Candida · Act II (2/2) (1/3)
Proserpine Bother! You’ve been meddling with my typewriter, Mr. Marchbanks; and there’s not the least use in your trying to look as if you hadn’t.
Marchbanks Timidly. I’m very sorry, Miss Garnett. I only tried to make it write.
Proserpine Well, you’ve made this key stick.
Marchbanks Earnestly. I assure you I didn’t touch the keys. I didn’t, indeed. I only turned a little wheel. He points irresolutely at the tension wheel.
Proserpine Oh, now I understand. She sets the machine to rights, talking volubly all the time. I suppose you thought it was a sort of barrel-organ. Nothing to do but turn the handle, and it would write a beautiful love letter for you straight off, eh?
Marchbanks Seriously. I suppose a machine could be made to write love-letters. They’re all the same, aren’t they!
Proserpine Somewhat indignantly: any such discussion, except by way of pleasantry, being outside her code of manners. How do I know? Why do you ask me?
Marchbanks I beg your pardon. I thought clever people⁠—people who can do business and write letters, and that sort of thing⁠—always had love affairs.
Proserpine Rising, outraged. Mr. Marchbanks! She looks severely at him, and marches with much dignity to the bookcase.
Marchbanks Approaching her humbly. I hope I haven’t offended you. Perhaps I shouldn’t have alluded to your love affairs.
Proserpine Plucking a blue book from the shelf and turning sharply on him. I haven’t any love affairs. How dare you say such a thing?
Marchbanks Simply. Really! Oh, then you are shy, like me. Isn’t that so?
Proserpine Certainly I am not shy. What do you mean?
Marchbanks Secretly. You must be: that is the reason there are so few love affairs in the world. We all go about longing for love: it is the first need of our natures, the loudest cry of our hearts; but we dare not utter our longing: we are too shy. Very earnestly. Oh, Miss Garnett, what would you not give to be without fear, without shame⁠—
Proserpine Scandalized. Well, upon my word!
Marchbanks With petulant impatience. Ah, don’t say those stupid things to me: they don’t deceive me: what use are they? Why are you afraid to be your real self with me? I am just like you.
Proserpine Like me! Pray, are you flattering me or flattering yourself? I don’t feel quite sure which. She turns to go back to the typewriter.
Marchbanks Stopping her mysteriously. Hush! I go about in search of love; and I find it in unmeasured stores in the bosoms of others. But when I try to ask for it, this horrible shyness strangles me; and I stand dumb, or worse than dumb, saying meaningless things⁠—foolish lies. And I see the affection I am longing for given to dogs and cats and pet birds, because they come and ask for it. Almost whispering. It must be asked for: it is like a ghost: it cannot speak unless it is first spoken to. At his normal pitch, but with deep melancholy. All the love in the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is shy, shy, shy. That is the world’s tragedy. With a deep sigh he sits in the spare chair and buries his face in his hands.
Proserpine Amazed, but keeping her wits about her⁠—her point of honor in encounters with strange young men. Wicked people get over that shyness occasionally, don’t they?
Marchbanks Scrambling up almost fiercely. Wicked people means people who have no love: therefore they have no shame. They have the power to ask love because they don’t need it: they have the power to offer it because they have none to give. He collapses into his seat, and adds, mournfully: But we, who have love, and long to mingle it with the love of others: we cannot utter a word. Timidly. You find that, don’t you?
Proserpine Look here: if you don’t stop talking like this, I’ll leave the room, Mr. Marchbanks: I really will. It’s not proper. She resumes her seat at the typewriter, opening the blue book and preparing to copy a passage from it.
Marchbanks Hopelessly. Nothing that’s worth saying is proper. He rises, and wanders about the room in his lost way, saying: I can’t understand you, Miss Garnett. What am I to talk about?
Proserpine Snubbing him. Talk about indifferent things, talk about the weather.
Marchbanks Would you stand and talk about indifferent things if a child were by, crying bitterly with hunger?
Proserpine I suppose not.
Marchbanks Well: I can’t talk about indifferent things with my heart crying out bitterly in its hunger.
Proserpine Then hold your tongue.
Marchbanks Yes: that is what it always comes to. We hold our tongues. Does that stop the cry of your heart?⁠—for it does cry: doesn’t it? It must, if you have a heart.
Proserpine Suddenly rising with her hand pressed on her heart. Oh, it’s no use trying to work while you talk like that. She leaves her little table and sits on the sofa. Her feelings are evidently strongly worked on. It’s no business of yours, whether my heart cries or not; but I have a mind to tell you, for all that.
Marchbanks You needn’t. I know already that it must.
Proserpine But mind: if you ever say I said so, I’ll deny it.
Marchbanks Compassionately. Yes, I know. And so you haven’t the courage to tell him?
Proserpine Bouncing up. Him! Who?
