ACT I.
Scene.—Gerald Cazenove’s Chambers. A sitting-room, somewhat effeminately decorated. The furniture of the boudoir type, several antimacassars and a profusion of photographs and flowers. The main entrance, R. at back, in the flat. Doors, R. and L., window, L. of flat.
A knock is heard off, as curtain rises. Enter Wells, L., crosses stage and opens door in flat. Enter Colonel Cazenove and Sylvester.
COLONEL.
Is my nephew at home?
WELLS.
No, Colonel; but I expect him every moment.
COLONEL.
Very well; I’ll wait. [Exit Wells, door in flat.] Bah! what a stench of flowers! [Opens window and throws out a bunch of lilies standing on the table below.] Sit down, Sylvester—if you can find a chair to carry twelve stone.
SYLVESTER.
Really, I feel a sort of trespasser.
COLONEL.
Sit down.
SYLVESTER [sits].
I don’t know Cazenove very well——
COLONEL.
I’m much in the same case. Since he came up to town, I’ve only called upon him once before. By Jove, it was enough. Such a set as I met here!
SYLVESTER.
I understood that he was up the river.
COLONEL.
Came back yesterday. Hope it’s done him good. After all, he’s my nephew, and I mean to knock the nonsense out of him.
SYLVESTER.
Colonel, you’re very proud of him; and you have every reason to be. From all I hear, few men have won more distinction at Oxford.
COLONEL [pleased].
Proud of him? My dear Sylvester, that boy has more brains in his little finger than I have—gout. He takes after his aunt Caroline. You remember Caroline?
SYLVESTER.
Oh, I remember Lady Wargrave well.
COLONEL.
Wonderful woman, sir—a heart of gold—and a head—phew! Gerald takes after her. At Oxford, he carried everything before him.
SYLVESTER [laughing].
And now these women carry him behind them!
COLONEL.
But he’s a Cazenove! He’ll come right side up. We Cazenoves always do. We may go under every now and then, but we come up again! It’s in the blood.
SYLVESTER.
According to my wife—and Agnes is a clever woman in her way——
COLONEL.
Don’t know her.
SYLVESTER.
His cultivated spirit and magnetic intellect are one of the brightest hopes for the social progress of our time—[Laughs.] whatever that may mean!
COLONEL.
Does it mean anything? That is the sort of jargon Gerald was full of, when I saw him last. But he’ll get over it. Intellectual measles. Oxford’s a fine place, but no mental drainage.
SYLVESTER.
I can form no opinion. I hadn’t the advantage of a university training.
COLONEL.
I had. I was rusticated. We Cazenoves always were—till Gerald’s time. But he’ll redeem himself. We Cazenoves have always been men, except one. That’s my sister, Caroline; and, by Jove, she’s the next best thing—a woman.
[Rising, in his enthusiasm—the antimacassar slips on to the seat.
SYLVESTER.
A real woman.
COLONEL.
Caroline’s a heart of gold——
SYLVESTER.
Yes, so you said.
COLONEL.
Did I? I beg your pardon. [Sits on the antimacassar, instantly springs up, and flings it into a corner. Points to that covering Sylvester’s chair.] Throw that thing away!
SYLVESTER.
All right. I’m used to ’em. We grow ’em at our house. [Looks round.] I might be sitting in my wife’s boudoir! Same furniture, same flowers, same photographs—hallo, that’s rather a pretty woman over there!
[Crosses.
COLONEL.
A pretty woman, where? [Crosses.] No, not my style!
SYLVESTER.
Ha! ha!
COLONEL.
What are you laughing at?
SYLVESTER.
My wife! I didn’t recognize her.
[Goes about examining photographs.
COLONEL.
Ten thousand pardons! I had no idea——
SYLVESTER.
Bless me, my wife again!
COLONEL [looking].
That’s better. That’s much better.
SYLVESTER.
It’s an older photograph. Agnes was quite a woman when I married her, but she grows more and more ethereal. Philosophy doesn’t seem very nourishing.
COLONEL.
She’s a philosopher?
SYLVESTER.
Haven’t you read her book? “Aspirations after a Higher Morality.”
COLONEL.
The old morality’s high enough for me.
SYLVESTER.
I’ve tried to read it, but I didn’t succeed. However, I’ve cut the leaves and dropped cigar ash on the final chapter. Why, here she is again!
COLONEL.
Three photographs? And you’re not jealous?
SYLVESTER.
My dear Colonel, who am I to be jealous?
COLONEL.
Her husband, aren’t you?
SYLVESTER.
Yes, I am Mrs. Sylvester’s husband. I belong to my wife, but my wife doesn’t belong to me. She is the property of the public. Directly I saw her photograph in a shop-window I realized the situation. People tell me I’ve a wife to be proud of; but they’re wrong. Mrs. Sylvester is not my wife; I am her husband.
COLONEL [taking up a book].
This is what comes of educating women. We have created a Frankenstein. “Man, the Betrayer—A Study of the Sexes—By Enid Bethune.”
SYLVESTER.
Oh, I know her. She comes to our house.
