Candida · Act II (2/2) (2/3)

| Morell | Very gravely. So many that you don’t know. More aggressively. Anyhow, when there’s anything coarse-grained to be done, you ring the bell and throw it on to somebody else, eh? That’s one of the great facts in your existence, isn’t it? | | Marchbanks | Oh, don’t torture me. The one great fact now is that your wife’s beautiful fingers are dabbling in paraffin oil, and that you are sitting here comfortably preaching about it⁠—everlasting preaching, preaching, words, words, words. | | Burgess | Intensely appreciating this retort. Ha, ha! Devil a better. Radiantly. ’Ad you there, James, straight. | | | Candida* comes in, well aproned, with a reading lamp trimmed, filled, and ready for lighting. She places it on the table near Morell, ready for use. | | Candida | Brushing her finger tips together with a slight twitch of her nose. If you stay with us, Eugene, I think I will hand over the lamps to you. | | Marchbanks | I will stay on condition that you hand over all the rough work to me. | | Candida | That’s very gallant; but I think I should like to see how you do it first. Turning to Morell. James: you’ve not been looking after the house properly. | | Morell | What have I done⁠—or not done⁠—my love? | | Candida | With serious vexation. My own particular pet scrubbing brush has been used for blackleading. A heartbreaking wail bursts from Marchbanks. Burgess looks round, amazed. Candida hurries to the sofa. What’s the matter? Are you ill, Eugene? | | Marchbanks | No, not ill. Only horror, horror, horror! He bows his head on his hands. | | Burgess | Shocked. What! Got the ’orrors, Mr. Morchbanks! Oh, that’s bad, at your age. You must leave it off grajally. | | Candida | Reassured. Nonsense, papa. It’s only poetic horror, isn’t it, Eugene? Petting him. | | Burgess | Abashed. Oh, poetic ’orror, is it? I beg your pordon, I’m shore. He turns to the fire again, deprecating his hasty conclusion. | | Candida | What is it, Eugene⁠—the scrubbing brush? He shudders. Well, there! never mind. She sits down beside him. Wouldn’t you like to present me with a nice new one, with an ivory back inlaid with mother-of-pearl? | | Marchbanks | Softly and musically, but sadly and longingly. No, not a scrubbing brush, but a boat⁠—a tiny shallop to sail away in, far from the world, where the marble floors are washed by the rain and dried by the sun, where the south wind dusts the beautiful green and purple carpets. Or a chariot⁠—to carry us up into the sky, where the lamps are stars, and don’t need to be filled with paraffin oil every day. | | Morell | Harshly. And where there is nothing to do but to be idle, selfish and useless. | | Candida | Jarred. Oh, James, how could you spoil it all! | | Marchbanks | Firing up. Yes, to be idle, selfish and useless: that is to be beautiful and free and happy: hasn’t every man desired that with all his soul for the woman he loves? That’s my ideal: what’s yours, and that of all the dreadful people who live in these hideous rows of houses? Sermons and scrubbing brushes! With you to preach the sermon and your wife to scrub. | | Candida | Quaintly. He cleans the boots, Eugene. You will have to clean them tomorrow for saying that about him. | | Marchbanks | Oh! don’t talk about boots. Your feet should be beautiful on the mountains. | | Candida | My feet would not be beautiful on the Hackney Road without boots. | | Burgess | Scandalized. Come, Candy, don’t be vulgar. Mr. Morchbanks ain’t accustomed to it. You’re givin’ him the ’orrors again. I mean the poetic ones. | | | Morell is silent. Apparently he is busy with his letters: really he is puzzling with misgiving over his new and alarming experience that the surer he is of his moral thrusts, the more swiftly and effectively Eugene parries them. To find himself beginning to fear a man whom he does not respect affects him bitterly. | | | Miss Garnett comes in with a telegram. | | Proserpine | Handing the telegram to Morell. Reply paid. The boy’s waiting. To Candida, coming back to her machine and sitting down. Maria is ready for you now in the kitchen, Mrs. Morell. Candida rises. The onions have come. | | Marchbanks | Convulsively. Onions! | | Candida | Yes, onions. Not even Spanish ones⁠—nasty little red onions. You shall help me to slice them. Come along. | | | She catches him by the wrist and runs out, pulling him after her. Burgess rises in consternation, and stands aghast on the hearthrug, staring after them. | | Burgess | Candy didn’t oughter ’andle a peer’s nevvy like that. It’s goin’ too fur with it. Lookee ’ere, James: do ’e often git taken queer like that? | | Morell | Shortly, writing a telegram. I don’t know. | | Burgess | Sentimentally. He talks very pretty. I allus had a turn for a bit of potery. Candy takes arter me that-a-way: huse ter make me tell her fairy stories when she was on’y a little kiddy not that ’igh Indicating a stature of two feet or thereabouts. | | Morell | Preoccupied. Ah, indeed. He blots the telegram, and goes out. | | Proserpine | Used you to make the fairy stories up out of your own head? | | | Burgess, not deigning to reply, strikes an attitude of the haughtiest disdain on the hearthrug. | | Proserpine | Calmly. I