Marchbanks Whoever he is. The man you love. It might be anybody. The curate, Mr. Mill, perhaps.
Proserpine With disdain. Mr. Mill!!! A fine man to break my heart about, indeed! I’d rather have you than Mr. Mill.
Marchbanks Recoiling. No, really⁠—I’m very sorry; but you mustn’t think of that. I⁠—
Proserpine Testily, crossing to the fire and standing at it with her back to him. Oh, don’t be frightened: it’s not you. It’s not any one particular person.
Marchbanks I know. You feel that you could love anybody that offered⁠—
Proserpine Exasperated. Anybody that offered! No, I do not. What do you take me for?
Marchbanks Discouraged. No use. You won’t make me real answers⁠—only those things that everybody says. He strays to the sofa and sits down disconsolately.
Proserpine Nettled at what she takes to be a disparagement of her manners by an aristocrat. Oh, well, if you want original conversation, you’d better go and talk to yourself.
Marchbanks That is what all poets do: they talk to themselves out loud; and the world overhears them. But it’s horribly lonely not to hear someone else talk sometimes.
Proserpine Wait until Mr. Morell comes. He’ll talk to you. Marchbanks shudders. Oh, you needn’t make wry faces over him: he can talk better than you. With temper. He’d talk your little head off. She is going back angrily to her place, when, suddenly enlightened, he springs up and stops her.
Marchbanks Ah, I understand now!
Proserpine Reddening. What do you understand?
Marchbanks Your secret. Tell me: is it really and truly possible for a woman to love him?
Proserpine As if this were beyond all bounds. Well!!
Marchbanks Passionately. No, answer me. I want to know: I must know. I can’t understand it. I can see nothing in him but words, pious resolutions, what people call goodness. You can’t love that.
Proserpine Attempting to snub him by an air of cool propriety. I simply don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t understand you.
Marchbanks Vehemently. You do. You lie⁠—
Proserpine Oh!
Marchbanks You do understand; and you know. Determined to have an answer. Is it possible for a woman to love him?
Proserpine Looking him straight in the face. Yes. He covers his face with his hands. Whatever is the matter with you! He takes down his hands and looks at her. Frightened at the tragic mask presented to her, she hurries past him at the utmost possible distance, keeping her eyes on his face until he turns from her and goes to the child’s chair beside the hearth, where he sits in the deepest dejection. As she approaches the door, it opens and Burgess enters. On seeing him, she ejaculates: Praise heaven, here’s somebody! And sits down, reassured, at her table. She puts a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter as Burgess crosses to Eugene.
Burgess Bent on taking care of the distinguished visitor. Well: so this is the way they leave you to yourself, Mr. Morchbanks. I’ve come to keep you company. Marchbanks looks up at him in consternation, which is quite lost on him. James is receivin’ a deppitation in the dinin’ room; and Candy is hupstairs educatin’ of a young stitcher gurl she’s hinterusted in. She’s settin’ there learnin’ her to read out of the ’Ev’nly Twins. Condolingly. You must find it lonesome here with no one but the typist to talk to. He pulls round the easy chair above fire, and sits down.
Proserpine Highly incensed. He’ll be all right now that he has the advantage of your polished conversation: that’s one comfort, anyhow. She begins to typewrite with clattering asperity.
Burgess Amazed at her audacity. Hi was not addressin’ myself to you, young woman, that I’m awerr of.
Proserpine Tartly, to Marchbanks. Did you ever see worse manners, Mr. Marchbanks?
Burgess With pompous severity. Mr. Morchbanks is a gentleman and knows his place, which is more than some people do.
Proserpine Fretfully. It’s well you and I are not ladies and gentlemen: I’d talk to you pretty straight if Mr. Marchbanks wasn’t here. She pulls the letter out of the machine so crossly that it tears. There, now I’ve spoiled this letter⁠—have to be done all over again. Oh, I can’t contain myself⁠—silly old fathead!
Burgess Rising, breathless with indignation. Ho! I’m a silly ole fat’ead, am I? Ho, indeed. Gasping. Hall right, my gurl! Hall right. You just wait till I tell that to your employer. You’ll see. I’ll teach you: see if I don’t.
Proserpine I⁠—
Burgess Cutting her short. No, you’ve done it now. No huse a-talkin’ to me. I’ll let you know who I am. Proserpine shifts her paper carriage with a defiant bang, and disdainfully goes on with her work. Don’t you take no notice of her, Mr. Morchbanks. She’s beneath it. He sits down again loftily.
Marchbanks Miserably nervous and disconcerted. Hadn’t we better change the subject. I⁠—I don’t think Miss Garnett meant anything.
Proserpine With intense conviction. Oh, didn’t I though, just!
Burgess I wouldn’t demean myself to take notice on her.
An electric bell rings twice.
Proserpine Gathering up her notebook and papers. That’s for me. She hurries out.
