MORELL (wrathfully). Leave my house. Do you hear? (He advances on 
him threateningly.)

MARCHBANKS (shrinking back against the couch). Let me alone. 
Don't touch me. (Morell grasps him powerfully by the lappell of 
his coat: he cowers down on the sofa and screams passionately.)
Stop, Morell, if you strike me, I'll kill myself. I won't bear 
it. (Almost in hysterics.) Let me go. Take your hand away.

MORELL (with slow, emphatic scorn.) You little snivelling, 
cowardly whelp. (Releasing him.) Go, before you frighten yourself 
into a fit.

MARCHBANKS (on the sofa, gasping, but relieved by the withdrawal 
of Morell's hand). I'm not afraid of you: it's you who are afraid 
of me.

MORELL (quietly, as he stands over him). It looks like it, 
doesn't it?

MARCHBANKS (with petulant vehemence). Yes, it does. (Morell turns 
away contemptuously. Eugene scrambles to his feet and follows 
him.) You think because I shrink from being brutally handled--
because (with tears in his voice) I can do nothing but cry with 
rage when I am met with violence--because I can't lift a heavy 
trunk down from the top of a cab like you--because I can't fight 
you for your wife as a navvy would: all that makes you think that 
I'm afraid of you. But you're wrong. If I haven't got what you 
call British pluck, I haven't British cowardice either: I'm not 
afraid of a clergyman's ideas. I'll fight your ideas. I'll rescue 
her from her slavery to them: I'll pit my own ideas against them. 
You are driving me out of the house because you daren't let her 
choose between your ideas and mine. You are afraid to let me see 
her again. (Morell, angered, turns suddenly on him. He flies to 
the door in involuntary dread.) Let me alone, I say. I'm going. 

MORELL (with cold scorn). Wait a moment: I am not going to touch 
you: don't be afraid. When my wife comes back she will want to 
know why you have gone. And when she finds that you are never 
going to cross our threshold again, she will want to have that 
explained, too. Now I don't wish to distress her by telling her 
that you have behaved like a blackguard.

MARCHBANKS (Coming back with renewed vehemence). You shall--you 
must. If you give any explanation but the true one, you are a 
liar and a coward.  Tell her what I said; and how you were strong 
and manly, and shook me as a terrier shakes a rat; and how I 
shrank and was terrified; and how you called me a snivelling 
little whelp and put me out of the house. If you don't tell her, 
I will: I'll write to her.

MORELL (taken aback.) Why do you want her to know this?

MARCHBANKS (with lyric rapture.) Because she will understand me, 
and know that I understand her. If you keep back one word of it 
from her--if you are not ready to lay the truth at her feet as I 
am--then you will know to the end of your days that she really 
belongs to me and not to you. Good-bye. (Going.)

MORELL (terribly disquieted). Stop: I will not tell her. 

MARCHBANKS (turning near the door). Either the truth or a lie 
you MUST tell her, if I go.

MORELL (temporizing). Marchbanks: it is sometimes justifiable.

MARCHBANKS (cutting him short). I know--to lie. It will
be useless. Good-bye, Mr. Clergyman.

(As he turns finally to the door, it opens and Candida enters in 
housekeeping attire.)

CANDIDA. Are you going, Eugene?(Looking more observantly at him.) 
Well, dear me, just look at you, going out into the street in 
that state! You ARE a poet, certainly. Look at him, James! (She 
takes him by the coat, and brings him forward to show him to 
Morell.) Look at his collar! look at his tie! look at his hair! 
One would think somebody had been throttling you. (The two men 
guard themselves against betraying their consciousness.) Here! 
Stand still. (She buttons his collar; ties his neckerchief in a 
bow; and arranges his hair.) There! Now you look so nice that I 
think you'd better stay to lunch after all, though I told you you 
mustn't. It will be ready in half an hour. (She puts a final 
touch to the bow. He kisses her hand.) Don't be silly.

