Chapter 2
AUNTIE. Dearest!--Remember what your uncle said last Sunday about _Pure religion and undefiled_! He mentioned Mrs. Durden only a week ago; but I forgot. Now, run along.
MARY [reluctantly]. Very well, auntie.
[She goes out by the main door.]
AUNTIE [laughing]. Inconsiderate little monkey!
I am glad you have not thought of changing your pretty, native costume, Manson. It is very picturesque; and, besides, to-day there is a special reason why it may be considered complimentary.
[A double knock is heard at the outer door.]
Ah! Quick, Manson! The postman!
[MANSON goes out. AUNTIE takes a look at the coat: rearranges the flowers, humming, meanwhile, "The Church's One Foundation"; and then stands impatiently awaiting MANSON'S reappearance. Presently he returns with a letter on server.]
MANSON. A letter for you, ma'am.
AUNTIE. Ah! What I expected!
[She breaks open the letter and reads it eagerly.]
Excellent! [More dubiously]. Excellent . . .
Manson, we shall have to be very busy to-day. There will be quite a Church Congress to lunch--two bishops!
MANSON. Oh, not as bad as that, ma'am!
AUNTIE. Manson!
MANSON. Beg pardon, ma'am; but master mentioned only one--his brother, the Bishop of Benares.
AUNTIE. _My_ brother will join us also--the Bishop of Lancashire. This is his letter.
And now let's have breakfast, at once. The vicar is sure to be earlier than he said; and I'm hungry.
[MANSON goes to the door. As he opens it, the VICAR and ROGERS reappear.]
MANSON. Here is master. I'll hurry up the breakfast, ma'am.
VICAR [entering]. Do, Manson. Let's get it over.
[MANSON goes out.]
Excuse me, my dear.
[ROGERS helps him off with the cassock.]
So tiresome! Not a place in the house to do anything! Confound the drains! Just run up-stairs for my coat, Rogers.
AUNTIE. It's here, dear. I have it warming for you.
VICAR [more graciously]. Oh, thank you, Martha. That will do, then, Rogers. Tell Manson to hurry up.
[ROGERS helps him on and goes out. The cassock is left lying on the long stool by the window.]
[The VICAR crosses moodily to the fireplace. AUNTIE stands undecided, watching him, the letter in her hand.]
AUNTIE. You're back early, dear.
VICAR. What can you expect? Not a soul there, of course!
AUNTIE. My poor William! I'm glad I thought to hurry up the breakfast.
VICAR. Thanks, dear. You are always thoughtful.
AUNTIE. William . . .
[He looks up.]
I--I want to have a little talk with you.
VICAR. What is it? Any more--worry?
AUNTIE. You needn't make it so.
VICAR.. Ah!
AUNTIE [moving over to him and stroking his hair]. My dearest is not well.
VICAR. I think you are right, Martha. I am not well.
AUNTIE [alarmed]. Not the trouble with your heart again?
VICAR. No; I fancy it goes deeper than that!
AUNTIE. William! What do you mean?
VICAR [suddenly facing her]. Martha! Do you know the sort of man you have been living with all these years? Do you see through me? Do you know me?--No: don't speak: I see your answer already--Your own love blinds you! Ha! I am a good man!--I don't drink, I don't swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley! Oh yes, and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little pedantries of my trade! But do you know what I am? Do you know what your husband is in the sight of God? He is a LIAR!
AUNTIE. William!
VICAR. A liar! I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ's altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed! I heard it in my prayers! I heard it whilst I tasted . . . whilst I drank . . . whilst I . . .
[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.]
AUNTIE. Oh, you are ill!
VICAR [breaking down]. O wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me out of the body of this death?
[She stands above him, hesitating. After a moment, she says, determinedly.]
AUNTIE. I know: it's this money trouble. It's what Joshua said in his letter about your having to get somebody to help him. Well, that's just what I wanted to speak to you about. I have a way out of the difficulty.
VICAR. It's not the church. I could wish every Stone of it were crumbled into dust!
