Part 12

_Naturally it is the dining room--consecrated as it is to the distinguishing orgie of the season--which bears the brunt of what an English household knows as Christmas decorations. They consist chiefly of the branches of holly (that unyielding tree), stuck cock-eyed behind the top edges of the pictures. The one picture conspicuously not decorated is that which now hangs over the fireplace, a portrait of_ MR. VOYSEY, _with its new gilt frame and its brassplate marking it also as a presentation_. HONOR, _hastily and at some bodily peril, pulled down the large bunch of mistletoe, which a callous housemaid had suspended above it, in time to obviate the shock to family feelings which such impropriety would cause. Otherwise the only difference between the dining room's appearance at half past nine on Christmas eve and on any other evening in the year is that little piles of queer shaped envelopes seem to be lying about, while there is quite a lot of tissue paper and string to be seen peeping from odd corners. The electric light is reduced to one bulb, but when the maid opens the door showing in_ MR. GEORGE BOOTH _she switches on the rest_.

PHOEBE. This room is empty, sir. I'll tell Mr. Edward.

_She leaves him to fidget towards the fireplace and back, not removing his comforter or his coat, scarcely turning down the collar, screwing his cap in his hands. In a very short time_ EDWARD _comes in, shutting the door and taking stock of the visitor before he speaks_.

EDWARD. Well?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feebly._] I hope my excuse for not coming to dinner was acceptable. I did have . . I have a very bad headache.

EDWARD. I daresay they believed it.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I have come immediately to tell you of my decision . . perhaps this trouble will then be a little more off my mind.

EDWARD. What is it?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I couldn't think the matter out alone. I went this afternoon to talk it all over with my old friend Colpus. [_at this news_ EDWARD'S _eyebrows contract and then rise_.] What a terrible shock to him!

EDWARD. Oh, nearly three of his four thousand pounds are quite safe.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. That you and your father . . you, whom he baptised . . should have robbed him! I never saw a man so utterly prostrate with grief. That it should have been your father! And his poor wife! . . though she never got on with your father.

EDWARD. [_with cheerful irony._] Oh, Mrs. Colpus knows too, does she?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Of course he told Mrs. Colpus. This is an unfortunate time for the storm to break on him. What with Christmas Day and Sunday following so close they're as busy as can be. He has resolved that during this season of peace and goodwill he must put the matter from him if he can. But once Christmas is over . . ! [_he envisages the Christian old vicar giving_ EDWARD _a hell of a time then_.]

EDWARD. [_coolly._] So I conclude you mean to prosecute. For if you don't, you've given the Colpuses a lot of unnecessary pain . . and inflicted a certain amount of loss by telling them.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_naively._] I never thought of that. No, Edward, I have decided not to prosecute.

EDWARD _hides his face for a moment_.

EDWARD. And I've been hoping to escape! Well . . it can't be helped [_and he sets his teeth_.]

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with touching solemnity._] I think I could not bear to see the family I have loved brought to such disgrace.

EDWARD. So you'll compound my felony?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_a little nervous._] That's only your joke!

EDWARD. You'll come to no harm.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. On the contrary. And I want to ask your pardon, Edward, for some of the hard thoughts I have had of you. I consider this effort of yours to restore to the firm the credit which your father lost a very striking one. What improvements have you effected so far?

EDWARD. [_wondering what is coming now._] I took the money that my father left . .

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. And I suppose you take the ordinary profits of the firm?

EDWARD. Yes. It costs me very little to live.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Do you restore to the clients all round in proportion to the amount they have lost?

EDWARD. [_cautiously._] That's the law.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. D'you think that's quite fair?

EDWARD. No, I don't.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, I consider the treachery to have been blacker in some cases than in others.

EDWARD. [_his face brightening a little._] Are you going to help me in this work of mine?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Surely by consenting not to prosecute I am doing so.

EDWARD. Will you do no more?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, as far as my own money is concerned, this is my proposal. [_he coughs and proceeds very formally._] Considering how absolutely I trusted your father and believed in him, I think you should at once return me the balance of my capital that there is left.

EDWARD. [_cold again._] That is being done.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Good. That you should continue to pay me a fair interest upon the rest of that capital, which ought to exist and does not. And that you should, year by year, pay me back by degrees out of the earnings of the firm as much of that capital as you can afford. We will agree upon the sum . . say a thousand a year. I doubt if you can ever restore me all that I have lost, but do your best and I shan't complain. There . . I think that is fair dealing!