COLONEL.
And has a man betrayed her?
SYLVESTER.
Never. Not likely to.
COLONEL.
That’s what’s the matter, perhaps?
SYLVESTER.
Her theory is, that boys ought to be girls, and young men should be maids. [Colonel throws down the book.] That’s how she’d equalize the sexes.
COLONEL.
Pshaw! [Takes up another book.] “Ye Foolish Virgins!—A Remonstrance—by Victoria Vivash.”
SYLVESTER.
Another soul! She’s also for equality. Her theory is, that girls should be boys, and maids should be young men. Goes in for latchkeys and that sort of thing.
COLONEL [throws down the book].
Bah! [Takes up a third.] “Naked and Unashamed—A Few Plain Facts and Figures—by Mary Bevan, M.D.” Who on earth’s she?
SYLVESTER.
One of the plain figures. She comes to our house, too.
COLONEL [reads].
“The Physiology of the Sexes!” Oh, this eternal babble of the sexes! [Throws book down.] Why can’t a woman be content to be a woman? What does she want to make a beastly man of herself for?
SYLVESTER.
But my wife isn’t a woman.
COLONEL.
None of them are, my boy. A woman, who is a woman, doesn’t want to be anything else. These people are a sex of their own, Sylvester. They have invented a new gender. And to think my nephew’s one of them!
[Strides up and down, seizes another antimacassar and flings it into another corner.
SYLVESTER.
Oh, he’s young. Don’t despair!
COLONEL.
I don’t despair! Do you suppose this folly can continue? Do you imagine that these puffed-up women will not soon burst of their own vanity? Then, the reaction! then will come our turn! Mark my words, Sylvester, there’ll be a boom in men!
[Rubbing his hands.
Enter Gerald, door in flat.
GERALD.
Good afternoon. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.
[Shakes hands with Colonel.
COLONEL.
Here you are, at last.
GERALD [shaking hands with Sylvester].
How’s Mrs. Sylvester?
SYLVESTER.
I was just going to ask you. You see more of her than I do.
GERALD.
We are collaborating.
COLONEL.
In the Higher Morality?
SYLVESTER.
How are you getting on?
GERALD.
Oh, we are only on the threshold. I finished the first chapter about daybreak.
COLONEL.
That’s how you waste the precious hours of night? Gad, sir, when I was your age——
GERALD.
That was thirty years ago. Things have changed since then.
COLONEL.
And they haven’t improved.
GERALD.
That is a question.
COLONEL.
Oh, everything’s a question nowadays! Nothing is sacred to a young man fresh from Oxford. Existence is a problem to be investigated; in my youth, it was a life to be lived; and, I thank Heaven, I lived it. Ah, the nights I had!
SYLVESTER.
Would it be impertinent to inquire upon what subject my wife is engaged?
GERALD.
Our subject is the Ethics of Marriage.
SYLVESTER.
Of my marriage?
GERALD.
Of marriage in the abstract.
COLONEL.
As if people married for ethics! There is no such thing, sir. There are no ethics in marriage.
GERALD.
That is the conclusion at which we have arrived.
COLONEL.
You are only on the threshold, and yet you have arrived at a conclusion?
GERALD.
So much is obvious. It is a conclusion to which literature and the higher culture inevitably tend. The awakened conscience of woman is already alive to it.
COLONEL.
Conscience of woman! What are you talking about? I’ve known a good many women in my time, and they hadn’t a conscience amongst ’em! There’s only one thing can awaken the conscience of woman, and that is being found out.
GERALD.
I am speaking of innocent women.
COLONEL.
I never met one.
GERALD.
Yet——
COLONEL.
Tut, tut, sir; read your Bible. Who was it had the first bite at the apple? And she’s been nibbling at it ever since!
GERALD.
Well, well, uncle, you don’t often come to see me; so we won’t argue. Can I prevail on you to stay to tea?
COLONEL.
To stay to what, sir?
GERALD.
Tea. At five o’clock, I have a few friends coming. Mrs. Sylvester—[Sylvester puts down photograph and turns]—Miss Bethune—Miss Vivash——
SYLVESTER.
And Dr. Mary Bevan?
GERALD.
Yes, I expect Miss Bevan.
COLONEL.
“Naked and Unashamed?”
GERALD.
They may bring Percy with them.
COLONEL.
Percy?
GERALD.
Percy Pettigrew.
COLONEL.
A man? An actual man? A bull amongst that china?
SYLVESTER.
Well, hardly!
COLONEL.
You know him, Sylvester?
SYLVESTER.
They bring him to our house.
GERALD.
Nobody has done more for the Advancement of Woman.
SYLVESTER.
By making a public exhibition of the Decay of Man.
GERALD.
Sylvester, you’re a Philistine. I won’t ask you to stay.
SYLVESTER.
Man the Betrayer might be dangerous, amongst such foolish virgins.
COLONEL.
The danger would be all the other way. I am not sorry I shall have protection. My sister, Caroline, will be here at five.
GERALD.
Aunt Caroline! [A little nervously.]
COLONEL.
