Part 13

BOOTH. I don't understand it at all. [_they leave him the field._] And why for no earthly reason we must suddenly open up a--a street, which is very painful . . I really cannot see. One never knows who may be listening. [_he glances most uneasily towards the door and drops his voice._] In that unhappy business, Edward, you very wisely did what we all felt to be your duty. I'm sure we all hope you have succeeded in your endeavours. But the least we can do now in respect to our poor father's memory is to bury the matter in--in decent oblivion. And please . . please don't talk of prison. I thought you'd given up that idea long ago. [_having dismissed that subject unopposed, he takes a long breath._] Now we will return to the original subject of discussion. Hugh, this question of a separation--

_Past all patience_, HUGH _jumps up and flings his chair back to its place_.

HUGH. Beatrice and I mean to separate. And nothing you may say will prevent us. The only difficulty in the way is money. Can we command enough to live apart comfortably?

BOOTH. Well?

HUGH. Well . . we can't.

BOOTH. Well?

HUGH. So we can't separate.

BOOTH. [_speaking with bewilderment._] Then what in Heaven's name have we been discussing it for?

HUGH. I haven't discussed it! I don't want to discuss it! Why can't you mind your own business? Now I'll go back to the billiard room and my book.

_He is gone before the poor Major can recover his lost breath._

BOOTH. [_as he does recover it._] I am not an impatient man . . but really . . [_and then words fail him._]

BEATRICE. [_commenting calmly._] Of course Hugh was a spoilt child. They grow to hate their parents sooner than others. He still cries for what he wants. That makes him a wearisome companion.

BOOTH. [_very sulky now._] You married him with your eyes open, I suppose?

BEATRICE. How few women marry with their eyes open!

BOOTH. You have never made the best of Hugh.

BEATRICE. I have spared him that indignity.

BOOTH. [_vindictively._] I am very glad that you can't separate.

BEATRICE. As soon as I'm reasonably sure of earning an income I shall walk off from him.

_The Major revives._

BOOTH. You will do nothing of the sort, Beatrice.

BEATRICE. [_unruffled._] How will you stop me, Booth?

BOOTH. I shall tell Hugh he must command you to stay.

BEATRICE. [_with a little smile._] Now that might make a difference. It was one of the illusions of my girlhood that I should love a man who would master me.

BOOTH. Hugh must assert himself.

_He begins to walk about, giving some indication of how it should be done._ BEATRICE'S _smile has vanished_.

BEATRICE. Don't think I've enjoyed taking the lead in everything throughout my married life. But someone had to plan and scheme and be foreseeing . . we weren't sparrows or lilies of the field . . someone had to get up and do something. [_she becomes conscious of his strutting and smiles rather mischievously._] Ah . . if I'd married you, Booth!

BOOTH'S _face grows beatific_.

BOOTH. Well, I must own to thinking that I am a masterful man . . that is the duty of every man to be so. [_he adds forgivingly._] Poor old Hugh!

BEATRICE. [_unable to resist temptation._] If I'd tried to leave you, Booth, you'd have whipped me . . wouldn't you?

BOOTH. [_ecstatically complacent._] Ha . . well . . !

BEATRICE. Do say yes. Think how it'll frighten Emily.

_The Major strokes his moustache and is most friendly._

BOOTH. Hugh's been a worry to me all my life. And now as Head of the Family . . Well, I suppose I'd better go and give the dear old chap another talking to. I quite see your point of view, Beatrice.

BEATRICE. Why disturb him at his book?

MAJOR BOOTH _leaves them, squaring his shoulders as becomes a lord of creation. The two sisters-in-law go on with their work silently for a moment; then_ BEATRICE _adds_ . .

BEATRICE. Do you find Booth difficult to manage, Emily?

EMILY. [_putting down her knitting to consider the matter._] No. It's best to allow him to talk himself out. When he's done that he'll often come to me for advice. I let him get his own way as much as possible . . or think he's getting it. Otherwise he becomes so depressed.

BEATRICE. [_quietly amused._] Edward shouldn't hear this. What has he to do with women's secrets?

EDWARD. I won't tell . . and I'm a bachelor.

EMILY. [_solemnly as she takes up her knitting again._] Do you really mean to leave Hugh?

BEATRICE. [_slightly impatient._] Emily, I've said so.

_They are joined by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who comes in gaily_.

ALICE. What's Booth shouting about in the billiard room?

EMILY. [_pained._] On Christmas Eve, too!

