Chapter 3

ROBERT. What, _my_ pal, _'is_ brother! Oh, Je'oshaphat!

BISHOP. Ten thousand pardons! Really, my eyesight is deplorable! Delighted to meet you! . . .

I was just observing to our charming host that--er-- Humph! . . .

Bless me! Now what _was_ I . . .

MANSON. Something about your sacred obligations, I believe.

BISHOP. May I trouble you again?

[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.]

ROBERT. That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole, comride!

MANSON [through the trumpet]. Your sacred obligations.

BISHOP. Precisely, precisely! Er-- Shall we sit?

[They do so. The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin. MANSON, failing him, the spirit begins to work within himself.]

Well--er---speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother, I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously--as I am sure you do. The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an overwhelming responsibility. To begin with, it--it costs quite a lot. Doesn't it?

MANSON. It does: quite a lot.

BISHOP. Hm, yes--yes! . . . You mentioned _Sacred obligations_ just now, and I think that on the whole I am inclined to agree with you. It is an admirable way of putting it. We must awaken people to a sense of their _sacred obligations_. This is a work in which everybody can do something: the rich man can give of the abundance with which it has pleased Providence specially to favour him: the poor man with his slender savings need have no fear for the poverty of his gift-- Let him give all: it will be accepted. Those of us who, like yourself, my dear brother--and I say it in all modesty, perhaps _my_self--are in possession of the endowments of learning, of influence, of authority--we can lend our _names_ to the good work. As you say so very beautifully: _sacred obligations_.

By-the-way, I don't think I quite caught your views as to the probable cost. Eh, what do you think?

MANSON. I think that should depend upon the obligations; and then, of course, the sacredness might count for something.

BISHOP. Yes, yes, we've discussed all that. But bringing it down to a _practical_ basis: how much could we manage with?

MANSON. What do you say to--everything you have?

BISHOP. My dear sir, I'm not talking about myself!

MANSON. Well--everything the others have?

BISHOP. My dear sir, they're not fools! Do discuss the matter like a man of the world!

MANSON. _God's not watching: let's give as little, and grab as much as we can_!

BISHOP. Ssh! My dear brother! Remember who's present! [He glances toward Robert.] However . . . [Coughs.] We will return to this later. I begin to understand you.

ROBERT. Yus: you think you do!

BISHOP. At the same time, I do think we ought to come to some general understanding; we must count the cost. Now, from all accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in India--not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited would be either possible or desirable in this country--oh, no! Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without the aid of expensive buildings! However, I should like to hear your views. How did you manage it?

MANSON. Sacrifice.

BISHOP. Of course, of course; but _practically_. They say it's an enormous concern!

MANSON. So it is.

BISHOP. Well, what would such an establishment as that represent? In round numbers, now?

MANSON [calmly]. Numberless millions.

BISHOP. Numberless mil . . . ! [He drops his fork.] My dear sir, absurd! . . . Why, the place must be a palace--fit for a king!

MANSON. It is!

BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that one man alone, on his own naked credit, could obtain numberless millions for such an object as that? How could you possibly get them together?

MANSON. They came freely from every quarter of the world.

BISHOP. On the security of your own name alone?

MANSON. No other, I assure you.

BISHOP. For Heaven's sake, tell me all about it! What sort of a place is it?

MANSON [seriously]. Are you quite sure you can hear?

BISHOP. Perhaps your voice is _not_ quite so clear as it was. However . . .

[He wipes the inside of the ear-trumpet, and fixes it afresh.]

Now! Tell me about your church.

[During the following speech the BISHOP is occupied with his own thoughts: after the first few words he makes no attempt at listening: indeed, the trumpet goes down to the table again in no time. On the other hand, ROBERT, at first apathetic, gradually awakens to the keenest interest in what MANSON says.]

MANSON [very simply]. I am afraid you may not consider it an altogether substantial concern. It has to be seen in a certain way, under certain conditions. Some people never _see_ it at all. You must understand, this is no dead pile of stones and unmeaning timber. _It is a living thing_.

BISHOP [in a hoarse whisper, self-engrossed]. Numberless millions!