AUNTIE. William, how wicked of you! . . .
Is it--is it anything to do with your brother Joshua? Why don't you answer?
VICAR. _It has to do with my brother--Robert_.
AUNTIE. Mary's fa . . .
William, did you send him that telegram yesterday?
VICAR. Yes: that was a lie, too!
AUNTIE. Nonsense! Don't be absurd!
VICAR. It was a lie!
AUNTIE. You told him we couldn't do with him because the house was upset: that's true! You told him that the drains were up in the study: that's true!
VICAR. Was that the real reason why we refused to have him here? Was it?
AUNTIE. I can't think what possessed him to write and say he'd come. We've not heard from him for fifteen years!
VICAR. Whose fault is that?
AUNTIE. Why, his own, of course! He can't expect to be treated decently! [She walks up and down with anger.] It's perfectly absurd, it really is, dear, making all this fuss and trouble about a wretched--
Have you told Mary?
VICAR. No: the _silent_ lie was comparatively easy!
AUNTIE. My dear, do try and be reasonable. Think of what he is!
VICAR. Isn't he my brother?
AUNTIE. No, he's not your brother--at least, nothing that a brother ought to be! Ridicules everything that you hold sacred! Hates everything you love! Loves everything you hate! . . .
VICAR. _That's_ true!
AUNTIE. A scoffer, an atheist, a miserable drunkard!
VICAR. That was fifteen years ago, remember, after Mary's mother died! . . .
AUNTIE. A man like that never changes! What would have become of that poor child if we hadn't stepped in? Have you ever dared to tell her what her father's like? Of course not! To-day, too, of all days! It's utterly preposterous!
VICAR. That is all the more reason why . . .
AUNTIE. My dear, think of his _occupation_!
VICAR. I think the child ought to be told.
AUNTIE. Of his _occupation_?
VICAR. That, and everything.
AUNTIE. My dear, have you gone perfectly mad? Do you know who's coming? Do you want to advertise his _occupation_ to all the world?
VICAR. Do you think his brother Joshua would mind that?
AUNTIE. It isn't only your brother Joshua! You think of nobody but your brother Joshua! Some one else is coming.
VICAR. Who?
AUNTIE. _My brother James_! [She throws down the letter.] Now you've heard it all!
[There is a long silence. Then the VICAR speaks in a low, intense voice of bitter contempt.]
VICAR. Your brother James is coming here today? You have brought him here to help my brother Joshua! _Him_!
AUNTIE. Why not? He's rich! He can do it!
VICAR. So, he can recognise me at last!
AUNTIE. It was as much your fault as his, that you have never met! He naturally resented our marriage.
VICAR [ironically]. But, of course, now that I'm related to the great and _wealthy_ Bishop of Benares ...
AUNTIE [warmly]. He's as much a bishop as your brother is!
VICAR. He! That gaitered snob!
AUNTIE. William, how dare you!
VICAR. Yes, he's a bishop! A bishop of stocks and shares! A bishop of the counting-house! A bishop of Mammon!
AUNTIE. William!
VICAR. The devil's own bishop!
AUNTIE. _At least, he isn't a WORKING-MAN_!
VICAR [as though stung]. Ah! . . .
[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with passion. They remain so.]
[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast. ROGERS goes out immediately.]
MANSON. Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to nine, didn't you, sir?
VICAR. Yes.
MANSON. Breakfasts served, ma'am. It's served, sir.
[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he goes to each separately.]
[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.]
Beg pardon, sir: what time did you expect the Bishop of Benares?
VICAR. Oh!--_During the morning_, he said. That will mean the twelve-thirty, I suppose. It's the only convenient service.
MANSON. And the Bishop of Lancashire, ma'am?
AUNTIE. He didn't say; but I think we may expect him by the same train. He would scarcely think of catching the . . .
[There is heard a loud Ringing of the Bell--a bishop at the very least. All three heads turn automatically.]
Good gracious! Already!
