You Never Can Tell · Act II (2/2) (4/5)

| Crampton | His eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable face on his hands. Home! Home!! He drops his arms on the table and bows his head on them, but presently hears someone approaching and hastily sits bolt upright. It is Gloria, who has come up the steps alone, with her sunshade and her book in her hands. He looks defiantly at her, with the brutal obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of his eyes contradicting each other pathetically. She comes to the corner of the garden seat and stands with her back to it, leaning against the end of it, and looking down at him as if wondering at his weakness: too curious about him to be cold, but supremely indifferent to their kinship. Well? | | Gloria | I want to speak with you for a moment. | | Crampton | Looking steadily at her. Indeed? That’s surprising. You meet your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to him for a moment! That’s touching: isn’t it? He rests his head on his hands, and looks down and away from her, in gloomy reflection. | | Gloria | All that is what seems to me so nonsensical, so uncalled for. What do you expect us to feel for you⁠—to do for you? What is it you want? Why are you less civil to us than other people are? You are evidently not very fond of us⁠—why should you be? But surely we can meet without quarrelling. | | Crampton | A dreadful grey shade passing over his face. Do you realize that I am your father? | | Gloria | Perfectly. | | Crampton | Do you know what is due to me as your father? | | Gloria | For instance⁠—? | | Crampton | Rising as if to combat a monster. For instance! For instance!! For instance, duty, affection, respect, obedience⁠— | | Gloria | Quitting her careless leaning attitude and confronting him promptly and proudly. I obey nothing but my sense of what is right. I respect nothing that is not noble. That is my duty. She adds, less firmly, As to affection, it is not within my control. I am not sure that I quite know what affection means. She turns away with an evident distaste for that part of the subject, and goes to the luncheon table for a comfortable chair, putting down her book and sunshade. | | Crampton | Following her with his eyes. Do you really mean what you are saying? | | Gloria | Turning on him quickly and severely. Excuse me: that is an uncivil question. I am speaking seriously to you; and I expect you to take me seriously. She takes one of the luncheon chairs; turns it away from the table; and sits down a little wearily, saying, Can you not discuss this matter coolly and rationally? | | Crampton | Coolly and rationally! No, I can’t. Do you understand that? I can’t. | | Gloria | Emphatically. No. That I cannot understand. I have no sympathy with⁠— | | Crampton | Shrinking nervously. Stop! Don’t say anything more yet; you don’t know what you’re doing. Do you want to drive me mad? She frowns, finding such petulance intolerable. He adds hastily, No: I’m not angry: indeed I’m not. Wait, wait: give me a little time to think. He stands for a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in his perplexity; then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and sits down beside her, saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and patient, Now, I think I have it. At least I’ll try. | | Gloria | Firmly. You see! Everything comes right if we only think it resolutely out. | | Crampton | In sudden dread. No: don’t think. I want you to feel: that’s the only thing that can help us. Listen! Do you⁠—but first⁠—I forgot. What’s your name? I mean your pet name. They can’t very well call you Sophronia. | | Gloria | With astonished disgust. Sophronia! My name is Gloria. I am always called by it. | | Crampton | His temper rising again. Your name is Sophronia, girl: you were called after your aunt Sophronia, my sister: she gave you your first Bible with your name written in it. | | Gloria | Then my mother gave me a new name. | | Crampton | Angrily. She had no right to do it. I will not allow this. | | Gloria | You had no right to give me your sister’s name. I don’t know her. | | Crampton | You’re talking nonsense. There are bounds to what I will put up with. I will not have it. Do you hear that? | | Gloria | Rising warningly. Are you resolved to quarrel? | | Crampton | Terrified, pleading. No, no: sit down. Sit down, won’t you? She looks at him, keeping him in suspense. He forces himself to utter the obnoxious name. Gloria. She marks her satisfaction with a slight tightening of the lips, and sits down. There! You see I only want to show you that I am your father, my⁠—my dear child. The endearment is so plaintively inept that she smiles in spite of herself, and resigns herself to indulge him a little. Listen now. What I want to ask you is this. Don’t you remember me at all? You were only a tiny child when you were taken away from me; but you took plenty of notice of things. Can’t you remember someone whom you loved, or Shyly. at least liked in a childish way? Come! someone who let you stay in his study and look at his toy boats, as you thought them? He looks anxiously