I came to announce her visit.
SYLVESTER.
Lady Wargrave has returned to England?
COLONEL.
After ten years’ absence. She has been travelling for her health, which was never too robust; and since Sir Oriel’s death, she has been more or less a wanderer.
GERALD.
I knew she had arrived, but I postponed presenting myself till I was summoned. My aunt has the kindest of hearts——
COLONEL.
A heart of gold, sir.
GERALD.
And a pocket too. Nobody knows that better than I do. Since my parents’ death, she has been father and mother, as well as aunt, to me. But there was always something about aunt that made one keep one’s distance.
COLONEL [in a milder voice than he has yet used].
And there is still, Gerald.
GERALD.
Then I’m glad I’ve kept mine.
COLONEL.
You acted very wisely; I happen to know she wished her arrival kept secret and to descend upon you like a dea ex machinâ. Caroline always had a sense of dramatic effect. But how the deuce did you know of her return?
GERALD.
Oh, very simply. Margery told me.
COLONEL.
Margery!
GERALD.
Aunt wrote to summon her to resume her duties.
COLONEL.
But Margery’s at Mapledurham. Caroline was stopping with some friends in Paris, and Margery was sent on to her father’s.
GERALD.
Six weeks ago.
COLONEL.
Why, you know all about it.
GERALD.
Yes, I was staying there when she arrived. I have been rusticating for the last six weeks. It’s so much easier to write in the fresh air.
SYLVESTER.
You have been writing down at Mapledurham?
GERALD.
That’s what I went for.
COLONEL.
For six weeks?
GERALD.
Six weeks.
COLONEL.
And you have only finished the first chapter?
GERALD.
It’s so difficult to write in the fresh air. One wants to go out and enjoy oneself. And then old Armstrong’s such a jolly old boy.
SYLVESTER.
Armstrong, of Mapledurham? The farmer? Oh, I know him well. I go there for the fishing.
COLONEL.
Then, do you know Margery?
SYLVESTER.
Margery? No.
GERALD.
How that girl sculls!
COLONEL.
Oh, Margery was rowing?
GERALD.
Do you know, uncle, she can almost beat me?
COLONEL.
But what an arm she has!
GERALD.
And when she feathers?——
[Pantomime.
COLONEL.
Ah! when she feathers?——
[Double pantomime.
GERALD.
What a voice, too!
COLONEL.
Hasn’t she!
GERALD.
So musical! When she sings out, “Lock, ho!”
COLONEL [imitating].
“Lock, ho!”
GERALD.
No, not a bit like that—more silvery!
COLONEL.
Not a bit! more silvery!
BOTH [pantomiming].
“Lock, ho!”
SYLVESTER.
Who’s Margery?
COLONEL.
Oh, my dear fellow, just your sort—my sort—well, hang it, every man’s sort! Margery is—oh, how can I explain? If I’d seen a Margery thirty years ago; well, I should never have been a bachelor! Margery is—come, Gerald, what is Margery? Margery is a woman, who—— Well, Margery’s a woman! That’s all Margery is!
GERALD.
Old Armstrong’s daughter. We grew up together. When I was very young, I was considered delicate, and I was sent to the farmhouse at Mapledurham. When I went to Eton, Lady Wargrave took Margery into her service. There she has remained——
COLONEL.
And she is coming with your aunt to-day.
[Knock at door in flat. Re-enter Wells, followed by Mrs. Sylvester, with a small portfolio.
WELLS.
Mrs. Sylvester!
[Exit, door in flat.
MRS. SYLVESTER [stops short on seeing Sylvester.].
Jack!
SYLVESTER.
This is an unexpected pleasure. [A cold matrimonial kiss.] Colonel Cazenove—my old Colonel. Mr. Cazenove I think you know.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Well, of course, Jack! How ridiculous you are! Should I be here if I didn’t know Mr. Cazenove?
SYLVESTER.
I haven’t the least notion. I only know you wouldn’t be at home.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I was in all the morning.
SYLVESTER.
I had business at the Horse Guards. I shall be home to dinner, though.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Oh dear, I wish I had known that. There’s only mutton.
SYLVESTER.
The same mutton?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
What do you mean by same?
SYLVESTER.
I mean the mutton I had yesterday.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Did you have mutton yesterday?
SYLVESTER.
No matter; I’ll dine at the club.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Thank you, dear.
SYLVESTER.
Good-bye. [Kiss.] Good-bye, Mr. Cazenove.
COLONEL.
I will come with you. [To Gerald.] I am due at your aunt’s.
GERALD.
But I shall see you again presently?
COLONEL.
If I am visible behind Caroline. Madam, your servant. [Aside to Sylvester.] Cheer up, Sylvester! I’ll join you at the club, and we will wind the night up at the Empire.
[Exit after Sylvester, R. of flat.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
That is so like a man! Doesn’t say he’s coming home, and then expects six courses and a savoury!
GERALD.
There is a difference between cold mutton and six courses, to say nothing of the savoury.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
It is a fine distinction, and in no way affects the validity of my argument.
GERALD [smiling].