Burgess Calling after her. Oh, we can spare you. Somewhat relieved by the triumph of having the last word, and yet half inclined to try to improve on it, he looks after her for a moment; then subsides into his seat by Eugene, and addresses him very confidentially. Now we’re alone, Mr. Morchbanks, let me give you a friendly ’int that I wouldn’t give to everybody. ’Ow long ’ave you known my son-in-law James here?
Marchbanks I don’t know. I never can remember dates. A few months, perhaps.
Burgess Ever notice anything queer about him?
Marchbanks I don’t think so.
Burgess Impressively. No more you wouldn’t. That’s the danger in it. Well, he’s mad.
Marchbanks Mad!
Burgess Mad as a Morch ’are. You take notice on him and you’ll see.
Marchbanks Beginning. But surely that is only because his opinions⁠—
Burgess Touching him with his forefinger on his knee, and pressing it as if to hold his attention with it. That’s wot I used tee think, Mr. Morchbanks. Hi thought long enough that it was honly ’is hopinions; though, mind you, hopinions becomes vurry serious things when people takes to hactin on ’em as ’e does. But that’s not wot I go on. He looks round to make sure that they are alone, and bends over to Eugene’s ear. Wot do you think he says to me this mornin’ in this very room?
Marchbanks What?
Burgess He sez to me⁠—this is as sure as we’re settin’ here now⁠—he sez: “I’m a fool,” he sez;⁠—“and yore a scounderl”⁠—as cool as possible. Me a scounderl, mind you! And then shook ’ands with me on it, as if it was to my credit! Do you mean to tell me that that man’s sane?
Morell Outside, calling to Proserpine, holding the door open. Get all their names and addresses, Miss Garnett.
Proserpine In the distance. Yes, Mr. Morell.
Morell comes in, with the deputation’s documents in his hands.
Burgess Aside to Marchbanks. Yorr he is. Just you keep your heye on him and see. Rising momentously. I’m sorry, James, to ’ave to make a complaint to you. I don’t want to do it; but I feel I oughter, as a matter o’ right and duty.
Morell What’s the matter?
Burgess Mr. Morchbanks will bear me out: he was a witness. Very solemnly. Your young woman so far forgot herself as to call me a silly ole fat ’ead.
Morell Delighted⁠—with tremendous heartiness. Oh, now, isn’t that exactly like Prossy? She’s so frank: she can’t contain herself! Poor Prossy! Ha! Ha!
Burgess Trembling with rage. And do you hexpec me to put up with it from the like of ’er?
Morell Pooh, nonsense! you can’t take any notice of it. Never mind. He goes to the cellaret and puts the papers into one of the drawers.
Burgess Oh, I don’t mind. I’m above it. But is it right?⁠—that’s what I want to know. Is it right?
Morell That’s a question for the Church, not for the laity. Has it done you any harm, that’s the question for you, eh? Of course, it hasn’t. Think no more of it. He dismisses the subject by going to his place at the table and setting to work at his correspondence.
Burgess Aside to Marchbanks. What did I tell you? Mad as a ’atter. He goes to the table and asks, with the sickly civility of a hungry man: When’s dinner, James?
Morell Not for half an hour yet.
Burgess With plaintive resignation. Gimme a nice book to read over the fire, will you, James: thur’s a good chap.
Morell What sort of book? A good one?
Burgess With almost a yell of remonstrance. Nah-oo! Summat pleasant, just to pass the time. Morell takes an illustrated paper from the table and offers it. He accepts it humbly. Thank yer, James. He goes back to his easy chair at the fire, and sits there at his ease, reading.
Morell As he writes. Candida will come to entertain you presently. She has got rid of her pupil. She is filling the lamps.
Marchbanks Starting up in the wildest consternation. But that will soil her hands. I can’t bear that, Morell: it’s a shame. I’ll go and fill them. He makes for the door.
Morell You’d better not. Marchbanks stops irresolutely. She’d only set you to clean my boots, to save me the trouble of doing it myself in the morning.
Burgess With grave disapproval. Don’t you keep a servant now, James?
Morell Yes; but she isn’t a slave; and the house looks as if I kept three. That means that everyone has to lend a hand. It’s not a bad plan: Prossy and I can talk business after breakfast whilst we’re washing up. Washing up’s no trouble when there are two people to do it.
Marchbanks Tormentedly. Do you think every woman is as coarse-grained as Miss Garnett?
Burgess Emphatically. That’s quite right, Mr. Morchbanks. That’s quite right. She is corse-grained.
Morell Quietly and significantly. Marchbanks!
Marchbanks Yes.
Morell How many servants does your father keep?
Marchbanks Oh, I don’t know. He comes back uneasily to the sofa, as if to get as far as possible from Morell’s questioning, and sits down in great agony of mind, thinking of the paraffin.