Part 21

WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow, Horsham would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot yourself after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you so-called strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to come out to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you pistols by post, requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham would grieve over ten dinner-tables in succession and then return to his philosophy. One really mustn't waste a life trying to shock polite politicians. There'd even be a suspicion of swagger in it.

TREBELL. Quite so . . the bomb that's thrown at their feet must be something otherwise worthless.

FRANCES _comes in quickly, evidently in search of her brother. Though she has not been crying, her eyes are wide with grief._

FRANCES. Oh, Henry . . I'm so glad you're still up. [_She notices_ WEDGECROFT.] How d'you do, Doctor?

TREBELL. [_Doubling his mask of indifference._] Meistersinger's over early.

FRANCES. Is it?

TREBELL. Not much past twelve yet.

FRANCES. [_The little gibe lost on her._] It was Tristan to-night. I'm quite upset. I heard just as I was coming away . . Amy O'Connell's dead. [_Both men hold their breath._ TREBELL _is the first to find control of his and give the cue_.]

TREBELL. Yes . . Wedgecroft has just told me.

FRANCES. She was only taken ill last week . . it's so extraordinary. [_She remembers the doctor._] Oh . . have you been attending her?

WEDGECROFT. Yes.

FRANCES. I hear there's to be an inquest.

WEDGECROFT. Yes.

FRANCES. But what has been the matter?

TREBELL. [_Sharply forestalling any answer._] You'll know to-morrow.

FRANCES. [_The little snub almost bewildering her._] Anything private? I mean . .

TREBELL. No . . I'll tell you. Don't make Gilbert repeat a story twice . . He's tired with a good day's work.

WEDGECROFT. Yes . . I'll be getting away.

FRANCES _never heeds this flash of a further meaning between the two men_.

FRANCES. And I meant to have gone to see her to-day. Was the end very sudden? Did her husband arrive in time?

WEDGECROFT. Yes.

FRANCES. They didn't get on . . he'll be frightfully upset.

TREBELL _resists a hideous temptation to laugh_.

WEDGECROFT. Good night, Trebell.

TREBELL. Good night, Gilbert. Many thanks.

_There is enough of a caress in_ TREBELL'S _tone to turn_ FRANCES _towards their friend, a little remorseful for treating him so casually, now as always_.

FRANCES. He's always thanking you. You're always doing things for him.

WEDGECROFT. Good night. [_Seeing the tears in her eyes._] Oh, don't grieve.

FRANCES. One shouldn't be sorry when people die, I know. But she liked me more than I liked her. . [_This time_ TREBELL _does laugh, silently_.] . . so I somehow feel in her debt and unable to pay now.

TREBELL. [_An edge on his voice._] Yes . . people keep on dying at all sorts of ages, in all sorts of ways. But we seem never to get used to it . . narrow-minded as we are.

WEDGECROFT. Don't you talk nonsense.

TREBELL. [_One note sharper yet._] One should occasionally test one's sanity by doing so. If we lived in the logical world we like to believe in, I could also prove that black was white. As it is . . there are more ways of killing a cat than hanging it.

WEDGECROFT. Had I better give you a sleeping draught?

FRANCES. Are you doctoring him for once? Henry, have you at last managed to overwork yourself?

TREBELL. No . . I started the evening by a charming little dinner at the Van Meyer's . . sat next to Miss Grace Cutler, who is writing a _vie intime_ of Louis Quinze and engaged me with anecdotes of the same.

FRANCES. A champion of her sex, whom I do not like.

WEDGECROFT. She's writing such a book to prove that women are equal to anything.

_He goes towards the door and_ FRANCES _goes with him_. TREBELL _never turns his head_.

TREBELL. I shall not come and open the door for you . . but mind you shut it.

FRANCES _comes back_.

FRANCES. Henry . . this is dreadful about that poor little woman.

TREBELL. An unwelcome baby was arriving. She got some quack to kill her.

_These exact words are like a blow in the face to her, from which, being a woman of brave common sense, she does not shrink._

TREBELL. What do you say to that?

_She walks away from him, thinking painfully._

FRANCES. She had never had a child. There's the common-place thing to say . . Ungrateful little fool! But . .

TREBELL. If you had been in her place?