MANSON. It doesn't sound like the Bishop of Benares, ma'am. He generally comes very quietly.
AUNTIE. Quick!
MANSON. Yes, ma'am.
[He goes out by the main door.]
AUNTIE [rapidly], William, I'm sorry! Really, I didn't mean you: I never thought of you; I was only thinking of Robert. I only think of you as a great scholar and a saint--yes, you are one!--and as the man I love! I would sacrifice everything to your happiness. Robert's nothing to me; that's why I . . . Think of what it might mean to Mary--we must think of others, William!--our own little child, as we try to imagine . . .
[The VICAR makes a gesture of anguish.]
As for James, God knows I did it for the best. I love you, my dear, I love you: I wouldn't have vexed you for the world! After all, he is my brother, William! . . . . I thought of patching up the enmity between you: I thought of all your hopes of rebuilding the church, and James was the only rich man I thought might be induced--under the circumstances . . .
VICAR. I am in the darkness. I don't know what to do. God has left me stranded.
[MANSON re-enters. They look at him inquiringly.]
MANSON. It isn't the Bishop of Benares, ma'am.
AUNTIE. Well, who is it?
MANSON. I didn't ask his name, ma'am.
AUNTIE. T-t-t! How is he dressed?
MANSON. Rather oddly, ma'am: I noticed that his legs . . .
AUNTIE. William, it's James! I can't be seen like this. Shew him in. I can slip out this way.
[MANSON goes out.]
William, try and treat him like . . .
VICAR. How? Like a brother?
AUNTIE. I was going to say, like a Priest and a Christian, William.
VICAR. Like a Christian, then.
AUNTIE. My dear!
[She goes out by the door to the right, as MANSON begins to turn the handle of the other door.]
MANSON [outside]. This way, if you please.
[The VICAR, braces himself up and turns towards the door with an effort at cordiality.]
VICAR. Just in time for breakfast, my lord.
[Enter ROBERT SMITH and MANSON. ROBERT'S costume is a navvy's, the knees tied With string.]
ROBERT [grimly]. Thanks, Bill Awlmighty, don't mind if I do. My belly's fair aching.
VICAR. Robert!
ROBERT. Yus, it's me, my 'oly brother!
VICAR. Didn't you--didn't you get my wire?
ROBERT. Yus, I gorit-: _Drains wrong_, eh? Thought I'd like to 'av' a look at 'em--my job, yer know, _drains_! So you'll excuse the togs: remind you of old days, eh what?
VICAR. Robert, what have you come here for?
ROBERT. You arsk me that?
VICAR. Yes, I do. Bob . . .
ROBERT. Why, to see my little gel, o' course--Gawd curse you! . . .
Now go an tell your ole woman.
[The VICAR stands as though stricken.]
Did you 'ear me speak? Tell 'er!
[The VICAR wavers a moment, and then staggers out silently through the door, right. ROBERT watches him off with a look of iron. He pays no heed to MANSON, who stands quite close to him, on the left.]
See that blighter? That's the bloke as was born with no bowels! 'E might a-made a man o' me once, if 'e'd tried; but 'e didn't--'im and 'is like. Hm! Dam foolish, I call it, don't you?
MANSON. Yes, both: foolish and--damned!
[ROBERT turns and looks into his face for the first time as the curtain slowly falls on the First Act.]
THE SECOND ACT
As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged. Presently, Robert, having completed his inspection of the other's face and costume, moves away with a characteristic interjection.
ROBERT. Oh, Jeeroosalem! . . .
'Ere, 'elp us orf, comride: I'm wet through. Rainin' cats an' dorgs dahn at the Junction! 'Ere, I cawn't . . . Wot oh! The very identical! . . .
[MANSON has helped him off with his coat, and now hands him the cassock.]
[Getting into it.] Don't know oo you are, ole pal, but you're a bit of orl right! . . . Don't I look a corf-drop? 'Ere, where ye teking it to? . . .
[He watches MANSON suspiciously as he places his coat before the fire to dry.]
Bit 'andy, ain't yer? . . .