EDWARD _does not take his eyes off_ MR. BOOTH _until the whole meaning of this proposition has settled in his brain. Then, without warning, he goes off into peals of laughter, much to the alarm of_ MR. BOOTH, _who has never thought him over-sane_.

EDWARD. How funny! How very funny!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, don't laugh.

EDWARD. I never heard anything quite so funny!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, stop laughing.

EDWARD. What will Colpus . . what will all the other Christian gentlemen demand? Pounds of flesh! Pounds of flesh!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Don't be hysterical. I demand what is mine . . in such quantities as you can afford.

EDWARD'S _laughter gives way to the deepest anger of which he is capable_.

EDWARD. I'm giving my soul and body to restoring you and the rest of you to your precious money bags . . and you'll wring me dry. Won't you? Won't you?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now be reasonable. Argue the point quietly.

EDWARD. Go to the devil, sir.

_And with that he turns away from the flabbergasted old gentleman._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Don't be rude.

EDWARD. [_his anger vanishing._] I beg your pardon.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You're excited. Take time to think of it. I'm reasonable.

EDWARD. [_his sense of humour returning._] Most! Most! [_There is a knock at the door._] Come in. Come in.

HONOR _intrudes an apologetic head_.

HONOR. Am I interrupting business? I'm so sorry.

EDWARD. [_crowing in a mirthless enjoyment of his joke._] No! Business is over . . quite over. Come in, Honor.

HONOR _puts on the table a market basket bulging with little paper parcels, and, oblivious to_ MR. BOOTH'S _distracted face, tries to fix his attention_.

HONOR. I thought, dear Mr. Booth, perhaps you wouldn't mind carrying round this basket of things yourself. It's so very damp underfoot that I don't want to send one of the maids out to-night if I can possibly avoid it . . and if one doesn't get Christmas presents the very first thing on Christmas morning quite half the pleasure in them is lost, don't you think?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Yes . . yes.

HONOR. [_fishing out the parcels one by one._] This is a bell for Mrs. Williams . . something she said she wanted so that you can ring that for her which saves the maids. Cap and apron for Mary. Cap and apron for Ellen. Shawl for Davis when she goes out to the larder. All useful presents. And that's something for you but you're not to look at it till the morning.

_Having shaken each of these at the old gentleman, she proceeds to re-pack them. He is now trembling with anxiety to escape before any more of the family find him there._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you . . thank you! I hope my lot has arrived. I left instructions . .

HONOR. Quite safely . . and I have hidden them. Presents are put on the breakfast table to-morrow.

EDWARD. [_with an inconsequence that still further alarms_ MR. BOOTH.] When we were all children our Christmas breakfast was mostly made off chocolates.

_Before the basket is packed_, MRS. VOYSEY _sails slowly into the room, as smiling and as deaf as ever_. MR. BOOTH _does his best not to scowl at her_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Are you feeling better, George Booth?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. [_then he elevates his voice with a show of politeness._] No, thank you . . I can't say I am.

MRS. VOYSEY. You don't look better.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I still have my headache. [_with a distracted shout._] Headache.

MRS. VOYSEY. Bilious, perhaps! I quite understood you didn't care to dine. But why not have taken your coat off? How foolish in this warm room!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you. I'm just going.

_He seizes the market basket. At that moment_ MRS. HUGH _appears_.

BEATRICE. Your shawl, mother. [_and she clasps it round_ MRS. VOYSEY'S _shoulders_.]

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you, Beatrice. I thought I had it on. [_then to_ MR. BOOTH _who is now entangled in his comforter_.] A merry Christmas to you.

BEATRICE. Good evening, Mr. Booth.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I beg your pardon. Good evening, Mrs. Hugh.

HONOR. [_with sudden inspiration, to the company in general._] Why shouldn't I write in here . . now the table's cleared!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_sternly, now he is safe by the door._] Will you see me out, Edward?

EDWARD. Yes.

_He follows the old man and his basket, leaving the others to distribute themselves about the room. It is a custom of the female members of the_ VOYSEY _family, especially about Christmas time, to return to the dining room, when the table has been cleared and occupy themselves in various ways which require space and untidiness. Sometimes as the evening wears on they partake of cocoa, sometimes they abstain._ BEATRICE _has a little work-basket, containing a buttonless glove and such things, which she is rectifying_. HONOR'S _writing is done with the aid of an enormous blotting book, which bulges with apparently a year's correspondence. She sheds its contents upon the end of the dining table and spreads them abroad._ MRS. VOYSEY _settles to the fire, opens the Nineteenth Century and is instantly absorbed in it_.