FRANCES. [_Subtly._] I have never made the mistake of marrying. She grew frightened, I suppose. Not just physically frightened. How can a man understand?

TREBELL. The fear of life . . do you think it was . . which is the beginning of all evil?

FRANCES. A woman must choose what her interpretation of life is to be . . as a man must too in his way . . as you and I have chosen, Henry.

TREBELL. [_Asking from real interest in her._] Was yours a deliberate choice and do you never regret it?

FRANCES. [_Very simply and clearly._] Perhaps one does nothing quite deliberately and for a definite reason. My state has its compensations . . if one doesn't value them too highly. I've travelled in thought over all this question. You mustn't blame a woman for wishing not to bear children. But . . well, if one doesn't like the fruit one mustn't cultivate the flower. And I suppose that saying condemns poor Amy . . condemned her to death . . [_Then her face hardens as she concentrates her meaning._] and brands most men as . . let's unsentimentally call it =illogical=, doesn't it?

_He takes the thrust in silence._

TREBELL. Did you notice the light in my window as you came in?

FRANCES. Yes . . in both as I got out of the cab. Do you want the curtains drawn back?

TREBELL. Yes . . don't touch them.

_He has thrown himself into his chair by the fire. She lapses into thought again._

FRANCES. Poor little woman.

TREBELL. [_In deep anger._] Well, if women will be little and poor . .

_She goes to him and slips an arm over his shoulder._

FRANCES. What is it you're worried about . . if a mere sister may ask?

TREBELL. [_Into the fire._] I want to think. I haven't thought for years.

FRANCES. Why, you have done nothing else.

TREBELL. I've been working out problems in legal and political algebra.

FRANCES. You want to think of =yourself=.

TREBELL. Yes.

FRANCES. [_Gentle and ironic._] Have you ever, for one moment, thought in that sense of anyone else?

TREBELL. Is that a complaint?

FRANCES. The first in ten years' housekeeping.

TREBELL. No, I never have . . but I've never thought selfishly either.

FRANCES. That's a paradox I don't quite understand.

TREBELL. Until women do they'll remain where they are . . and what they are.

FRANCES. Oh, I know you hate us.

TREBELL. Yes, dear sister, I'm afraid I do. And I hate your influence on men . . compromise, tenderness, pity, lack of purpose. Women don't know the values of things, not even their own value.

_For a moment she studies him, wonderingly._

FRANCES. I'll take up the counter-accusation to-morrow. Now I'm tired and I'm going to bed. If I may insult you by mothering you, so should you. You look tired and I've seldom seen you.

TREBELL. I'm waiting up for a message.

FRANCES. So late?

TREBELL. It's a matter of life and death.

FRANCES. Are you joking?

TREBELL. Yes. If you want to spoil me find me a book to read.

FRANCES. What will you have?

TREBELL. Huckleberry Finn. It's on a top shelf towards the end somewhere . . or should be.

_She finds the book. On her way back with it she stops and shivers._

FRANCES. I don't think I shall sleep to-night. Poor Amy O'Connell!

TREBELL. [_Curiously._] Are you afraid of death?

FRANCES. [_With humorous stoicism._] It will be the end of me, perhaps.

_She gives him the book, with its red cover; the '86 edition, a boy's friend evidently. He fingers it familiarly._

TREBELL. Thank you. Mark Twain's a jolly fellow. He has courage . . comic courage. That's what's wanted. Nothing stands against it. You be-little yourself by laughing . . then all this world and the last and the next grow little too . . and so you grow great again. Switch off some light, will you?

FRANCES. [_Clicking off all but his reading lamp._] So?

TREBELL. Thanks. Good night, Frankie.

_She turns at the door, with a glad smile._

FRANCES. Good night. When did you last use that nursery name?

_Then she goes, leaving him still fingering the book, but looking into the fire and far beyond. Behind him through the open window one sees how cold and clear the night is._

* * * * *

_At eight in the morning he is still here. His lamp is out, the fire is out and the book laid aside. The white morning light penetrates every crevice of the room and shows every line on_ TREBELL'S _face. The spirit of the man is strained past all reason. The door opens suddenly and_ FRANCES _comes in, troubled, nervous. Interrupted in her dressing, she has put on some wrap or other._

FRANCES. Henry . . Simpson says you've not been to bed all night.

_He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness--_

TREBELL. No. Good morning.