BEATRICE. Don't you take any interest in my matrimonial affairs?

MRS. VOYSEY _shuts up the Nineteenth Century and removes her spectacles_.

MRS. VOYSEY. That's a very interesting article. The Chinese Empire must be in a shocking state! Is it ten o'clock yet?

EDWARD. Past.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_as_ EDWARD _is behind her_.] Can anyone see the clock?

ALICE. It's past ten, Auntie.

MRS. VOYSEY. Then I think I'll go to my room.

EMILY. Shall I come and look after you, Mother?

MRS. VOYSEY. If you'd find Honor for me, Emily.

EMILY _goes in search of the harmless necessary_ HONOR _and_ MRS. VOYSEY _begins her nightly chant of departure_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Good night, Alice. Good night, Edward.

EDWARD. Good night, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_with sudden severity._] I'm not pleased with you, Beatrice.

BEATRICE. I'm sorry, Mother.

_But without waiting to be answered the old lady has sailed out of the room._ BEATRICE, EDWARD, _and_ ALICE _are attuned to each other enough to be able to talk with ease_.

BEATRICE. Hugh is right about his family. It'll never make any new life for itself.

EDWARD. There are Booth's children.

BEATRICE. Poor little devils!

ALICE. [_judicially._] Emily is an excellent mother.

BEATRICE. Yes . . they'll grow up good men and women. And one will go into the Army and one into the Navy and one into the Church . . and perhaps one to the Devil and the Colonies. They'll serve their country and govern it and help to keep it like themselves . . dull and respectable . . hopelessly middle-class. [_she puts down her work now and elevates an oratorical fist._] Genius and Poverty may exist in England, if they'll hide their heads. For show days we've our aristocracy. But never let us forget, gentlemen, that it is the plain solid middle-class man who has made us . . what we are.

EDWARD. [_in sympathetic derision._] Hear hear . . ! and cries of bravo!

BEATRICE. Now, that is out of my book . . the next one. [_she takes up her work again._] You know, Edward . . without wishing to open up Painful Streets . . however scandalous it has been, your father left you a man's work to do.

EDWARD. [_his face cloudy._] An outlaw's!

BEATRICE. [_whimsical, after a moment._] I meant that. At all events you've not had to be your father's right arm . . or the instrument of justice . . or a representative of the people . . or anything second hand of that sort, have you?

EDWARD. [_with sudden excitement._] Do you know what I discovered the other day about [_he nods at the portrait._] . . him?

BEATRICE. [_enquiring calmly._] Innocence or guilt?

EDWARD. He saved his firm once . . that was true. A most capable piece of heroism. Then, fifteen years afterwards . . he started again.

BEATRICE. [_greatly interested._] Did he now?

EDWARD. One can't believe it was merely through weakness . .

BEATRICE. [_with artistic enthusiasm._] Of course not. He was a great financier . . a man of imagination. He had to find scope for his abilities or die. He despised these fat little clients living so snugly on their unearned incomes . . and put them and their money to the best use he could.

EDWARD. [_shaking his head solemnly._] That's all a fine phrase for robbery.

BEATRICE _turns her clever face to him and begins to follow up her subject keenly_.

BEATRICE. My dear Edward . . I understand you've been robbing your rich clients for the benefit of the poor ones?

ALICE. [_who hasn't missed a word._] That's true.

EDWARD. [_gently._] Well . . we're all a bit in debt to the poor, aren't we?

BEATRICE. Quite so. And you don't possess and your father didn't possess that innate sense of the sacredness of property . . . [_she enjoys that phrase._] which alone can make a truly honest man. Nor did the man possess it who picked my pocket last Friday week . . nor does the tax-gatherer . . . nor do I. Your father's freedom from prejudice was tempered by a taste for Power and Display. Yours is by Charity. But that's all the difference I'll admit between you. Robbery! . . it's a beautiful word.

EDWARD. [_a little pained by as much of this as he takes to be serious._] I think he might have told me the truth.

BEATRICE. Perhaps he didn't know it! Would you have believed him?

EDWARD. Perhaps not. But I loved him.

BEATRICE _looks again at the gentle, earnest face_.

BEATRICE. After as well as before?

EDWARD. Yes. And not from mere force of habit either.

BEATRICE. [_with reverence in her voice now._] That should silence a bench of judges. Well . . well . .

_Her sewing finished, she stuffs the things into her basket, gets up in her abrupt unconventional way and goes without another word. Her brain is busy with the Voysey Inheritance._ EDWARD _and_ ALICE _are left in chairs by the fire, facing each other like an old domestic couple_.