MANSON. When you enter it you hear a sound--a sound as of some mighty poem chanted. Listen long enough, and you will learn that it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music of men's souls--that is, if you have ears. If you have eyes, you will presently see the church itself--a looming mystery of many shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome. The work of no ordinary builder!

BISHOP [trumpet down]. On the security of one man's name!

MANSON. The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes: the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of the world. It is yet building--building and built upon. Sometimes the work goes forward in deep darkness: sometimes in blinding light: now beneath the burden of unutterable anguish: now to the tune of a great laughter and heroic shoutings like the cry of thunder. [Softer.] Sometimes, in the silence of the night-time, one may hear the tiny hammerings of the comrades at work up in the dome--the comrades that have climbed ahead.

[There is a short silence, broken only by the champing jaws of the BISHOP, who has resumed his sausages. ROBERT speaks first.]

ROBERT [slowly]. I think I begin to understand you, comride: especially that bit abaht . . . [his eyes stray upwards] . . . the 'ammerins' an' the--the harches--an' . . . Humph! I'm only an 'og! . . .

S'pose there's no drain 'ands wanted in that there church o' yours?

MANSON. Drains are a very important question there at present.

ROBERT. Why, I'd be cussin' over every stinkin' pipe I laid.

MANSON. I should make that a condition, comrade.

ROBERT [rising, he pulls off the cassock; goes to fire for his coat: returns: drags it on]. I don't know! Things 'av' got in a bit of a muck with me! I'm rather like a drain-pipe myself.

[With sudden inspiration]. There's one thing I _can_ do!

MANSON. What's that?

ROBERT. Renahnce ole Beelzebub an' all 'is bloomin' wirks! 'And us that brarss-band!

[He alludes to the ear-trumpet. MANSON obeying, ROBERT jabs it into the ear of the BISHOP, who seems quite surprised.]

'Ere! 'Av' you ever 'eard of 'ell?

BISHOP. Of what?

ROBERT. 'Ell. [Spelling.] H, E, double L, 'ell.

BISHOP. Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to!

ROBERT. Then, go there! Aymen . . .

Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes!

[He goes out through the main door, repentant.]

BISHOP. The scoundrel! Did you hear what he said? I shall certainly report him to his bishop!

MANSON. I don't think I should. _His_ bishop doesn't mind a little plain speech now and again.

BISHOP. A little plain speech! Do you think it's right for a clergyman to--to direct me to perdition?

MANSON. I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you your--direction is not a clergyman. He's a scavenger.

BISHOP. A scavenger!

MANSON. Yes--looks after drains.

BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to breakfast with a common working-man?

MANSON. Yes; have you never done that before?

BISHOP. My dear sir, whatever do you take me for?

MANSON. A bishop of God's church.

BISHOP. Precisely! Is it _your_ custom to breakfast with working-men?

MANSON. Every morning. You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself, once.

BISHOP. You? . . .

MANSON. Yes--a long time ago, though: people have forgotten.

BISHOP. But, my dear brother, I am perfectly sure you never told people to go to . . .

MANSON. Oh yes, quite frequently: it would shock you to learn the language I really did use. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it might be advisable to drop the subject at this point.

BISHOP [emphatically]. I most certainly agree with you there! After all, it is a digression from the purpose for which we are here! . . . Let me see, then: where were we? . . . Oh yes, I remember-- Although, by the way, it was very ill-advised of you to speak your mind so openly in that man's presence! However . . .

To resume our--how shall I call it ?--our--little understanding, eh?

MANSON. That describes it most accurately.

BISHOP. Now, you said, _Let's give as little, and grab as much as we can_. Of course, that is a playful way of putting it; but between ourselves, it expresses my sentiments exactly.

MANSON. I knew that when I said it.

BISHOP [delighted]. My dear brother, your comprehension makes my heart warm. I trust our relations may always remain as warm.

MANSON. Oh, warmer, warmer!

BISHOP. Very well then, to business! I tell you, candidly, I agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless generosity! If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice for it! Why should _we_ do anything?

I am sure you will appreciate my candour?