BEATRICE. Where's Emily?

HONOR. [_mysteriously._] Well, Beatrice, she's in the library talking to Booth.

BEATRICE. Talking to her husband; good Heavens! I know she has taken my scissors.

HONOR. I think she's telling him about you.

BEATRICE. What about me?

HONOR. You and Hugh.

BEATRICE. [_with a little movement of annoyance._] I suppose this is Hugh's fault. It was carefully arranged no one was to be told till after Christmas.

HONOR. Emily told me . . and Edward knows . . and Mother knows . .

BEATRICE. I warned Mother a year ago.

HONOR. Everyone seems to know but Booth . . so I thought he'd better be told. I suggested one night so that he might have time to think over it . . but Emily said that'd wake Alfred. Besides she's nearly always asleep herself when he comes to bed.

BEATRICE. Why do they still have that baby in their room?

HONOR. Emily considers it her duty.

_At this moment_ EMILY _comes in, looking rather trodden upon_. HONOR _concludes in the most audible of whispers_ . .

HONOR. Don't say anything . . it's my fault.

BEATRICE. [_fixing her with a severe forefinger._] Emily . . have you taken my best scissors?

EMILY. [_timidly._] No, Beatrice.

HONOR. [_who is diving into the recesses of the blotting book._] Oh, here they are! I must have taken them. I do apologise!

EMILY. [_more timidly still._] I'm afraid Booth's rather cross . . he's gone to look for Hugh.

BEATRICE. [_with a shake of her head._] Honor . . I've a good mind to make you sew on these buttons for me.

_In comes the Major, strepitant. He takes, so to speak, just time enough to train himself on_ BEATRICE _and then fires_.

BOOTH. Beatrice, what on earth is this Emily has been telling me?

BEATRICE. [_with elaborate calm._] Emily, what have you been telling Booth?

BOOTH. Please . . please do not prevaricate. Where is Hugh?

MRS. VOYSEY. [_looking over her spectacles._] What did you say, Booth?

BOOTH. I want Hugh, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY. I thought you were playing billiards together.

EDWARD _strolls back from despatching_ MR. BOOTH, _his face thoughtful_.

BOOTH. [_insistently._] Edward, where is Hugh?

EDWARD. [_with complete indifference._] I don't know.

BOOTH. [_in trumpet tones._] Honor, will you oblige me by finding Hugh and saying I wish to speak to him, here, immediately?

HONOR, _who has leapt at the sound of her name, flies from the room without a word_.

BEATRICE. I know quite well what you want to talk about, Booth. Discuss the matter by all means if it amuses you . . but don't shout.

BOOTH. I use the voice Nature has gifted me with, Beatrice.

BEATRICE. [_as she searches for a glove button._] Certainly Nature did let herself go over your lungs.

BOOTH. [_glaring round with indignation._] This is a family matter, otherwise I should not feel it my duty to interfere . . as I do. Any member of the family has a right to express an opinion. I want Mother's. Mother, what do you think?

MRS. VOYSEY. [_amicably._] What about?

BOOTH. Hugh and Beatrice separating.

MRS. VOYSEY. They haven't separated.

BOOTH. But they mean to.

MRS. VOYSEY. Fiddle-de-dee!

BOOTH. I quite agree with you.

BEATRICE. [_with a charming smile._] This reasoning would convert a stone.

BOOTH. Why have I not been told?

BEATRICE. You have just been told.

BOOTH. [_thunderously._] Before.

BEATRICE. The truth is, dear Booth, we're all so afraid of you.

BOOTH. [_a little mollified._] Ha . . I should be glad to think that.

BEATRICE. [_sweetly._] Don't you?

BOOTH. [_intensely serious._] Beatrice, your callousness shocks me! That you can dream of deserting Hugh . . a man of all others who requires constant care and attention.

BEATRICE. May I remark that the separation is as much Hugh's wish as mine?

BOOTH. I don't believe that.

BEATRICE. [_her eyebrows up._] Really!

BOOTH. I don't imply that you're lying. But you must know that it's Hugh's nature to wish to do anything that he thinks anybody wishes him to do. All my life I've had to stand up for him . . and by Jove, I'll continue to do so.

EDWARD. [_from the depths of his armchair._] If you'd taught him to stand up for himself--

_The door is flung almost off its hinges by_ HUGH _who then stands stamping and pale green with rage_.