EDWARD. Stay and speak to me.

ALICE. I want to. Something more serious has happened since dinner.

EDWARD. I'm glad you can see that.

ALICE. What is it?

EDWARD. [_with sudden exultation._] The smash has come . . and not by my fault. Old George Booth--

ALICE. Has he been here?

EDWARD. Can you imagine it? That old man forced me into telling him the truth. I told him to take what money of his there was, and prosecute. He won't prosecute, but he bargains to take the money . . and further to bleed us, sovereign by sovereign, as I earn sovereign by sovereign with the sweat of my soul. I'll see him in his Christian Heaven first . . the Jew!

ALICE. [_keeping her head._] You can't reason with him?

EDWARD. He thinks he has the whip hand and he means to use it. Also the Vicar has been told . . who has told his wife. She knows how not to keep a secret. The smash has come at last.

ALICE. So you're glad?

EDWARD. Thankful. My conscience is clear. I've done my best. [_then as usual with him, his fervour collapses._] And oh, Alice . . has it been worth doing?

ALICE. [_encouragingly._] Half a dozen people pulled out of the fire.

EDWARD. If only that isn't found out! I've bungled this job, Alice. I feared all along I should. It was work for a strong man . . not for me.

ALICE. Work for a patient man.

EDWARD. You use kind words. But I've never shirked the truth about myself. My father said mine was a weak nature. He knew.

ALICE. You have a religious nature.

EDWARD. [_surprised._] Oh no!

ALICE. [_proceeding to explain._] Therefore you're not fond of creeds and ceremonies. Therefore . . as the good things of this wordly world don't satisfy you, you shirk contact with it all you can. I understand this temptation to neglect and despise practical things. But if one yields to it one's character narrows and cheapens. That's a pity . . but it's so.

EDWARD. [_his eyes far away._] D'you ever feel that there aren't enough windows in a house?

ALICE. [_prosaically._] In this weather . . too many.

EDWARD. Well then . . in a house--especially in a big city--in my office at work, then . . one is out of hearing of all the music of the world. And when one does get back to Nature, instead of being all curves to her roundness, one is all corners.

ALICE. [_smiling at him._] Yes, you love to think idly . . just as Hugh does. You do it quite well, too. [_then briskly._] Edward, may I scold you?

EDWARD. For that?

ALICE. Because of that. You're grown to be a sloven lately . . deliberately letting yourself be unhappy.

EDWARD. Is happiness under one's control?

ALICE. My friend, you shouldn't neglect your happiness any more than you neglect to wash your face. Here has the squalour of your work been making you poor. Because it was liable to be stopped at any moment uncompleted . . why should that let your life be incomplete? Edward, for the last eighteen months you've been more like a moral portent than a man. You've not had a smile to throw to a friend . . or an opinion upon any subject. You've dropped your Volunteering. [_he protests._] I know there's something comic in volunteering . . though Heaven knows what it is! I suppose you found it out of keeping with your unhappy fate. And how slack you were in your politics last November. I don't believe you even voted . .

EDWARD. [_contrite at this._] That was wrong of me!

ALICE. Yes, I expect a man to be a good citizen. And you don't even eat properly.

_With that she completes the accusation and_ EDWARD _searches round for a defence_.

EDWARD. Alice, it was always an effort with me to do all those things . . and lately every effort has had to go to my work.

ALICE. You did them . . on principle.

EDWARD. Don't laugh at me.

ALICE. [_whispering the awful words._] Then truthfully, Edward, once upon a time you were a bit of a prig.

EDWARD. [_with enough sense of humour to whisper back._] Was I?

ALICE. I'm afraid so! But the prig fell ill when your father died . . and had to be buried in his grave. [_Then her voice rises stirringly._] Oh, don't you see what a blessing this cursed work was meant to be to you? Why must you stand stiff against it?

EDWARD. [_without a smile now._] But lately, Alice, I've hardly known myself. Once or twice I've lost my temper . . I've been brutal.

ALICE. That's the best news in the world. There's your own wicked nature coming out. That's what we've been waiting for . . that's what we want. That's you.

EDWARD. [_still serious._] I'm sorry for it.

ALICE. Oh, Edward, be a little proud of poor humanity . . take your own share in it gladly. It so discourages the rest of us if you don't.

_Suddenly he breaks down completely._

EDWARD. I can't let myself be glad and live. There's the future to think of. And I'm so afraid of that. I must pretend I don't care . . even to myself . . even to you.