MANSON. At its full value. Go on.

BISHOP. At the same time, there is no reason why we should throw cold water upon the project. On the contrary, we might promote it, encourage it, even lend it the influence of our patronage and our names. _But on one understanding_!

MANSON. And that?

BISHOP. That it is extended--imperialised, so to speak: that it is made the vehicle of a much vaster, of a much more momentous project behind it!

MANSON. You interest me intensely. Explain.

BISHOP. I will.

[He looks around to assure himself that they are alone.]

There is in existence a society, a very influential society, in which I happen to have an interest--very great interest. Hm! I am one of the directors.

I may say that it is already very well established, financially; but it is always open to consider the--extension of its influence in that way.

MANSON. And the name of the society?

BISHOP. Rather long, but I trust explicit. It is called "_The Society for the Promotion and Preservation of Emoluments for the Higher Clergy_."

MANSON. I do not seem to have heard it _named_ before.

BISHOP. Well, no: its movements have always been characterised by a certain modesty. It is an invisible society, so to speak; but I can assure you its principles are very clearly understood--among the parties most concerned.

MANSON. And your project?

BISHOP. Affiliate the subsidiary question of the building of the Church, with the larger interests of the Society.

MANSON. Yes, but since people have already refused to subscribe to the more trivial project . . .

BISHOP. They have not been properly approached. My dear sir, in order to awaken public generosity, It is necessary to act like men of the world: _we must have names_. People will subscribe to any amount, if you can only get the right names.

That Is where _you_ come in.

MANSON. I! Do you propose to place my name at the head of your--prospectus?

BISHOP. My dear sir, invaluable! Didn't you say yourself that you brought in numberless millions, on your own credit, out there in India? Why shouldn't you do the same in England? Think of your reputation, your achievements, your name for sanctity-- Not a word, sir: I _mean_ it! . . . Why, there's no end to the amount it would bring in: it would mean billions!

Well, what do you say?

MAMSON [slowly]. Let us clearly understand one another. I am to lend you my name--just my name--and you are to do all the rest.

BISHOP [quickly]. Oh yes: I'd _rather_ you kept out of the business negotiations!

MANSON. It is rather a dangerous name to play with!

BISHOP, I take that responsibility entirely upon myself!

MANSON. And when all's over and done with, what are we going to gain out of the transaction?

BISHOP. We shall have to come to some private settlement between ourselves.

MANSON. When?

BISHOP. Oh, hereafter.

MANSON. Hereafter, then.

[Enter AUNTIE and VICAR by door to right.]

AUNTIE [off]. Leave him to me, William! I'll soon settle the matter! [Entering.] The man must be possessed of some evil spirit! . . .

Why--it's my brother James! . . .

[MANSON has risen, and is now the butler once more. He speaks into the ear-trumpet.]

MANSON. Your sister and the vicar, my lord.

BISHOP [behind table, rising]. Ah! Well, Martha!--No, no, no, if you please! [He restrains her approach.] Observe the retribution of an unchastened will. You have never seen my face for sixteen years! However, like a cloud, I blot out your transgressions from this hour!

And so this is your husband ?--Not a word, sir; not a single word!--the sausages were delicious, and your place has been most agreeably occupied by your brother!

VICAR. My brother! Then you . . . What do you mean?

BISHOP [testily]. I mean what I say, sir! Your brother, _my_ brother, _our_ brother here, of course, our Oriental brother!

AUNTIE. James, you are making a mistake: this is our new butler--our _Indian_ butler.

BISHOP. Your Indian--WHAT?

[He stands cogitating horribly until the end of the act, facing towards MANSON.]

AUNTIE. What has made him like this? He seems possessed!

MANSON. He is! . . .

I have just been having some trouble with _another_ devil, ma'am.

AUNTIE. Meaning, of course . . . What has become of him?

MANSON [with his eye]. _He_ is cast out forever.

AUNTIE. Where is he now?

MANSON. He walks through dry places seeking--[he probes her soul]--_other_ habitations.

AUNTIE. Manson! This is your doing! Oh, you have saved us!