So this is where 'e lives! A bloomin' palace, as never I did see! . . .
[MANSON prepares a place for him at the table, and pours out a cup of tea, etc.]
Right you are, ole comride! 'E said breakfast, an' breakfast it shall be, I don't fink! Blimey! Sossingers! Ain't 'ad the taste of sossingers in my gizzard for I don't know 'ow long!
[He sits and devours whilst MANSON breaks and hands him bread, waiting upon him.]
[Between bites.] Wouldn't think as I was 'is brother, would yer--not to look at me? But strooth, _I am_; an' wot's more, 'e cawn't deny it! . . . [He labours with a little joke.] There's a lot o' brothers knockin' abaht as people don't know on, eh what? See wot I mean? [Suddenly serious.] Not as I'm one o' them sort, mind yer: my father married my mother honest, same as I married my little . . .
[After a moment's reflection, he makes fresh onslaught upon the sausages. Presently he looks up.]
'Ere, ain't you goin' ter 'av' none? . . . Cawn't yer speak?
MANSON. Yes.
ROBERT. Well, why cawn't yer arnser a bloke when 'e arsks yer civil?
MANSON. You didn't make it dear that you wanted to eat with me.
ROBERT. Want a bit of 'eart in it, eh?
MANSON. Yes, that's all.
ROBERT [largely]. Sit dahn, ole pal! Mek yourself at 'ome!
[MANSON obeys.]
See, wot was I tawkin' abaht. Just afore you turned narsty?
MANSON. You were going to say something about--your little girl's mother.
[ROBERT'S cutlery bristles up like bayonets.]
ROBERT. Look 'ere, mate, don't you come tryin' it on with me! I don't care _oo_ you are!
MANSON. I know that.
ROBERT. Then let me be, I tell yer! You tek all the taste out o' my sossingers.
MANSON. I should like to hear about her, comrade.
ROBERT. _You_ cawn't bring 'er back. She's dead.
MANSON. What was her name?
ROBERT. Mary--same as the little gel's.
MANSON. I wonder whether they are anything alike.
ROBERT. That's wot I come to see! . . .
She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby--_and_ 'er eyes! Gorstrike, she was the very spit--far as a biby could be! . . .
Swelp me Moses, if I find 'er anything like Bill's ole geezer, I'll cut 'er throat!
MANSON. And if she's like her mother? What then?
ROBERT. Why, then . . . there's allus my own. I nearly did it once.
MANSON [after a pause]. How did you come to lose her?
ROBERT [roughly]. Never you mind!
MANSON. How did you come to lose her?
ROBERT [sullenly]. Typhoid fever.
[MANSON notes the evasion with a glance. He helps ROBERT to more tea, and waits for him to speak. ROBERT wriggles under his gaze, and at last he says, reluctantly.]
Oh, it was my own fault, as I lost the kid!
MANSON. That was a sore loss, comrade.
ROBERT. _I_ know it! Needn't rub it in! . . . Look, 'ere, comride, I 'adn't a bad nature to begin with. Didn't me an' my brother Joshua pinch an' slave the skin orf our bones to send that spotted swine to school? Didn't we 'elp 'im out with 'is books an' 'is mortar-boards an' 'is bits of clothes to try an' mek 'im look respectable? That's wot we did, till 'e got 'is lousy scholyships, an' run away to get spliced with that she-male pup of a blood-'ound! Cos why? Cos we was proud of the little perisher!--proud of 'is 'ead-piece! We 'adn't gone none ourselves--leastways, _I_ 'adn't: Joshua was different to me; and now . . .
MANSON. And your brother Joshua: what of him? Where is _he_ now?
ROBERT. _I_ don't know--gone to pot, like me! P'r'aps eatin' is bleedin' 'eart out, same as I am, at the base ingratitood of the world!
MANSON. Perhaps so!
ROBERT. Where was I? You mek me lose my air, shoving in with your bit!
MANSON. You were saying that you hadn't a bad nature to begin with.