HUGH. Look here, Booth . . I will not have you interfering with my private affairs. Is one never to be free from your bullying?

BOOTH. You ought to be grateful.

HUGH. Well, I'm not.

BOOTH. This is a family affair.

HUGH. It is not!

BOOTH. [_at the top of his voice._] If all you can do is to contradict me, you'd better listen to what I've got to say . . quietly.

HUGH, _quite shouted down, flings himself petulantly into a chair. A hush falls._

EMILY. [_in a still small voice._] Would you like me to go, Booth?

BOOTH. [_severely._] No, Emily. Unless anything has been going on which cannot be discussed before you . . [_then more severely still._] and I hope that is not so.

HUGH. [_muttering rebelliously._] Oh, you have the mind of a . . cheap schoolmaster!

BOOTH. Why do you wish to separate?

HUGH. What's the use of telling you? You won't understand.

BEATRICE. [_who sews on undisturbed._] We don't get on well together.

BOOTH. [_amazedly._] Is that all?

HUGH. [_snapping at him._] Yes, that's all. Can you find a better reason?

BOOTH. [_with brotherly contempt._] I have given up expecting common sense from you. But Beatrice--! [_his tone implores her to be reasonable._]

BEATRICE. It doesn't seem to me any sort of sense that people should live together for purposes of mutual irritation.

BOOTH. [_protesting._] My dear girl! . . that sounds like a quotation from your last book.

BEATRICE. It isn't. I do think, Booth, you might read that book . . for the honour of the Family.

BOOTH. [_successfully side-tracked. ._ ] I have bought it, Beatrice, and--

BEATRICE. That's the principal thing, of course--

BOOTH. [_. . and discovering it._] But do let us keep to the subject.

BEATRICE. [_with flattering sincerity._] Certainly, Booth. And there is hardly any subject that I wouldn't ask your advice about. But upon this . . do let me know better. Hugh and I will be happier apart.

BOOTH. [_obstinately._] Why?

BEATRICE. [_with resolute patience, having vented a little sigh._] Hugh finds that my opinions distress him. And I have at last lost patience with Hugh.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has been trying to follow this through her spectacles._] What does Beatrice say?

BOOTH. [_translating into a loud sing-song._] That she wishes to leave her husband because she has lost patience!

MRS. VOYSEY. [_with considerable acrimony._] Then you must be a very ill-tempered woman. Hugh has a sweet nature.

HUGH. [_shouting self-consciously._] Nonsense, mother.

BEATRICE. [_shouting good-humouredly._] I quite agree with you, mother. [_she continues to her husband in an even just tone._] You have a sweet nature, Hugh, and it is most difficult to get angry with you. I have been seven years working up to it. But now that I am angry, I shall never get pleased again.

_The Major returns to his subject, refreshed by a moment's repose._

BOOTH. How has he failed in his duty? Tell us. I'm not bigoted in his favour. I know your faults, Hugh.

_He wags his head at_ HUGH, _who writhes with irritation_.

HUGH. Why can't you leave them alone . . leave us alone?

BEATRICE. I'd state my case against Hugh, if I thought he'd retaliate.

HUGH. [_desperately rounding on his brother._] If I tell you, you won't understand. You understand nothing! Beatrice is angry with me because I won't prostitute my art to make money.

BOOTH. [_glancing at his wife._] Please don't use metaphors of that sort.

BEATRICE. [_reasonably._] Yes, I think Hugh ought to earn more money.

BOOTH. [_quite pleased to be getting along at last._] Well, why doesn't he?

HUGH. I don't want money.

BOOTH. You can't say you don't want money any more than you can say you don't want bread.

BEATRICE. [_as she breaks off her cotton._] It's when one has known what it is to be a little short of both . .

_Now the Major spreads himself and begins to be very wise, while_ HUGH, _to whom this is more intolerable than all, can only clutch his hair_.

BOOTH. You know I never considered Art a very good profession for you, Hugh. And you won't even stick to one department of it. It's a profession that gets people into very bad habits, I consider. Couldn't you take up something else? You could still do those wood-cuts in your spare time to amuse yourself.

HUGH. [_commenting on this with two deliberate shouts of simulated mirth._] Ha! Ha!

BOOTH. [_sublimely superior._] Well, it wouldn't much matter if you didn't do them at all!

BEATRICE. [_subtly._] Booth, there speaks the true critic.

BOOTH. [_deprecating any title to omniscience._] Well, I don't pretend to know much about Art but--

HUGH. It would matter to me. There speaks the artist.