MANSON. I am trying to, ma'am; but, God knows, you make it rather difficult!

[A change comes over her face, as the curtain slowly falls.]

THE THIRD ACT

As the curtain rises, the scene and situation remain unchanged; but attention now centres in the Bishop, who appears to be struggling apoplectically for speech.

BISHOP [bursting]. Before we proceed a step further, I have a most extraordinary request to make! The fact is, you interrupted me in the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . . that is to say, with your . . . in short, with that person standing over there! My request is, that I be permitted a few minutes further conversation with him--alone, and at once!

ALL. ) With Manson! . . . MANSON. ) With me! . . .

BISHOP. Not a word! I know my request will appear singular--most singular! But I assure you it is most necessary. The peace, the security of a human soul depends upon it! Come, sir! Where shall we go?

MANSON. Have I your permission, ma'am

AUNTIE. Certainly; but it is most extraordinary!

MANSON [crossing]. Then I think this way, my lord, in the drawing-room . . . [He leads the way.]

BISHOP [following]. And you may be sure, my good fellow, I will give anything--I say, anything--to remedy your misapprehensions! Hm!

[They go into the drawing-room, right, MANSON holding the door for the other to pass.]

VICAR. Martha! It's no use! I can't do it!

AUNTIE [preoccupied]. Can't do what, William?

VICAR. Behave towards that man like a Christian! He stirs some nameless devil like murder in my heart! I want to clutch him by the throat, as I would some noisome beast, and strangle him!

AUNTIE [slowly]. He is greatly changed!

VICAR. It is you who have changed, Martha. You see him now with different eyes.

AUNTIE. Do I? I wonder! . . .

VICAR. After all, why should we invite him here? Why should we be civil to him? What possible kinship can there be between us? As for his filthy money--how did he scrape it together? How did he come by it? . . .

AUNTIE. Yes, William, that's true, but the opportunity of turning it to God's service . . .

VICAR. Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church whose every stone is reeking with the bloody sweat and anguish of the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to despair? Shall we base God's altar in the bones of harlots, plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves?

AUNTIE. Why will you exaggerate, my dear?--It is not as bad as that. Why don't you compose yourself and try and be contented and--and happy?

VICAR. How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I breathe?

AUNTIE. You are not always like this, dear! . . .

VICAR. Happy! How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I have made him!

AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking of _you_! Think of our love, William--our great and beautiful love! Isn't that something to make you happy?

VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love?

AUNTIE. Oh, William, you _know_ . . .

VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world like Satan, to slay men's souls?

AUNTIE. Oh, now you're exaggerating again! What do you mean?

VICAR. I mean my brother Robert! What has love done for him?

AUNTIE. Oh, Robert, Robert--I'm sick to death of Robert! Why can't you think of yourself?

VICAR. Well, I will! What has love done for me?

AUNTIE. William! . . .

[The slightest pause. The scene takes on another complexion.]

VICAR. Do you remember that day when I first came to you and told you of my love? Did I lie to you? Did I try to hide things? Did I despise my birth? Did _you_?

AUNTIE. No, no, William, I loved you: I told you so.

VICAR. Did you mind the severance from your family because of me?

AUNTIE. Didn't I always say that I was proud to be able to give up so much for you, William? . . .

VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for me, what followed?

AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you see? _You_ were not made to live out your life in any little odd hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful preacher-- All this required position, influence, social prestige. You don't think I was ambitious for myself: it was for you.

VICAR. For _me_--yes! And how do you imagine I have benefited by all your scheming, your contriving, your compromising, your . . .

AUNTIE. In the way I willed! I am glad of it! I worked for that--_and I won_! . . .

Well, what are you troubling about now?

VICAR [slowly]. I am thinking of the fact that there has been no child to bless our marriage, Martha--that is, no child of our very own, no child whose love we have not stolen.

AUNTIE. My dear . . .

VICAR. We have spoken about it sometimes, haven't we? Or, rather--_not_ spoken!

AUNTIE. William, why will you think of these things?