You mean, of your statement.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Husbands are all alike. The ancient regarded his wife as a slave, the modern regards her as a cook.
GERALD.
Then they are not alike.
MRS. SYLVESTER [emphatically].
A man thinks of nothing but his stomach.
GERALD.
That is another proposition.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You’re very argumentative to-day. I haven’t seen you for six weeks, and you’ve come home in a nasty, horrid temper!
GERALD.
I have been working so hard.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Why is your face so brown?
GERALD.
Well, of course, I went out.
MRS. SYLVESTER [takes his hand].
And why are your hands blistered?
GERALD.
I had a few pulls on the river; and being out of training——
MRS. SYLVESTER [innocently].
Were you stroke?
[Holding his hands.
GERALD.
Not always.
[Bites his lip.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
On, then you weren’t alone?
GERALD.
I met an old friend up the river.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Now I understand why you didn’t write to me.
[Drops his hand and turns away pettishly.
GERALD.
About the book? [She gives him a quick glance.] Oh, I had nothing to say, except that I was getting on all right. I’ve written the first chapter.
[Produces MS.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
And I’ve written the last. [Opening portfolio.] Connoting the results of our arguments.
GERALD.
But where are the arguments?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
We’ll put those in afterwards. [Gerald looks at her.] That’s how Victoria always writes her novels. She begins at the end.
GERALD.
But this is a work of philosophy.
MRS. SYLVESTER [pouting].
Oh, you are disagreeable!
GERALD [putting MS. aside].
Don’t let us talk philosophy to-day. I want to talk to you about something else.
MRS. SYLVESTER [cheerfully].
Yes!
GERALD.
I have something to tell you.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Interesting?
[Smiling.
GERALD.
I’m in love.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Oh!
[From this point her manner changes.
GERALD.
Yes, in love, Mrs. Sylvester—in real love.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
What do you call real love?
GERALD.
Something quite different from what we had supposed. We’ve been on the wrong tack altogether. We have imagined something we have labelled love; we have put it into a crucible, and reduced it to its elements.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
And we have found those elements to be, community of interest and sympathy of soul.
GERALD.
But unfortunately for our theory, the thing we put into the crucible wasn’t love at all.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
How do you know?
GERALD.
I didn’t, till last week.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
It was at Mapledurham you made this discovery?
GERALD.
At Mapledurham.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
And your friend?
GERALD.
She was the revelation.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I thought it was a woman.
GERALD.
That word just describes her. She is a woman—nothing more or less. Away went all my theories into air. My precious wisdom was stripped bare before me, and in its nakedness I saw my folly. Not with laborious thought; but in one vivid flash I learned more than I ever learned at Oxford.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Really?
GERALD.
A woman! that is what one wants—that’s all. Birth, brains, accomplishments—pshaw! vanities! community of interest—sympathy of soul? mere dialectics! That’s not love.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
What is, then?
GERALD.
It defies analysis. You can’t put love into a crucible. You only know that there is something empty in you; and you don’t know what fills it; but that’s love. There’s no mistake about the real thing.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Is she good-looking?
GERARD.
In my eyes.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
A lady?
GERALD.
In social station, beneath me. But what’s social station?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
This is infatuation. Some riverside coquette——
GERALD.
Simplicity itself.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Of course you think so; but you don’t know women. The simple woman hasn’t yet been born. This isn’t love, Mr. Cazenove. This is the temporary victory of the baser side of your nature. The true alliance is the union of souls.
GERALD.
Of man and woman.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
But of soul and soul; not a mere sensual temptation.
GERALD.
Nor is this. A week ago I thought so. I know better now.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Happily the weeks are not all over yet. In a few more you will have forgotten her as completely as she will have forgotten you.
GERALD.
In a few more, I hope that she will be my wife.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You contemplate a mésalliance?
GERALD.
There is no mésalliance where there’s love.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You, of whom everyone expects so much, to throw away your opportunities, and to begin your life hindered and hampered by a foolish marriage.
GERALD.
If she will only marry me.
MRS. SYLVESTER [looks at him, pained].
I may still be your friend?
[Offers him her hands, which he takes a little reluctantly.
Re-enter Wells.
WELLS.
Lady Wargrave.
[Exit.
Enter Lady Wargrave leaning on the Colonel’s arm. She walks with a crutch-stick, and is followed by Margery, who carries a cushion. Mrs. Sylvester retires up, so that she is not immediately seen by Lady Wargrave.
GERALD [a little tentatively].
My dear aunt!
[They shake hands.
LADY WARGRAVE.
You may kiss me.
[He kisses her, then casts a glance of gratitude at Margery. Meanwhile Margery has prepared a chair for her, into which she is placed by Gerald and the Colonel, who is now subdued and deferential, in marked contrast to his last scene. Margery takes up her position in the background.
COLONEL.
I was so fortunate as to meet the carriage.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Theodore was late as usual.
COLONEL.
Only ten minutes, Caroline; but, as you know, time, tide, and your aunt wait for no man.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Now, Gerald, let me look at you. Your face to the light, please. [Gerald stands for inspection. She takes a long look through her eye-glass.] I don’t like that necktie.