should never have supposed you had it in you. By the way, I’d better warn you, since you’ve taken such a fancy to Mr. Marchbanks. He’s mad. | | Burgess | Mad! Wot! ’Im too!! | | Proserpine | Mad as a March hare. He did frighten me, I can tell you just before you came in that time. Haven’t you noticed the queer things he says? | | Burgess | So that’s wot the poetic ’orrors means. Blame me if it didn’t come into my head once or twyst that he must be off his chump! He crosses the room to the door, lifting up his voice as he goes. Well, this is a pretty sort of asylum for a man to be in, with no one but you to take care of him! | | Proserpine | As he passes her. Yes, what a dreadful thing it would be if anything happened to you! | | Burgess | Loftily. Don’t you address no remarks to me. Tell your hemployer that I’ve gone into the garden for a smoke. | | Proserpine | Mocking. Oh! | | | Before Burgess can retort, Morell comes back. | | Burgess | Sentimentally. Goin’ for a turn in the garden to smoke, James. | | Morell | Brusquely. Oh, all right, all right. Burgess goes out pathetically in the character of the weary old man. Morell stands at the table, turning over his papers, and adding, across to Proserpine, half humorously, half absently: Well, Miss Prossy, why have you been calling my father-in-law names? | | Proserpine | Blushing fiery red, and looking quickly up at him, half scared, half reproachful. I⁠—She bursts into tears. | | Morell | With tender gaiety, leaning across the table towards her, and consoling her. Oh, come, come, come! Never mind, Pross: he is a silly old fathead, isn’t he? | | | With an explosive sob, she makes a dash at the door, and vanishes, banging it. Morell, shaking his head resignedly, sighs, and goes wearily to his chair, where he sits down and sets to work, looking old and careworn. | | | Candida comes in. She has finished her household work and taken of the apron. She at once notices his dejected appearance, and posts herself quietly at the spare chair, looking down at him attentively; but she says nothing. | | Morell | Looking up, but with his pen raised ready to resume his work. Well? Where is Eugene? | | Candida | Washing his hands in the scullery⁠—under the tap. He will make an excellent cook if he can only get over his dread of Maria. | | Morell | Shortly. Ha! No doubt. He begins writing again. | | Candida | Going nearer, and putting her hand down softly on his to stop him, as she says. Come here, dear. Let me look at you. He drops his pen and yields himself at her disposal. She makes him rise and brings him a little away from the table, looking at him critically all the time. Turn your face to the light. She places him facing the window. My boy is not looking well. Has he been overworking? | | Morell | Nothing more than usual. | | Candida | He looks very pale, and grey, and wrinkled, and old. His melancholy deepens; and she attacks it with wilful gaiety. Here pulling him towards the easy chair you’ve done enough writing for today. Leave Prossy to finish it and come and talk to me. | | Morell | But⁠— | | Candida | Yes, I must be talked to sometimes. She makes him sit down, and seats herself on the carpet beside his knee. Now patting his hand you’re beginning to look better already. Why don’t you give up all this tiresome overworking⁠—going out every night lecturing and talking? Of course what you say is all very true and very right; but it does no good: they don’t mind what you say to them one little bit. Of course they agree with you; but what’s the use of people agreeing with you if they go and do just the opposite of what you tell them the moment your back is turned? Look at our congregation at St. Dominic’s! Why do they come to hear you talking about Christianity every Sunday? Why, just because they’ve been so full of business and moneymaking for six days that they want to forget all about it and have a rest on the seventh, so that they can go back fresh and make money harder than ever! You positively help them at it instead of hindering them. | | Morell | With energetic seriousness. You know very well, Candida, that I often blow them up soundly for that. But if there is nothing in their churchgoing but rest and diversion, why don’t they try something more amusing⁠—more self-indulgent? There must be some good in the fact that they prefer St. Dominic’s to worse places on Sundays. | | Candida | Oh, the worst places aren’t open; and even if they were, they daren’t be seen going to them. Besides, James, dear, you preach so splendidly that it’s as good as a play for them. Why do you think the women are so enthusiastic? | | Morell | Shocked. Candida! | | Candida | Oh, I know. You silly boy: you think it’s your Socialism and your religion; but if it was that, they’d do what you tell them instead of only coming to look at you. They all have Prossy’s complaint. | | Morell | Prossy’s complaint! What do you mean, Candida? | | Candida | Yes, Prossy, and all the other secretaries you ever had. Why does Prossy condescend to wash up the things, and to peel potatoes and abase herself in all manner of ways for six shillings a week less than she used to get in a city office? She’s in love with you, James: that’s the reason. They’re all in love with you. And you are in love with preaching because you do it so beautifully. And you think it’s all enthusiasm for the kingdom of Heaven on earth; and so do they. You dear silly! | | Morell | Candida: what dreadful, what soul-destroying cynicism! Are you jesting? Or⁠—can it be?