BEATRICE. The arrogance of the artist!

HUGH. We have a right to be arrogant.

BEATRICE. Good workmen are humble.

HUGH. And look to their wages.

BEATRICE. Well, I'm only a workman.

_With that she breaks the contact of this quiet deadly hopeless little quarrel by turning her head away. The Major, who has given it most friendly attention, comments . ._

BOOTH. Of course! Quite so! I'm sure all that is a very interesting difference of opinion.

MRS. VOYSEY _leaves her armchair for her favourite station at the dining table_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Booth is the only one of you that I can hear at all distinctly. But if you two foolish young people think you want to separate . . try it. You'll soon come back to each other and be glad to. People can't fight against Nature for long. And marriage is a natural state . . once you're married.

BOOTH. [_with intense approval._] Quite right, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY. I know.

_She resumes the Nineteenth Century. The Major, to the despair of everybody, makes yet another start; trying oratory this time._

BOOTH. My own opinion is, Beatrice and Hugh, that you don't realise the meaning of the word marriage. I don't call myself a religious man . . but dash it all, you were married in church! . . And you then entered upon an awful compact! . . Surely . . as a woman, Beatrice . . the religious point of it ought to appeal to you. Good Lord, suppose everybody were to carry on like this! And have you considered, Beatrice, that . . whether you're right or whether you're wrong . . if you desert Hugh, you cut yourself off from the Family.

BEATRICE. [_with the sweetest of smiles._] That will distress me terribly.

BOOTH. [_not doubting her for a moment._] Of course.

HUGH _flings up his head and finds relief at last in many words_.

HUGH. I wish to Heaven I'd ever been able to cut myself off from the family! Look at Trenchard.

BOOTH. [_gobbling a little at this unexpected attack._] I do not forgive Trenchard for quarreling with and deserting our father.

HUGH. Trenchard quarreled because that was his only way of escape.

BOOTH. Escape from what?

HUGH. From tyranny! . . from hypocrisy! . . from boredom! . . from his Happy English Home!

BEATRICE. [_kindly._] Hugh . . Hugh . . it's no use.

BOOTH. [_attempting sarcasm._] Speak so that Mother can hear you!

_But_ HUGH _isn't to be stopped now_.

HUGH. Why are we all dull, cubbish, uneducated, hopelessly middle-class . . that is hopelessly out of date.

BOOTH. [_taking this as very personal._] Cubbish!

HUGH. . . Because it's the middle-class ideal that you should respect your parents . . live with them . . think with them . . grow like them. Natural affection and gratitude! That's what's expected, isn't it?

BOOTH. [_not to be obliterated._] Certainly.

HUGH. Keep your children ignorant of all that you don't know, penniless except for your good pleasure, dependent on you for permission to breathe freely . . and be sure that their gratitude will be most disinterested, and affection very natural. If your father's a drunkard or poor; then perhaps you get free and can form an opinion or two of your own . . and can love him or hate him as he deserves. But our father and mother were models. They did their duty by us . . and taught us ours. Trenchard escaped, as I say. You took to the Army . . so of course you've never discovered how behind the times you are. [_the Major is stupent._] I tried to express myself in art . . and found there was nothing to express . . I'd been so well brought up. D'you blame me if I wander about in search of a soul of some sort? And Honor--

BOOTH. [_disputing savagely._] Honor is very happy at home. Everyone loves her.

HUGH. [_with fierce sarcasm._] Yes . . what do we call her? Mother's right hand! I wonder they bothered to give her a name. By the time little Ethel came they were tired of training children . . [_his voice loses its sting; he doesn't complete this sentence._]

BEATRICE. Poor little Ethel . .

BOOTH. Poor Ethel!

_They speak as one speaks of the dead, and so the wrangling stops. Then_ EDWARD _interposes quietly_.

EDWARD. Yes, Hugh, if we'd been poor . .

HUGH. I haven't spoken of your fate, Edward. That's too shameful.

EDWARD. . . We should at least have learnt how to spend money.

BOOTH. [_pathetically._] Really, Edward, need you attack me?

HUGH. Well . . you're so proud of representing the family!

BOOTH. And may I ask what we're discussing now?

BEATRICE. Yes, Edward. I knew how to get the greatest possible happiness out of a five pound note years before I had one.

EDWARD. The first man who saved a sovereign has made a prisoner of me.

BOOTH. [_determined to capture the conversation again._] Has made a . . ?

EDWARD. Will make . . if you understand that better, Booth.