FRANCES. Oh, my dear . . what is wrong?

TREBELL. The message hasn't come . . and I've been thinking.

FRANCES. Why don't you tell me? [_He turns his head away._] I think you haven't the right to torture me.

TREBELL. Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to face.

SIMPSON, _the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the morning's letters_. FRANCES _rounds on her irritably_.

FRANCES. What is it, Simpson?

MAID. The letters, Ma'am.

TREBELL _is on his feet at that_.

TREBELL. Ah . . I want them.

FRANCES. [_Taking the letters composedly enough._] Thank you.

SIMPSON _departs and_ TREBELL _comes to her for his letters. She looks at him with baffled affection._

FRANCES. Can I do nothing? Oh, Henry!

TREBELL. Help me to open my letters.

FRANCES. Don't you leave them to Mr. Kent?

TREBELL. Not this morning.

FRANCES. But there are so many.

TREBELL. [_For the first time lifting his voice from its dull monotony._] What a busy man I was.

FRANCES. Henry . . you're a little mad.

TREBELL. Do you find me so? That's interesting.

FRANCES. [_With the ghost of a smile._] Well . . maddening.

_By this time he is sitting at his table; she near him watching closely. They halve the considerable post and start to open it._

TREBELL. We arrange them in three piles . . personal . . political . . and preposterous.

FRANCES. This is an invitation . . the Anglican League.

TREBELL. I can't go.

_She looks sideways at him as he goes on mechanically tearing the envelopes._

FRANCES. I heard you come upstairs about two o'clock.

TREBELL. That was to dip my head in water. Then I made an instinctive attempt to go to bed . . got my tie off even.

FRANCES. [_Her anxiety breaking out._] If you'd tell me that you're only ill . . .

TREBELL. [_Forbiddingly commonplace._] What's that letter? Don't fuss . . and remember that abnormal conduct is sometimes quite rational.

FRANCES _returns to her task with misty eyes_.

FRANCES. It's from somebody whose son can't get into something.

TREBELL. The third heap . . Kent's . . the preposterous. [_Talking on with steady monotony._] But I saw it would not do to interrupt that logical train of thought which reached definition about half past six. I had then been gleaning until you came in.

FRANCES. [_Turning the neat little note in her hand._] This is from Lord Horsham. He writes his name small at the bottom of the envelope.

TREBELL. [_Without a tremor._] Ah . . give it me.

_He opens this as he has opened the others, carefully putting the envelope to one side._ FRANCES _has ceased for the moment to watch him_.

FRANCES. That's Cousin Robert's handwriting. [_She puts a square envelope at his hand._] Is a letter marked private from the Education Office political or personal?

_By this he has read_ HORSHAM'S _letter twice. So he tears it up and speaks very coldly._

TREBELL. Either. It doesn't matter.

_In the silence her fears return._

FRANCES. Henry, it's a foolish idea . . I suppose I have it because I hardly slept for thinking of her. Your trouble is nothing to do with Amy O'Connell, is it?

TREBELL. [_His voice strangled in his throat._] Her child should have been my child too.

FRANCES. [_Her eyes open, the whole landscape of her mind suddenly clear._] Oh, I . . no, I didn't think so . . but. . .

TREBELL. [_Dealing his second blow as remorselessly as dealt to him._] Also I'm not joining the new Cabinet, my dear sister.

FRANCES. [_Her thoughts rushing now to the present--the future._] Not! Because of . . ? Do people know? Will they . ? You didn't . . ?

_As mechanically as ever he has taken up_ COUSIN ROBERT'S _letter and, in some sense, read it. Now he recapitulates, meaninglessly, that his voice may just deaden her pain and his own._

TREBELL. Robert says . . that we've not been to see them for some time . . but that now I'm a greater man than ever I must be very busy. The vicarage has been painted and papered throughout and looks much fresher. Mary sends you her love and hopes you have no return of the rheumatism. And he would like to send me the proof sheets of his critical commentary on First Timothy . . for my alien eye might possibly detect some logical lapses. Need he repeat to me his thankfulness at my new attitude upon Disestablishment . . or assure me again that I have his prayers. Could we not go and stay there only for a few days? Possibly his opinion--

_She has borne this cruel kindness as long as she can and she breaks out . ._

FRANCES. Oh . . don't . . don't!