⁠—are you jealous? | | Candida | With curious thoughtfulness. Yes, I feel a little jealous sometimes. | | Morell | Incredulously. What! Of Prossy? | | Candida | Laughing. No, no, no, no. Not jealous of anybody. Jealous for somebody else, who is not loved as he ought to be. | | Morell | Me! | | Candida | You! Why, you’re spoiled with love and worship: you get far more than is good for you. No: I mean Eugene. | | Morell | Startled. Eugene! | | Candida | It seems unfair that all the love should go to you, and none to him, although he needs it so much more than you do. A convulsive movement shakes him in spite of himself. What’s the matter? Am I worrying you? | | Morell | Hastily. Not at all. Looking at her with troubled intensity. You know that I have perfect confidence in you, Candida. | | Candida | You vain thing! Are you so sure of your irresistible attractions? | | Morell | Candida: you are shocking me. I never thought of my attractions. I thought of your goodness⁠—your purity. That is what I confide in. | | Candida | What a nasty, uncomfortable thing to say to me! Oh, you are a clergyman, James⁠—a thorough clergyman. | | Morell | Turning away from her, heart-stricken. So Eugene says. | | Candida | With lively interest, leaning over to him with her arms on his knee. Eugene’s always right. He’s a wonderful boy: I have grown fonder and fonder of him all the time I was away. Do you know, James, that though he has not the least suspicion of it himself, he is ready to fall madly in love with me? | | Morell | Grimly. Oh, he has no suspicion of it himself, hasn’t he? | | Candida | Not a bit. She takes her arms from his knee, and turns thoughtfully, sinking into a more restful attitude with her hands in her lap. Some day he will know when he is grown up and experienced, like you. And he will know that I must have known. I wonder what he will think of me then. | | Morell | No evil, Candida. I hope and trust, no evil. | | Candida | Dubiously. That will depend. | | Morell | Bewildered. Depend! | | Candida | Looking at him. Yes: it will depend on what happens to him. He look vacantly at her. Don’t you see? It will depend on how he comes to learn what love really is. I mean on the sort of woman who will teach it to him. | | Morell | Quite at a loss. Yes. No. I don’t know what you mean. | | Candida | Explaining. If he learns it from a good woman, then it will be all right: he will forgive me. | | Morell | Forgive! | | Candida | But suppose he learns it from a bad woman, as so many men do, especially poetic men, who imagine all women are angels! Suppose he only discovers the value of love when he has thrown it away and degraded himself in his ignorance. Will he forgive me then, do you think? | | Morell | Forgive you for what? | | Candida | Realizing how stupid he is, and a little disappointed, though quite tenderly so. Don’t you understand? He shakes his head. She turns to him again, so as to explain with the fondest intimacy. I mean, will he forgive me for not teaching him myself? For abandoning him to the bad women for the sake of my goodness⁠—my purity, as you call it? Ah, James, how little you understand me, to talk of your confidence in my goodness and purity! I would give them both to poor Eugene as willingly as I would give my shawl to a beggar dying of cold, if there were nothing else to restrain me. Put your trust in my love for you, James, for if that went, I should care very little for your sermons⁠—mere phrases that you cheat yourself and others with every day. She is about to rise. | | Morell | His words! | | Candida | Checking herself quickly in the act of getting up, so that she is on her knees, but upright. Whose words? | | Morell | Eugene’s. | | Candida | Delighted. He is always right. He understands you; he understands me; he understands Prossy; and you, James⁠—you understand nothing. She laughs, and kisses him to console him. He recoils as if stung, and springs up. | | Morell | How can you bear to do that when⁠—oh, Candida with anguish in his voice I had rather you had plunged a grappling iron into my heart than given me that kiss. | | Candida | Rising, alarmed. My dear: what’s the matter? | | Morell | Frantically waving her off. Don’t touch me. | | Candida | Amazed. James! | | | They are interrupted by the entrance of Marchbanks, with Burgess, who stops near the door, staring, whilst Eugene hurries forward between them. | | Marchbanks | Is anything the matter? | | Morell | Deadly white, putting an iron constraint on himself. Nothing but this: that either you were right this morning, or Candida is mad. | | Burgess | In loudest protest. Wot! Candy mad too! Oh, come, come, come! He crosses the room to the fireplace, protesting as he goes, and knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the bars. Morell* sits down desperately, leaning forward to hide his face, and interlacing his fingers rigidly to keep them steady. |