MARCHBANKS. I want to stay, of course--unless the reverend 
gentleman, your husband, has anything to advance to the contrary.

CANDIDA. Shall he stay, James, if he promises to be a good boy 
and to help me to lay the table? (Marchbanks turns his head and 
looks steadfastly at Morell over his shoulder, challenging his 
answer.)

MORELL (shortly). Oh, yes, certainly: he had better. (He goes to 
the table and pretends to busy himself with his papers there.)

MARCHBANKS (offering his arm to Candida). Come and lay the 
table.(She takes it and they go to the door together. As they go 
out he adds) I am the happiest of men.

MORELL. So was I--an hour ago.



ACT II

The same day. The same room. Late in the afternoon. The spare 
chair for visitors has been replaced at the table, which is, if 
possible, more untidy than before. Marchbanks, alone and idle, is 
trying to find out how the typewriter works. Hearing someone at 
the door, he steals guiltily away to the window and pretends to 
be absorbed in the view. Miss Garnett, carrying the notebook in 
which she takes down Morell's letters in shorthand from his 
dictation, sits down at the typewriter and sets to work 
transcribing them, much too busy to notice Eugene. Unfortunately 
the first key she strikes sticks.

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 distingished 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 fathead, 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 note-book 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.)

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 heart-breaking 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 to-morrow 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 
hearth-rug, 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 hearth-rug.)

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 to-day. 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 money-making 
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 church-going 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.)

CANDIDA (to Morell, relieved and laughing). Oh, you're only 
shocked! Is that all? How conventional all you unconventional 
people are!

BURGESS. Come: be'ave yourself, Candy. What'll Mr. Morchbanks 
think of you?

CANDIDA. This comes of James teaching me to think for myself, and 
never to hold back out of fear of what other people may think of 
me. It works beautifully as long as I think the same things as he 
does. But now, because I have just thought something different!--
look at him--just look!

(She points to Morell, greatly amused. Eugene looks, and 
instantly presses his band on his heart, as if some deadly pain
had shot through it, and sits down on the sofa like a man 
witnessing a tragedy.)

BURGESS (on the hearth-rug). Well, James, you certainly ain't as 
himpressive lookin' as usu'l.

MORELL (with a laugh which is half a sob). I suppose not. I beg 
all your pardons: I was not conscious of making a fuss. (Pulling 
himself together.) Well, well, well, well, well! (He goes back to 
his place at the table, setting to work at his papers again with 
resolute cheerfulness.)

CANDIDA (going to the sofa and sitting beside Marchbanks, still 
in a bantering humor). Well, Eugene, why are you so sad? Did the 
onions make you cry?

(Morell cannot prevent himself from watching them.) 

MARCHBANKS (aside to her). It is your cruelty. I hate cruelty. It 
is a horrible thing to see one person make another suffer.

CANDIDA (petting him ironically). Poor boy, have I been cruel? 
Did I make it slice nasty little red onions? 

MARCHBANKS (earnestly). Oh, stop, stop: I don't mean myself. You 
have made him suffer frightfully. I feel his pain in my own 
heart. I know that it is not your fault--it is something that 
must happen; but don't make light of it. I shudder when you 
torture him and laugh.

CANDIDA (incredulously). I torture James! Nonsense, Eugene: how 
you exaggerate! Silly! (She looks round at Morell, who hastily 
resumes his writing. She goes to him and stands behind his chair, 
bending over him.) Don't work any more, dear. Come and talk to 
us.

MORELL (affectionately but bitterly). Ah no: I can't talk. I can 
only preach.

CANDIDA (caressing him). Well, come and preach. 

BURGESS (strongly remonstrating). Aw, no, Candy. 'Ang it all!
(Lexy Mill comes in, looking anxious and important.)

LEXY (hastening to shake hands with Candida). How do you do, Mrs. 
Morell? So glad to see you back again.

CANDIDA. Thank you, Lexy. You know Eugene, don't you?