GERALD [smiling and bowing].
It shall be changed to-morrow, aunt.
LADY WARGRAVE.
To-day. [Gerald bows. She takes another look.] That will do, Gerald. [Gerald salutes. She drops her glasses.
COLONEL.
Stand at ease! Dismiss!
LADY WARGRAVE.
Theodore, this is not a barracks!
COLONEL.
True. [Bows.] Peccavi!
LADY WARGRAVE [addressing Gerald].
I need hardly say with what pleasure I have followed your career at Oxford. It is worthy of a Cazenove.
COLONEL.
Brilliant—magnificent!
LADY WARGRAVE.
It is worthy of a Cazenove; that is all.
[Colonel subsides, bowing.
GERALD.
Yes, aunt, I flatter myself——
LADY WARGRAVE.
Don’t do that. You did your duty. Nothing more.
GERALD.
By the way, did you receive my poem?
LADY WARGRAVE.
Poem?
GERALD.
That won the Newdigate. I sent you a copy—to Rome.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Ah, I remember; I received the document. Tell me, were there many competitors?
GERALD.
A dozen or so.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Is it possible that Oxford can produce eleven worse poems than yours?
GERALD.
My dear aunt!
[Colonel turns aside, chuckling, and finds himself face to face with Margery, laughing; both become suddenly serious.
MRS. SYLVESTER [advancing].
It is a work of genius—none but a true poet——
LADY WARGRAVE [half rising. Margery steps forward to help her].
I ask your pardon. Gerald, you haven’t introduced me!
GERALD.
Forgive me, Mrs. Sylvester—forgive me, aunt, but in the excitement of seeing you——
LADY WARGRAVE.
Sylvester!
COLONEL.
Wife of my old lieutenant. Captain now.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Wife of Jack Sylvester! I am pleased to meet you. I have known your husband almost from a boy. But I don’t see him.
[Looking round.
GERALD [confused].
He has just gone.
[Lady Wargrave looks from one to another. Slight pause.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Mr. Cazenove and I are collaborating.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Oh! Captain Sylvester’s wife is collaborating with you?
GERALD.
On the ethics of marriage.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Viewed from the standpoint of the higher morality.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Ah! [Drops back into her seat, helped by Margery.] That will be a very interesting work.[Margery retires up.] Did you do very much down at Mapledurham?
GERALD.
Not very much, I’m afraid.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Mr. Cazenove met a friend up the river.
LADY WARGRAVE.
A friend? Margery, you didn’t tell me that.
MARGERY [advancing, and with a slight curtsey].
I didn’t know, my lady.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
An old friend.
COLONEL.
Perhaps the old friend was Margery herself?
MRS. SYLVESTER [perplexed and curious].
Your maid was at Mapledurham?
LADY WARGRAVE.
Her father lives there. Theodore, don’t you think Margery looks all the better for her holiday?
COLONEL [with enthusiasm].
If it is possible——
LADY WARGRAVE.
Theodore! [Aside to him, stopping his mouth with her fan.]
COLONEL [subsides].
Peccavi! [Sotto voce.]
LADY WARGRAVE.
Doesn’t she look brown?
GERALD.
Well, up the river everybody does. It was hot weather, too.
LADY WARGRAVE.
It must have been. You should have seen her hands. They were all over blisters.
COLONEL.
Ah, that was the rowing!
[Pantomime as before.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Margery! [Margery casts down her eyes.] You were rowing?
MARGERY.
Sometimes, my lady.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Stroke. [Looking at Gerald.]
[Lady Wargrave, watching Mrs. Sylvester, motions to Margery, who retires up.
COLONEL [aside to Lady Wargrave].
Caroline, you took the water very neatly.
LADY WARGRAVE [aside to Colonel].
The higher morality has caught a crab.
MRS. SYLVESTER [gathers up MS. into her portfolio].
I will not trespass any longer, Mr. Cazenove. No doubt, your aunt has much to say to you.
GERALD.
But won’t you stay to tea?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Thanks. Captain Sylvester dines early.
COLONEL [aside].
At the club!
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Good day to you, Lady Wargrave. [Lady Wargrave is about to rise.] Pray don’t rise. [Bows to the Colonel and goes to door in flat where Gerald is waiting for her.] Don’t trouble; I know my way.
[Exit.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Poor Sylvester! He was such a nice boy! [Gerald comes down.] Gerald, can Margery wait in the next room?
[Gerald opens door R. Exit Margery R.
GERALD [returning].
And how have you been, aunt? You never mentioned your health in your letters. Are you better?
LADY WARGRAVE.
I mustn’t complain; but Providence is really most unjust. Here am I, who have lived a life of temperance, in my old age——
COLONEL.
Middle age, Caroline!
[Bowing.
LADY WARGRAVE [smiling].
A chronic invalid; while this old transgressor who has denied himself nothing [Colonel grins], and committed every sin in the Decalogue [Colonel chuckles], is as hale and as hearty as I am infirm.
COLONEL.
Never felt better, never!