into her face for some response, and continues less hopefully and more urgently, Someone who let you do as you liked there and never said a word to you except to tell you that you must sit still and not speak? Someone who was something that no one else was to you⁠—who was your father. | | Gloria | Unmoved. If you describe things to me, no doubt I shall presently imagine that I remember them. But I really remember nothing. | | Crampton | Wistfully. Has your mother never told you anything about me? | | Gloria | She has never mentioned your name to me. He groans involuntarily. She looks at him rather contemptuously and continues, Except once; and then she did remind me of something I had forgotten. | | Crampton | Looking up hopefully. What was that? | | Gloria | Mercilessly. The whip you bought to beat me with. | | Crampton | Gnashing his teeth. Oh! To bring that up against me! To turn from me! When you need never have known. Under a grinding, agonized breath. Curse her! | | Gloria | Springing up. You wretch! With intense emphasis. You wretch!! You dare curse my mother! | | Crampton | Stop; or you’ll be sorry afterwards. I’m your father. | | Gloria | How I hate the name! How I love the name of mother! You had better go. | | Crampton | I⁠—I’m choking. You want to kill me. Some⁠—I⁠—His voice stifles: he is almost in a fit. | | Gloria | Going up to the balustrade with cool, quick resourcefulness, and calling over to the beach. Mr. Valentine! | | Valentine | Answering from below. Yes. | | Gloria | Come here a moment, please. Mr. Crampton wants you. She returns to the table and pours out a glass of water. | | Crampton | Recovering his speech. No: let me alone. I don’t want him. I’m all right, I tell you. I need neither his help nor yours. He rises and pulls himself together. As you say, I had better go. He puts on his hat. Is that your last word? | | Gloria | I hope so. He looks stubbornly at her for a moment; nods grimly, as if he agreed to that; and goes into the hotel. She looks at him with equal steadiness until he disappears, when she makes a gesture of relief, and turns to speak to Valentine, who comes running up the steps. | | Valentine | Panting. What’s the matter? Looking round. Where’s Crampton? | | Gloria | Gone. Valentine’s* face lights up with sudden joy, dread, and mischief. He has just realized that he is alone with Gloria. She continues indifferently, I thought he was ill; but he recovered himself. He wouldn’t wait for you. I am sorry. She goes for her book and parasol. | | Valentine | So much the better. He gets on my nerves after a while. Pretending to forget himself. How could that man have so beautiful a daughter! | | Gloria | Taken aback for a moment; then answering him with polite but intentional contempt. That seems to be an attempt at what is called a pretty speech. Let me say at once, Mr. Valentine, that pretty speeches make very sickly conversation. Pray let us be friends, if we are to be friends, in a sensible and wholesome way. I have no intention of getting married; and unless you are content to accept that state of things, we had much better not cultivate each other’s acquaintance. | | Valentine | Cautiously. I see. May I ask just this one question? Is your objection an objection to marriage as an institution, or merely an objection to marrying me personally? | | Gloria | I do not know you well enough, Mr. Valentine, to have any opinion on the subject of your personal merits. She turns away from him with infinite indifference, and sits down with her book on the garden seat. I do not think the conditions of marriage at present are such as any self-respecting woman can accept. | | Valentine | Instantly changing his tone for one of cordial sincerity, as if he frankly accepted her terms and was delighted and reassured by her principles. Oh, then that’s a point of sympathy between us already. I quite agree with you: the conditions are most unfair. He takes off his hat and throws it gaily on the iron table. No: what I want is to get rid of all that nonsense. He sits down beside her, so naturally that she does not think of objecting, and proceeds, with enthusiasm, Don’t you think it a horrible thing that a man and a woman can hardly know one another without being supposed to have designs of that kind? As if there were no other interests⁠—no other subjects of conversation⁠—as if women were capable of nothing better! | | Gloria | Interested. Ah, now you are beginning to talk humanly and sensibly, Mr. Valentine. | | Valentine | With a gleam in his eye at the success of his hunter’s guile. Of course!