ALICE. [_her mocking at an end._] What is it you fear most about the future . . not just the obviously unpleasant things?

EDWARD. They'll put me in prison.

ALICE. Perhaps.

EDWARD. Who'll be the man who comes out?

ALICE. Yourself.

EDWARD. No, no! I'm a coward. I can't stand alone, it's too lonely. I need affection . . I need friends. I cling to people that I don't care for deeply . . just for the comfort of it. I've no home of my own. Every house that welcomes me now I like to think of as something of a home. And I know that this disgrace in store will leave me for a long time or a short time . . homeless.

_There he sits shaken._ ALICE _waits a moment, not taking her eyes from him; then speaks_.

ALICE. There's something else I want to scold you for. You've still given up proposing to me. Certainly that shows a lack of courage . . and of perseverance. Or is it the loss of what I always considered a very laudable ambition?

EDWARD _is hardly able to trust his ears. Then he looks into her face and his thankfulness frames itself into a single sentence._

EDWARD. Will you marry me?

ALICE. Yes, Edward.

_For a minute he just holds his breath with happiness. But he shakes himself free of it, almost savagely._

EDWARD. No, no, no, we mustn't be stupid. I'm sorry I asked for that.

ALICE. [_with serene strength._] I'm glad that you want me. While I live . . where I am will be Home.

EDWARD. [_struggling with himself._] No, it's too late. If you'd said Yes before I came into my inheritance . . perhaps I shouldn't have given myself to the work. So be glad that it's too late. I am.

ALICE. [_happily._] There was never any chance of my marrying you when you were only a well-principled prig. I didn't want you . . and I don't believe you really wanted me. Now you do. And you must always take what you want.

EDWARD. [_turning to her again._] My dear, what have we to start life upon . . to build our house upon? Poverty . . and prison for me.

ALICE. [_mischievous._] Edward, you seem to think that all the money in the world was invested in your precious firm. I have four hundred a year of my own. At least let that tempt you.

EDWARD _catches her in his arms with a momentary little burst of passion_.

EDWARD. You're tempting me.

_She did not resist, but nevertheless he breaks away from her, disappointed with himself. She goes on, quietly, serenely._

ALICE. Am I? Am I playing upon your senses in any way? Am I a silly child looking to you for protection in return for your favour? Shall I hinder or help your life? If you don't think me your equal as woman to man, we'll never speak of this again. But if you do . . look at me and make your choice. To refuse me my work and happiness in life and to cripple your own nature . . or to take my hand.

_She puts out her hand frankly, as a friend should. With only a second's thought he, happy too now, takes it as frankly. Then she sits beside him and quite cheerfully changes the subject._

ALICE. Now, referring to the subject of Mr. George Booth. What will he do?

EDWARD. [_responsive though impatient._] He'll do nothing. I shall be before him.

ALICE. What about his proposal?

EDWARD. That needs no answer.

ALICE. Yes, it does. I know the temptation to hit back at him mock-heroically . . it's natural. Well, we'll consider it done. But he's a silly old man and he doesn't know what he's talking about. I think we can bargain with him to keep the firm going somehow . . and if we can we must.

_At this_ EDWARD _makes a last attempt to abandon himself to his troubles_.

EDWARD. No, Alice, no . . let it end here. It has done for me . . I'm broken. And of course we can't be married . . that's absurd.

ALICE. [_with firmness enough for two._] We shall be married. And nothing's broken . . except our pride and righteousness . . and several other things we're better without. And now we must break our dignity in to bargaining.

EDWARD. [_struggling in the toils of virtue._] But it'll be so useless. Colpus'll be round in a day or two to make his conditions . . he'll tell some intimate friend. They'll all come after their money like wasps after honey. And if they know I won't lift a finger in my own defence . . what sort of mercy will they have?

ALICE. [_triumphantly completing her case._] No, Edward, if you surrender yourself entirely, you'll find them powerless against you. You see, you had something to hope or fear from Mr. Booth . . you hoped in your heart he'd end your trouble. But when you've conquered that last little atom of the selfishness which gets in one's way, I think you'll find you can do what you wish with these selfish men. [_and she adds fervently._] Oh, it's a power so seldom used. But the man who is able, and cares deeply, and yet has nothing to hope or fear is all powerful . . even in little things.

EDWARD. Will nothing ever happen to set me free? Shall I never be able to rest for a moment . . turn round and say I've succeeded or I've failed?

