JUGGINS. Excuse me, sir: the bell. [He goes out]. + +GILBEY. [overwhelmed] Maria: did you understand him to say his brother +was a duke? + +MRS GILBEY. Fancy his condescending! Perhaps if youd offer to raise his +wages and treat him as one of the family, he'd stay. + +GILBEY. And have my own servant above me! Not me. Whats the world coming +to? Heres Bobby and-- + +JUGGINS. [entering and announcing] Mr and Mrs Knox. + +_The Knoxes come in. Juggins takes two chairs from the wall and places +them at the table, between the host and hostess. Then he withdraws._ + +MRS GILBEY. [to Mrs Knox] How are you, dear? + +MRS KNOX. Nicely, thank you. Good evening, Mr Gilbey. [They shake hands; +and she takes the chair nearest Mrs Gilbey. Mr Knox takes the other +chair]. + +GILBEY. [sitting down] I was just saying, Knox, What is the world coming +to? + +KNOX. [appealing to his wife] What was I saying myself only this +morning? + +MRS KNOX. This is a strange time. I was never one to talk about the end +of the world; but look at the things that have happened! + +KNOX. Earthquakes! + +GILBEY. San Francisco! + +MRS GILBEY. Jamaica! + +KNOX. Martinique! + +GILBEY. Messina! + +MRS GILBEY. The plague in China! + +MRS KNOX. The floods in France! + +GILBEY. My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs! + +KNOX. Margaret in Holloway! + +GILBEY. And now my footman tells me his brother's a duke! + + KNOX. | No! + | + MRS KNOX. | Whats that? + +GILBEY. Just before he let you in. A duke! Here has everything been +respectable from the beginning of the world, as you may say, to the +present day; and all of a sudden everything is turned upside down. + +MRS KNOX. It's like in the book of Revelations. But I do say that unless +people have happiness within themselves, all the earthquakes, all the +floods, and all the prisons in the world cant make them really happy. + +KNOX. It isnt alone the curious things that are happening, but the +unnatural way people are taking them. Why, theres Margaret been in +prison, and she hasnt time to go to all the invitations shes had from +people that never asked her before. + +GILBEY. I never knew we could live without being respectable. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, Rob, what a thing to say! Who says we're not +respectable? + +GILBEY. Well, it's not what I call respectable to have your children in +and out of gaol. + +KNOX. Oh come, Gilbey! we're not tramps because weve had, as it were, an +accident. + +GILBEY. It's no use, Knox: look it in the face. Did I ever tell you my +father drank? + +KNOX. No. But I knew it. Simmons told me. + +GILBEY. Yes: he never could keep his mouth quiet: he told me your aunt +was a kleptomaniac. + +MRS KNOX. It wasnt true, Mr Gilbey. She used to pick up handkerchiefs if +she saw them lying about; but you might trust her with untold silver. + +GILBEY. My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller. My father used to say to me: +Rob, he says, dont you ever have a weakness. If you find one getting a +hold on you, make a merit of it, he says. Your Uncle Phil doesnt like +spirits; and he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of the Blue Ribbon +Committee. I do like spirits; and I make a merit of it, and I'm the King +Cockatoo of the Convivial Cockatoos. Never put yourself in the wrong, he +says. I used to boast about what a good boy Bobby was. Now I swank about +what a dog he is; and it pleases people just as well. What a world it +is! + +KNOX. It turned my blood cold at first to hear Margaret telling people +about Holloway; but it goes down better than her singing used to. + +MRS KNOX. I never thought she sang right after all those lessons we paid +for. + +GILBEY. Lord, Knox, it was lucky you and me got let in together. I tell +you straight, if it hadnt been for Bobby's disgrace, I'd have broke up +the firm. + +KNOX. I shouldnt have blamed you: I'd have done the same only for +Margaret. Too much straightlacedness narrows a man's mind. Talking +of that, what about those hygienic corset advertisements that Vines & +Jackson want us to put in the window? I told Vines they werent decent +and we couldnt shew them in our shop. I was pretty high with him. But +what am I to say to him now if he comes and throws this business in our +teeth? + +GILBEY. Oh, put em in. We may as well go it a bit now. + +MRS GILBEY. Youve been going it quite far enough, Rob. [To Mrs Knox] He +wont get up in the mornings now: he that was always out of bed at seven +to the tick! + +MRS KNOX. You hear that, Jo? [To Mrs Gilbey] Hes taken to whisky and +soda. A pint a week! And the beer the same as before! + +KNOX. Oh, dont preach, old girl. + +MRS KNOX. [To Mrs Gilbey] Thats a new name hes got for me. [to Knox] I +tell you, Jo, this doesnt sit well on you. You may call it preaching if +you like; but it's the truth for all that. I say that if youve happiness +within yourself, you dont need to seek it outside, spending money on +drink and theatres and bad company, and being miserable after all. You +can sit at home and be happy; and you can work and be happy. If you have +that in you, the spirit will set you free to do what you want and guide +you to do right. But if you havent got it, then youd best be respectable +and stick to the ways that are marked out for you; for youve nothing +else to keep you straight. + +KNOX. [angrily] And is a man never to have a bit of fun? See whats come +of it with your daughter! She was to be content with your happiness +that youre always talking about; and how did the spirit guide her? To +a month's hard for being drunk and assaulting the police. Did _I_ ever +assault the police? + +MRS KNOX. You wouldnt have the courage. I dont blame the girl. + + MRS GILBEY. | Oh, Maria! What are you saying? + | + + GILBEY. | What! And you so pious! + +MRS KNOX. She went where the spirit guided her. And what harm there was +in it she knew nothing about. + +GILBEY. Oh, come, Mrs Knox! Girls are not so innocent as all that. + +MRS KNOX. I dont say she was ignorant. But I do say that she didnt know +what we know: I mean the way certain temptations get a sudden hold that +no goodness nor self-control is any use against. She was saved from +that, and had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no earthly protection +that did that. But dont think, you two men, that youll be protected if +you make what she did an excuse to go and do as youd like to do if it +wasnt for fear of losing your characters. The spirit wont guide you, +because it isnt in you; and it never had been: not in either of you. + +GILBEY. [with ironic humility] I'm sure I'm obliged to you for your good +opinion, Mrs Knox. + +MRS KNOX. Well, I will say for you, Mr Gilbey, that youre better than my +man here. Hes a bitter hard heathen, is my Jo, God help me! [She begins +to cry quietly]. + +KNOX. Now, dont take on like that, Amelia. You know I always give in to +you that you were right about religion. But one of us had to think of +other things, or we'd have starved, we and the child. + +MRS KNOX. How do you know youd have starved? All the other things might +have been added unto you. + +GILBEY. Come, Mrs Knox, dont tell me Knox is a sinner. I know better. +I'm sure youd be the first to be sorry if anything was to happen to him. + +KNOX. [bitterly to his wife] Youve always had some grudge against me; +and nobody but yourself can understand what it is. + +MRS KNOX. I wanted a man who had that happiness within himself. You made +me think you had it; but it was nothing but being in love with me. + +MRS GILBEY. And do you blame him for that? + +MRS KNOX. I blame nobody. But let him not think he can walk by his own +light. I tell him that if he gives up being respectable he'll go right +down to the bottom of the hill. He has no powers inside himself to keep +him steady; so let him cling to the powers outside him. + +KNOX. [rising angrily] Who wants to give up being respectable? All this +for a pint of whisky that lasted a week! How long would it have lasted +Simmons, I wonder? + +MRS KNOX. [gently] Oh, well, say no more, Jo. I wont plague you about +it. [He sits down]. You never did understand; and you never will. Hardly +anybody understands: even Margaret didnt til she went to prison. She +does now; and I shall have a companion in the house after all these +lonely years. + +KNOX. [beginning to cry] I did all I could to make you happy. I never +said a harsh word to you. + +GILBEY. [rising indignantly] What right have you to treat a man like +that? an honest respectable husband? as if he were dirt under your feet? + +KNOX. Let her alone, Gilbey. [Gilbey sits down, but mutinously]. + +MRS KNOX. Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and if it wasnt what I +wanted, that wasnt your fault. But I'd rather have you as you were than +since you took to whisky and soda. + +KNOX. I dont want any whisky and soda. I'll take the pledge if you like. + +MRS KNOX. No: you shall have your beer because you like it. The whisky +was only brag. And if you and me are to remain friends, Mr Gilbey, youll +get up to-morrow morning at seven. + +GILBEY. [defiantly] Damme if I will! There! + +MRS KNOX. [with gentle pity] How do you know, Mr Gilbey, what youll do +to-morrow morning? + +GILBEY. Why shouldnt I know? Are we children not to be let do what we +like, and our own sons and daughters kicking their heels all over the +place? [To Knox] I was never one to interfere between man and wife, +Knox; but if Maria started ordering me about like that-- + +MRS GILBEY. Now dont be naughty, Rob. You know you mustnt set yourself +up against religion? + +GILBEY. Whos setting himself up against religion? + +MRS KNOX. It doesnt matter whether you set yourself up against it or +not, Mr. Gilbey. If it sets itself up against you, youll have to go the +appointed way: it's no use quarrelling about it with me that am as great +a sinner as yourself. + +GILBEY. Oh, indeed! And who told you I was a sinner? + +MRS GILBEY. Now, Rob, you know we are all sinners. What else is +religion? + +GILBEY. I say nothing against religion. I suppose were all sinners, in +a manner of speaking; but I dont like to have it thrown at me as if I'd +really done anything. + +MRS GILBEY. Mrs Knox is speaking for your good, Rob. + +GILBEY. Well, I dont like to be spoken to for my good. Would anybody +like it? + +MRS KNOX. Dont take offence where none is meant, Mr Gilbey. Talk about +something else. No good ever comes of arguing about such things among +the like of us. + +KNOX. The like of us! Are you throwing it in our teeth that your people +were in the wholesale and thought Knox and Gilbey wasnt good enough for +you? + +MRS KNOX. No, Jo: you know I'm not. What better were my people than +yours, for all their pride? But Ive noticed it all my life: we're +ignorant. We dont really know whats right and whats wrong. We're all +right as long as things go on the way they always did. We bring our +children up just as we were brought up; and we go to church or chapel +just as our parents did; and we say what everybody says; and it goes +on all right until something out of the way happens: theres a family +quarrel, or one of the children goes wrong, or a father takes to drink, +or an aunt goes mad, or one of us finds ourselves doing something +we never thought we'd want to do. And then you know what happens: +complaints and quarrels and huff and offence and bad language and bad +temper and regular bewilderment as if Satan possessed us all. We find +out then that with all our respectability and piety, weve no real +religion and no way of telling right from wrong. Weve nothing but our +habits; and when theyre upset, where are we? Just like Peter in the +storm trying to walk on the water and finding he couldnt. + +MRS GILBEY. [piously] Aye! He found out, didnt he? + +GILBEY. [reverently] I never denied that youve a great intellect, Mrs +Knox-- + +MRS KNOX. Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you begin talking about my +intellect. Give us some tea, Maria. Ive said my say; and Im sure I beg +the company's pardon for being so long about it, and so disagreeable. + +MRS GILBEY. Ring, Rob. [Gilbey rings]. Stop. Juggins will think we're +ringing for him. + +GILBEY. [appalled] It's too late. I rang before I thought of it. + +MRS GILBEY. Step down and apologize, Rob. + +KNOX. Is it him that you said was brother to a-- + +_Juggins comes in with the tea-tray. All rise. He takes the tray to Mrs. +Gilbey._ + +GILBEY. I didnt mean to ask you to do this, Mr Juggins. I wasnt thinking +when I rang. + +MRS GILBEY. [trying to take the tray from him] Let me, Juggins. + +JUGGINS. Please sit down, madam. Allow me to discharge my duties just as +usual, sir. I assure you that is the correct thing. [They sit down, ill +at ease, whilst he places the tray on the table. He then goes out for +the curate]. + +KNOX. [lowering his voice] Is this all right, Gilbey? Anybody may be the +son of a duke, you know. Is he legitimate? + +GILBEY. Good lord! I never thought of that. + +_Juggins returns with the cakes. They regard him with suspicion._ + +GILBEY. [whispering to Knox] You ask him. + +KNOX. [to Juggins] Just a word with you, my man. Was your mother married +to your father? + +JUGGINS. I believe so, sir. I cant say from personal knowledge. It was +before my time. + +GILBEY. Well, but look here you know--[he hesitates]. + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir? + +KNOX. I know whatll clinch it, Gilbey. You leave it to me. [To Juggins] +Was your mother the duchess? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir, I assure you. [To Mrs Gilbey] +That is the milk, madam. [She has mistaken the jugs]. This is the water. + +_They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment._ + +MRS KNOX. What did I tell you? Heres something out of the common +happening with a servant; and we none of us know how to behave. + +JUGGINS. It's quite simple, madam. I'm a footman, and should be treated +as a footman. [He proceeds calmly with his duties, handing round cups of +tea as Mrs Knox fills them]. + +_Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the company._ + +MRS GILBEY. Whats that noise? Is Master Bobby at home? I heard his +laugh. + +MRS KNOX. I'm sure I heard Margaret's. + +GILBEY. Not a bit of it. It was that woman. + +JUGGINS. I can explain, sir. I must ask you to excuse the liberty; but +I'm entertaining a small party to tea in my pantry. + +MRS GILBEY. But youre not entertaining Master Bobby? + +JUGGINS. Yes, madam. + +GILBEY. Who's with him? + +JUGGINS. Miss Knox, sir. + +GILBEY. Miss Knox! Are you sure? Is there anyone else? + +JUGGINS. Only a French marine officer, sir, and--er--Miss Delaney. [He +places Gilbey's tea on the table before him]. The lady that called about +Master Bobby, sir. + +KNOX. Do you mean to say theyre having a party all to themselves +downstairs, and we having a party up here and knowing nothing about it? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. I have to do a good deal of entertaining in the +pantry for Master Bobby, sir. + +GILBEY. Well, this is a nice state of things! + +KNOX. Whats the meaning of it? What do they do it for? + +JUGGINS. To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think. + +MRS GILBEY. Enjoy themselves! Did ever anybody hear of such a thing? + +GILBEY. Knox's daughter shewn into my pantry! + +KNOX. Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a footman-- [Suddenly +realizing that the footman is offering him cake.] She doesnt know +about--about His Grace, you know. + +MRS GILBEY. Perhaps she does. Does she, Mr Juggins? + +JUGGINS. The other lady suspects me, madam. They call me Rudolph, or the +Long Lost Heir. + +MRS GILBEY. It's a much nicer name than Juggins. I think I'll call you +by it, if you dont mind. + +JUGGINS. Not at all, madam. + +_Roars of merriment from below._ + +GILBEY. Go and tell them to stop laughing. What right have they to make +a noise like that? + +JUGGINS. I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir. But the French +gentleman always sets them off again. + +KNOX. Do you mean to tell me that my daughter laughs at a Frenchman's +jokes? + +GILBEY. We all know what French jokes are. + +JUGGINS. Believe me: you do not, sir. The noise this afternoon has all +been because the Frenchman said that the cat had whooping cough. + +MRS GILBEY. [laughing heartily] Well, I never! + +GILBEY. Dont be a fool, Maria. Look here, Knox: we cant let this go on. +People cant be allowed to behave like this. + +KNOX. Just what I say. + +_A concertina adds its music to the revelry._ + +MRS GILBEY. [excited] Thats the squiffer. Hes bought it for her. + +GILBEY. Well, of all the scandalous-- [Redoubled laughter from below]. + +KNOX. I'll put a stop to this. [He goes out to the landing and shouts] +Margaret! [Sudden dead silence]. Margaret, I say! + +MARGARET'S VOICE. Yes, father. Shall we all come up? We're dying to. + +KNOX. Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like wild Indians. + +DORA'S VOICE [screaming] Oh! oh! oh! Dont Bobby. Now--oh! [In headlong +flight she dashes into and right across the room, breathless, and +slightly abashed by the company]. I beg your pardon, Mrs Gilbey, for +coming in like that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby, he +pretends it's a cat biting my ankles; and I just must scream. + +_Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently in high +spirits. Bobby places himself near his father, on the hearthrug, and +presently slips down into the arm-chair._ + +MARGARET. How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey? [She posts herself behind her +mother]. + +_Duvallet comes in behaving himself perfectly. Knox follows._ + +MARGARET. Oh--let me introduce. My friend Lieutenant Duvallet. Mrs +Gilbey. Mr Gilbey. [Duvallet bows and sits down on Mr Knox's left, +Juggins placing a chair for him]. + +DORA. Now, Bobby: introduce me: theres a dear. + +BOBBY. [a little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his spirits] +Miss Delaney: Mr and Mrs Knox. [Knox, as he resumes his seat, +acknowledges the introduction suspiciously. Mrs Knox bows gravely, +looking keenly at Dora and taking her measure without prejudice]. + +DORA. Pleased to meet you. [Juggins places the baby rocking-chair for +her on Mrs Gilbey's right, opposite Mrs Knox]. Thank you. [She sits +and turns to Mrs Gilbey] Bobby's given me the squiffer. [To the company +generally] Do you know what theyve been doing downstairs? [She goes off +into ecstasies of mirth]. Youd never guess. Theyve been trying to teach +me table manners. The Lieutenant and Rudolph say I'm a regular pig. I'm +sure I never knew there was anything wrong with me. But live and learn +[to Gilbey] eh, old dear? + +JUGGINS. Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney. [He retires to the end +of the sideboard nearest the door]. + +DORA. Oh get out! I must call a man something. He doesnt mind: do you, +Charlie? + +MRS GILBEY. His name isnt Charlie. + +DORA. Excuse me. I call everybody Charlie. + +JUGGINS. You mustnt. + +DORA. Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold my tongue +altogether; and then how sorry youd be! Lord, how I do run on! Dont mind +me, Mrs Gilbey. + +KNOX. What I want to know is, whats to be the end of this? It's not +for me to interfere between you and your son, Gilbey: he knows his own +intentions best, no doubt, and perhaps has told them to you. But Ive +my daughter to look after; and it's my duty as a parent to have a clear +understanding about her. No good is ever done by beating about the bush. +I ask Lieutenant--well, I dont speak French; and I cant pronounce the +name-- + +MARGARET. Mr Duvallet, father. + +KNOX. I ask Mr Doovalley what his intentions are. + +MARGARET. Oh father: how can you? + +DUVALLET. I'm afraid my knowledge of English is not enough to +understand. Intentions? How? + +MARGARET. He wants to know will you marry me. + + MRS GILBEY. | What a thing to say! + | + + KNOX. | Silence, miss. + | + + DORA. | Well, thats straight, aint it? + +DUVALLET. But I am married already. I have two daughters. + +KNOX. [rising, virtuously indignant] You sit there after carrying on +with my daughter, and tell me coolly youre married. + +MARGARET. Papa: you really must not tell people that they sit there. [He +sits down again sulkily]. + +DUVALLET. Pardon. Carrying on? What does that mean? + +MARGARET. It means-- + +KNOX. [violently] Hold your tongue, you shameless young hussy. Dont you +dare say what it means. + +DUVALLET. [shrugging his shoulders] What does it mean, Rudolph? + +MRS KNOX. If it's not proper for her to say, it's not proper for a man +to say, either. Mr Doovalley: youre a married man with daughters. Would +you let them go about with a stranger, as you are to us, without wanting +to know whether he intended to behave honorably? + +DUVALLET. Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls. That is very +different. It would not be correct for a French girl to go about alone +and speak to men as English and American girls do. That is why I +so immensely admire the English people. You are so free--so +unprejudiced--your women are so brave and frank--their minds are so--how +do you say?--wholesome. I intend to have my daughters educated in +England. Nowhere else in the world but in England could I have met at +a Variety Theatre a charming young lady of perfect respectability, and +enjoyed a dance with her at a public dancing saloon. And where else are +women trained to box and knock out the teeth of policemen as a protest +against injustice and violence? [Rising, with immense elan] Your +daughter, madam, is superb. Your country is a model to the rest of +Europe. If you were a Frenchman, stifled with prudery, hypocrisy and +the tyranny of the family and the home, you would understand how +an enlightened Frenchman admires and envies your freedom, your +broadmindedness, and the fact that home life can hardly be said to exist +in England. You have made an end of the despotism of the parent; the +family council is unknown to you; everywhere in these islands one can +enjoy the exhilarating, the soul-liberating spectacle of men quarrelling +with their brothers, defying their fathers, refusing to speak to their +mothers. In France we are not men: we are only sons--grown-up children. +Here one is a human being--an end in himself. Oh, Mrs Knox, if only your +military genius were equal to your moral genius--if that conquest of +Europe by France which inaugurated the new age after the Revolution had +only been an English conquest, how much more enlightened the world would +have been now! We, alas, can only fight. France is unconquerable. We +impose our narrow ideas, our prejudices, our obsolete institutions, +our insufferable pedantry on the world by brute force--by that stupid +quality of military heroism which shews how little we have evolved from +the savage: nay, from the beast. We can charge like bulls; we can spring +on our foes like gamecocks; when we are overpowered by reason, we can +die fighting like rats. And we are foolish enough to be proud of it! Why +should we be? Does the bull progress? Can you civilize the gamecock? Is +there any future for the rat? We cant even fight intelligently: when we +lose battles, it is because we have not sense enough to know when we are +beaten. At Waterloo, had we known when we were beaten, we should have +retreated; tried another plan; and won the battle. But no: we were too +pigheaded to admit that there is anything impossible to a Frenchman: we +were quite satisfied when our Marshals had six horses shot under them, +and our stupid old grognards died fighting rather than surrender +like reasonable beings. Think of your great Wellington: think of his +inspiring words, when the lady asked him whether British soldiers ever +ran away. "All soldiers run away, madam," he said; "but if there are +supports for them to fall back on it does not matter." Think of your +illustrious Nelson, always beaten on land, always victorious at sea, +where his men could not run away. You are not dazzled and misled by +false ideals of patriotic enthusiasm: your honest and sensible statesmen +demand for England a two-power standard, even a three-power standard, +frankly admitting that it is wise to fight three to one: whilst we, +fools and braggarts as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a host +in himself, and that when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is +guilty of an act of cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikes +a woman. It is folly: it is nonsense: a Frenchman is not really stronger +than a German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman. Sir: if all +Frenchwomen were like your daughter--if all Frenchmen had the good +sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm judgment, +the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true courage, +which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are hardly +conscious of possessing them, France would become the greatest nation in +the world. + +MARGARET. Three cheers for old England! [She shakes hands with him +warmly]. + +BOBBY. Hurra-a-ay! And so say all of us. + +_Duvallet, having responded to Margaret's handshake with enthusiasm, +kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping his +perspiring brow._ + +GILBEY. Well, this sort of talk is above me. Can you make anything out +of it, Knox? + +KNOX. The long and short of it seems to be that he cant lawfully marry +my daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her. + +DORA. I'm ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction. + +GILBEY. No you dont. Not if I know it. + +MRS KNOX. He ought to, Mr Gilbey. + +GILBEY. Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of it. +Would you invite them to your house if he married her? + +MRS KNOX. He ought to marry her whether or no. + +BOBBY. I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox. + +GILBEY. Hold your tongue. Mind your own business. + +BOBBY. [wildly] If I'm not let marry her, I'll do something downright +disgraceful. I'll enlist as a soldier. + +JUGGINS. That is not a disgrace, sir. + +BOBBY. Not for you, perhaps. But youre only a footman. I'm a gentleman. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr Rudolph, Bobby. For +shame! + +JUGGINS. [coming forward to the middle of the table] It is not +gentlemanly to regard the service of your country as disgraceful. It is +gentlemanly to marry the lady you make love to. + +GILBEY. [aghast] My boy is to marry this woman and be a social outcast! + +JUGGINS. Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably condemned by +respectable society to spend the rest of their days in precisely the +sort of company they seem to like best and be most at home in. + +KNOX. And my daughter? Whos to marry my daughter? + +JUGGINS. Your daughter, sir, will probably marry whoever she makes up +her mind to marry. She is a lady of very determined character. + +KNOX. Yes: if he'd have her with her character gone. But who would? +Youre the brother of a duke. Would-- + + BOBBY. | Whats that? + | + MARGARET. | Juggins a duke? + | + DUVALLET. | _Comment!_ + | + DORA. | What did I tell you? + +KNOX. Yes: the brother of a duke: thats what he is. [To Juggins] Well, +would you marry her? + +JUGGINS. I was about to propose that solution of your problem, Mr Knox. + + MRS GILBEY. | Well I never! + | + KNOX. | D'ye mean it? + | + MRS KNOX. | Marry Margaret! + +JUGGINS. [continuing] As an idle younger son, unable to support myself, +or even to remain in the Guards in competition with the grandsons of +American millionaires, I could not have aspired to Miss Knox's hand. But +as a sober, honest, and industrious domestic servant, who has, I trust, +given satisfaction to his employer [he bows to Mr Gilbey] I feel I am a +man with a character. It is for Miss Knox to decide. + +MARGARET. I got into a frightful row once for admiring you, Rudolph. + +JUGGINS. I should have got into an equally frightful row myself, Miss, +had I betrayed my admiration for you. I looked forward to those weekly +dinners. + +MRS KNOX. But why did a gentleman like you stoop to be a footman? + +DORA. He stooped to conquer. + +MARGARET. Shut up, Dora: I want to hear. + +JUGGINS. I will explain; but only Mrs Knox will understand. I once +insulted a servant--rashly; for he was a sincere Christian. He rebuked +me for trifling with a girl of his own class. I told him to remember +what he was, and to whom he was speaking. He said God would remember. I +discharged him on the spot. + +GILBEY. Very properly. + +KNOX. What right had he to mention such a thing to you? + +MRS GILBEY. What are servants coming to? + +MRS KNOX. Did it come true, what he said? + +JUGGINS. It stuck like a poisoned arrow. It rankled for months. Then I +gave in. I apprenticed myself to an old butler of ours who kept a hotel. +He taught me my present business, and got me a place as footman with Mr +Gilbey. If ever I meet that man again I shall be able to look him in the +face. + +MRS KNOX. Margaret: it's not on account of the duke: dukes are vanities. +But take my advice and take him. + +MARGARET. [slipping her arm through his] I have loved Juggins since the +first day I beheld him. I felt instinctively he had been in the Guards. +May he walk out with me, Mr Gilbey? + +KNOX. Dont be vulgar, girl. Remember your new position. [To Juggins] I +suppose youre serious about this, Mr--Mr Rudolph? + +JUGGINS. I propose, with your permission, to begin keeping company this +afternoon, if Mrs Gilbey can spare me. + +GILBEY. [in a gust of envy, to Bobby] Itll be long enough before youll +marry the sister of a duke, you young good-for-nothing. + +DORA. Dont fret, old dear. Rudolph will teach me high-class manners. I +call it quite a happy ending: dont you, lieutenant? + +DUVALLET. In France it would be impossible. But here--ah! [kissing his +hand] la belle Angleterre! + + + +EPILOGUE + +_Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4 +critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats._ + +THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold your +opinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have believed +it. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art? Is it +agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is it +delicate? Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I speak +from a wounded heart. There are private reasons for my discomposure. +This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches and menaces to all +of us who are parents. + +TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing has +amusing passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence. + +THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist. +[Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat, +making a noise like a pheasant]. You see hundreds of plays every year. +But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before, the effect +of this play is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been what people +call an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit. [Vaughan is +shocked]. Love beautifies every romance and justifies every audacity. +[Bannal assents gravely]. But there are reticences which everybody +should respect. There are decencies too subtle to be put into words, +without which human society would be unbearable. People could not +talk to one another as those people talk. No child could speak to its +parent--no girl could speak to a youth--no human creature could tear +down the veils-- [Appealing to Vaughan, who is on his left flank, with +Gunn between them] Could they, sir? + +VAUGHAN. Well, I dont see that. + +THE COUNT. You dont see it! dont feel it! [To Gunn] Sir: I appeal to +you. + +GUNN. [with studied weariness] It seems to me the most ordinary sort of +old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel. + +THE COUNT [turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him and +Bannal] Mr Trotter: will you tell me that you are not amazed, outraged, +revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by every word +of this play, every tone, every implication; that you did not sit there +shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might come next? + +TROTTER. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind of +thing by the yard. + +THE COUNT. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return. I +must believe what you tell me. I perceive that you are not agitated, +not surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes, gentlemen, +horror--horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to you, +ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little younger than +myself. Sir: if young people spoke to me like that, I should die of +shame: I could not face it. I must go back. The world has passed me by +and left me. Accept the apologies of an elderly and no doubt ridiculous +admirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was still some beauty +in the world and some delicate grace in family life. But I promised my +daughter your opinion; and I must keep my word. Gentlemen: you are +the choice and master spirits of this age: you walk through it without +bewilderment and face its strange products without dismay. Pray deliver +your verdict. Mr Bannal: you know that it is the custom at a Court +Martial for the youngest officer present to deliver his judgment first; +so that he may not be influenced by the authority of his elders. You are +the youngest. What is your opinion of the play? + +BANNAL. Well, whos it by? + +THE COUNT. That is a secret for the present. + +BANNAL. You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I dont +know who the author is, do you? + +THE COUNT. Why not? + +BANNAL. Why not! Why not!! Suppose you had to write about a play by +Pinero and one by Jones! Would you say exactly the same thing about +them? + +THE COUNT. I presume not. + +BANNAL. Then how could you write about them until you knew which was +Pinero and which was Jones? Besides, what sort of play is this? thats +what I want to know. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce or +a melodrama? Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying +stuff? + +GUNN. Cant you tell from seeing it? + +BANNAL. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to take +it? Is it serious, or is it spoof? If the author knows what his play +is, let him tell us what it is. If he doesnt, he cant complain if I dont +know either. _I_'m not the author. + +THE COUNT. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats a simple question. + +BANNAL. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a good author, it's a +good play, naturally. That stands to reason. Who is the author? Tell me +that; and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth. + +THE COUNT. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name. +The author desires that the play should be judged on its merits. + +BANNAL. But what merits can it have except the author's merits? Who +would you say it's by, Gunn? + +GUNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a rotten old-fashioned +domestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets. The hero's a naval +lieutenant. All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants. The heroine +gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into trouble, +thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as hard as she +can. Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father when hes going +to put her out of the house, and says she'll go too. Then theres the +comic relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic shopkeeper's wife, the +comic footman who turns out to be a duke in disguise, and the young +scapegrace who gives the author his excuse for dragging in a fast young +woman. All as old and stale as a fried fish shop on a winter morning. + +THE COUNT. But-- + +GUNN [interrupting him] I know what youre going to say, Count. Youre +going to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new and +unusual and original. The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who cracks up +the English and runs down the French: the hackneyed old Shaw touch. +The characters are second-rate middle class, instead of being dukes and +millionaires. The heroine gets kicked through the mud: real mud. Theres +no plot. All the old stage conventions and puppets without the old +ingenuity and the old enjoyment. And a feeble air of intellectual +pretentiousness kept up all through to persuade you that if the author +hasnt written a good play it's because hes too clever to stoop to +anything so commonplace. And you three experienced men have sat through +all this, and cant tell me who wrote it! Why, the play bears the +author's signature in every line. + +BANNAL. Who? + +GUNN. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey is straight out of +The Madras House. + +BANNAL. Poor old Barker! + +VAUGHAN. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the difference in style? + +BANNAL. No. + +VAUGHAN. [contemptuously] Do you know what style is? + +BANNAL. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style. But it's not +my style--since you ask me. + +VAUGHAN. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play. To begin with, +it's intensely disagreeable. Therefore it's not by Barrie, in spite of +the footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He was an earl, +you may remember. You notice, too, the author's offensive habit of +saying silly things that have no real sense in them when you come to +examine them, just to set all the fools in the house giggling. Then what +does it all come to? An attempt to expose the supposed hypocrisy of +the Puritan middle class in England: people just as good as the author, +anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable improper female: the Mrs +Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if you cant recognize the author of +that, youve mistaken your professions: thats all I have to say. + +BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch that +Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw. + +GUNN. Rubbish! + +VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor as +this play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow that +beneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she really +loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly proved +that Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion. + +BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I always +say that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart. + +GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heart +and brain--Shakespear would have called it liver and wits--is really +schoolboyish. Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer. Even +such a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been ashamed of +it. Heart and brain, indeed! + +VAUGHAN. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. Youre decadent. + +GUNN. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian word! + +VAUGHAN. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in this +play were quite distinguishable from one another. That proves it's not +by Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself: mere puppets stuck +up to spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them seem different. + +BANNAL. There can be no doubt of that: everybody knows it. But Shaw +doesnt write his plays as plays. All he wants to do is to insult +everybody all round and set us talking about him. + +TROTTER. [wearily] And naturally, here we are all talking about him. For +heaven's sake, let us change the subject. + +VAUGHAN. Still, my articles about Shaw-- + +GUNN. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive always told you about Shaw +is-- + +BANNAL. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chuck it. If you want to know +my opinion about Shaw-- + + TROTTER. | No, please, we dont. | + | | + VAUGHAN. | Shut your head, Bannal. | [yelling] + | | + GUNN. | Oh, do drop it. | + +_The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies from the +centre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan._ + +BANNAL. [sulkily] Oh, very well. Sorry I spoke, I'm sure. + + TROTTER. | Shaw-- | + | | [beginning again + VAUGHAN. | Shaw-- | simultaneously] + | | + GUNN. | Shaw-- | + +_They are cut short by the entry of Fanny through the curtains. She is +almost in tears._ + +FANNY. [coming between Trotter and Gunn] I'm so sorry, gentlemen. And it +was such a success when I read it to the Cambridge Fabian Society! + +TROTTER. Miss O'Dowda: I was about to tell these gentlemen what I +guessed before the curtain rose: that you are the author of the play. +[General amazement and consternation]. + +FANNY. And you all think it beastly. You hate it. You think I'm a +conceited idiot, and that I shall never be able to write anything +decent. + +_She is almost weeping. A wave of sympathy carries away the critics._ + +VAUGHAN. No, no. Why, I was just saying that it must have been written +by Pinero. Didnt I, Gunn? + +FANNY. [enormously flattered] Really? + +TROTTER. I thought Pinero was much too popular for the Cambridge Fabian +Society. + +FANNY. Oh yes, of course; but still--Oh, did you really say that, Mr +Vaughan? + +GUNN. I owe you an apology, Miss O'Dowda. I said it was by Barker. + +FANNY. [radiant] Granville Barker! Oh, you couldnt really have thought +it so fine as that. + +BANNAL. _I_ said Bernard Shaw. + +FANNY. Oh, of course it would be a little like Bernard Shaw. The Fabian +touch, you know. + +BANNAL. [coming to her encouragingly] A jolly good little play, Miss +O'Dowda. Mind: I dont say it's like one of Shakespear's--Hamlet or The +Lady of Lyons, you know--but still, a firstrate little bit of work. [He +shakes her hand]. + +GUNN. [following Bannal's example] I also, Miss O'Dowda. Capital. +Charming. [He shakes hands]. + +VAUGHAN [with maudlin solemnity] Only be true to yourself, Miss O'Dowda. +Keep serious. Give up making silly jokes. Sustain the note of passion. +And youll do great things. + +FANNY. You think I have a future? + +TROTTER. You have a past, Miss O'Dowda. + +FANNY. [looking apprehensively at her father] Sh-sh-sh! + +THE COUNT. A past! What do you mean, Mr Trotter? + +TROTTER. [to Fanny] You cant deceive me. That bit about the police was +real. Youre a Suffraget, Miss O'Dowda. You were on that Deputation. + +THE COUNT. Fanny: is this true? + +FANNY. It is. I did a month with Lady Constance Lytton; and I'm prouder +of it than I ever was of anything or ever shall be again. + +TROTTER. Is that any reason why you should stuff naughty plays down my +throat? + +FANNY. Yes: itll teach you what it feels like to be forcibly fed. + +THE COUNT. She will never return to Venice. I feel now as I felt when +the Campanile fell. + +_Savoyard comes in through the curtains._ + +SAVOYARD. [to the Count] Would you mind coming to say a word of +congratulation to the company? Theyre rather upset at having had no +curtain call. + +THE COUNT. Certainly, certainly. I'm afraid Ive been rather remiss. Let +us go on the stage, gentlemen. + +_The curtains are drawn, revealing the last scene of the play and the +actors on the stage. The Count, Savoyard, the critics, and Fanny join +them, shaking hands and congratulating._ + +THE COUNT. Whatever we may think of the play, gentlemen, I'm sure you +will agree with me that there can be only one opinion about the acting. + +THE CRITICS. Hear, hear! [They start the applause]. + + +AYOT ST. LAWRENCE, March 1911. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Fanny's First Play, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY'S FIRST PLAY *** + +***** This file should be named 5698.txt or 5698.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/9/5698/ + +Produced by Ron Burkey + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Fanny's First Play + +Author: George Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5698] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on August 9, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY'S FIRST PLAY *** + + + + +Scanned and proofed by Ron Burkey (rburkey@heads-up.com) and Amy Thomte. + + + + + + + +This text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays +"Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets", "Fanny's First Play", +and the essay "A Treatise on Parents and Children". + +Notes on the editing: Italicized text is delimited with underlines +("_"). Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text. +Shaw intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard +system. For example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe), +"Dr." is given as "Dr" (without a period at the end), and +"Shakespeare" is given as "Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). Where +several characters in the play are speaking at once, I have indicated +it with vertical bars ("|"). The pound (currency) symbol has been +replaced by the word "pounds". + + + + + +FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + +BY BERNARD SHAW + +1911 + + + + +PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + +Fanny's First Play, being but a potboiler, needs no preface. But its +lesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded. Mere morality, or the +substitution of custom for conscience was once accounted a shameful +and cynical thing: people talked of right and wrong, of honor and +dishonor, of sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of +morality and immorality. The word morality, if we met it in the +Bible, would surprise us as much as the word telephone or motor car. +Nowadays we do not seem to know that there is any other test of +conduct except morality; and the result is that the young had better +have their souls awakened by disgrace, capture by the police, and a +month's hard labor, than drift along from their cradles to their +graves doing what other people do for no other reason than that other +people do it, and knowing nothing of good and evil, of courage and +cowardice, or indeed anything but how to keep hunger and concupiscence +and fashionable dressing within the bounds of good taste except when +their excesses can be concealed. Is it any wonder that I am driven to +offer to young people in our suburbs the desperate advice: Do +something that will get you into trouble? But please do not suppose +that I defend a state of things which makes such advice the best that +can be given under the circumstances, or that I do not know how +difficult it is to find out a way of getting into trouble that will +combine loss of respectability with integrity of self-respect and +reasonable consideration for other peoples' feelings and interests on +every point except their dread of losing their own respectability. +But when there's a will there's a way. I hate to see dead people +walking about: it is unnatural. And our respectable middle class +people are all as dead as mutton. Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I have +delivered on them the judgment of her God. + +The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction to this play under +the names of Trotter, Vaughan, and Gunn will forgive me: in fact Mr +Trotter forgave me beforehand, and assisted the make-up by which Mr +Claude King so successfully simulated his personal appearance. The +critics whom I did not introduce were somewhat hurt, as I should have +been myself under the same circumstances; but I had not room for them +all; so I can only apologize and assure them that I meant no +disrespect. + +The concealment of the authorship, if a _secret de Polichinelle_ can +be said to involve concealment, was a necessary part of the play. In +so far as it was effectual, it operated as a measure of relief to +those critics and playgoers who are so obsessed by my strained +legendary reputation that they approach my plays in a condition which +is really one of derangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play +of mine as anything but a trap baited with paradoxes, and designed to +compass their ethical perversion and intellectual confusion. If it +were possible, I should put forward all my plays anonymously, or hire +some less disturbing person, as Bacon is said to have hired +Shakespear, to father my plays for me. + +Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time at the Little +Theatre in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, April +19th 1911. + + + + +FANNY'S FIRST PLAY + + + +INDUCTION +_The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence +Towers, the property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form +a stage for a private theatrical performance. A footman in grandiose +Spanish livery enters before the curtain, on its O.P. side._ + +FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savoyard comes +in: a middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat. He +is surprised to find nobody to receive him. So is the Footman]. Oh, +beg pardon, sir: I thought the Count was here. He was when I took up +your name. He must have gone through the stage into the library. +This way, sir. [He moves towards the division in the middle of the +curtains]. + +SAVOYARD. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When does the play +begin? Half-past eight? + +FOOTMAN. Nine, sir. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my wife at the +George that it's not until nine? + +FOOTMAN. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir? + +SAVOYARD. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget. + +THE FOOTMAN. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The Count comes in +through the curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. [Announcing] Mr +Cecil Savoyard, sir. [He withdraws]. + +COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied +elegance a hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake +hands with his visitor] Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly +recollected that all the bookcases in the library were locked--in fact +theyve never been opened since we came from Venice--and as our +literary guests will probably use the library a good deal, I just ran +in to unlock everything. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose +theres a smoking room? + +THE COUNT. My study is available. An old-fashioned house, you +understand. Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard? + +SAVOYARD. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his host's +obsolete costume, continues] I had no idea you were going to appear +in the piece yourself. + +THE COUNT. I am not. I wear this costume because--well, perhaps I +had better explain the position, if it interests you. + +SAVOYARD. Certainly. + +THE COUNT. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in your +world. I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word. I'm +not really an Englishman: my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life +in Italy--in Venice mostly--my very title is a foreign one: I am a +Count of the Holy Roman Empire. + +SAVOYARD. Where's that? + +THE COUNT. At present, nowhere, except as a memory and an ideal. +[Savoyard inclines his head respectfully to the ideal]. But I am by +no means an idealogue. I am not content with beautiful dreams: I +want beautiful realities. + +SAVOYARD. Hear, hear! I'm all with you there--when you can get them. + +THE COUNT. Why not get them? The difficulty is not that there are no +beautiful realities, Mr Savoyard: the difficulty is that so few of us +know them when we see them. We have inherited from the past a vast +treasure of beauty--of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of +painting, of sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite +fashions in dress, in furniture, in domestic decoration. We can +contemplate these treasures. We can reproduce many of them. We can +buy a few inimitable originals. We can shut out the nineteenth +century-- + +SAVOYARD. [correcting him] The twentieth. + +THE COUNT. To me the century I shut out will always be the nineteenth +century, just as your national anthem will always be God Save the +Queen, no matter how many kings may succeed. I found England befouled +with industrialism: well, I did what Byron did: I simply refused to +live in it. You remember Byron's words: "I am sure my bones would +not rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that +country. I believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed +could I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey +my carcase back to her soil. I would not even feed her worms if I +could help it." + +SAVOYARD. Did Byron say that? + +THE COUNT. He did, sir. + +SAVOYARD. It dont sound like him. I saw a good deal of him at one +time. + +THE COUNT. You! But how is that possible? You are too young. + +SAVOYARD. I was quite a lad, of course. But I had a job in the +original production of Our Boys. + +THE COUNT. My dear sir, not that Byron. Lord Byron, the poet. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were talking of the +Byron. So you prefer living abroad? + +THE COUNT. I find England ugly and Philistine. Well, I dont live in +it. I find modern houses ugly. I dont live in them: I have a palace +on the grand canal. I find modern clothes prosaic. I dont wear them, +except, of course, in the street. My ears are offended by the Cockney +twang: I keep out of hearing of it and speak and listen to Italian. +I find Beethoven's music coarse and restless, and Wagner's senseless +and detestable. I do not listen to them. I listen to Cimarosa, to +Pergolesi, to Gluck and Mozart. Nothing simpler, sir. + +SAVOYARD. It's all right when you can afford it. + +THE COUNT. Afford it! My dear Mr Savoyard, if you are a man with a +sense of beauty you can make an earthly paradise for yourself in +Venice on 1500 pounds a year, whilst our wretched vulgar industrial +millionaires are spending twenty thousand on the amusements of +billiard markers. I assure you I am a poor man according to modern +ideas. But I have never had anything less than the very best that +life has produced. It is my good fortune to have a beautiful and +lovable daughter; and that girl, sir, has never seen an ugly sight or +heard an ugly sound that I could spare her; and she has certainly +never worn an ugly dress or tasted coarse food or bad wine in her +life. She has lived in a palace; and her perambulator was a gondola. +Now you know the sort of people we are, Mr Savoyard. You can imagine +how we feel here. + +SAVOYARD. Rather out of it, eh? + +THE COUNT. Out of it, sir! Out of what? + +SAVOYARD. Well, out of everything. + +THE COUNT. Out of soot and fog and mud and east wind; out of +vulgarity and ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, superstition and +stupidity. Out of all this, and in the sunshine, in the enchanted +region of which great artists alone have had the secret, in the sacred +footsteps of Byron, of Shelley, of the Brownings, of Turner and +Ruskin. Dont you envy me, Mr Savoyard? + +SAVOYARD. Some of us must live in England, you know, just to keep the +place going. Besides--though, mind you, I dont say it isnt all right +from the high art point of view and all that--three weeks of it would +drive me melancholy mad. However, I'm glad you told me, because it +explains why it is you dont seem to know your way about much in +England. I hope, by the way, that everything has given satisfaction +to your daughter. + +THE COUNT. She seems quite satisfied. She tells me that the actors +you sent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice +people to work with. I understand she had some difficulties at the +first rehearsals with the gentleman you call the producer, because he +hadnt read the play; but the moment he found out what it was all about +everything went smoothly. + +SAVOYARD. Havnt you seen the rehearsals? + +THE COUNT. Oh no. I havnt been allowed even to meet any of the +company. All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman +[Savoyard is rather scandalized]: I asked her not to have an +English hero. That is all I know. [Ruefully] I havnt been +consulted even about the costumes, though there, I think, I could have +been some use. + +SAVOYARD. [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes. + +THE COUNT. [seriously shocked] What! No costumes! Do you mean to +say it is a modern play? + +SAVOYARD. I dont know: I didnt read it. I handed it to Billy +Burjoyce--the producer, you know--and left it to him to select the +company and so on. But I should have had to order the costumes if +there had been any. There wernt. + +THE COUNT. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand. +She has taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in +beautiful costumes. I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what +you are about to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by +Watteau. The heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a +dainty Harlequin, her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet +who hoodwinks the father and brings about the happiness of the lovers +a grotesque but perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or +Sganarelle. + +SAVOYARD. I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman +will make five. Thats why you wanted five men in the company. + +THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly, +silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of +a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it after +all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of +Grimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the +existence of such a thing. I refer to the graceful and charming +fantasies of the Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and +eighteenth centuries. + +SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are +rot. Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy +Burjoyce told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about +here, and had seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been away in +Venice all the time. + +THE COUNT. Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that two +years ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge. +Cambridge was my own University; and though of course there were no +women there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the +eighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be at +Cambridge. About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I +wished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of course I said +yes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that she +had written a play, and that the present she wanted was a private +performance of it with real actors and real critics. + +SAVOYARD. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was easy enough to +engage a company for a private performance: it's done often enough. +But the notion of having critics was new. I hardly knew how to set +about it. They dont expect private engagements; and so they have no +agents. Besides, I didnt know what to offer them. I knew that they +were cheaper than actors, because they get long engagements: forty +years sometimes; but thats no rule for a single job. Then theres such +a lot of them: on first nights they run away with all your stalls: +you cant find a decent place for your own mother. It would have cost +a fortune to bring the lot. + +THE COUNT. Of course I never dreamt of having them all. Only a few +first-rate representative men. + +SAVOYARD. Just so. All you want is a few sample opinions. Out of a +hundred notices you wont find more than four at the outside that say +anything different. Well, Ive got just the right four for you. And +what do you think it has cost me? + +THE COUNT. [shrugging his shoulders] I cannot guess. + +SAVOYARD. Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give Flawner Bannal +ten. He wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it, +because if we hadnt had him we might just as well have had nobody at +all. + +THE COUNT. But what about the others, if Mr Flannel-- + +SAVOYARD. [shocked] Flawner Bannal. + +THE COUNT. --if Mr Bannal got the whole ten? + +SAVOYARD. Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class sort of thing, +the first man I went for was Trotter. + +THE COUNT. Oh indeed. I am very glad you have secured Mr Trotter. I +have read his Playful Impressions. + +SAVOYARD. Well, I was rather in a funk about him. Hes not exactly +what I call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off at first. But +when I explained and told him your daughter-- + +THE COUNT. [interrupting in alarm] You did not say that the play +was by her, I hope? + +SAVOYARD. No: thats been kept a dead secret. I just said your +daughter has asked for a real play with a real author and a real +critic and all the rest of it. The moment I mentioned the daughter I +had him. He has a daughter of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment! +Offered to come just to please her! Quite human. I was surprised. + +THE COUNT. Extremely kind of him. + +SAVOYARD. Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as +the drama: and you said you thought there would be music. I told him +Trotter would feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird. +Then I thought youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that go +for the newest things and swear theyre oldfashioned. So I nailed +Gilbert Gunn. The four will give you a representative team. By the +way [looking at his watch] theyll be here presently. + +THE COUNT. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hints +about them that would help me to make a little conversation with them? +I am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might +unwittingly say something tactless. + +SAVOYARD. Well, let me see. As you dont like English people, I dont +know that youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English: +never happy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so +unnecessarily well that everybody there spots him as an Englishman the +moment he opens his mouth. Very witty and all that. Pretends to turn +up his nose at the theatre and says people make too much fuss about +art [the Count is extremely indignant]. But thats only his modesty, +because art is his own line, you understand. Mind you dont chaff him +about Aristotle. + +THE COUNT. Why should I chaff him about Aristotle? + +SAVOYARD. Well, I dont know; but its one of the recognized ways of +chaffing him. However, youll get on with him all right: hes a man of +the world and a man of sense. The one youll have to be careful about +is Vaughan. + +THE COUNT. In what way, may I ask? + +SAVOYARD. Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and if you joke with +him he'll think youre insulting him on purpose. Mind: it's not that +he doesnt see a joke: he does; and it hurts him. A comedy scene +makes him sore all over: he goes away black and blue, and pitches +into the play for all hes worth. + +THE COUNT. But surely that is a very serious defect in a man of his +profession? + +SAVOYARD. Yes it is, and no mistake. But Vaughan is honest, and dont +care a brass farthing what he says, or whether it pleases anybody or +not; and you must have one man of that sort to say the things that +nobody else will say. + +THE COUNT. It seems to me to carry the principle of division of labor +too far, this keeping of the honesty and the other qualities in +separate compartments. What is Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask? + +SAVOYARD. Gunn is one of the intellectuals. + +THE COUNT. But arnt they all intellectuals? + +SAVOYARD. Lord! no: heaven forbid! You must be careful what you say +about that: I shouldnt like anyone to call me an Intellectual: I +dont think any Englishman would! They dont count really, you know; +but still it's rather the thing to have them. Gunn is one of the +young intellectuals: he writes plays himself. Hes useful because he +pitches into the older intellectuals who are standing in his way. But +you may take it from me that none of these chaps really matter. +Flawner Bannal's your man. Bannal really represents the British +playgoer. When he likes a thing, you may take your oath there are a +hundred thousand people in London thatll like it if they can only be +got to know about it. Besides, Bannal's knowledge of the theatre is +an inside knowledge. We know him; and he knows us. He knows the +ropes: he knows his way about: he knows what hes talking about. + +THE COUNT. [with a little sigh] Age and experience, I suppose? + +SAVOYARD. Age! I should put him at twenty at the very outside, +myself. It's not an old man's job after all, is it? Bannal may not +ride the literary high horse like Trotter and the rest; but I'd take +his opinion before any other in London. Hes the man in the street; +and thats what you want. + +THE COUNT. I am almost sorry you didnt give the gentleman his full +terms. I should not have grudged the fifty guineas for a sound +opinion. He may feel shabbily treated. + +SAVOYARD. Well, let him. It was a bit of side, his asking fifty. +After all, what is he? Only a pressman. Jolly good business for him +to earn ten guineas: hes done the same job often enough for half a +quid, I expect. + +_Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, excited and +nervous. A girl of nineteen in a dress synchronous with her +father's._ + +FANNY. Papa, papa, the critics have come. And one of them has a +cocked hat and sword like a-- [she notices Savoyard] Oh, I beg +your pardon. + +THE COUNT. This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my dear. + +FANNY. [shaking hands] How do you do? + +SAVOYARD. Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Dowda. The cocked hat is all +right. Trotter is a member of the new Academic Committee. He induced +them to go in for a uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him +to wear it. + +THE FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, Mr Gunn, Mr +Flawner Bannal. [The four critics enter. Trotter wears a diplomatic +dress, with sword and three-cornered hat. His age is about 50. +Vaughan is 40. Gunn is 30. Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike +the others. They can be classed at sight as professional men: Bannal +is obviously one of those unemployables of the business class who +manage to pick up a living by a sort of courage which gives him +cheerfulness, conviviality, and bounce, and is helped out positively +by a slight turn for writing, and negatively by a comfortable +ignorance and lack of intuition which hides from him all the dangers +and disgraces that keep men of finer perception in check. The Count +approaches them hospitably]. + +SAVOYARD. Count O'Dowda, gentlemen. Mr Trotter. + +TROTTER. [looking at the Count's costume] Have I the pleasure of +meeting a confrere? + +THE COUNT. No, sir: I have no right to my costume except the right +of a lover of the arts to dress myself handsomely. You are most +welcome, Mr Trotter. [Trotter bows in the French manner]. + +SAVOYARD. Mr Vaughan. + +THE COUNT. How do you do, Mr Vaughan? + +VAUGHAN. Quite well, thanks. + +SAVOYARD. Mr Gunn. + +THE COUNT. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Gunn. + +GUNN. Very pleased. + +SAVOYARD. Mr Flawner Bannal. + +THE COUNT. Very kind of you to come, Mr Bannal. + +BANNAL. Dont mention it. + +THE COUNT. Gentlemen, my daughter. [They all bow]. We are very +greatly indebted to you, gentlemen, for so kindly indulging her whim. +[The dressing bell sounds. The Count looks at his watch]. Ah! The +dressing bell, gentlemen. As our play begins at nine, I have had to +put forward the dinner hour a little. May I shew you to your rooms? +[He goes out, followed by all the men, except Trotter, who, going +last, is detained by Fanny]. + +FANNY. Mr Trotter: I want to say something to you about this play. + +TROTTER. No: thats forbidden. You must not attempt to _souffler_ +the critic. + +FANNY. Oh, I would not for the world try to influence your opinion. + +TROTTER. But you do: you are influencing me very shockingly. You +invite me to this charming house, where I'm about to enjoy a charming +dinner. And just before the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming +young lady to be talked to about the play. How can you expect me to +be impartial? God forbid that I should set up to be a judge, or do +more than record an impression; but my impressions can be influenced; +and in this case youre influencing them shamelessly all the time. + +FANNY. Dont make me more nervous than I am already, Mr Trotter. If +you knew how I feel! + +TROTTER. Naturally: your first party: your first appearance in +England as hostess. But youre doing it beautifully. Dont be afraid. +Every _nuance_ is perfect. + +FANNY. It's so kind of you to say so, Mr Trotter. But that isnt +whats the matter. The truth is, this play is going to give my father +a dreadful shock. + +TROTTER. Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say. Half the young +ladies in London spend their evenings making their fathers take them +to plays that are not fit for elderly people to see. + +FANNY. Oh, I know all about that; but you cant understand what it +means to Papa. Youre not so innocent as he is. + +TROTTER. [remonstrating] My dear young lady-- + +FANNY. I dont mean morally innocent: everybody who reads your +articles knows youre as innocent as a lamb. + +TROTTER. What! + +FANNY. Yes, Mr Trotter: Ive seen a good deal of life since I came to +England; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby: a dear, good, +well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a wee +lamb in a world of wolves. Cambridge is not what it was in my +father's time. + +TROTTER. Well, I must say! + +FANNY. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge +Fabian Society. + +TROTTER. Classifications? I dont understand. + +FANNY. We classify our aunts into different sorts. And one of the +sorts is the "I must says." + +TROTTER. I withdraw "I must say." I substitute "Blame my cats!" No: +I substitute "Blame my kittens!" Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I +say again in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens. +Impertinent little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess what is +on your conscience. This play to which you have lured me is one of +those in which members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers +in the art of milking ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your +father. Well, I hope it will. And if he consults me about it I shall +recommend him to smack you soundly and pack you off to bed. + +FANNY. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter; +but it doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much more conscious of what +you really are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you +thoroughly at Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you? + +TROTTER. I-- + +FANNY. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me. + +TROTTER. Trottering! + +FANNY. Thats what we call it at Cambridge. + +TROTTER. If it were not so obviously a stage _cliche_, I should say +Damn Cambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. And now let me warn +you. If youre going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you +may coax me. If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, +I'll treat you as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man. + +FANNY. [adoringly] But how few men are your intellectual equals, +Mr Trotter! + +TROTTER. I'm getting the worst of this. + +FANNY. Oh no. Why do you say that? + +TROTTER. May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently? + +FANNY. What does it matter? We're both ready. I havnt told you yet +what I want you to do for me. + +TROTTER. Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except +out of pure magnanimity. What is it? + +FANNY. I dont mind this play shocking my father morally. It's good +for him to be shocked morally. It's all that the young can do for the +old, to shock them and keep them up to date. But I know that this +play will shock him artistically; and that terrifies me. No moral +consideration could make a breach between us: he would forgive me for +anything of that kind sooner or later; but he never gives way on a +point of art. I darent let him know that I love Beethoven and Wagner; +and as to Strauss, if he heard three bars of Elektra, it'd part us for +ever. Now what I want you to do is this. If hes very angry--if he +hates the play, because it's a modern play--will you tell him that +it's not my fault; that its style and construction, and so forth, are +considered the very highest art nowadays; that the author wrote it in +the proper way for repertory theatres of the most superior kind--you +know the kind of plays I mean? + +TROTTER. [emphatically] I think I know the sort of entertainments +you mean. But please do not beg a vital question by calling them +plays. I dont pretend to be an authority; but I have at least +established the fact that these productions, whatever else they may +be, are certainly not plays. + +FANNY. The authors dont say they are. + +TROTTER. [warmly] I am aware that one author, who is, I blush to +say, a personal friend of mine, resorts freely to the dastardly +subterfuge of calling them conversations, discussions, and so forth, +with the express object of evading criticism. But I'm not to be +disarmed by such tricks. I say they are not plays. Dialogues, if you +will. Exhibitions of character, perhaps: especially the character of +the author. Fictions, possibly, though a little decent reticence as +to introducing actual persons, and thus violating the sanctity of +private life, might not be amiss. But plays, no. I say NO. Not +plays. If you will not concede this point I cant continue our +conversation. I take this seriously. It's a matter of principle. I +must ask you, Miss O'Dowda, before we go a step further, Do you or do +you not claim that these works are plays? + +FANNY. I assure you I dont. + +TROTTER. Not in any sense of the word? + +FANNY. Not in any sense of the word. I loathe plays. + +TROTTER. [disappointed] That last remark destroys all the value of +your admission. You admire these--these theatrical nondescripts? You +enjoy them? + +FANNY. Dont you? + +TROTTER. Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose +I prefer popular melodramas? Have I not written most appreciative +notices of them? But I say theyre not plays. Theyre not plays. I +cant consent to remain in this house another minute if anything +remotely resembling them is to be foisted on me as a play. + +FANNY. I fully admit that theyre not plays. I only want you to tell +my father that plays are not plays nowadays--not in your sense of the +word. + +TROTTER. Ah, there you go again! In my sense of the word! You +believe that my criticism is merely a personal impression; that-- + +FANNY. You always said it was. + +TROTTER. Pardon me: not on this point. If you had been classically +educated-- + +FANNY. But I have. + +TROTTER. Pooh! Cambridge! If you had been educated at Oxford, you +would know that the definition of a play has been settled exactly and +scientifically for two thousand two hundred and sixty years. When I +say that these entertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense +of the word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the immortal +Stagirite. + +FANNY. Who is the Stagirite? + +TROTTER. [shocked] You dont know who the Stagirite was? + +FANNY. Sorry. Never heard of him. + +TROTTER. And this is Cambridge education! Well, my dear young lady, +I'm delighted to find theres something you don't know; and I shant +spoil you by dispelling an ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly +becoming to your age and sex. So we'll leave it at that. + +FANNY. But you will promise to tell my father that lots of people +write plays just like this one--that I havnt selected it out of mere +heartlessness? + +TROTTER. I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to your father +about the play until Ive seen the play. But I'll tell you what I +shall say to him about you. I shall say that youre a very foolish +young lady; that youve got into a very questionable set; and that the +sooner he takes you away from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, the +better. + +FANNY. It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a heavy father. In +Cambridge we regard you as a _bel esprit_, a wit, an Irresponsible, a +Parisian Immoralist, _tres chic_. + +TROTTER. I! + +FANNY. Theres quite a Trotter set. + +TROTTER. Well, upon my word! + +FANNY. They go in for adventures and call you Aramis. + +TROTTER. They wouldnt dare! + +FANNY. You always make such delicious fun of the serious people. +Your _insouciance_-- + +TROTTER. [frantic] Stop talking French to me: it's not a proper +language for a young girl. Great heavens! how is it possible that a +few innocent pleasantries should be so frightfully misunderstood? Ive +tried all my life to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and +kindly. Ive lived a blameless life. Ive supported the Censorship in +the face of ridicule and insult. And now I'm told that I'm a centre +of Immoralism! of Modern Minxism! a trifler with the most sacred +subjects! a Nietzschean!! perhaps a Shavian!!! + +FANNY. Do you mean you are really on the serious side, Mr Trotter? + +TROTTER. Of course I'm on the serious side. How dare you ask me such +a question? + +FANNY. Then why dont you play for it? + +TROTTER. I do play for it--short, of course, of making myself +ridiculous. + +FANNY. What! not make yourself ridiculous for the sake of a good +cause! Oh, Mr Trotter. Thats _vieux jeu_. + +TROTTER. [shouting at her] Dont talk French. I will not allow it. + +FANNY. But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out of date. The +Cambridge Fabian Society-- + +TROTTER. I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society to me. + +FANNY. Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without making +yourself ridiculous." + +TROTTER. Skate! What has that to do with it? + +FANNY. Thats not all. It goes on, "The ice of life is slippery." + +TROTTER. Ice of life indeed! You should be eating penny ices and +enjoying yourself. I wont hear another word. + +_The Count returns._ + +THE COUNT. We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my dear. Have you +been detaining Mr Trotter all this time? + +TROTTER. I'm so sorry. I must have just a little brush up: I [He +hurries out]. + +THE COUNT. My dear, you should be in the drawing-room. You should +not have kept him here. + +FANNY. I know. Dont scold me: I had something important to say to +him. + +THE COUNT. I shall ask him to take you in to dinner. + +FANNY. Yes, papa. Oh, I hope it will go off well. + +THE COUNT. Yes, love, of course it will. Come along. + +FANNY. Just one thing, papa, whilst we're alone. Who was the +Stagirite? + +THE COUNT. The Stagirite? Do you mean to say you dont know? + +FANNY. Havnt the least notion. + +THE COUNT. The Stagirite was Aristotle. By the way, dont mention him +to Mr Trotter. + +_They go to the dining-room._ + + + + +THE PLAY + + + +ACT I + +_In the dining-room of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly lady sits +at breakfast reading the newspaper. Her chair is at the end of the +oblong dining-table furthest from the fire. There is an empty chair +at the other end. The fireplace is behind this chair; and the door is +next the fireplace, between it and the corner. An arm-chair stands +beside the coal-scuttle. In the middle of the back wall is the +sideboard, parallel to the table. The rest of the furniture is mostly +dining-room chairs, ranged against the walls, and including a baby +rocking-chair on the lady's side of the room. The lady is a placid +person. Her husband, Mr Robin Gilbey, not at all placid, bursts +violently into the room with a letter in his hand._ + +GILBEY. [grinding his teeth] This is a nice thing. This is a b-- + +MRS GILBEY. [cutting him short] Leave it at that, please. +Whatever it is, bad language wont make it better. + +GILBEY. [bitterly] Yes, put me in the wrong as usual. Take your +boy's part against me. [He flings himself into the empty chair +opposite her]. + +MRS GILBEY. When he does anything right, hes your son. When he does +anything wrong hes mine. Have you any news of him? + +GILBEY. Ive a good mind not to tell you. + +MRS GILBEY. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. Thats a comfort, +at all events. + +GILBEY. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at the bottom of the +river for all you care. [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and +paces the room distractedly]. + +MRS GILBEY. Then what have you got in your hand? + +GILBEY. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. From New York. +Dropping us. Cutting us. [Turning fiercely on her] Thats a nice +thing, isnt it? + +MRS GILBEY. What for? + +GILBEY. [flinging away towards his chair] How do _I_ know what +for? + +MRS GILBEY. What does he say? + +GILBEY. [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles] +This is what he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The news about Bobby had +to follow me across the Atlantic: it did not reach me until to-day. +I am afraid he is incorrigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels +that this last escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think, +myself, that Bobby ought to be made to feel that such scrapes involve +a certain degree of reprobation." "As you may imagine"! And we know +no more about it than the babe unborn. + +MRS GILBEY. What else does he say? + +GILBEY. "I think my brother must have been just a little to blame +himself; so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressive +formality, forgive Bobby later on; but for the present I think it had +better be understood that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer +on visiting terms. As ever, yours sincerely." [His agitation +masters him again] Thats a nice slap in the face to get from a man +in his position! This is what your son has brought on me. + +MRS GILBEY. Well, I think it's rather a nice letter. He as good as +tells you hes only letting on to be offended for Bobby's good. + +GILBEY. Oh, very well: have the letter framed and hang it up over +the mantelpiece as a testimonial. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont talk nonsense, Rob. You ought to be thankful to +know that the boy is alive after his disappearing like that for nearly +a week. + +GILBEY. Nearly a week! A fortnight, you mean. Wheres your feelings, +woman? It was fourteen days yesterday. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if the boy was in +prison. + +GILBEY. How do you know hes not in prison? It's got on my nerves so, +that I'd believe even that. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont talk silly, Rob. Bobby might get into a scrape like +any other lad; but he'd never do anything low. + +_Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver. He is a +rather low-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good appearance and +address, and iron self-command._ + +JUGGINS. [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey] Lady wishes to see +Mr Bobby's parents, sir. + +GILBEY. [pointing to Mrs Gilbey] Theres Mr Bobby's parent. I +disown him. + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey]. + +MRS GILBEY. You mustnt mind what your master says, Juggins: he +doesnt mean it. [She takes the card and reads it]. Well, I never! + +GILBEY. Whats up now? + +MRS GILBEY. [reading] "Miss D. Delaney. Darling Dora." Just like +that--in brackets. What sort of person, Juggins? + +GILBEY. Whats her address? + +MRS GILBEY. The West Circular Road. Is that a respectable address, +Juggins? + +JUGGINS. A great many most respectable people live in the West +Circular Road, madam; but the address is not a guarantee of +respectability. + +GILBEY. So it's come to that with him, has it? + +MRS GILBEY. Dont jump to conclusions, Rob. How do you know? [To +Juggins] Is she a lady, Juggins? You know what I mean. + +JUGGINS. In the sense in which you are using the word, no, madam. + +MRS GILBEY. I'd better try what I can get out of her. [To Juggins] +Shew her up. You dont mind, do you, Rob? + +GILBEY. So long as you dont flounce out and leave me alone with her. +[He rises and plants himself on the hearth-rug]. + +_Juggins goes out._ + +MRS GILBEY. I wonder what she wants, Rob? + +GILBEY. If she wants money, she shant have it. Not a farthing. A +nice thing, everybody seeing her on our doorstep! If it wasnt that +she may tell us something about the lad, I'd have Juggins put the +hussy into the street. + +JUGGINS. [returning and announcing] Miss Delaney. [He waits for +express orders before placing a chair for this visitor]. + +_Miss Delaney comes in. She is a young lady of hilarious disposition, +very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes. She is so affable and +confidential that it is very difficult to keep her at a distance by +any process short of flinging her out of the house._ + +DORA. [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into the middle +of the room] How d'ye do, both. I'm a friend of Bobby's. He told +me all about you once, in a moment of confidence. Of course he never +let on who he was at the police court. + +GILBEY. Police court! + +MRS GILBEY. [looking apprehensively at Juggins] Tch--! Juggins: +a chair. + +DORA. Oh, Ive let it out, have I! [Contemplating Juggins +approvingly as he places a chair for her between the table and the +sideboard] But hes the right sort: I can see that. [Buttonholing +him] You wont let on downstairs, old man, will you? + +JUGGINS. The family can rely on my absolute discretion. [He +withdraws]. + +DORA. [sitting down genteelly] I dont know what youll say to me: +you know I really have no right to come here; but then what was I to +do? You know Holy Joe, Bobby's tutor, dont you? But of course you +do. + +GILBEY. [with dignity] I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the brother of +Monsignor Grenfell, if it is of him you are speaking. + +DORA. [wide-eyed and much amused] No!!! You dont tell me that old +geezer has a brother a Monsignor! And youre Catholics! And I never +knew it, though Ive known Bobby ever so long! But of course the last +thing you find out about a person is their religion, isnt it? + +MRS GILBEY. We're not Catholics. But when the Samuelses got an +Archdeacon's son to form their boy's mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobby +ought to have a chance too. And the Monsignor is a customer. Mr +Gilbey consulted him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother of his +that was more sinned against than sinning. + +GILBEY. [on tenderhooks] She dont want to hear about that, Maria. +[To Dora] Whats your business? + +DORA. I'm afraid it was all my fault. + +GILBEY. What was all your fault? I'm half distracted. I dont know +what has happened to the boy: hes been lost these fourteen days-- + +MRS GILBEY. A fortnight, Rob. + +GILBEY. --and not a word have we heard of him since. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont fuss, Rob. + +GILBEY. [yelling] I will fuss. Youve no feeling. You dont care +what becomes of the lad. [He sits down savagely]. + +DORA. [soothingly] Youve been anxious about him. Of course. How +thoughtless of me not to begin by telling you hes quite safe. Indeed +hes in the safest place in the world, as one may say: safe under lock +and key. + +GILBEY. [horrified, pitiable] Oh my-- [his breath fails him]. +Do you mean that when he was in the police court he was in the dock? +Oh, Maria! Oh, great Lord! What has he done? What has he got for +it? [Desperate] Will you tell me or will you see me go mad on my +own carpet? + +DORA. [sweetly] Yes, old dear-- + +MRS GILBEY. [starting at the familiarity] Well! + +DORA. [continuing] I'll tell you: but dont you worry: hes all +right. I came out myself this morning: there was such a crowd! and a +band! they thought I was a suffragette: only fancy! You see it was +like this. Holy Joe got talking about how he'd been a champion +sprinter at college. + +MRS GILBEY. A what? + +DORA. A sprinter. He said he was the fastest hundred yards runner in +England. We were all in the old cowshed that night. + +MRS GILBEY. What old cowshed? + +GILBEY. [groaning] Oh, get on. Get on. + +DORA. Oh, of course you wouldnt know. How silly of me! It's a +rather go-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney. We call it the old +cowshed. + +MRS GILBEY. Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music halls? + +DORA. No. Bobby takes him. But Holy Joe likes it: fairly laps it +up like a kitten, poor old dear. Well, Bobby says to me, "Darling--" + +MRS GILBEY. [placidly] Why does he call you Darling? + +DORA. Oh, everybody calls me Darling: it's a sort of name Ive got. +Darling Dora, you know. Well, he says, "Darling, if you can get Holy +Joe to sprint a hundred yards, I'll stand you that squiffer with the +gold keys." + +MRS GILBEY. Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face [Gilbey +clutches at his hair in his impatience]. + +DORA. Well, what would he call him? After all, Holy Joe is Holy Joe; +and boys will be boys. + +MRS GILBEY. Whats a squiffer? + +DORA. Oh, of course: excuse my vulgarity: a concertina. Theres one +in a shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, with gold keys and Russia +leather bellows; and Bobby knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt +afford it, poor lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me. + +GILBEY. Maria: if you keep interrupting with silly questions, I +shall go out of my senses. Heres the boy in gaol and me disgraced for +ever; and all you care to know is what a squiffer is. + +DORA. Well, remember it has gold keys. The man wouldnt take a penny +less than 15 pounds for it. It was a presentation one. + +GILBEY. [shouting at her] Wheres my son? Whats happened to my +son? Will you tell me that, and stop cackling about your squiffer? + +DORA. Oh, aint we impatient! Well, it does you credit, old dear. +And you neednt fuss: theres no disgrace. Bobby behaved like a +perfect gentleman. Besides, it was all my fault. I'll own it: I +took too much champagne. I was not what you might call drunk; but I +was bright, and a little beyond myself; and--I'll confess it--I wanted +to shew off before Bobby, because he was a bit taken by a woman on the +stage; and she was pretending to be game for anything. You see youve +brought Bobby up too strict; and when he gets loose theres no holding +him. He does enjoy life more than any lad I ever met. + +GILBEY. Never you mind how hes been brought up: thats my business. +Tell me how hes been brought down: thats yours. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob. + +DORA. I'm coming to it, old dear: dont you be so headstrong. Well, +it was a beautiful moonlight night; and we couldnt get a cab on the +nod; so we started to walk, very jolly, you know: arm in arm, and +dancing along, singing and all that. When we came into Jamaica +Square, there was a young copper on point duty at the corner. I says +to Bob: "Dearie boy: is it a bargain about the squiffer if I make Joe +sprint for you?" "Anything you like, darling," says he: "I love +you." I put on my best company manners and stepped up to the copper. +"If you please, sir," says I, "can you direct me to Carrickmines +Square?" I was so genteel, and talked so sweet, that he fell to it +like a bird. "I never heard of any such Square in these parts," he +says. "Then," says I, "what a very silly little officer you must +be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that knocked it over his +eyes, and did a bunk. + +MRS GILBEY. Did a what? + +DORA. A bunk. Holy Joe did one too all right: he sprinted faster +than he ever did in college, I bet, the old dear. He got clean off, +too. Just as he was overtaking me half-way down the square, we heard +the whistle; and at the sound of it he drew away like a streak of +lightning; and that was the last I saw of him. I was copped in the +Dock Road myself: rotten luck, wasn't it? I tried the innocent and +genteel and all the rest; but Bobby's hat done me in. + +GILBEY. And what happened to the boy? + +DORA. Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper! He thought the +copper would see the joke, poor lamb. He was arguing about it when +the two that took me came along to find out what the whistle was for, +and brought me with them. Of course I swore I'd never seen him before +in my life; but there he was in my hat and I in his. The cops were +very spiteful and laid it on for all they were worth: drunk and +disorderly and assaulting the police and all that. I got fourteen +days without the option, because you see--well, the fact is, I'd done +it before, and been warned. Bobby was a first offender and had the +option; but the dear boy had no money left and wouldnt give you away +by telling his name; and anyhow he couldnt have brought himself to buy +himself off and leave me there; so hes doing his time. Well, it was +two forty shillingses; and Ive only twenty-eight shillings in the +world. If I pawn my clothes I shant be able to earn any more. So I +cant pay the fine and get him out; but if youll stand 3 pounds I'll +stand one; and thatll do it. If youd like to be very kind and nice +you could pay the lot; but I cant deny that it was my fault; so I wont +press you. + +GILBEY. [heart-broken] My son in gaol! + +DORA. Oh, cheer up, old dear: it wont hurt him: look at me after +fourteen days of it; I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet. +You mustnt let it prey on your mind. + +GILBEY. The disgrace of it will kill me. And it will leave a mark on +him to the end of his life. + +DORA. Not a bit of it. Dont you be afraid: Ive educated Bobby a +bit: hes not the mollycoddle he was when you had him in hand. + +MRS GILBEY. Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle. They wanted him to go +in for singlestick at the Young Men's Christian Association; but, of +course, I couldnt allow that: he might have had his eye knocked out. + +GILBEY. [to Dora, angrily] Listen here, you. + +DORA. Oh, aint we cross! + +GILBEY. I want none of your gaiety here. This is a respectable +household. Youve gone and got my poor innocent boy into trouble. +It's the like of you thats the ruin of the like of him. + +DORA. So you always say, you old dears. But you know better. Bobby +came to me: I didnt come to him. + +GILBEY. Would he have gone if you hadnt been there for him to go to? +Tell me that. You know why he went to you, I suppose? + +DORA. [charitably] It was dull for him at home, poor lad, wasnt +it? + +MRS GILBEY. Oh no. I'm at home on first Thursdays. And we have the +Knoxes to dinner every Friday. Margaret Knox and Bobby are as good as +engaged. Mr Knox is my husband's partner. Mrs Knox is very +religious; but shes quite cheerful. We dine with them on Tuesdays. +So thats two evenings pleasure every week. + +GILBEY. [almost in tears] We done what we could for the boy. +Short of letting him go into temptations of all sorts, he can do what +he likes. What more does he want? + +DORA. Well, old dear, he wants me; and thats about the long and short +of it. And I must say youre not very nice to me about it. Ive talked +to him like a mother, and tried my best to keep him straight; but I +dont deny I like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit giddy when +we're lighthearted. Him and me is a pair, I'm afraid. + +GILBEY. Dont talk foolishness, girl. How could you and he be a pair, +you being what you are, and he brought up as he has been, with the +example of a religious woman like Mrs Knox before his eyes? I cant +understand how he could bring himself to be seen in the street with +you. [Pitying himself] I havnt deserved this. Ive done my duty as +a father. Ive kept him sheltered. [Angry with her] Creatures like +you that take advantage of a child's innocence ought to be whipped +through the streets. + +DORA. Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady to lose my +temper; and I dont think Bobby would like me to tell you what I think +of you; for when I start giving people a bit of my mind I sometimes +use language thats beneath me. But I tell you once for all I must +have the money to get Bobby out; and if you wont fork out, I'll hunt +up Holy Joe. He might get it off his brother, the Monsignor. + +GILBEY. You mind your own concerns. My solicitor will do what is +right. I'll not have you paying my son's fine as if you were anything +to him. + +DORA. Thats right. Youll get him out today, wont you? + +GILBEY. It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it? + +DORA. I'd like to know when theyll let him out. + +GILBEY. You would, would you? Youre going to meet him at the prison +door. + +DORA. Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of a +lady? + +GILBEY. [bitterly] Oh yes: I know. Here! I must buy the lad's +salvation, I suppose. How much will you take to clear out and let him +go? + +DORA. [pitying him: quite nice about it] What good would that do, +old dear? There are others, you know. + +GILBEY. Thats true. I must send the boy himself away. + +DORA. Where to? + +GILBEY. Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your +like. + +DORA. Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old +dear. I'm sorry for you: I really am, though you mightnt believe it; +and I think your feelings do you real credit. But I cant give him up +just to let him fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I? + +GILBEY. [beside himself, rising] Wheres the police? Wheres the +Government? Wheres the Church? Wheres respectability and right +reason? Whats the good of them if I have to stand here and see you +put my son in your pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly +out of gaol as a common drunk and disorderly? Whats the world coming +to? + +DORA. It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear? + +_Mr Gilbey rushes from the room, distracted._ + +MRS GILBEY. [unruffled] Where did you buy that white lace? I want +some to match a collaret of my own; and I cant get it at Perry and +John's. + +DORA. Knagg and Pantle's: one and fourpence. It's machine +hand-made. + +MRS GILBEY. I never give more than one and tuppence. But I suppose +youre extravagant by nature. My sister Martha was just like that. +Pay anything she was asked. + +DORA. Whats tuppence to you, Mrs Bobby, after all? + +MRS GILBEY. [correcting her] Mrs Gilbey. + +DORA. Of course, Mrs Gilbey. I am silly. + +MRS GILBEY. Bobby must have looked funny in your hat. Why did you +change hats with him? + +DORA. I dont know. One does, you know. + +MRS GILBEY. I never did. The things people do! I cant understand +them. Bobby never told me he was keeping company with you. His own +mother! + +DORA. [overcome] Excuse me: I cant help smiling. + +_Juggins enters._ + +JUGGINS. Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, madam. + +MRS GILBEY. Have you ever been in a police court, Juggins? + +JUGGINS. Yes, madam. + +MRS GILBEY [rather shocked] I hope you had not been exceeding, +Juggins. + +JUGGINS. Yes, madam, I had. I exceeded the legal limit. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, that! Why do they give a woman a fortnight for +wearing a man's hat, and a man a month for wearing hers? + +JUGGINS. I didnt know that they did, madam. + +MRS GILBEY. It doesnt seem justice, does it, Juggins? + +JUGGINS. No, madam. + +MRS GILBEY [to Dora, rising] Well, good-bye. [Shaking her hand] +So pleased to have made your acquaintance. + +DORA. [standing up] Dont mention it. I'm sure it's most kind of +you to receive me at all. + +MRS GILBEY. I must go off now and order lunch. [She trots to the +door]. What was it you called the concertina? + +DORA. A squiffer, dear. + +MRS GILBEY. [thoughtfully] A squiffer, of course. How funny! +[She goes out]. + +DORA. [exploding into ecstasies of mirth] Oh my! isnt she an old +love? How do you keep your face straight? + +JUGGINS. It is what I am paid for. + +DORA. [confidentially] Listen here, dear boy. Your name isnt +Juggins. Nobody's name is Juggins. + +JUGGINS. My orders are, Miss Delaney, that you are not to be here +when Mr Gilbey returns from Wormwood Scrubbs. + +DORA. That means telling me to mind my own business, doesnt it? +Well, I'm off. Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling. [She kisses her hand to +him and goes]. + + + +ACT II + +_On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in her +drawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall. +Anyone placed so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door +on the right and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs +Knox, whose back is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the +opposite side of the room. The sofa is near the piano. There is a +small table in the middle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and +albums on it, and chairs near it._ + +_Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner, +harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a soft +stoutish man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox has +coarse black hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving can +whiten. Mrs Knox is a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion, +with thoughtful eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere of +peace and some solemnity. She is surprised to see her husband at home +during business hours._ + +MRS KNOX. What brings you home at this hour? Have you heard +anything? + +KNOX. No. Have you? + +MRS KNOX. No. Whats the matter? + +KNOX. [sitting down on the sofa] I believe Gilbey has found out. + +MRS KNOX. What makes you think that? + +KNOX. Well, I dont know: I didnt like to tell you: you have enough +to worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever since it +happened. I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I was +depending on him. But hes worse than me. Hes not looking after +anything; and he keeps out of my way. His manner's not natural. He +hasnt asked us to dinner; and hes never said a word about our not +asking him to dinner, after all these years when weve dined every week +as regular as clockwork. It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop +me socially. Well, why should he do that if he hasnt heard? + +MRS KNOX. I wonder! Bobby hasnt been near us either: thats what I +cant make out. + +KNOX. Oh, thats nothing. I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall +with her aunt. + +MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Jo! [She takes her handkerchief from +the writing-table and cries a little]. + +KNOX. Well, I got to tell lies, aint I? You wont. Somebody's got to +tell em. + +MRS KNOX. [putting away her handkerchief] It only ends in our not +knowing what to believe. Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton for +the sea air. Theres something queer about that. Gilbey would never +let the boy loose by himself among the temptations of a gay place like +Brighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington High +Street the very day she told me. + +KNOX. If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby and +Margaret, and all over between us and them. + +MRS KNOX. It's all over between us and everybody. When a girl runs +away from home like that, people know what to think of her and her +parents. + +KNOX. She had a happy, respectable home--everything-- + +MRS KNOX. [interrupting him] Theres no use going over it all +again, Jo. If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy +anywhere. Youd better go back to the shop and try to keep your mind +off it. + +KNOX. [rising restlessly] I cant. I keep fancying everybody knows +it and is sniggering about it. I'm at peace nowhere but here. It's a +comfort to be with you. It's a torment to be with other people. + +MRS KNOX. [going to him and drawing her arm through his] There, +Jo, there! I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could. But it cant +be. God's work must go on from day to day, no matter what comes. We +must face our trouble and bear it. + +KNOX. [wandering to the window arm in arm with her] Just look at +the people in the street, going up and down as if nothing had +happened. It seems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care. + +MRS KNOX. If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking +up at us. You shouldnt keep thinking about it. + +KNOX. I know I shouldnt. You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm +sure I'm glad it comforts you. But it doesnt come to me that way. +Ive worked hard to get a position and be respectable. Ive turned many +a girl out of the shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres +my own daughter gone for a fortnight without word or sign, except a +telegram to say shes not dead and that we're not to worry about her. + +MRS KNOX. [suddenly pointing to the street] Jo, look! + +KNOX. Margaret! With a man! + +MRS KNOX. Run down, Jo, quick. Catch her: save her. + +KNOX. [lingering] Shes shaking bands with him: shes coming across +to the door. + +MRS KNOX. [energetically] Do as I tell you. Catch the man before +hes out of sight. + +_Knox rushes from the room. Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly +from the window. Then she throws up the sash and leans out. Margaret +Knox comes in, flustered and annoyed. She is a strong, springy girl +of eighteen, with large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily +resolute manner, even peremptory on occasions like the present, when +she is annoyed._ + +MARGARET. Mother. Mother. + +_Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter._ + +MRS KNOX. [sternly] Well, miss? + +MARGARET. Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene in the +street. He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away my +daughter" loud enough for all the people to hear. Everybody stopped. +We shall have a crowd round the house. Do do something to stop him. + +_Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer._ + +MARGARET. Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry--so ashamed. Mother: +this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me. +Monsieur Duvallet: my mother. [Duvallet bows]. + +KNOX. A Frenchman! It only needed this. + +MARGARET. [much annoyed] Father: do please be commonly civil to a +gentleman who has been of the greatest service to me. What will he +think of us? + +DUVALLET. [debonair] But it's very natural. I understand Mr +Knox's feelings perfectly. [He speaks English better than Knox, +having learnt it on both sides of the Atlantic]. + +KNOX. If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize. But I want to +know where my daughter has been for the last fortnight. + +DUVALLET. She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place. + +KNOX. Will you tell me what place? I can judge for myself how safe +it was. + +MARGARET. Holloway Gaol. Was that safe enough? + +KNOX AND MRS KNOX. Holloway Gaol! + +KNOX. Youve joined the Suffragets! + +MARGARET. No. I wish I had. I could have had the same experience in +better company. Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet. [She sits +between the table and the sofa. Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the +other side of the table. Knox remains standing in the middle of the +room]. + +DUVALLET. [sitting down on the sofa] It was nothing. An +adventure. Nothing. + +MARGARET. [obdurately] Drunk and assaulting the police! Forty +shillings or a month! + +MRS KNOX. Margaret! Who accused you of such a thing? + +MARGARET. The policeman I assaulted. + +KNOX. You mean to say that you did it! + +MARGARET. I did. I had that satisfaction at all events. I knocked +two of his teeth out. + +KNOX. And you sit there coolly and tell me this! + +MARGARET. Well, where do you want me to sit? Whats the use of saying +things like that? + +KNOX. My daughter in Holloway Gaol! + +MARGARET. All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters. +Really, father, you must make up your mind to it. If you had sat in +that cell for fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would +understand that I'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying +to persuade yourself that it cant be real. These things really do +happen to real people every day; and you read about them in the papers +and think it's all right. Well, theyve happened to me: thats all. + +KNOX. [feeble-forcible] But they shouldnt have happened to you. +Dont you know that? + +MARGARET. They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose. But they do. +[Rising impatiently] And really I'd rather go out and assault +another policeman and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and +round it like this. If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn +me out: the sooner I go the better. + +DUVALLET. [rising quickly] That is impossible, mademoiselle. Your +father has his position to consider. To turn his daughter out of +doors would ruin him socially. + +KNOX. Oh, youve put her up to that, have you? And where did you come +in, may I ask? + +DUVALLET. I came in at your invitation--at your amiable insistence, +in fact, not at my own. But you need have no anxiety on my account. +I was concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your +daughter's incarceration. I got a fortnight without the option of a +fine on the ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the +policeman with my fist. I should have done so with pleasure had I +known; but, as it was, I struck him on the ear with my boot--a +magnificent _moulinet_, I must say--and was informed that I had been +guilty of an act of cowardice, but that for the sake of the _entente +cordiale_ I should be dealt with leniently. Yet Miss Knox, who used +her fist, got a month, but with the option of a fine. I did not know +this until I was released, when my first act was to pay the fine. And +here we are. + +MRS KNOX. You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo. + +KNOX. [reddening] Oh, certainly. [He takes out some money]. + +DUVALLET. Oh please! it does not matter. [Knox hands him two +sovereigns]. If you insist-- [he pockets them] Thank you. + +MARGARET. I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet. + +DUVALLET. Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle? + +MARGARET. I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you +dont mind. + +DUVALLET. Perfectly. Madame [bow]--Mademoiselle [bow]--Monsieur +[bow]--[He goes out]. + +MRS KNOX. Dont ring, Jo. See the gentleman out yourself. + +_Knox hastily sees Duvallet out. Mother and daughter sit looking +forlornly at one another without saying a word. Mrs Knox slowly sits +down. Margaret follows her example. They look at one another again. +Mr Knox returns._ + +KNOX. [shortly and sternly] Amelia: this is your job. [To +Margaret] I leave you to your mother. I shall have my own say in +the matter when I hear what you have to say to her. [He goes out, +solemn and offended]. + +MARGARET. [with a bitter little laugh] Just what the Suffraget +said to me in Holloway. He throws the job on you. + +MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Margaret! + +MARGARET. You know it's true. + +MRS KNOX. Margaret: if youre going to be hardened about it, theres +no use my saying anything. + +MARGARET. I'm not hardened, mother. But I cant talk nonsense about +it. You see, it's all real to me. Ive suffered it. Ive been shoved +and bullied. Ive had my arms twisted. Ive been made scream with pain +in other ways. Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other +poor wretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a +cellar. And the only difference between me and the others was that I +hit back. Yes I did. And I did worse. I wasnt ladylike. I cursed. +I called names. I heard words that I didnt even know that I knew, +coming out of my mouth just as if somebody else had spoken them. The +policeman repeated them in court. The magistrate said he could hardly +believe it. The policeman held out his hand with his two teeth in it +that I knocked out. I said it was all right; that I had heard myself +using those words quite distinctly; and that I had taken the good +conduct prize for three years running at school. The poor old +gentleman put me back for the missionary to find out who I was, and to +ascertain the state of my mind. I wouldnt tell, of course, for your +sakes at home here; and I wouldnt say I was sorry, or apologize to the +policeman, or compensate him or anything of that sort. I wasnt sorry. +The one thing that gave me any satisfaction was getting in that smack +on his mouth; and I said so. So the missionary reported that I seemed +hardened and that no doubt I would tell who I was after a day in +prison. Then I was sentenced. So now you see I'm not a bit the sort +of girl you thought me. I'm not a bit the sort of girl I thought +myself. And I dont know what sort of person you really are, or what +sort of person father really is. I wonder what he would say or do if +he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm with one hand +and rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the other. He +couldnt whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down by a +glorious kick on the helmet. Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought +we'd have beaten them. + +MRS KNOX. But how did it all begin? + +MARGARET. Oh, I dont know. It was boat-race night, they said. + +MRS KNOX. Boat-race night! But what had you to do with the boat +race? You went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall +with your aunt. She put you into the bus that passes the door. What +made you get out of the bus? + +MARGARET. I dont know. The meeting got on my nerves, somehow. It +was the singing, I suppose: you know I love singing a good swinging +hymn; and I felt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had +been singing so wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to +heaven. I wanted more music--more happiness--more life. I wanted +some comrade who felt as I did. I felt exalted: it seemed mean to be +afraid of anything: after all, what could anyone do to me against my +will? I suppose I was a little mad: at all events, I got out of the +bus at Piccadilly Circus, because there was a lot of light and +excitement there. I walked to Leicester Square; and went into a great +theatre. + +MRS KNOX. [horrified] A theatre! + +MARGARET. Yes. Lots of other women were going in alone. I had to +pay five shillings. + +MRS KNOX. [aghast] Five shillings! + +MARGARET. [apologetically] It was a lot. It was very stuffy; and +I didnt like the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying +themselves; but the stage was splendid and the music lovely. I saw +that Frenchman, Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking +a cigarette. He seemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike. +I went and stood beside him, hoping he would speak to me. + +MRS KNOX. [gasps] Margaret! + +MARGARET. [continuing] He did, just as if he had known me for +years. We got on together like old friends. He asked me would I have +some champagne; and I said it would cost too much, but that I would +give anything for a dance. I longed to join the people on the stage +and dance with them: one of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever +saw. He told me he had come there to see her, and that when it was +over we could go somewhere where there was dancing. So we went to a +place where there was a band in a gallery and the floor cleared for +dancing. Very few people danced: the women only wanted to shew off +their dresses; but we danced and danced until a lot of them joined in. +We got quite reckless; and we had champagne after all. I never +enjoyed anything so much. But at last it got spoilt by the Oxford and +Cambridge students up for the boat race. They got drunk; and they +began to smash things; and the police came in. Then it was quite +horrible. The students fought with the police; and the police +suddenly got quite brutal, and began to throw everybody downstairs. +They attacked the women, who were not doing anything, and treated them +just as roughly as they had treated the students. Duvallet got +indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was shoving a woman +though she was going quietly as fast as she could. The policeman +flung the woman through the door and then turned on Duvallet. It was +then that Duvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the +policeman down. And then three policemen rushed at him and carried +him out by the arms and legs face downwards. Two more attacked me and +gave me a shove to the door. That quite maddened me. I just got in +one good bang on the mouth of one of them. All the rest was dreadful. +I was rushed through the streets to the police station. They kicked +me with their knees; they twisted my arms; they taunted and insulted +me; they called me vile names; and I told them what I thought of them, +and provoked them to do their worst. Theres one good thing about +being hard hurt: it makes you sleep. I slept in that filthy cell +with all the other drunks sounder than I should have slept at home. I +cant describe how I felt next morning: it was hideous; but the police +were quite jolly; and everybody said it was a bit of English fun, and +talked about last year's boat-race night when it had been a great deal +worse. I was black and blue and sick and wretched. But the strange +thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm not sorry. And I dont feel that +I did anything wrong, really. [She rises and stretches her arms with +a large liberating breath] Now that it's all over I'm rather proud +of it; though I know now that I'm not a lady; but whether thats +because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's really a lady +except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont know. [She throws +herself into a corner of the sofa]. + +MRS KNOX. [lost in wonder] But how could you bring yourself to do +it, Margaret? I'm not blaming you: I only want to know. How could +you bring yourself to do it? + +MARGARET. I cant tell you. I dont understand it myself. The prayer +meeting set me free, somehow. I should never have done it if it were +not for the prayer meeting. + +MRS KNOX. [deeply horrified] Oh, dont say such a thing as that. I +know that prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me +when I told you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil. + +MARGARET. Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set +free for evil as well as good. As father says, you cant have anything +both ways at once. When I was at home and at school I was what you +call good; but I wasnt free. And when I got free I was what most +people would call not good. But I see no harm in what I did; though I +see plenty in what other people did to me. + +MRS KNOX. I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance. + +MARGARET. Oh no. [She sits down again at the table]. I'm a +heroine of reality, if you can call me a heroine at all. And reality +is pretty brutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it. Yet +it's glorious all the same. It's so real and satisfactory. + +MRS KNOX. I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret. I dont like your +talking to me in that tone. + +MARGARET. It's no use, mother. I dont care for you and Papa any the +less; but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again. Ive +made a sort of descent into hell-- + +MRS KNOX. Margaret! Such a word! + +MARGARET. You should have heard all the words that were flying round +that night. You should mix a little with people who dont know any +other words. But when I said that about a descent into hell I was not +swearing. I was in earnest, like a preacher. + +MRS KNOX. A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice. + +MARGARET. I know: the tone that shews they dont mean anything real +to him. They usent to mean anything real to me. Now hell is as real +to me as a turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that. +Anyhow, Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth +doing but redeeming people from it. + +MRS KNOX. They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it. + +MARGARET. Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it? +You dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist +their arms. Whats the good of pretending? Thats all our +respectability is, pretending, pretending, pretending. Thank heaven +Ive had it knocked out of me once for all! + +MRS KNOX. [greatly agitated] Margaret: dont talk like that. I +cant bear to hear you talking wickedly. I can bear to hear the +children of this world talking vainly and foolishly in the language of +this world. But when I hear you justifying your wickedness in the +words of grace, it's too horrible: it sounds like the devil making +fun of religion. Ive tried to bring you up to learn the happiness of +religion. Ive waited for you to find out that happiness is within +ourselves and doesnt come from outward pleasures. Ive prayed oftener +than you think that you might be enlightened. But if all my hopes and +all my prayers are to come to this, that you mix up my very words and +thoughts with the promptings of the devil, then I dont know what I +shall do: I dont indeed: itll kill me. + +MARGARET. You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you +didnt want me to be enlightened. If the truth were known, I suspect +we all want our prayers to be answered only by halves: the agreeable +halves. Your prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother. Youve got +more than you bargained for in the way of enlightenment. I shall +never be the same again. I shall never speak in the old way again. +Ive been set free from this silly little hole of a house and all its +pretences. I know now that I am stronger than you and Papa. I havnt +found that happiness of yours that is within yourself; but Ive found +strength. For good or evil I am set free; and none of the things that +used to hold me can hold me now. + +_Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense._ + +KNOX. How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia? Do you +think I'm made of iron? Whats the girl done? What are we going to +do? + +MRS KNOX. Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours. I cant even +pray for her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for. + +KNOX. Dont talk nonsense, woman: is this a time for praying? Does +anybody know? Thats what we have to consider now. If only we can +keep it dark, I don't care for anything else. + +MARGARET. Dont hope for that, father. Mind: I'll tell everybody. +It ought to be told. It must be told. + +KNOX. Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house this +instant. + +MARGARET. I'm quite ready. [She takes her hat and turns to the +door]. + +KNOX. [throwing himself in front of it] Here! where are you going? + +MRS KNOX. [rising] You mustnt turn her out, Jo! I'll go with her +if she goes. + +KNOX. Who wants to turn her out? But is she going to ruin us? To +let everybody know of her disgrace and shame? To tear me down from +the position Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard +struggling? + +MARGARET. Yes: I'm going to tear it all down. It stands between us +and everything. I'll tell everybody. + +KNOX. Magsy, my child: dont bring down your father's hairs with +sorrow to the grave. Theres only one thing I care about in the world: +to keep this dark. I'm your father. I ask you here on my knees--in +the dust, so to speak--not to let it out. + +MARGARET. I'll tell everybody. + +_Knox collapses in despair. Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot. +Margaret stands inflexible._ + + + + +ACT III + +_Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table is not +laid: it is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an +exercise-book, and school-books on it. Bobby Gilbey is in the +arm-chair, crouching over the fire, reading an illustrated paper. He +is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, strong and manly enough +by nature, but untrained and unsatisfactory, his parents having +imagined that domestic restriction is what they call "bringing up." +He has learnt nothing from it except a habit of evading it by deceit._ + +_He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins +answers the bell._ + +BOBBY. Juggins. + +JUGGINS. Sir? + +BOBBY. [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed! + +JUGGINS. [cheerfully] Not at all, sir. + +BOBBY. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man. + +JUGGINS. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you +sir; and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain. + +BOBBY. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it? + +JUGGINS. No, sir. + +BOBBY. Ive been talking to Dora about you. + +JUGGINS. Indeed, sir? + +BOBBY. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have +the manners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadnt any manners. +Anyhow, your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in +my set. + +JUGGINS. They would be, sir. + +BOBBY. You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of +Dora's notion, I suppose. + +JUGGINS. No, sir. + +BOBBY. [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over +the arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman] It was part +of your bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. + +BOBBY. Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an +engagement to a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise +or behaving like a regular cad? + +JUGGINS. No, sir. You cant get out of an engagement without behaving +like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it. + +BOBBY. But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dont +really care for her. + +JUGGINS. Women dont always marry for happiness, sir. They often +marry because they wish to be married women and not old maids. + +BOBBY. Then what am I to do? + +JUGGINS. Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad. + +BOBBY. [Jumping up] Well, I wont marry her: thats flat. What +would you do if you were in my place? + +JUGGINS. I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil +my engagement. + +BOBBY. But youd have to make some excuse, you know. I want to give +it a gentlemanly turn: to say I'm not worthy of her, or something +like that. + +JUGGINS. That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite the contrary. + +BOBBY. I dont see that at all. Do you mean that it's not exactly +true? + +JUGGINS. Not at all, sir. + +BOBBY. I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been. +That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather +exceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can +ever be of anyone else. You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of +a girl's feelings. + +JUGGINS. If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her. +If you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get +credit for considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare +them. She wont like it. And it will start an argument, of which you +will get the worse. + +BOBBY. But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her. + +JUGGINS. Probably she never supposed you were, sir. + +BOBBY. Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist. + +JUGGINS. [preparing to go] Anything else, sir? + +BOBBY. [querulously] You havnt been much use. [He wanders +disconsolately across the room]. You generally put me up to the +correct way of doing things. + +JUGGINS. I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting. It's +not correct in itself. + +BOBBY. [hopefully] I'll tell you what. I'll say I cant hold her +to an engagement with a man whos been in quod. Thatll do it. [He +seats himself on the table, relieved and confident]. + +JUGGINS. Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny herself the +romantic luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the +form of doing something agreeable. Shes almost sure to say that your +misfortune will draw her closer to you. + +BOBBY. What a nuisance! I dont know what to do. You know, Juggins, +your cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark +Hill. + +JUGGINS. I daresay not, sir. No doubt youd prefer to make it look +like an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke +her to break the engagement herself. Both plans have been tried +repeatedly, but never with success, as far as my knowledge goes. + +BOBBY. You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law. You +know, in my class you have to wrap up things a bit. Denmark Hill +isn't Camberwell, you know. + +JUGGINS. I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the +higher you go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and +that only tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere. Thats a mistake. +Tramps are often shameless; but theyre never sincere. Swells--if I +may use that convenient name for the upper classes--play much more +with their cards on the table. If you tell the young lady that you +want to jilt her, and she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction +may leave much to be desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if +you say youre not worthy. + +BOBBY. Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins. The girl isnt a +scullery-maid. I want to do it delicately. + +JUGGINS. A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in +that line.--Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell. [He goes +out]. + +_Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes +off the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes +reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. Juggins returns._ + +JUGGINS. [announcing] Miss Knox. + +_Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws._ + +MARGARET. Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination, +Bobby? Youll never pass. + +BOBBY. [rising] No: I was just writing to you. + +MARGARET. What about? + +BOBBY. Oh, nothing. At least-- How are you? + +MARGARET. [passing round the other end of the table and putting down +on it a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag] Quite well, thank +you. How did you enjoy Brighton? + +BOBBY. Brighton! I wasnt at-- Oh yes, of course. Oh, pretty well. +Is your aunt all right? + +MARGARET. My aunt! I suppose so. I havent seen her for a month. + +BOBBY. I thought you were down staying with her. + +MARGARET. Oh! was that what they told you? + +BOBBY. Yes. Why? Werent you really? + +MARGARET. No. Ive something to tell you. Sit down and lets be +comfortable. + +_She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and puts his +arm wearily round her waist._ + +MARGARET. You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby. Suppose we get +off duty for the day, just to see what it's like. + +BOBBY. Off duty? What do you mean? + +MARGARET. You know very well what I mean. Bobby: did you ever care +one little scrap for me in that sort of way? Dont funk answering: +_I_ dont care a bit for you--that way. + +BOBBY. [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your pardon, I'm +sure. I thought you did. + +MARGARET. Well, did you? Come! Dont be mean. Ive owned up. You +can put it all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more +than I do. + +BOBBY. You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars. + +MARGARET. Yes. + +BOBBY. Well, it's not that I dont care for you: in fact, no girl can +ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much +together that it feels more like brother and sister than--well, than +the other thing, doesnt it? + +MARGARET. Just so. How did you find out the difference? + +BOBBY. [blushing] Oh, I say! + +MARGARET. I found out from a Frenchman. + +BOBBY. Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his consternation]. + +MARGARET. Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? You know you must +have learnt it from somebody. + +BOBBY. Not a Frenchwoman. Shes quite a nice woman. But shes been +rather unfortunate. The daughter of a clergyman. + +MARGARET. [startled] Oh, Bobby! That sort of woman! + +BOBBY. What sort of woman? + +MARGARET. You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do +you, you silly boy? It's a stock joke. + +BOBBY. Do you mean to say you dont believe me? + +MARGARET. No: I mean to say I dont believe her. + +BOBBY. [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table +beside her]. What do you know about her? What do you know about all +this sort of thing? + +MARGARET. What sort of thing, Bobby? + +BOBBY. Well, about life. + +MARGARET. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasnt at my +aunt's. All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean. + +BOBBY. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better tell you: youre bound +to find out sooner or later. [He begins his confession humbly, +avoiding her gaze]. Meg: it's rather awful: youll think me no end +of a beast. Ive been in prison. + +MARGARET. You! + +BOBBY. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police. + +MARGARET. Do you mean to say that you--oh! this is a let-down for me. +[She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the +end of it furthest from the hearth]. + +BOBBY. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that. I +was writing to you to break it off. [He also descends from the table +and makes slowly for the hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter. + +MARGARET. Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and +assaulting the police? How long were you in? + +BOBBY. A fortnight. + +MARGARET. Thats what I was in for. + +BOBBY. What are you talking about? In where? + +MARGARET. In quod. + +BOBBY. But I'm serious: I'm not rotting. Really and truly-- + +MARGARET. What did you do to the copper? + +BOBBY. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated grossly. I only +laughed at him. + +MARGARET. [jumping up, triumphant] Ive beaten you hollow. I +knocked out two of his teeth. Ive got one of them. He sold it to me +for ten shillings. + +BOBBY. Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you I'm not rotting. +[He sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily]. + +MARGARET. [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him] +And I tell you I'm not either. Look! Heres a report of it. The +daily papers are no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid. [She +sits on the arm of the chair]. See! [Reading]: "Hardened at +Eighteen. A quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her +name"--thats me. + +BOBBY. [pausing a moment in his perusal] Do you mean to say that +you went on the loose out of pure devilment? + +MARGARET. I did no harm. I went to see a lovely dance. I picked up +a nice man and went to have a dance myself. I cant imagine anything +more innocent and more happy. All the bad part was done by other +people: they did it out of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here +we are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever. Isnt it a relief? + +BOBBY. [rising stiffly] But you know, it's not the same for a +girl. A man may do things a woman maynt. [He stands on the +hearthrug with his back to the fire]. + +MARGARET. Are you scandalized, Bobby? + +BOBBY. Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg? I +never thought you were that sort of girl. + +MARGARET. [rising indignantly] I'm not. You mustnt pretend to +think that _I_'m a clergyman's daughter, Bobby. + +BOBBY. I wish you wouldnt chaff about that. Dont forget the row you +got into for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back +on him quickly]--a footman! And what about the Frenchman? + +MARGARET. [facing him again] I know nothing about the Frenchman +except that hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like +the hand of a clock and knock a policeman down with it. He was in +Wormwood Scrubbs with you. I was in Holloway. + +BOBBY. It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit +thick, you know. + +MARGARET. Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison? + +BOBBY. [hastily] No. I never said that. It might even give a +woman a greater claim on a man. Any girl, if she were thoughtless and +a bit on, perhaps, might get into a scrape. Anyone who really +understood her character could see there was no harm in it. But youre +not the larky sort. At least you usent to be. + +MARGARET. I'm not; and I never will be. [She walks straight up to +him]. I didnt do it for a lark, Bob: I did it out of the very +depths of my nature. I did it because I'm that sort of person. I did +it in one of my religious fits. I'm hardened at eighteen, as they +say. So what about the match, now? + +BOBBY. Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg. Of +course it would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or +anything of that sort. I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and +I dont pretend to. I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as +long as it is understood that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go +on the loose on principle; to talk about religion in connection with +it; to--to--well, Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say. I hope +youre not in earnest when you talk that way. + +MARGARET. Bobby: youre no good. No good to me, anyhow. + +BOBBY. [huffed] I'm sorry, Miss Knox. + +MARGARET. Goodbye, Mr Gilbey. [She turns on her heel and goes to +the other end of the table]. I suppose you wont introduce me to the +clergyman's daughter. + +BOBBY. I dont think she'd like it. There are limits, after all. +[He sits down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books: a +hint to her to go]. + +MARGARET. [on her way to the door] Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell +Juggins to shew me out. + +BOBBY. [reddening] I'm not a cad, Meg. + +MARGARET. [coming to the table] Then do something nice to prevent +us feeling mean about this afterwards. Youd better kiss me. You +neednt ever do it again. + +BOBBY. If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you. + +MARGARET. Oh, it'd be no fun. If I wanted what you call fun, I +should ask the Frenchman to kiss me--or Juggins. + +BOBBY. [rising and retreating to the hearth] Oh, dont be +disgusting, Meg. Dont be low. + +MARGARET. [determinedly, preparing to use force] Now, I'll make +you kiss me, just to punish you. [She seizes his wrist; pulls him +off his balance; and gets her arm round his neck]. + +BOBBY. No. Stop. Leave go, will you. + +_Juggins appears at the door._ + +JUGGINS. Miss Delaney, Sir. [Dora comes in. Juggins goes out. +Margaret hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the +room.] + +DORA. [through the door, to the departing Juggins] Well, you are a +Juggins to shew me up when theres company. [To Margaret and Bobby] +It's all right, dear: all right, old man: I'll wait in Juggins's +pantry til youre disengaged. + +MARGARET. Dont you know me? + +DORA. [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very +attentively] Why, it's never No. 406! + +MARGARET. Yes it is. + +DORA. Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform. How +did you get out? You were doing a month, wernt you? + +MARGARET. My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself. + +DORA. A real gentleman! [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring +open-mouthed] Look at him. He cant take it in. + +BOBBY. I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg. But when +it comes to talking about blokes and all that--well! + +MARGARET. Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it. It's another +barrier broken down. + +BOBBY. It's not so much the language, Meg. But I think [he looks at +Dora and stops]. + +MARGARET. [suddenly dangerous] What do you think, Bobby? + +DORA. He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie. It does +him credit: he always was a gentleman, you know. + +MARGARET. Does him credit! To insult you like that! Bobby: say +that that wasnt what you meant. + +BOBBY. I didnt say it was. + +MARGARET. Well, deny that it was. + +BOBBY. No. I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think +it's not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her. + +DORA. Of course it isnt, old man. [To Margaret] I'll just trot +off and come back in half an hour. You two can make it up together. +I'm really not fit company for you, dearie: I couldnt live up to you. +[She turns to go]. + +MARGARET. Stop. Do you believe he could live up to me? + +DORA. Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and a +respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself. +I have a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some. + +MARGARET. You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's +behaving like a skunk. + +BOBBY. [much ruffled] Nice language that! + +DORA. Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep +up their respectability. But you cant blame them for that, can you? +Ive met Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead. +I wont pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear? + +MARGARET. And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in +countenance. Well, I shant: not if my whole family were there. But +I'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat you properly. [To Bobby, with a +threatening move in his direction] I'll educate you, you young +beast. + +BOBBY. [furious, meeting her half way] Who are you calling a young +beast? + +MARGARET. You. + +DORA. [peacemaking] Now, dearies! + +BOBBY. If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly well +clouted. + +MARGARET. If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be +the beginning of a collection. + +DORA. Now, loveys, be good. + +_Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at +Margaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended +countenance a box on the cheek. He hurls himself her. They wrestle._ + +BOBBY. Cat! I'll teach you. + +MARGARET. Pig! Beast! [She forces him backwards on the table]. +Now where are you? + +DORA. [calling] Juggins, Juggins. Theyll murder one another. + +JUGGINS. [throwing open the door, and announcing] Monsieur +Duvallet. + +_Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence. +The combatants separate by the whole width of the room. Juggins +withdraws._ + +DUVALLET. I fear I derange you. + +MARGARET. Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: Monsieur +Duvallet will think I'm always fighting. + +DUVALLET. Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling. +Admirable, Miss Knox. The athletic young Englishwoman is an example +to all Europe. [Indicating Bobby] Your instructor, no doubt. +Monsieur-- [he bows]. + +BOBBY. [bowing awkwardly] How d'y' do? + +MARGARET. [to Bobby] I'm so sorry, Bobby: I asked Monsieur +Duvallet to call for me here; and I forgot to tell you. +[Introducing] Monsieur Duvallet: Miss Four hundred and seven. Mr +Bobby Gilbey. [Duvallet bows]. I really dont know how to explain +our relationships. Bobby and I are like brother and sister. + +DUVALLET. Perfectly. I noticed it. + +MARGARET. Bobby and Miss--Miss- + +DORA. Delaney, dear. [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to +real friends. + +MARGARET. Bobby and Dora are--are--well, not brother and sister. + +DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension] Perfectly. + +MARGARET. Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison. You dont +mind, do you? + +DUVALLET. No, naturally. _I_ have spent the last fortnight in +prison. + +_The conversation drops. Margaret renews it with an effort._ + +MARGARET. Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison. + +DUVALLET. Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement. + +DORA. _Trop merci_, as they say in Boulogne. No call to be stiff +with one another, have we? + +_Juggins comes in._ + +JUGGINS. Beg pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the +street. + +DORA. Let me absquatulate [making for the door]. + +JUGGINS. If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step +into my pantry and leave afterwards. + +DORA. Right oh! [She bursts into song] +Hide me in the meat safe til the cop goes by. +Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh. +[She goes out on tiptoe]. + +MARGARET. I wont stay here if she has to hide. I'll keep her company +in the pantry. [She follows Dora]. + +BOBBY. Lets all go. We cant have any fun with the Mar here. I say, +Juggins: you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you? + +JUGGINS. Certainly, sir. + +BOBBY. Right. Say nothing to my mother. You dont mind, Mr. +Doovalley, do you? + +DUVALLET. I shall be charmed. + +BOBBY. Right you are. Come along. [At the door] Oh, by the way, +Juggins, fetch down that concertina from my room, will you? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him to the +door]. You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely +_comme il faut_? + +DUVALLET. Perfectly. But the other? + +JUGGINS. The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately +described in your native idiom as a daughter of joy. + +DUVALLET. It is what I thought. These English domestic interiors are +very interesting. [He goes out, followed by Juggins]. + +_Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in. They take their accustomed +places: he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table._ + +MRS GILBEY. Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob? + +GILBEY. No, I didnt. And I dont want to smell it. Dont you go +looking for trouble, Maria. + +MRS GILBEY. [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere] Shes been here. +[Gilbey rings the bell]. What are you ringing for? Are you going +to ask? + +GILBEY. No, I'm not going to ask. Juggins said this morning he +wanted to speak to me. If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not +going to ask; and dont you either. [Juggins appears at the door]. +You said you wanted to say something to me. + +JUGGINS. When it would be convenient to you, sir. + +GILBEY. Well, what is it? + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea. + +GILBEY. He knows that. [He sits down. Then, to Juggins] What is +it? + +JUGGINS. [advancing to the middle of the table] Would it +inconvenience you, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice? + +GILBEY. [taken aback] What! Why? Aint you satisfied? + +JUGGINS. Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better myself, I +assure you. + +GILBEY. Well, what do you want to leave for, then? Do you want to +worse yourself? + +JUGGINS. No, sir. Ive been well treated in your most comfortable +establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbey +were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction. + +GILBEY. [paternally] Now you listen to me, Juggins. I'm an older +man than you. Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh. +Dont get too big for your boots. Youre like all servants nowadays: +you think youve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a +dozen jobs. But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated here. +In bed every night before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on +Mrs Gilbey's day once a month; and no other manservant to interfere +with you. It may be a bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of +adventure. Take my advice: think over it. You suit me; and I'm +prepared to make it suit you if youre dissatisfied--in reason, you +know. + +JUGGINS. I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private reasons-- + +GILBEY. [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug in +dudgeon] Oh, I know. Very well: go. The sooner the better. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, not until we're suited. He must stay his month. + +GILBEY. [sarcastic] Do you want to lose him his character, Maria? +Do you think I dont see what it is? We're prison folk now. Weve been +in the police court. [To Juggins] Well, I suppose you know your +own business best. I take your notice: you can go when your month is +up, or sooner, if you like. + +JUGGINS. Believe me, sir-- + +GILBEY. Thats enough: I dont want any excuses. I dont blame you. +You can go downstairs now, if youve nothing else to trouble me about. + +JUGGINS. I really cant leave it at that, sir. I assure you Ive no +objection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison. You may do six months +yourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me. +I'm leaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement, +and feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets +over it. + +GILBEY. And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend your +savings in comforting him? Have some sense, man: how can you afford +such things? + +JUGGINS. My brother can afford to keep me, sir. The truth is, he +objects to my being in service. + +GILBEY. Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him? Dont +do it, Juggins: pay your own way like an honest lad; and dont eat +your brother's bread while youre able to earn your own. + +JUGGINS. There is sound sense in that, sir. But unfortunately it is +a tradition in my family that the younger brothers should spunge to a +considerable extent on the eldest. + +GILBEY. Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man. + +JUGGINS. A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent one. + +GILBEY. Radical! What do you mean? Dont you begin to take +liberties, Juggins, now that you know we're loth to part with you. +Your brother isnt a duke, you know. + +JUGGINS. Unfortunately, he is, sir. + +GILBEY. | What! | + | | _together_ + | | +MRS GILBEY. | Juggins! | + +JUGGINS. Excuse me, sir: the bell. [He goes out]. + +GILBEY. [overwhelmed] Maria: did you understand him to say his +brother was a duke? + +MRS GILBEY. Fancy his condescending! Perhaps if youd offer to raise +his wages and treat him as one of the family, he'd stay. + +GILBEY. And have my own servant above me! Not me. Whats the world +coming to? Heres Bobby and-- + +JUGGINS. [entering and announcing] Mr and Mrs Knox. + +_The Knoxes come in. Juggins takes two chairs from the wall and +places them at the table, between the host and hostess. Then he +withdraws._ + +MRS GILBEY. [to Mrs Knox] How are you, dear? + +MRS KNOX. Nicely, thank you. Good evening, Mr Gilbey. [They shake +hands; and she takes the chair nearest Mrs Gilbey. Mr Knox takes the +other chair]. + +GILBEY. [sitting down] I was just saying, Knox, What is the world +coming to? + +KNOX. [appealing to his wife] What was I saying myself only this +morning? + +MRS KNOX. This is a strange time. I was never one to talk about the +end of the world; but look at the things that have happened! + +KNOX. Earthquakes! + +GILBEY. San Francisco! + +MRS GILBEY. Jamaica! + +KNOX. Martinique! + +GILBEY. Messina! + +MRS GILBEY. The plague in China! + +MRS KNOX. The floods in France! + +GILBEY. My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs! + +KNOX. Margaret in Holloway! + +GILBEY. And now my footman tells me his brother's a duke! + +KNOX. | No! + | +MRS KNOX. | Whats that? + +GILBEY. Just before he let you in. A duke! Here has everything been +respectable from the beginning of the world, as you may say, to the +present day; and all of a sudden everything is turned upside down. + +MRS KNOX. It's like in the book of Revelations. But I do say that +unless people have happiness within themselves, all the earthquakes, +all the floods, and all the prisons in the world cant make them really +happy. + +KNOX. It isnt alone the curious things that are happening, but the +unnatural way people are taking them. Why, theres Margaret been in +prison, and she hasnt time to go to all the invitations shes had from +people that never asked her before. + +GILBEY. I never knew we could live without being respectable. + +MRS GILBEY. Oh, Rob, what a thing to say! Who says we're not +respectable? + +GILBEY. Well, it's not what I call respectable to have your children +in and out of gaol. + +KNOX. Oh come, Gilbey! we're not tramps because weve had, as it were, +an accident. + +GILBEY. It's no use, Knox: look it in the face. Did I ever tell you +my father drank? + +KNOX. No. But I knew it. Simmons told me. + +GILBEY. Yes: he never could keep his mouth quiet: he told me your +aunt was a kleptomaniac. + +MRS KNOX. It wasnt true, Mr Gilbey. She used to pick up +handkerchiefs if she saw them lying about; but you might trust her +with untold silver. + +GILBEY. My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller. My father used to say to +me: Rob, he says, dont you ever have a weakness. If you find one +getting a hold on you, make a merit of it, he says. Your Uncle Phil +doesnt like spirits; and he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of +the Blue Ribbon Committee. I do like spirits; and I make a merit of +it, and I'm the King Cockatoo of the Convivial Cockatoos. Never put +yourself in the wrong, he says. I used to boast about what a good boy +Bobby was. Now I swank about what a dog he is; and it pleases people +just as well. What a world it is! + +KNOX. It turned my blood cold at first to hear Margaret telling +people about Holloway; but it goes down better than her singing used +to. + +MRS KNOX. I never thought she sang right after all those lessons we +paid for. + +GILBEY. Lord, Knox, it was lucky you and me got let in together. I +tell you straight, if it hadnt been for Bobby's disgrace, I'd have +broke up the firm. + +KNOX. I shouldnt have blamed you: I'd have done the same only for +Margaret. Too much straightlacedness narrows a man's mind. Talking +of that, what about those hygienic corset advertisements that Vines & +Jackson want us to put in the window? I told Vines they werent decent +and we couldnt shew them in our shop. I was pretty high with him. +But what am I to say to him now if he comes and throws this business +in our teeth? + +GILBEY. Oh, put em in. We may as well go it a bit now. + +MRS GILBEY. Youve been going it quite far enough, Rob. [To Mrs +Knox] He wont get up in the mornings now: he that was always out of +bed at seven to the tick! + +MRS KNOX. You hear that, Jo? [To Mrs Gilbey] Hes taken to whisky +and soda. A pint a week! And the beer the same as before! + +KNOX. Oh, dont preach, old girl. + +MRS KNOX. [To Mrs Gilbey] Thats a new name hes got for me. [to +Knox] I tell you, Jo, this doesnt sit well on you. You may call it +preaching if you like; but it's the truth for all that. I say that if +youve happiness within yourself, you dont need to seek it outside, +spending money on drink and theatres and bad company, and being +miserable after all. You can sit at home and be happy; and you can +work and be happy. If you have that in you, the spirit will set you +free to do what you want and guide you to do right. But if you havent +got it, then youd best be respectable and stick to the ways that are +marked out for you; for youve nothing else to keep you straight. + +KNOX. [angrily] And is a man never to have a bit of fun? See +whats come of it with your daughter! She was to be content with your +happiness that youre always talking about; and how did the spirit +guide her? To a month's hard for being drunk and assaulting the +police. Did _I_ ever assault the police? + +MRS KNOX. You wouldnt have the courage. I dont blame the girl. + +MRS GILBEY. | Oh, Maria! What are you saying? + | + +GILBEY. | What! And you so pious! + +MRS KNOX. She went where the spirit guided her. And what harm there +was in it she knew nothing about. + +GILBEY. Oh, come, Mrs Knox! Girls are not so innocent as all that. + +MRS KNOX. I dont say she was ignorant. But I do say that she didnt +know what we know: I mean the way certain temptations get a sudden +hold that no goodness nor self-control is any use against. She was +saved from that, and had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no +earthly protection that did that. But dont think, you two men, that +youll be protected if you make what she did an excuse to go and do as +youd like to do if it wasnt for fear of losing your characters. The +spirit wont guide you, because it isnt in you; and it never had been: +not in either of you. + +GILBEY. [with ironic humility] I'm sure I'm obliged to you for +your good opinion, Mrs Knox. + +MRS KNOX. Well, I will say for you, Mr Gilbey, that youre better than +my man here. Hes a bitter hard heathen, is my Jo, God help me! [She +begins to cry quietly]. + +KNOX. Now, dont take on like that, Amelia. You know I always give in +to you that you were right about religion. But one of us had to think +of other things, or we'd have starved, we and the child. + +MRS KNOX. How do you know youd have starved? All the other things +might have been added unto you. + +GILBEY. Come, Mrs Knox, dont tell me Knox is a sinner. I know +better. I'm sure youd be the first to be sorry if anything was to +happen to him. + +KNOX. [bitterly to his wife] Youve always had some grudge against +me; and nobody but yourself can understand what it is. + +MRS KNOX. I wanted a man who had that happiness within himself. You +made me think you had it; but it was nothing but being in love with +me. + +MRS GILBEY. And do you blame him for that? + +MRS KNOX. I blame nobody. But let him not think he can walk by his +own light. I tell him that if he gives up being respectable he'll go +right down to the bottom of the hill. He has no powers inside himself +to keep him steady; so let him cling to the powers outside him. + +KNOX. [rising angrily] Who wants to give up being respectable? +All this for a pint of whisky that lasted a week! How long would it +have lasted Simmons, I wonder? + +MRS KNOX. [gently] Oh, well, say no more, Jo. I wont plague you +about it. [He sits down]. You never did understand; and you never +will. Hardly anybody understands: even Margaret didnt til she went +to prison. She does now; and I shall have a companion in the house +after all these lonely years. + +KNOX. [beginning to cry] I did all I could to make you happy. I +never said a harsh word to you. + +GILBEY. [rising indignantly] What right have you to treat a man +like that? an honest respectable husband? as if he were dirt under +your feet? + +KNOX. Let her alone, Gilbey. [Gilbey sits down, but mutinously]. + +MRS KNOX. Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and if it wasnt what I +wanted, that wasnt your fault. But I'd rather have you as you were +than since you took to whisky and soda. + +KNOX. I dont want any whisky and soda. I'll take the pledge if you +like. + +MRS KNOX. No: you shall have your beer because you like it. The +whisky was only brag. And if you and me are to remain friends, Mr +Gilbey, youll get up to-morrow morning at seven. + +GILBEY. [defiantly] Damme if I will! There! + +MRS KNOX. [with gentle pity] How do you know, Mr Gilbey, what +youll do to-morrow morning? + +GILBEY. Why shouldnt I know? Are we children not to be let do what +we like, and our own sons and daughters kicking their heels all over +the place? [To Knox] I was never one to interfere between man and +wife, Knox; but if Maria started ordering me about like that-- + +MRS GILBEY. Now dont be naughty, Rob. You know you mustnt set +yourself up against religion? + +GILBEY. Whos setting himself up against religion? + +MRS KNOX. It doesnt matter whether you set yourself up against it or +not, Mr. Gilbey. If it sets itself up against you, youll have to go +the appointed way: it's no use quarrelling about it with me that am +as great a sinner as yourself. + +GILBEY. Oh, indeed! And who told you I was a sinner? + +MRS GILBEY. Now, Rob, you know we are all sinners. What else is +religion? + +GILBEY. I say nothing against religion. I suppose were all sinners, +in a manner of speaking; but I dont like to have it thrown at me as if +I'd really done anything. + +MRS GILBEY. Mrs Knox is speaking for your good, Rob. + +GILBEY. Well, I dont like to be spoken to for my good. Would anybody +like it? + +MRS KNOX. Dont take offence where none is meant, Mr Gilbey. Talk +about something else. No good ever comes of arguing about such things +among the like of us. + +KNOX. The like of us! Are you throwing it in our teeth that your +people were in the wholesale and thought Knox and Gilbey wasnt good +enough for you? + +MRS KNOX. No, Jo: you know I'm not. What better were my people than +yours, for all their pride? But Ive noticed it all my life: we're +ignorant. We dont really know whats right and whats wrong. We're all +right as long as things go on the way they always did. We bring our +children up just as we were brought up; and we go to church or chapel +just as our parents did; and we say what everybody says; and it goes +on all right until something out of the way happens: theres a family +quarrel, or one of the children goes wrong, or a father takes to +drink, or an aunt goes mad, or one of us finds ourselves doing +something we never thought we'd want to do. And then you know what +happens: complaints and quarrels and huff and offence and bad +language and bad temper and regular bewilderment as if Satan possessed +us all. We find out then that with all our respectability and piety, +weve no real religion and no way of telling right from wrong. Weve +nothing but our habits; and when theyre upset, where are we? Just +like Peter in the storm trying to walk on the water and finding he +couldnt. + +MRS GILBEY. [piously] Aye! He found out, didnt he? + +GILBEY. [reverently] I never denied that youve a great intellect, +Mrs Knox-- + +MRS KNOX. Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you begin talking about +my intellect. Give us some tea, Maria. Ive said my say; and Im sure +I beg the company's pardon for being so long about it, and so +disagreeable. + +MRS GILBEY. Ring, Rob. [Gilbey rings]. Stop. Juggins will think +we're ringing for him. + +GILBEY. [appalled] It's too late. I rang before I thought of it. + +MRS GILBEY. Step down and apologize, Rob. + +KNOX. Is it him that you said was brother to a-- + +_Juggins comes in with the tea-tray. All rise. He takes the tray to +Mrs. Gilbey._ + +GILBEY. I didnt mean to ask you to do this, Mr Juggins. I wasnt +thinking when I rang. + +MRS GILBEY. [trying to take the tray from him] Let me, Juggins. + +JUGGINS. Please sit down, madam. Allow me to discharge my duties +just as usual, sir. I assure you that is the correct thing. [They +sit down, ill at ease, whilst he places the tray on the table. He +then goes out for the curate]. + +KNOX. [lowering his voice] Is this all right, Gilbey? Anybody may +be the son of a duke, you know. Is he legitimate? + +GILBEY. Good lord! I never thought of that. + +_Juggins returns with the cakes. They regard him with suspicion._ + +GILBEY. [whispering to Knox] You ask him. + +KNOX. [to Juggins] Just a word with you, my man. Was your mother +married to your father? + +JUGGINS. I believe so, sir. I cant say from personal knowledge. It +was before my time. + +GILBEY. Well, but look here you know--[he hesitates]. + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir? + +KNOX. I know whatll clinch it, Gilbey. You leave it to me. [To +Juggins] Was your mother the duchess? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir, I assure you. [To Mrs +Gilbey] That is the milk, madam. [She has mistaken the jugs]. +This is the water. + +_They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment._ + +MRS KNOX. What did I tell you? Heres something out of the common +happening with a servant; and we none of us know how to behave. + +JUGGINS. It's quite simple, madam. I'm a footman, and should be +treated as a footman. [He proceeds calmly with his duties, handing +round cups of tea as Mrs Knox fills them]. + +_Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the company._ + +MRS GILBEY. Whats that noise? Is Master Bobby at home? I heard his +laugh. + +MRS KNOX. I'm sure I heard Margaret's. + +GILBEY. Not a bit of it. It was that woman. + +JUGGINS. I can explain, sir. I must ask you to excuse the liberty; +but I'm entertaining a small party to tea in my pantry. + +MRS GILBEY. But youre not entertaining Master Bobby? + +JUGGINS. Yes, madam. + +GILBEY. Who's with him? + +JUGGINS. Miss Knox, sir. + +GILBEY. Miss Knox! Are you sure? Is there anyone else? + +JUGGINS. Only a French marine officer, sir, and--er--Miss Delaney. +[He places Gilbey's tea on the table before him]. The lady that +called about Master Bobby, sir. + +KNOX. Do you mean to say theyre having a party all to themselves +downstairs, and we having a party up here and knowing nothing about +it? + +JUGGINS. Yes, sir. I have to do a good deal of entertaining in the +pantry for Master Bobby, sir. + +GILBEY. Well, this is a nice state of things! + +KNOX. Whats the meaning of it? What do they do it for? + +JUGGINS. To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think. + +MRS GILBEY. Enjoy themselves! Did ever anybody hear of such a thing? + +GILBEY. Knox's daughter shewn into my pantry! + +KNOX. Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a footman-- [Suddenly +realizing that the footman is offering him cake.] She doesnt know +about--about His Grace, you know. + +MRS GILBEY. Perhaps she does. Does she, Mr Juggins? + +JUGGINS. The other lady suspects me, madam. They call me Rudolph, or +the Long Lost Heir. + +MRS GILBEY. It's a much nicer name than Juggins. I think I'll call +you by it, if you dont mind. + +JUGGINS. Not at all, madam. + +_Roars of merriment from below._ + +GILBEY. Go and tell them to stop laughing. What right have they to +make a noise like that? + +JUGGINS. I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir. But the French +gentleman always sets them off again. + +KNOX. Do you mean to tell me that my daughter laughs at a Frenchman's +jokes? + +GILBEY. We all know what French jokes are. + +JUGGINS. Believe me: you do not, sir. The noise this afternoon has +all been because the Frenchman said that the cat had whooping cough. + +MRS GILBEY. [laughing heartily] Well, I never! + +GILBEY. Dont be a fool, Maria. Look here, Knox: we cant let this go +on. People cant be allowed to behave like this. + +KNOX. Just what I say. + +_A concertina adds its music to the revelry._ + +MRS GILBEY. [excited] Thats the squiffer. Hes bought it for her. + +GILBEY. Well, of all the scandalous-- [Redoubled laughter from +below]. + +KNOX. I'll put a stop to this. [He goes out to the landing and +shouts] Margaret! [Sudden dead silence]. Margaret, I say! + +MARGARET'S VOICE. Yes, father. Shall we all come up? We're dying +to. + +KNOX. Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like wild +Indians. + +DORA'S VOICE [screaming] Oh! oh! oh! Dont Bobby. Now--oh! [In +headlong flight she dashes into and right across the room, breathless, +and slightly abashed by the company]. I beg your pardon, Mrs Gilbey, +for coming in like that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby, +he pretends it's a cat biting my ankles; and I just must scream. + +_Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently in high +spirits. Bobby places himself near his father, on the hearthrug, and +presently slips down into the arm-chair._ + +MARGARET. How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey? [She posts herself behind her +mother]. + +_Duvallet comes in behaving himself perfectly. Knox follows._ + +MARGARET. Oh--let me introduce. My friend Lieutenant Duvallet. Mrs +Gilbey. Mr Gilbey. [Duvallet bows and sits down on Mr Knox's left, +Juggins placing a chair for him]. + +DORA. Now, Bobby: introduce me: theres a dear. + +BOBBY. [a little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his +spirits] Miss Delaney: Mr and Mrs Knox. [Knox, as he resumes his +seat, acknowledges the introduction suspiciously. Mrs Knox bows +gravely, looking keenly at Dora and taking her measure without +prejudice]. + +DORA. Pleased to meet you. [Juggins places the baby rocking-chair +for her on Mrs Gilbey's right, opposite Mrs Knox]. Thank you. [She +sits and turns to Mrs Gilbey] Bobby's given me the squiffer. [To +the company generally] Do you know what theyve been doing +downstairs? [She goes off into ecstasies of mirth]. Youd never +guess. Theyve been trying to teach me table manners. The Lieutenant +and Rudolph say I'm a regular pig. I'm sure I never knew there was +anything wrong with me. But live and learn [to Gilbey] eh, old +dear? + +JUGGINS. Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney. [He retires to the +end of the sideboard nearest the door]. + +DORA. Oh get out! I must call a man something. He doesnt mind: do +you, Charlie? + +MRS GILBEY. His name isnt Charlie. + +DORA. Excuse me. I call everybody Charlie. + +JUGGINS. You mustnt. + +DORA. Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold my tongue +altogether; and then how sorry youd be! Lord, how I do run on! Dont +mind me, Mrs Gilbey. + +KNOX. What I want to know is, whats to be the end of this? It's not +for me to interfere between you and your son, Gilbey: he knows his +own intentions best, no doubt, and perhaps has told them to you. But +Ive my daughter to look after; and it's my duty as a parent to have a +clear understanding about her. No good is ever done by beating about +the bush. I ask Lieutenant--well, I dont speak French; and I cant +pronounce the name-- + +MARGARET. Mr Duvallet, father. + +KNOX. I ask Mr Doovalley what his intentions are. + +MARGARET. Oh father: how can you? + +DUVALLET. I'm afraid my knowledge of English is not enough to +understand. Intentions? How? + +MARGARET. He wants to know will you marry me. + +MRS GILBEY. | What a thing to say! + | + +KNOX. | Silence, miss. + | + +DORA. | Well, thats straight, aint it? + +DUVALLET. But I am married already. I have two daughters. + +KNOX. [rising, virtuously indignant] You sit there after carrying +on with my daughter, and tell me coolly youre married. + +MARGARET. Papa: you really must not tell people that they sit there. +[He sits down again sulkily]. + +DUVALLET. Pardon. Carrying on? What does that mean? + +MARGARET. It means-- + +KNOX. [violently] Hold your tongue, you shameless young hussy. +Dont you dare say what it means. + +DUVALLET. [shrugging his shoulders] What does it mean, Rudolph? + +MRS KNOX. If it's not proper for her to say, it's not proper for a +man to say, either. Mr Doovalley: youre a married man with +daughters. Would you let them go about with a stranger, as you are to +us, without wanting to know whether he intended to behave honorably? + +DUVALLET. Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls. That is very +different. It would not be correct for a French girl to go about +alone and speak to men as English and American girls do. That is why +I so immensely admire the English people. You are so free--so +unprejudiced--your women are so brave and frank--their minds are +so--how do you say?--wholesome. I intend to have my daughters +educated in England. Nowhere else in the world but in England could I +have met at a Variety Theatre a charming young lady of perfect +respectability, and enjoyed a dance with her at a public dancing +saloon. And where else are women trained to box and knock out the +teeth of policemen as a protest against injustice and violence? +[Rising, with immense elan] Your daughter, madam, is superb. Your +country is a model to the rest of Europe. If you were a Frenchman, +stifled with prudery, hypocrisy and the tyranny of the family and the +home, you would understand how an enlightened Frenchman admires and +envies your freedom, your broadmindedness, and the fact that home life +can hardly be said to exist in England. You have made an end of the +despotism of the parent; the family council is unknown to you; +everywhere in these islands one can enjoy the exhilarating, the +soul-liberating spectacle of men quarrelling with their brothers, +defying their fathers, refusing to speak to their mothers. In France +we are not men: we are only sons--grown-up children. Here one is a +human being--an end in himself. Oh, Mrs Knox, if only your military +genius were equal to your moral genius--if that conquest of Europe by +France which inaugurated the new age after the Revolution had only +been an English conquest, how much more enlightened the world would +have been now! We, alas, can only fight. France is unconquerable. +We impose our narrow ideas, our prejudices, our obsolete institutions, +our insufferable pedantry on the world by brute force--by that stupid +quality of military heroism which shews how little we have evolved +from the savage: nay, from the beast. We can charge like bulls; we +can spring on our foes like gamecocks; when we are overpowered by +reason, we can die fighting like rats. And we are foolish enough to +be proud of it! Why should we be? Does the bull progress? Can you +civilize the gamecock? Is there any future for the rat? We cant even +fight intelligently: when we lose battles, it is because we have not +sense enough to know when we are beaten. At Waterloo, had we known +when we were beaten, we should have retreated; tried another plan; and +won the battle. But no: we were too pigheaded to admit that there is +anything impossible to a Frenchman: we were quite satisfied when our +Marshals had six horses shot under them, and our stupid old grognards +died fighting rather than surrender like reasonable beings. Think of +your great Wellington: think of his inspiring words, when the lady +asked him whether British soldiers ever ran away. "All soldiers run +away, madam," he said; "but if there are supports for them to fall +back on it does not matter." Think of your illustrious Nelson, always +beaten on land, always victorious at sea, where his men could not run +away. You are not dazzled and misled by false ideals of patriotic +enthusiasm: your honest and sensible statesmen demand for England a +two-power standard, even a three-power standard, frankly admitting +that it is wise to fight three to one: whilst we, fools and braggarts +as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a host in himself, and that +when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is guilty of an act of +cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikes a woman. It is +folly: it is nonsense: a Frenchman is not really stronger than a +German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman. Sir: if all +Frenchwomen were like your daughter--if all Frenchmen had the good +sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm +judgment, the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true +courage, which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are +hardly conscious of possessing them, France would become the greatest +nation in the world. + +MARGARET. Three cheers for old England! [She shakes hands with him +warmly]. + +BOBBY. Hurra-a-ay! And so say all of us. + +_Duvallet, having responded to Margaret's handshake with enthusiasm, +kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping his +perspiring brow._ + +GILBEY. Well, this sort of talk is above me. Can you make anything +out of it, Knox? + +KNOX. The long and short of it seems to be that he cant lawfully +marry my daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her. + +DORA. I'm ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction. + +GILBEY. No you dont. Not if I know it. + +MRS KNOX. He ought to, Mr Gilbey. + +GILBEY. Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of +it. Would you invite them to your house if he married her? + +MRS KNOX. He ought to marry her whether or no. + +BOBBY. I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox. + +GILBEY. Hold your tongue. Mind your own business. + +BOBBY. [wildly] If I'm not let marry her, I'll do something +downright disgraceful. I'll enlist as a soldier. + +JUGGINS. That is not a disgrace, sir. + +BOBBY. Not for you, perhaps. But youre only a footman. I'm a +gentleman. + +MRS GILBEY. Dont dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr Rudolph, Bobby. +For shame! + +JUGGINS. [coming forward to the middle of the table] It is not +gentlemanly to regard the service of your country as disgraceful. It +is gentlemanly to marry the lady you make love to. + +GILBEY. [aghast] My boy is to marry this woman and be a social +outcast! + +JUGGINS. Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably condemned by +respectable society to spend the rest of their days in precisely the +sort of company they seem to like best and be most at home in. + +KNOX. And my daughter? Whos to marry my daughter? + +JUGGINS. Your daughter, sir, will probably marry whoever she makes up +her mind to marry. She is a lady of very determined character. + +KNOX. Yes: if he'd have her with her character gone. But who would? +Youre the brother of a duke. Would-- + +BOBBY. | Whats that? + | +MARGARET. | Juggins a duke? + | +DUVALLET. | _Comment!_ + | +DORA. | What did I tell you? + +KNOX. Yes: the brother of a duke: thats what he is. [To Juggins] +Well, would you marry her? + +JUGGINS. I was about to propose that solution of your problem, Mr +Knox. + +MRS GILBEY. | Well I never! + | +KNOX. | D'ye mean it? + | +MRS KNOX. | Marry Margaret! + +JUGGINS. [continuing] As an idle younger son, unable to support +myself, or even to remain in the Guards in competition with the +grandsons of American millionaires, I could not have aspired to Miss +Knox's hand. But as a sober, honest, and industrious domestic +servant, who has, I trust, given satisfaction to his employer [he +bows to Mr Gilbey] I feel I am a man with a character. It is for +Miss Knox to decide. + +MARGARET. I got into a frightful row once for admiring you, Rudolph. + +JUGGINS. I should have got into an equally frightful row myself, +Miss, had I betrayed my admiration for you. I looked forward to those +weekly dinners. + +MRS KNOX. But why did a gentleman like you stoop to be a footman? + +DORA. He stooped to conquer. + +MARGARET. Shut up, Dora: I want to hear. + +JUGGINS. I will explain; but only Mrs Knox will understand. I once +insulted a servant--rashly; for he was a sincere Christian. He +rebuked me for trifling with a girl of his own class. I told him to +remember what he was, and to whom he was speaking. He said God would +remember. I discharged him on the spot. + +GILBEY. Very properly. + +KNOX. What right had he to mention such a thing to you? + +MRS GILBEY. What are servants coming to? + +MRS KNOX. Did it come true, what he said? + +JUGGINS. It stuck like a poisoned arrow. It rankled for months. +Then I gave in. I apprenticed myself to an old butler of ours who +kept a hotel. He taught me my present business, and got me a place as +footman with Mr Gilbey. If ever I meet that man again I shall be able +to look him in the face. + +MRS KNOX. Margaret: it's not on account of the duke: dukes are +vanities. But take my advice and take him. + +MARGARET. [slipping her arm through his] I have loved Juggins +since the first day I beheld him. I felt instinctively he had been in +the Guards. May he walk out with me, Mr Gilbey? + +KNOX. Dont be vulgar, girl. Remember your new position. [To +Juggins] I suppose youre serious about this, Mr--Mr Rudolph? + +JUGGINS. I propose, with your permission, to begin keeping company +this afternoon, if Mrs Gilbey can spare me. + +GILBEY. [in a gust of envy, to Bobby] Itll be long enough before +youll marry the sister of a duke, you young good-for-nothing. + +DORA. Dont fret, old dear. Rudolph will teach me high-class manners. +I call it quite a happy ending: dont you, lieutenant? + +DUVALLET. In France it would be impossible. But here--ah! [kissing +his hand] la belle Angleterre! + + + +EPILOGUE + +_Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4 +critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats._ + +THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold +your opinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have +believed it. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art? +Is it agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is +it delicate? Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I +speak from a wounded heart. There are private reasons for my +discomposure. This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches +and menaces to all of us who are parents. + +TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing has +amusing passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence. + +THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist. +[Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat, +making a noise like a pheasant]. You see hundreds of plays every +year. But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before, +the effect of this play is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been +what people call an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit. +[Vaughan is shocked]. Love beautifies every romance and justifies +every audacity. [Bannal assents gravely]. But there are reticences +which everybody should respect. There are decencies too subtle to be +put into words, without which human society would be unbearable. +People could not talk to one another as those people talk. No child +could speak to its parent--no girl could speak to a youth--no human +creature could tear down the veils-- [Appealing to Vaughan, who is +on his left flank, with Gunn between them] Could they, sir? + +VAUGHAN. Well, I dont see that. + +THE COUNT. You dont see it! dont feel it! [To Gunn] Sir: I +appeal to you. + +GUNN. [with studied weariness] It seems to me the most ordinary +sort of old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel. + +THE COUNT [turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him and +Bannal] Mr Trotter: will you tell me that you are not amazed, +outraged, revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by +every word of this play, every tone, every implication; that you did +not sit there shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might +come next? + +TROTTER. Not a bit. Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind +of thing by the yard. + +THE COUNT. Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return. +I must believe what you tell me. I perceive that you are not +agitated, not surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes, +gentlemen, horror--horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to +you, ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little +younger than myself. Sir: if young people spoke to me like that, I +should die of shame: I could not face it. I must go back. The world +has passed me by and left me. Accept the apologies of an elderly and +no doubt ridiculous admirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was +still some beauty in the world and some delicate grace in family life. +But I promised my daughter your opinion; and I must keep my word. +Gentlemen: you are the choice and master spirits of this age: you +walk through it without bewilderment and face its strange products +without dismay. Pray deliver your verdict. Mr Bannal: you know that +it is the custom at a Court Martial for the youngest officer present +to deliver his judgment first; so that he may not be influenced by the +authority of his elders. You are the youngest. What is your opinion +of the play? + +BANNAL. Well, whos it by? + +THE COUNT. That is a secret for the present. + +BANNAL. You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I +dont know who the author is, do you? + +THE COUNT. Why not? + +BANNAL. Why not! Why not!! Suppose you had to write about a play by +Pinero and one by Jones! Would you say exactly the same thing about +them? + +THE COUNT. I presume not. + +BANNAL. Then how could you write about them until you knew which was +Pinero and which was Jones? Besides, what sort of play is this? thats +what I want to know. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Is it a farce or a +melodrama? Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying +stuff? + +GUNN. Cant you tell from seeing it? + +BANNAL. I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to +take it? Is it serious, or is it spoof? If the author knows what his +play is, let him tell us what it is. If he doesnt, he cant complain +if I dont know either. _I_'m not the author. + +THE COUNT. But is it a good play, Mr Bannal? Thats a simple +question. + +BANNAL. Simple enough when you know. If it's by a good author, it's +a good play, naturally. That stands to reason. Who is the author? +Tell me that; and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth. + +THE COUNT. I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name. +The author desires that the play should be judged on its merits. + +BANNAL. But what merits can it have except the author's merits? Who +would you say it's by, Gunn? + +GUNN. Well, who do you think? Here you have a rotten old-fashioned +domestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets. The hero's a +naval lieutenant. All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants. The +heroine gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into +trouble, thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as +hard as she can. Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father +when hes going to put her out of the house, and says she'll go too. +Then theres the comic relief: the comic shopkeeper, the comic +shopkeeper's wife, the comic footman who turns out to be a duke in +disguise, and the young scapegrace who gives the author his excuse for +dragging in a fast young woman. All as old and stale as a fried fish +shop on a winter morning. + +THE COUNT. But-- + +GUNN [interrupting him] I know what youre going to say, Count. +Youre going to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new +and unusual and original. The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who +cracks up the English and runs down the French: the hackneyed old +Shaw touch. The characters are second-rate middle class, instead of +being dukes and millionaires. The heroine gets kicked through the +mud: real mud. Theres no plot. All the old stage conventions and +puppets without the old ingenuity and the old enjoyment. And a feeble +air of intellectual pretentiousness kept up all through to persuade +you that if the author hasnt written a good play it's because hes too +clever to stoop to anything so commonplace. And you three experienced +men have sat through all this, and cant tell me who wrote it! Why, +the play bears the author's signature in every line. + +BANNAL. Who? + +GUNN. Granville Barker, of course. Why, old Gilbey is straight out +of The Madras House. + +BANNAL. Poor old Barker! + +VAUGHAN. Utter nonsense! Cant you see the difference in style? + +BANNAL. No. + +VAUGHAN. [contemptuously] Do you know what style is? + +BANNAL. Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style. But it's +not my style--since you ask me. + +VAUGHAN. To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play. To begin +with, it's intensely disagreeable. Therefore it's not by Barrie, in +spite of the footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He +was an earl, you may remember. You notice, too, the author's +offensive habit of saying silly things that have no real sense in them +when you come to examine them, just to set all the fools in the house +giggling. Then what does it all come to? An attempt to expose the +supposed hypocrisy of the Puritan middle class in England: people +just as good as the author, anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable +improper female: the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if you +cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken your professions: +thats all I have to say. + +BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch +that Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw. + +GUNN. Rubbish! + +VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor +as this play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow +that beneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she +really loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly +proved that Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion. + +BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I +always say that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart. + +GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heart +and brain--Shakespear would have called it liver and wits--is really +schoolboyish. Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer. +Even such a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been +ashamed of it. Heart and brain, indeed! + +VAUGHAN. You have neither one nor the other, Gunn. Youre decadent. + +GUNN. Decadent! How I love that early Victorian word! + +VAUGHAN. Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in +this play were quite distinguishable from one another. That proves +it's not by Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself: mere +puppets stuck up to spout Shaw. It's only the actors that make them +seem different. + +BANNAL. There can be no doubt of that: everybody knows it. But Shaw +doesnt write his plays as plays. All he wants to do is to insult +everybody all round and set us talking about him. + +TROTTER. [wearily] And naturally, here we are all talking about +him. For heaven's sake, let us change the subject + +VAUGHAN. Still, my articles about Shaw-- + +GUNN. Oh, stow it, Vaughan. Drop it. What Ive always told you about +Shaw is-- + +BANNAL. There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw! Do chuck it. If you want to +know my opinion about Shaw-- + +TROTTER. | No, please, we dont. | + | | +VAUGHAN. | Shut your head, Bannal. | [yelling] + | | +GUNN. | Oh, do drop it. | + +_The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies from the +centre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan._ + +BANNAL. [sulkily] Oh, very well. Sorry I spoke, I'm sure. + +TROTTER. | Shaw-- | + | | [beginning again +VAUGHAN. | Shaw-- | simultaneously] + | | +GUNN. | Shaw-- | + +_They are cut short by the entry of Fanny through the curtains. She +is almost in tears._ + +FANNY. [coming between Trotter and Gunn] I'm so sorry, gentlemen. +And it was such a success when I read it to the Cambridge Fabian +Society! + +TROTTER. Miss O'Dowda: I was about to tell these gentlemen what I +guessed before the curtain rose: that you are the author of the play. +[General amazement and consternation]. + +FANNY. And you all think it beastly. You hate it. You think I'm a +conceited idiot, and that I shall never be able to write anything +decent. + +_She is almost weeping. A wave of sympathy carries away the critics._ + +VAUGHAN. No, no. Why, I was just saying that it must have been +written by Pinero. Didnt I, Gunn? + +FANNY. [enormously flattered] Really? + +TROTTER. I thought Pinero was much too popular for the Cambridge +Fabian Society. + +FANNY. Oh yes, of course; but still--Oh, did you really say that, Mr +Vaughan? + +GUNN. I owe you an apology, Miss O'Dowda. I said it was by Barker. + +FANNY. [radiant] Granville Barker! Oh, you couldnt really have +thought it so fine as that. + +BANNAL. _I_ said Bernard Shaw. + +FANNY. Oh, of course it would be a little like Bernard Shaw. The +Fabian touch, you know. + +BANNAL. [coming to her encouragingly] A jolly good little play, +Miss O'Dowda. Mind: I dont say it's like one of Shakespear's--Hamlet +or The Lady of Lyons, you know--but still, a firstrate little bit of +work. [He shakes her hand]. + +GUNN. [following Bannal's example] I also, Miss O'Dowda. Capital. +Charming. [He shakes hands]. + +VAUGHAN [with maudlin solemnity] Only be true to yourself, Miss +O'Dowda. Keep serious. Give up making silly jokes. Sustain the note +of passion. And youll do great things. + +FANNY. You think I have a future? + +TROTTER. You have a past, Miss O'Dowda. + +FANNY. [looking apprehensively at her father] Sh-sh-sh! + +THE COUNT. A past! What do you mean, Mr Trotter? + +TROTTER. [to Fanny] You cant deceive me. That bit about the +police was real. Youre a Suffraget, Miss O'Dowda. You were on that +Deputation. + +THE COUNT. Fanny: is this true? + +FANNY. It is. I did a month with Lady Constance Lytton; and I'm +prouder of it than I ever was of anything or ever shall be again. + +TROTTER. Is that any reason why you should stuff naughty plays down +my throat? + +FANNY. Yes: itll teach you what it feels like to be forcibly fed. + +THE COUNT. She will never return to Venice. I feel now as I felt +when the Campanile fell. + +_Savoyard comes in through the curtains._ + +SAVOYARD. [to the Count] Would you mind coming to say a word of +congratulation to the company? Theyre rather upset at having had no +curtain call. + +THE COUNT. Certainly, certainly. I'm afraid Ive been rather remiss. +Let us go on the stage, gentlemen. + +_The curtains are drawn, revealing the last scene of the play and the +actors on the stage. The Count, Savoyard, the critics, and Fanny join +them, shaking hands and congratulating._ + +THE COUNT. Whatever we may think of the play, gentlemen, I'm sure you +will agree with me that there can be only one opinion about the +acting. + +THE CRITICS. Hear, hear! [They start the applause]. + + + + +AYOT ST. LAWRENCE, March 1911. + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Fanny's First Play, by George Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY'S FIRST PLAY *** + +This file should be named fnfsp10.txt or fnfsp10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, fnfsp11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, fnfsp10a.txt + +Scanned and proofed by Ron Burkey (rburkey@heads-up.com) and Amy Thomte. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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