LEXY. Oh, yes. How do you do, Marchbanks? 

MARCHBANKS. Quite well, thanks.

LEXY (to Morell). I've just come from the Guild of St. Matthew. 
They are in the greatest consternation about your telegram. 
There's nothing wrong, is there? 

CANDIDA. What did you telegraph about, James?

LEXY (to Candida). He was to have spoken for them tonight. 
They've taken the large hall in Mare Street and spent a lot of 
money on posters. Morell's telegram was to say he couldn't come. 
It came on them like a thunderbolt.

CANDIDA (surprized, and beginning to suspect something wrong). 
Given up an engagement to speak!

BURGESS. First time in his life, I'll bet. Ain' it, Candy? 

LEXY (to Morell). They decided to send an urgent telegram to you 
asking whether you could not change your mind. Have you received 
it?

MORELL (with restrained impatience). Yes, yes: I got it.

LEXY. It was reply paid.

MORELL. Yes, I know. I answered it. I can't go.

CANDIDA. But why, James?

MORELL (almost fiercely). Because I don't choose. These people 
forget that I am a man: they think I am a talking machine to be 
turned on for their pleasure every evening of my life. May I not 
have ONE night at home, with my wife, and my friends?

(They are all amazed at this outburst, except Eugene. His 
expression remains unchanged.)

CANDIDA. Oh, James, you know you'll have an attack of bad 
conscience to-morrow; and _I_ shall have to suffer for that.

LEXY (intimidated, but urgent). I know, of course, that they make 
the most unreasonable demands on you. But they have been 
telegraphing all over the place for another speaker: and they can 
get nobody but the President of the Agnostic League.

MORELL (promptly). Well, an excellent man. What better do they 
want?

LEXY. But he always insists so powerfully on the divorce of 
Socialism from Christianity. He will undo all the good we have 
been doing. Of course you know best; but--(He hesitates.)

CANDIDA (coaxingly). Oh, DO go, James. We'll all go. 

BURGESS (grumbling). Look 'ere, Candy! I say! Let's stay at home 
by the fire, comfortable. He won't need to be more'n a 
couple-o'-hour away.

CANDIDA. You'll be just as comfortable at the meeting. We'll all 
sit on the platform and be great people.

EUGENE (terrified). Oh, please don't let us go on the platform. 
No--everyone will stare at us--I couldn't. I'll sit at the back 
of the room.

CANDIDA. Don't be afraid. They'll be too busy looking at James to 
notice you.

MORELL (turning his head and looking meaningly at her over his 
shoulder). Prossy's complaint, Candida! Eh?

CANDIDA (gaily). Yes. 

BURGESS (mystified). Prossy's complaint. Wot are you talking 
about, James?

MORELL (not heeding him, rises; goes to the door; and holds it 
open, shouting in a commanding voice). Miss Garnett. 

PROSERPINE (in the distance). Yes, Mr. Morell. Coming. (They all 
wait, except Burgess, who goes stealthily to Lexy and draws him 
aside.)

BURGESS. Listen here, Mr. Mill. Wot's Prossy's complaint? Wot's 
wrong with 'er?

LEXY (confidentially). Well, I don't exactly know; but she spoke 
very strangely to me this morning. I'm afraid she's a little out 
of her mind sometimes.

BURGESS (overwhelmed). Why, it must be catchin'! Four in the same 
'ouse! (He goes back to the hearth, quite lost before the 
instability of the human intellect in a clergyman's house.)

PROSERPINE (appearing on the threshold). What is it, Mr. Morell?

MORELL. Telegraph to the Guild of St. Matthew that I am coming.

PROSERPINE (surprised). Don't they expect you? 

MORELL (peremptorily). Do as I tell you.

(Proserpine frightened, sits down at her typewriter, and obeys. 
Morell goes across to Burgess, Candida watching his movements all 
the time with growing wonder and misgiving.) 

MORELL. Burgess: you don't want to come?