LADY WARGRAVE.
But how have you been, Gerald? We belong to the past——
COLONEL.
Caroline!
LADY WARGRAVE.
You belong to the future, and the future belongs to you.
GERALD.
Oh, I’ve been all right!
[A little recklessly.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Quite sure you suffer from nothing?
GERALD.
What do you mean?
LADY WARGRAVE.
Your letters have told me a great deal—more than perhaps you know; but I have read them very carefully; and when you asked me to come home——
GERALD.
I didn’t, aunt.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Between the lines.
GERALD [laughing].
What did I say to you between the lines?
[Kneeling by her.
LADY WARGRAVE.
You told me that you had learned everything Oxford has to teach worth learning, and that you were in danger of becoming—well [laying her hand on his head]—shall we say, tête montée?
COLONEL.
Yes, Caroline! I should certainly say, tête montée.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Cure yourself, Gerald. Knowledge is not wisdom [stroking his head]. Forgive me, dear; but I have known so many men who have never survived the distinctions of their youth, who are always at Oxford, and even in their manhood play with rattles. Now, forget Oxford—go into the world—lay books aside, and study men.
COLONEL.
And women.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Yes—and women.
[Knock without.
GERALD [rising].
Just what I’m doing!
[Female voices in altercation. Re-enter Wells, door in flat.
WELLS.
Miss Bethune, Miss Vivash.
Enter Enid and Victoria, in hot argument. They take opposite sides of the stage and continue the discussion without taking the slightest notice of anybody. Lady Wargrave looks from the one to the other in amazement. Exit Wells, door in flat.
ENID.
I can’t agree with you! Say what you will, I can’t agree with you!
VICTORIA.
That doesn’t alter the fact. A woman has just as much right to a latchkey as a man.
ENID.
But a man has no right to a latchkey.
VICTORIA.
That’s ridiculous!
ENID.
Rudeness is not argument!
VICTORIA.
Why make distinctions?
ENID.
I make no distinctions. I admit that a woman has just as much right to come home with the milk as a man: but I say, a man has no right to come home with the milk; and I say more—no woman who respects herself has any desire to come home with the milk!
VICTORIA.
Bother the milk! It isn’t a question of milk. It’s a question of making artificial distinctions between the sexes.
ENID.
I say that there ought to be no distinction! Why should a man be allowed to commit sins——
VICTORIA.
And woman not be given an opportunity?
ENID.
Then do you want to commit sins?
VICTORIA.
I want to be allowed to do as men do.
ENID.
Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself; there!
VICTORIA.
I only say, I ought to be allowed.
ENID.
And I say that a man, reeking with infamy, ought not to be allowed to marry a pure girl——
VICTORIA.
Certainly not! She ought to reek with infamy as well.
ENID.
Victoria!
[Knock without.
VICTORIA.
What is the difference between man and woman?
ENID.
There is no difference!
Re-enter Wells, door in flat.
WELLS.
Dr. Mary Bevan.
[Exit Wells.
Enter Dr. Mary Bevan.
VICTORIA.
Why should a woman have children and a man have none?
ENID.
But a man has children!
DOCTOR.
Only vicariously.
VICTORIA.
Here’s Dr. Mary!
[Rushing up to Doctor. Enid has rushed up to the other side of her.
DOCTOR [pragmatically].
But I am not without hope that, when the attention of science is directed to the unequal incidence of the burden of maternity, some method of re-adjustment may be devised.
LADY WARGRAVE [who has risen].
Pardon me, ladies; but if you are about to consult your physician, you would no doubt prefer to be alone.
[They turn and see her for the first time.
VICTORIA.
Pray, don’t move.
GERALD.
My aunt, Lady Wargrave. Colonel Cazenove.
DOCTOR.
These matters are best discussed openly. A morbid modesty has too long closed our eyes. But the day of awakening has come. Sylvester, in her “Aspirations after a Higher Morality,” Bethune, in her “Man, the Betrayer,” Vivash, in her “Foolish Virgins,” have postulated the sexual problem from every conceivable point of view; and I have myself contributed to the discussion a modest little treatise——
ENID.
No, no, not modest!
VICTORIA.
Profound!
DOCTOR.
“Naked and Unashamed!”
ENID.
Man has done all the talking up to now——
VICTORIA.
He has had things all his own way——
DOCTOR.
And a nice mess he’s made of them!
ENID.
Now it is our turn.
VICTORIA.
We mean to put things right!
DOCTOR.
Man has departed. Woman has arrived.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Excuse my ignorance, but I have been away from England for so many years. Can this be the New Woman I have read about?
COLONEL.
Everything’s New nowadays! We have a New Art——
ENID.
A New Journalism——
VICTORIA.
A New Political Economy——
DOCTOR.
A New Morality——
COLONEL.
A New Sex!
LADY WARGRAVE [smiling].
Ah!
DOCTOR.
Do you object to modernity?
LADY WARGRAVE.
I’ve only one objection to new things; they are so old.
VICTORIA.
Not the New Woman!
LADY WARGRAVE.