_He falls from his seeming callousness to the very blankness of despair._

TREBELL. No, we'll leave that . . and the rest . . and everything.

_Her agony passes._

FRANCES. What do you mean to do?

TREBELL. There's to be no public scandal.

FRANCES. Why has Lord Horsham thrown you over then . . or hasn't that anything to do with it?

TREBELL. It has to do with it.

FRANCES. [_Lifting her voice; some tone returning to it._] Unconsciously . . I've known for years that this sort of thing might happen to you.

TREBELL. Why?

FRANCES. Power over men and women and contempt for them! Do you think they don't take their revenge sooner or later?

TREBELL. Much good may it do them!

FRANCES. Human nature turns against you . . by instinct . . in self-defence.

TREBELL. And my own human-nature!

FRANCES. [_Shocked into great pity, by his half articulate pain._] Yes . . you must have loved her, Henry . . in some odd way. I'm sorry for you both.

TREBELL. I'm hating her now . . as a man can only hate his own silliest vices.

FRANCES. [_Flashing into defence._] That's wrong of you. If you thought of her only as a pretty little fool . . Bearing your child . . all her womanly life belonged to you . . and for that time there was no other sort of life in her. So she became what you thought her.

TREBELL. That's not true.

FRANCES. It's true enough . . it's true of men towards women. You can't think of them through generations as one thing and then suddenly find them another.

TREBELL. [_Hammering at his fixed idea._] She should have brought that child into the world.

FRANCES. You didn't love her enough!

TREBELL. I didn't love her at all.

FRANCES. Then why should she value your gift?

TREBELL. For its own sake.

FRANCES. [_Turning away._] It's hopeless . . you don't understand.

TREBELL. [_Helpless; almost like a deserted child._] I've been trying to . . all through the night.

FRANCES. [_Turning back enlightened a little._] That's more the trouble then than the Cabinet question?

_He shakes himself to his feet and begins to pace the room; his keenness coming back to him, his brow knitting again with the delight of thought._

TREBELL. Oh . . as to me against the world . . I'm fortified with comic courage. [_Then turning on her like any examining professor._] Now which do you believe . . that Man is the reformer, or that the Time brings forth such men as it needs and lobster-like can grow another claw?

FRANCES. [_Watching this new mood carefully._] I believe that you'll be missed from Lord Horsham's Cabinet.

TREBELL. The hand-made statesman and his hand-made measure! They were out of place in that pretty Tory garden. Those men are the natural growth of the time. Am I?

FRANCES. Just as much. And wasn't your bill going to be such a good piece of work? That can't be thrown away . . wasted.

TREBELL. Can one impose a clever idea upon men and women? I wonder.

FRANCES. That rather begs the question of your very existence, doesn't it?

_He comes to a standstill._

TREBELL. I know.

_His voice shows her that meaning in her words and beyond it a threat. She goes to him, suddenly shaking with fear._

FRANCES. Henry, I didn't mean that.

TREBELL. You think I've a mind to put an end to that same?

FRANCES. [_Belittling her fright._] No . . for how unreasonable. . .

TREBELL. In view of my promising past. I've stood for success, Fanny; I still stand for success. I could still do more outside the Cabinet than the rest of them, inside, will do. But suddenly I've a feeling the work would be barren. [_His eyes shift beyond her; beyond the room._] What is it in your thoughts and actions which makes them bear fruit? Something that the roughest peasant may have in common with the best of us intellectual men . . something that a dog might have. It isn't successful cleverness.

_She stands . . his trouble beyond her reach._

FRANCES. Come now . . you've done very well with your life.

TREBELL. Do you know how empty I feel of all virtue at this moment?

_He leaves her. She must bring him back to the plane on which she can help him._

FRANCES. We must think what's best to be done . . now . . and for the future.

TREBELL. Why, I could go on earning useless money at the Bar . . think how nice that would be. I could blackmail the next judgeship out of Horsham. I think I could even smash his Disestablishment Bill . . and perhaps get into the next Liberal Cabinet and start my own all over again, with necessary modifications. I shan't do any such things.

FRANCES. No one knows about you and poor Amy?

TREBELL. Half a dozen friends. Shall I offer to give evidence at the inquest this morning?

FRANCES. [_With a little shiver._] They'll say bad enough things about her without your blackening her good name.