ROBERT [truculently]. No more I 'adn't! . . .
O' course, when she took an'--an' died, things was different: I couldn't 'old up the same-- Somehow, I don't know, I lost my 'eart, and . . .
MANSON. Yes? . . .
ROBERT. That's 'ow I come to lose my kid, my little kid . . . Mind you, that was fifteen years ago: I was a rotter then, same as you might be. I wasn't 'arf the man I am now . . .
_You_ can larf! A man can change a lot in fifteen years!
MANSON. _I_ didn't laugh.
ROBERT. Do you want to know wot's come over me since then? I _work_--and work well: that's more than some of 'em can say-- And I don't get much money for it, either! That ought to mek 'em feel ashamed! I'm not the drunkard I was--not by 'arf! If I'm bitter, oo's made me bitter? You cawn't be very sweet and perlite on eighteen bob a week--_when yer get it_! I'll tell yer summat else: I've eddicated myself since then--I'm not the gory fool I was-- _And_ they know it! They can't come playin' the 'anky with us, same as they used to! It's _Nice Mister Working-man This and Nice Mister Working-man That, will yer be so 'ighly hobliging as to 'and over your dear little voting-paper_--you poor, sweet, muddy-nosed old Idiot, as can't spot your natural enemy when yer see 'im! That orter mek some on 'em sit up!
Fifteen years ago me an' my like 'adn't got a religion! By Gawd, we 'av' one now! Like to 'ear wot it is?
MANSON. Yes.
ROBERT. SOCIALISM! Funny, ain't it?
MANSON. _I_ don't think so. It's mine, too.
ROBERT. I believe in fighting with my clarss!
MANSON. Oh, against whom?
ROBERT. Why, agin all the other clarsses--curse 'em!
MANSON. Isn't that a bit of the old Robert left, comrade?
ROBERT. Oh, leave me alone. I cawn't be allus pickin' an' choosin' my words! I ain't no scholar--thank Gawd!
MANSON. All the same, I'm right, eh, comrade? Comrade . . .
ROBERT [grudgingly]. Well, yus! [Savagely.] Yus, I tell yer! Cawn't a bloke speak 'otter than 'e means without _you_ scrapin' at 'is innards?
[Exploding again.] Wait till I set eyes on that bleedin' brother of mine again, that's all!
MANSON. Which bleeding brother?
ROBERT [with a thumb-jerk]. Why, '_im_, o' course! [Sneering.] The Reverend William! 'Im as you said was damned! . . . Allus did 'ate parsons! I 'ates the sight of their 'arf-baked, silly mugs!
[There is a very loud Ringing of the Bell.]
'Ello! 'Ello! Did I mek a row like that?
MANSON. You tried, didn't you?
ROBERT. So I did, not 'arf! Thought if I kicked up an 'ell of a shindy they'd think some big bug was comin'; and then when they'd be all smiles an' bowin' an' scrapin', in pops me, real low!
[ROGERS enters. On seeing them at the table, he is apparently troubled with his inside.]
ROGERS. Oh, my 'oly Evings!
MANSON. Who is it, Rogers?
ROGERS [awed]. It's the Bishop of Lancashire!
MANSON [imperturbably]. Shew him in, Rogers.
ROGERS. Beg pardon, Mr. Manson . . .
MANSON. I said, shew him in.
Quick, Rogers. Keep a bishop waiting!
ROGERS. Well, I'm jiggered!
[He is; and goes out.]
ROBERT. 'Ere! Did 'e say _bishop_?
MANSON. Yes.
ROBERT. Comin' 'ere? Now?
[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.]
Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a bloomin' archangel, see!
[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire. He looks his name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to the resemblance.]
[MANSON has risen: ROBERT, imperturbable, discusses sossingers: ROGERS, with a last excruciation of his ailment, vanishes.]
[The Most Reverend Father in God stands blinking for recognition. Pained at the non-fulfilment of this worthy expectation, he moves--a little blindly--towards the table. Here he encounters the oppugnant back of the voracious ROBERT, who grows quite annoyed. Indeed, be as good as says so.]