No; she is generally middle-aged.
[Colonel turns to Gerald, to hide his chuckles.
ENID.
Then, do you take Man’s part in the discussion?
LADY WARGRAVE.
I take no part in it.
DOCTOR.
Do you deny that Woman has arrived, Man has departed?
LADY WARGRAVE.
I don’t wonder at it. But Man has an awkward habit of coming back again.
TRIO.
Never!
LADY WARGRAVE.
Then Woman will go after him.
[Colonel roars out aloud—the Women survey him with disgust.
Re-enter Wells, L., and whispers to Gerald.
GERALD.
Tea is quite ready, ladies!
ENID.
Ah! a cup of tea!
[Exit L., followed by Victoria, Doctor Mary and Wells.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Theodore, your arm. These ladies interest me. Besides, they sadly want a chaperone.
COLONEL.
They want a husband—that’s what they want, badly!
LADY WARGRAVE.
Gerald, call Margery. [Gerald goes to door R.] Well, they are looking for one.
[Glancing after Gerald.
COLONEL.
And they’ve found you, Caroline.
[Exeunt both, laughing, L. Each time the door, L., is opened, a babel of female voices is heard from within, and such phrases as “Peter Robinson’s,” “Swan and Edgar’s,” “Stagg and Mantle’s,” are distinctly audible above the clink of teacups, etc.
Re-enter Margery, R.; she goes straight to Lady Wargrave’s chair, and is about to carry the cushion into the room, L., when Gerald, who has stood back, watching her, advances.
GERALD.
Margery! [Margery drops the cushion and turns.] Thank you! God bless you!
MARGERY.
For what, sir?
GERALD.
You have not told my aunt.
MARGERY.
Of course I haven’t told her! [Slight pause.] May I go?
GERALD.
Not yet. Margery, can you ever forgive me?
MARGERY.
For being a man? Oh yes!
GERALD.
Can you ever respect me again?
MARGERY.
I do respect you, sir.
GERALD.
Not as I do you, Margery. You don’t know what you did for me that day. If you had rounded on me, I should not have cared—but to be silent—to do nothing—to forgive me!
MARGERY.
I had a reason for forgiving you.
GERALD.
What?
MARGERY.
That’s my business.
GERALD.
But, Margery, you do forgive me?
MARGERY.
Don’t let’s talk about it.
GERALD.
Really forgive me?
MARGERY.
Really!
GERALD.
Prove it to me.
MARGERY.
How can I?
GERALD [still holding her].
Be my wife!
MARGERY [recoiling].
Mr. Cazenove!
GERALD.
My name is Gerald.
MARGERY.
Mr. Gerald!
GERALD.
Gerald! Call me so, Margery.
MARGERY.
I couldn’t, sir. Don’t ask me!
GERALD.
Then you refuse me? [Margery is silent—he turns away.] Well, I don’t deserve you.
MARGERY [approaching him.]
Oh, don’t think I mean that! Do you suppose you are the only man that’s ever made love to me? It’s a man’s business to make love; and it’s a woman’s business to stop him—when he makes love too hard. But if we can’t be lovers, Mr. Gerald, we can be friends.
GERALD.
It’s got past friendship with me, Margery. Since I came back to town, everything’s changed. My pursuits all feel so empty and so meaningless; every woman I meet seems different from what she was: and oh, how different from you!
MARGERY.
Gentry are different. We’re different breeds. That’s why we can’t be lovers.
GERALD.
We can be man and wife!
MARGERY.
Isn’t that being lovers?
GERALD.
In my case, it would be!
MARGERY.
Hush! Mr. Gerald, that’s impossible. My lady will be asking for me. Let me go!
GERALD.
Not till I’ve told you how I love you, Margery. Seeing you again is breathing the pure air. It seems a younger and a sweeter world, now you have come again. Nothing else matters. All my life beside appears a folly and a waste of time. My real life was lived with you down yonder, out in the fields, and rambling through the woods and listening to the music of the weir. The life that we began together so pleasantly, cannot we live together to the end? I was quite honest when I said I loved you. And couldn’t you love me,—just a little bit?
MARGERY.
You oughtn’t to ask that!
GERALD.
I mean to have an answer.
MARGERY.
Please, Mr. Gerald, don’t! It makes it very hard for me——
GERALD.
Answer me! Could you love me, Margery?
MARGERY.
Oh, what’s the use of asking? You only want to make me tell a lie.
GERALD.
Answer me!
MARGERY.
I have answered you!
GERALD.
Margery, then you do!
MARGERY.
That is what made it easy to forgive you. Now let me go.
GERALD.
Not till you’ve said that you will be my wife.
MARGERY.
Oh, Mr. Gerald.
GERALD.
Gerald! say Gerald!
MARGERY.
It’s no use. I can’t!
GERALD.
Say you will marry me!
MARGERY.
If you will let me call you “Mr. Gerald.”
[Embrace.
COLONEL [off, opens door L.].
Margery! where are you?
Re-enter L., just as Margery is withdrawing from Gerald’s arms, stands thunderstruck. Exit Margery, L.