ALICE. That isn't what matters.

EDWARD. If they could all meet and agree, they might syndicate themselves and keep me at it for life.

ALICE. What more could you wish for?

EDWARD. Than that dreary round!

ALICE. My dear, the world must be put tidy. That's the work which splendid criminals . . and others leave about for us poor commonplace people to do.

EDWARD. [_with a little laugh._] And I don't believe in Heaven either.

ALICE. [_close to him._] But there's to be our life. What's wrong with that?

EDWARD. My dear, when they put me in prison for swindling--[_he makes the word sound its worst._]

ALICE. I think they won't. But if they are so stupid . . I must be very careful.

EDWARD. Of what?

ALICE. To avoid false pride. I shall be foolishly proud of you.

EDWARD. It's good to be praised sometimes . . by you.

ALICE. My heart praises you. Good night.

EDWARD. Good night.

_She kisses his forehead. But he puts up his face like a child, so she bends down and for the first time their lips meet. Then she steps back from him, adding happily, with perhaps just a touch of shyness._

ALICE. Till to-morrow.

EDWARD. [_echoing in gratitude the hope and promise in her voice._] Till to-morrow.

_She leaves him to sit there by the table for a few moments longer, looking into his future, streaked as it is to be with trouble and joy. As whose is not? From above . . from above the mantelpiece, that is to say . . the face of the late_ MR. VOYSEY _seems to look down upon his son not unkindly, though with that curious buccaneering twist of the eyebrows which distinguished his countenance in life_.

Waste

1906-7

WASTE

At Shapters, GEORGE FARRANT'S house in Hertfordshire. Ten o'clock on a Sunday evening in summer.

_Facing you at her piano by the window, from which she is protected by a little screen, sits_ MRS. FARRANT; _a woman of the interesting age, clear-eyed and all her face serene, except for a little pucker of the brows which shows a puzzled mind upon some important matters. To become almost an ideal hostess has been her achievement; and in her own home, as now, this grace is written upon every movement. Her eyes pass over the head of a girl, sitting in a low chair by a little table, with the shaded lamplight falling on her face. This is_ LUCY DAVENPORT; _twenty-three, undefeated in anything as yet and so unsoftened. The book on her lap is closed, for she has been listening to the music. It is possibly some German philosopher, whom she reads with a critical appreciation of his shortcomings. On the sofa near her lounges_ MRS. O'CONNELL; _a charming woman, if by charming you understand a woman who converts every quality she possesses into a means of attraction, and has no use for any others. On the sofa opposite sits_ MISS TREBELL. _In a few years, when her hair is quite grey, she will assume as by right the dignity of an old maid. Between these two in a low armchair is_ LADY DAVENPORT. _She has attained to many dignities. Mother and grandmother, she has brought into the world and nourished not merely life but character. A wonderful face she has, full of proud memories and fearless of the future. Behind her, on a sofa between the windows, is_ WALTER KENT. _He is just what the average English father would like his son to be. You can see the light shooting out through the windows and mixing with moonshine upon a smooth lawn. On your left is a door. There are many books in the room, hardly any pictures, a statuette perhaps. The owner evidently sets beauty of form before beauty of colour. It is a woman's room and it has a certain delicate austerity. By the time you have observed everything_, MRS. FARRANT _has played Chopin's prelude opus 28, number 20 from beginning to end_.

LADY DAVENPORT. Thank you, my dear Julia.

WALTER KENT. [_Protesting._] No more?

MRS. FARRANT. I won't play for a moment longer than I feel musical.

MISS TREBELL. Do you think it right, Julia, to finish with that after an hour's Bach?

MRS. FARRANT. I suddenly came over Chopinesque, Fanny; . . what's your objection? [_as she sits by her._]

FRANCES TREBELL. What . . when Bach has raised me to the heights of unselfishness!

AMY O'CONNELL. [_Grimacing sweetly, her eyes only half lifted._] Does he? I'm glad that I don't understand him.

FRANCES TREBELL. [_Putting mere prettiness in its place._] One may prefer Chopin when one is young.

AMY O'CONNELL. And is that a reproach or a compliment?

WALTER KENT. [_Boldly._] I do.

FRANCES TREBELL. Or a man may . . unless he's a philosopher.

LADY DAVENPORT. [_To the rescue._] Miss Trebell, you're very hard on mere humanity.

FRANCES TREBELL. [_Completing the reproof._] That's my wretched training as a schoolmistress, Lady Davenport . . one grew to fear it above all things.