VICAR. In those first days, dearest, I brought you two children of our own to cherish, little unborn souls crying for you to mother them-- You have fostered only the one. That one is called the Scholar. Shall I tell you the name of the other?

AUNTIE [after a moment]. Yes . . .

VICAR. I hardly know: I hardly dare to name him, but perhaps it was--the Saint.

AUNTIE. What I have done, William, has been done for love of you--you only--you only in the world!

VICAR. Yes: that's what I _mean_!

[The thought troubles her for a moment; then she paces up and down in agitated rebellion.]

AUNTIE. No! I can't believe it! I can't think that love is as wrong as you say!

VICAR. Love is a spirit of many shapes and shadows: a spirit of fire and darkness--a minister of heaven and hell: Sometimes I think the very damned know love--in a way. It can inform men's souls with the gladness of high archangels, or possess them with the despair of devils!

[She suddenly stands still, struck by the echo in his last phrase.]

Yes?

AUNTIE. I was wondering . . .

Wondering what Manson meant just now.

VICAR. When?

AUNTIE. When he spoke about your brother Robert.

VICAR. I think he made it clear. He said we were--rid of him forever!

AUNTIE [thoughtfully]. Ye-es . . .

William, I begin to fear that man.

VICAR. Whom--Robert?

AUNTIE. No, Manson.

[Re-enter MANSON from door, right. He carries a five-pound note in his hand.]

MANSON. His lordship will be glad to see you.

AUNTIE. Very well, Manson. Why, what have you there?

MANSON. A remedy for misapprehension, ma'am.

AUNTIE. It's a five-pound note.

MANSON. Yes.

AUNTIE. Come, William.

[She goes to the drawing-room door, her head anxiously turned towards MANSON.]

VICAR [at the door]. What are we going to do, Martha?

AUNTIE. I don't know: God help me, I can't see the way!

[They both go out, MANSON watching them. He then moves up to the fire, and burns the five-pound note. He watches the flames leap up as he speaks.]

MANSON. _Thou givest thy mouth to evil, and thy tongue frameth deceit. Thou sittest and speakest against thy brother: thou slanderest thine own mother's son. These things hast thou done, and I kept silence: thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself: but I will reprove thee, and set them in order before thine eyes_. [Footnote: Psalms 1. 19-21]

[He comes down to the middle of the room. MARY enters eagerly. Seeing him alone, she gives a little cry of gladness.]

MARY. Oh, how jolly! Where are they?

MANSON. In the next room.

MARY. Ah! AH!

[She comes to his out-stretched arms. He folds her to his heart, facing the audience.]

[Looking up into his face.] Isn't it a great secret? What shall I call you, now we are alone?

MANSON. Ssh! They may hear you!

MARY. If I whisper . . .

MANSON. They are very near! . . .

[Disengaging himself.] I must be about my business. Is this the bell to the kitchen?

MARY. Yes. Let me help you.

[MANSON having rung the bell, they begin to remove the breakfast things. MARY employs herself with the crumb-scoop.]

If auntie and uncle could see me now! If they only knew! I've kept the secret: I've told nobody! . . .

These will do for the birds. Look, I'll take them now. [She throws the crumbs out of the French windows.] Poor little mites! [She returns to the table.]

MANSON. You are fond of the birds?

MARY. Just love them! Don't you?

MANSON, They are my very good friends. Now, take the cassock. Fold it up and put it on the chair.

[ROGERS enters whilst he gives this command.]

ROGERS. Well, I'm . . .

'Owever, it's no business of mine!

MARY [brightly]. What's up with you, Rogers?

ROGERS [with reservation]. Nuthin', miss. [He fetches the tray.]

MARY. Then why look so solemn?

ROGERS [lugubriously]. Ain't lookin' solemn, miss.

MANSON. Hold up the tray, Rogers.

ROGERS. _Am_ 'oldin' it up, Mr. Manson. MARY [loading him up]. I'm sure there is something the matter!

ROGERS. Well, since you arsk me, miss, it's the goin's on in this 'ouse! I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and improbabilities in my life! I shall 'av' to give in my notice!

MARY. Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful! Why?

MANSON. Now the cloth, Mary . . .