_Without warning, his anger and anguish break out again._

TREBELL. All she had . . all there is left of her! She was a nothingness . . silly . . vain. And I gave her this power over me!

_He is beaten, exhausted. Now she goes to him, motherlike._

FRANCES. My dear, listen to me for a little. Consider that as a sorrow and put it behind you. And think now . . whatever love there may be between us has neither hatred nor jealousy in it, has it, Henry? Since I'm not a mistress or a friend but just the likest fellow-creature to you . . perhaps.

TREBELL. [_Putting out his hand for hers._] Yes, my sister. What I've wanted to feel for vague humanity has been what I should have felt for you . . if you'd ever made a single demand on me.

_She puts her arms round him; able to speak._

FRANCES. Let's go away somewhere . . I'll make demands. I need refreshing as much as you. My joy of life has been withered in me . . oh, for a long time now. We must kiss the earth again . . take interest in common things, common people. There's so much of the world we don't know. There's air to breathe everywhere. Think of the flowers in a Tyrol valley in the early spring. One can walk for days, not hurrying, as soon as the passes are open. And the people are kind. There's Italy . . there's Russia full of simple folk. When we've learned to be friends with them we shall both feel so much better.

TREBELL. [_Shaking his head, unmoved._] My dear sister . . I should be bored to death. The life contemplative and peripatetic would literally bore me into a living death.

FRANCES. [_Letting it be a fairy tale._] Is your mother the Wide World nothing to you? Can't you open your heart like a child again?

TREBELL. No, neither to the beauty of Nature nor the particular human animals that are always called a part of it. I don't even see them with your eyes. I'm a son of the anger of Man at men's foolishness, and unless I've that to feed upon . . .! [_Now he looks at her, as if for the first time wanting to explain himself, and his voice changes._] Don't you know that when a man cuts himself shaving, he swears? When he loses a seat in the Cabinet he turns inward for comfort . . and if he only finds there a spirit which should have been born, but is dead . . what's to be done then?

FRANCES. [_In a whisper._] You mustn't think of that woman. . .

TREBELL. I've reasoned my way through life. . .

FRANCES. I see how awful it is to have the double blow fall.

TREBELL. [_The wave of his agony rising again._] But here's something in me which no knowledge touches . . some feeling . . some power which should be the beginning of new strength. But it has been killed in me unborn before I had learnt to understand . . and that's killing me.

FRANCES. [_Crying out._] Why . . why did no woman teach you to be gentle? Why did you never believe in any woman? Perhaps even I am to blame. . .

TREBELL. The little fool, the little fool . . why did she kill my child? What did it matter what I thought her? We were committed together to that one thing. Do you think I didn't know that I was heartless and that she was socially in the wrong? But what did Nature care for that? And Nature has broken us.

FRANCES. [_Clinging to him as he beats the air._] Not you. She's dead, poor girl . . but not you.

TREBELL. Yes . . that's the mystery no one need believe till he has dipped in it. The man bears the child in his soul as the woman carries it in her body.

_There is silence between them, till she speaks low and tonelessly, never loosing his hand._

FRANCES. Henry, I want your promise that you'll go on living till . . till . .

TREBELL. Don't cry, Fanny, that's very foolish.

FRANCES. Till you've learnt to look at all this calmly. Then I can trust you.

TREBELL _smiles, not at all grimly_.

TREBELL. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a shock if I shot myself . . it would make them think about things.

FRANCES. [_With one catch of wretched laughter._] Oh, my dear, if shooting's wanted . . shoot them. Or I'll do it for you.

_He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand still grasping his._

TREBELL. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night . . our lives are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and dying for others. The first is easy . . it's a way out of boredom. To make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure and certain hope that it really doesn't matter . . that God is infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after our death than men do while we live?

FRANCES. I want your promise, Henry.

TREBELL. You know I never make promises . . it's taking oneself too seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too. I've upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better go and finish dressing? [_She doesn't move._] My dear . . you don't propose to hold my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I still could jump out of a window.

FRANCES. I'll trust you, Henry.

_She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final grip she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently than ever._

TREBELL. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it?

FRANCES. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice through the years that remain. [_Instinctively she rectifies some little untidiness in the room._] What fools they are to think they can run that government without you!