GERALD.
It’s all right, uncle.
COLONEL.
All right, you call it? Look here, you young cub! None of your higher morality with Margery!
GERALD.
I tell you, it’s all right. Margery’s going to be your niece—my wife.
COLONEL.
Margery, your wife! [Slight pause.] You’re a damned lucky dog!
GERALD.
That I am, uncle!
COLONEL.
’Gad, sir, you’re a man; and I thought you were a monkey. I congratulate you!
GERALD [shaking hands].
You don’t object then?
COLONEL.
I thought a Cazenove would come right side up.
GERALD.
But what will aunt say?
COLONEL [suddenly collapses].
I was forgetting Caroline!
GERALD.
She must be told.
COLONEL.
But cautiously. Courage! I’ll back you up!
GERALD.
I’ll tell her now!
COLONEL.
Stay! Don’t do anything rash! I wouldn’t risk a private interview. Safety in numbers.
GERALD.
I will tell them all!
COLONEL.
Sht! what a bomb-shell! Courage!
GERALD.
Courage, yourself! You’re shaking all over.
COLONEL.
No matter. I’ll stand by you!
LADY WARGRAVE [opening door, L.].
Gerald!
COLONEL.
Form square! Prepare to receive cavalry!
[Retires up.
Re-enter Lady Wargrave, L.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Where are you? Why have you deserted me? To leave me at the mercy of that crew! My poor, dear, Gerald! however did you get into this set?
GERALD.
It was my poem did it.
LADY WARGRAVE.
I thought, that crime would bring its punishment. Now, they’re upon the marriage service! As though that concerned them! Gerald, if you marry any of that tribe, you’ll really break my heart!
[Colonel comes down R. of Gerald.
GERALD.
I hope I shall never do that!
LADY WARGRAVE.
Marry a woman, whatever else she is.
COLONEL [aside to Gerald].
Courage!
GERALD.
Or isn’t, aunt!
[Effusively.
COLONEL [aside to Gerald].
Caution!
[Retires up.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Or isn’t!
The door L. is thrown open, and re-enter Dr. Mary, Enid, and Victoria, all talking, followed by Margery, who takes up her original position at the back.
DOCTOR.
“Obey,” forsooth!
VICTORIA.
To promise to love is ridiculous, for how can one control the mysterious expansions of the heart?
DOCTOR.
It is the brain that loves. A still more complicated mechanism.
ENID.
It is impossible to honour a man who has invariably lived a revolting, ante-nuptial life——
VICTORIA.
But to “obey!”
[Colonel works down stage, interested.
DOCTOR.
Lady Wargrave, even you surely wouldn’t promise to “obey” a man?
LADY WARGRAVE.
Not till he asked me, certainly.
COLONEL.
Ha! ha!
[The trio turn on him; he retires up.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Gerald, I must be going.
DOCTOR.
So must I.
ENID.
And I.
DOCTOR.
I have a clinical lecture——
VICTORIA.
I have an engagement.
GERALD.
One moment, ladies! Stay one moment, aunt! Before you go I want to tell you all of my engagement.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Your engagement, Gerald?
GERALD.
Yes, I am going to be married.
[Pause.
ENID [with jealousy].
To Agnes Syl—? Oh, I forgot; she’s married.
LADY WARGRAVE.
To whom?
[All stand expectantly.
GERALD.
To Margery.
[All stand transfixed. Exit Colonel, door in flat.
DOCTOR.
Mr. Cazenove, I offer you my congratulations. Having a clinical lecture to deliver, you will excuse me if I say good afternoon.
ENID.
Wait for me, Doctor. [Exit Dr. Mary, door in flat.] You have my best wishes.
[Exit, door in flat.
VICTORIA.
And thank you for the plot of my next novel.
[Exit, door in flat.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Gerald, is this a trick?
GERALD.
No, aunt; it is the truth.
LADY WARGRAVE.
And you, a Cazenove! It is out of the question! I won’t permit it! I forbid it, Gerald!
GERALD.
But, my dear aunt, you said only just now——
LADY WARGRAVE.
No matter!
GERALD.
Marry a woman——
LADY WARGRAVE.
Don’t repeat my words! A Cazenove marry Margery! Ridiculous!
GERALD.
But, aunt——
LADY WARGRAVE.
Silence! You said just now, you hoped that you would never break my heart. Well, Gerald, you have broken it. A Cazenove!
[Exit, door in flat. Margery takes up the cushion, and is about to follow.
GERALD.
Put that thing down. [She puts it down.] You are mine now; not hers.
MARGERY.
Yes, Mr. Gerald.
GERALD [sits, drawing her to him].
For better, for worse, Margery.
MARGERY.
For better, for worse.
GERALD.
You are not frightened?
MARGERY.
Not now, Mr. Gerald.
GERALD.
Then call me, Gerald.
MARGERY.
Gerald!
[Dropping on her knee by his side.
GERALD.
You’re not afraid to make those promises!
MARGERY.
No, Gerald!
GERALD.
To love—to honour.
MARGERY.
And obey!
[Looking up at him.