'Ere, where ye comin' to?
BISHOP [peering closely into his face, the other edging away]. Ah! Mr. Smythe, or I am mistaken.
ROBERT. Smith's my name! Don't you call me Smythe!
BISHOP. My dear sir, don't mention it: my sister has explained everything. I bear you no grudge--none whatever!
ROBERT. What's the silly ole josser jawin' abaht now?
BISHOP. But I perceive that I have--er--[sniffing] disturbed you at your morning meal . . .
ROBERT [with conviction]. You 'av' that!
BISHOP. Eh? . . .
ROBERT [louder]. I say, you 'av'!
BISHOP [fixing his ear-trumpet]. Just once more . . .
ROB ERT. Oh, Moses! [Roaring, and indicating his breakfast.] You 'av' blarst you!
BISHOP [mistaking the gesticulation]. Thank you, you are very kind. I think I will. I could get nothing on the journey but a cup of coffee and a bun.
[He sits at the table without ever having perceived MANSON, who has nevertheless been serving him.]
ROBERT. Yus, you look as if you fed on buns!
[Throughout the play the audience will understand where the BISHOP does, and where he does not, hear by his use or non-use of the ear-trumpet. Perhaps the reader will be good enough to imagine these occasions for himself, as he may have observed a reluctance on the part of the author to encumber the text with stage directions.]
BISHOP [eating, and at the same time addressing the becassocked ROBERT]. And you must not think, on account of the little coolness between us, that I have not followed your career with great interest--very great interest! Your scholastic achievements have been most praiseworthy--especially under the unfortunate circumstances. . . . Although, by-the-way, I cannot at all agree with your gloss on Romans fourteen, twenty-three; _Katakekritai_ either means _damned_ or nothing at all.
ROBERT [gesticulating]. It was _'im_ as said _damned_!
BISHOP. No, no, sir: it is perfectly indefensible!
ROBERT. I'll use what langwidge I like!
BISHOP [warming]. You said _katakekritai_ . . .
ROBERT. I never did, _I_ tek my oath!
BISHOP. My dear sir, I learned my Greek at Shrewsbury, before you were born! Don't argue, sir!
ROBERT. Oo is argufying? . . . Talking to me about yer Katama-what-d'you-call-it!
BISHOP. We had better drop the subject! . . . Boeotian! After all, it is not precisely the matter which has brought us together. And that reminds me . . . [Trumpet.] Has he come yet?
ROBERT. Oo?
BISHOP. Your brother, of course.
ROBERT. My brother! Oh, you'll see _'im_ soon enough!
BISHOP. I gather from your remark that he has not arrived yet. Good! The fact is, I should like a preliminary discussion with yourself before meeting your illustrious brother.
ROBERT. Then you'd better look slippy!
BISHOP. I beg your pardon? . . .
ROBERT [with a flap at the trumpet]. Go on: you 'eard.
BISHOP. Of course, the _financial_ undertaking is considerable: it's not like an _investment_, where there is some reasonable hope of a return: it's merely a matter of charity! The money's--gone, so to speak.
ROBERT. Yus, I've noticed that about money, myself.
BISHOP. At the same time, I should like my _name_ to be associated with your brother's, in so worthy an enterprise . . .
ROBERT [mildly sarcastic]. You don't say!
BISHOP. And then again, I _trust_--I say I _trust_--I am not impervious to the more sacred obligations involved; but . . .
[He gropes blindly for bread.]
ROBERT. I allus notice that sort of 'igh talk ends with a "but" . . .
BISHOP. Naturally, I should like to learn a little, beforehand, of your brother's _views_. From what I gather, they are not altogether likely to coincide with my own. Of course, he is an idealist, a dreamer. Now, under these circumstances, perhaps . . .
Eh, what-- Oh! Bless my soul!
[MANSON has been offering him bread for some time. He has just tumbled to the fact of his presence. He rises.]
My--my Brother from Benares, I presume?