⁠—two intelligent people like us. Isn’t it pleasant, in this stupid, convention-ridden world, to meet with someone on the same plane⁠—someone with an unprejudiced, enlightened mind? | | Gloria | Earnestly. I hope to meet many such people in England. | | Valentine | Dubiously. Hm! There are a good many people here⁠—nearly forty millions. They’re not all consumptive members of the highly educated classes like the people in Madeira. | | Gloria | Now full of her subject. Oh, everybody is stupid and prejudiced in Madeira⁠—weak, sentimental creatures! I hate weakness; and I hate sentiment. | | Valentine | That’s what makes you so inspiring. | | Gloria | With a slight laugh. Am I inspiring? | | Valentine | Yes. Strength’s infectious. | | Gloria | Weakness is, I know. | | Valentine | With conviction. You’re strong. Do you know that you changed the world for me this morning? I was in the dumps, thinking of my unpaid rent, frightened about the future. When you came in, I was dazzled. Her brow clouds a little. He goes on quickly. That was silly, of course; but really and truly something happened to me. Explain it how you will, my blood got⁠—He hesitates, trying to think of a sufficiently unimpassioned word.⁠—oxygenated: my muscles braced; my mind cleared; my courage rose. That’s odd, isn’t it? considering that I am not at all a sentimental man. | | Gloria | Uneasily, rising. Let us go back to the beach. | | Valentine | Darkly⁠—looking up at her. What! you feel it, too? | | Gloria | Feel what? | | Valentine | Dread. | | Gloria | Dread! | | Valentine | As if something were going to happen. It came over me suddenly just before you proposed that we should run away to the others. | | Gloria | Amazed. That’s strange⁠—very strange! I had the same presentiment. | | Valentine | How extraordinary! Rising. Well: shall we run away? | | Gloria | Run away! Oh, no: that would be childish. She sits down again. He resumes his seat beside her, and watches her with a gravely sympathetic air. She is thoughtful and a little troubled as she adds, I wonder what is the scientific explanation of those fancies that cross us occasionally! | | Valentine | Ah, I wonder! It’s a curiously helpless sensation: isn’t it? | | Gloria | Rebelling against the word. Helpless? | | Valentine | Yes. As if Nature, after allowing us to belong to ourselves and do what we judged right and reasonable for all these years, were suddenly lifting her great hand to take us⁠—her two little children⁠—by the scruffs of our little necks, and use us, in spite of ourselves, for her own purposes, in her own way. | | Gloria | Isn’t that rather fanciful? | | Valentine | With a new and startling transition to a tone of utter recklessness. I don’t know. I don’t care. Bursting out reproachfully. Oh, Miss Clandon, Miss Clandon: how could you? | | Gloria | What have I done? | | Valentine | Thrown this enchantment on me. I’m honestly trying to be sensible⁠—scientific⁠—everything that you wish me to be. But⁠—but⁠—oh, don’t you see what you have set to work in my imagination? | | Gloria | With indignant, scornful sternness. I hope you are not going to be so foolish⁠—so vulgar⁠—as to say love. | | Valentine | With ironical haste to disclaim such a weakness. No, no, no. Not love: we know better than that. Let’s call it chemistry. You can’t deny that there is such a thing as chemical action, chemical affinity, chemical combination⁠—the most irresistible of all natural forces. Well, you’re attracting me irresistibly⁠—chemically. | | Gloria | Contemptuously. Nonsense! | | Valentine | Of course it’s nonsense, you stupid girl. Gloria recoils in outraged surprise. Yes, stupid girl: that’s a scientific fact, anyhow. You’re a prig⁠—a feminine prig: that’s what you are. Rising. Now I suppose you’ve done with me forever. He goes to the iron table and takes up his hat. | | Gloria | With elaborate calm, sitting up like a High-school-mistress posing to be photographed. That shows how very little you understand my real character. I am not in the least offended. He pauses and puts his hat down again. I am always willing to be told of my own defects, Mr. Valentine, by my friends, even when they are as absurdly mistaken about me as you are. I have many faults⁠—very serious faults⁠—of character and temper; but if there is one thing that I am not, it is what you call a prig. She closes her lips trimly and looks steadily and challengingly at him as she sits more collectedly than ever. | | Valentine | Returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her more emphatically. Oh, yes, you are. My reason tells me so: my knowledge tells me so: my experience tells me so. | | Gloria | Excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge and your experience are not infallible. At least I hope not. | | Valentine | I must believe them. Unless you wish me to believe my eyes, my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me the most monstrous lies about you. | | Gloria | The collectedness beginning to relax. Lies! | | Valentine | Obstinately. Yes, lies. He sits down again beside her. Do you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman in the world? | | Gloria | That is ridiculous, and rather personal. | | Valentine | Of course it’s ridiculous. Well, that’s what my eyes tell me. Gloria* makes a movement of contemptuous protest. No: I’m not flattering. I tell you I don’t believe it. She is ashamed to find that this does not quite please her either. Do you think that if you were to turn away in disgust from my weakness, I should sit down here and cry like a child? | | Gloria | Beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly to keep her voice steady. Why should you, pray? |