BURGESS (in deprecation). Oh, don't put it like that, James. It's 
only that it ain't Sunday, you know.

MORELL. I'm sorry. I thought you might like to be introduced to 
the chairman. He's on the Works Committee of the County Council 
and has some influence in the matter of contracts. (Burgess wakes 
up at once. Morell, expecting as much, waits a moment, and says) 
Will you come?

BURGESS (with enthusiasm). Course I'll come, James. Ain' it 
always a pleasure to 'ear you.

MORELL (turning from him). I shall want you to take some notes at 
the meeting, Miss Garnett, if you have no other engagement. (She 
nods, afraid to speak.) You are coming, Lexy, I suppose.

LEXY. Certainly.

CANDIDA. We are all coming, James.

MORELL. No: you are not coming; and Eugene is not coming. You 
will stay here and entertain him--to celebrate your return home. 
(Eugene rises, breathless.) 

CANDIDA. But James--

MORELL (authoritatively). I insist. You do not want to come; and 
he does not want to come. (Candida is about to protest.) Oh, 
don't concern yourselves: I shall have plenty of people without 
you: your chairs will be wanted by unconverted people who have 
never heard me before.

CANDIDA (troubled). Eugene: wouldn't you like to come?

MORELL. I should be afraid to let myself go before Eugene: he is 
so critical of sermons. (Looking at him.) He knows I am afraid of 
him: he told me as much this morning. Well, I shall show him how 
much afraid I am by leaving him here in your custody, Candida.

MARCHBANKS (to himself, with vivid feeling). That's brave. That's 
beautiful. (He sits down again listening with parted lips.)

CANDIDA (with anxious misgiving). But--but--Is anything the 
matter, James? (Greatly troubled.) I can't understand--

MORELL. Ah, I thought it was I who couldn't understand, dear. (He 
takes her tenderly in his arms and kisses her on the forehead; 
then looks round quietly at Marchbanks.)



ACT III

Late in the evening. Past ten. The curtains are drawn, and the 
lamps lighted. The typewriter is in its case; the large table has 
been cleared and tidied; everything indicates that the day's work 
is done.

Candida and Marchbanks are seated at the fire. The reading lamp 
is on the mantelshelf above Marchbanks, who is sitting on the 
small chair reading aloud from a manuscript. A little pile of 
manuscripts and a couple of volumes of poetry are on the carpet 
beside him. Candida is in the easy chair with the poker, a light 
brass one, upright in her hand. She is leaning back and looking 
at the point of it curiously, with her feet stretched towards the 
blaze and her heels resting on the fender, profoundly unconscious 
of her appearance and surroundings.

MARCHBANKS (breaking off in his recitation): Every poet that ever 
lived has put that thought into a sonnet. He must: he can't help 
it. (He looks to her for assent, and notices her absorption in 
the poker.) Haven't you been listening? (No response.) Mrs. 
Morell!

CANDIDA (starting). Eh?

MARCHBANKS. Haven't you been listening?

CANDIDA (with a guilty excess of politeness). Oh, yes. It's very 
nice. Go on, Eugene. I'm longing to hear what happens to the 
angel.

MARCHBANKS (crushed--the manuscript dropping from his hand to the 
floor). I beg your pardon for boring you.

CANDIDA. But you are not boring me, I assure you. Please go on. 
Do, Eugene.

MARCHBANKS. I finished the poem about the angel quarter of an 
hour ago. I've read you several things since.

CANDIDA (remorsefully). I'm so sorry, Eugene. I think the poker 
must have fascinated me. (She puts it down.) 

MARCHBANKS. It made me horribly uneasy.

CANDIDA. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have put it down at once.

MARCHBANKS. I was afraid of making you uneasy, too. It looked as 
if it were a weapon. If I were a hero of old, I should have laid 
my drawn sword between us. If Morell had come in he would have 
thought you had taken up the poker because there was no sword 
between us.

CANDIDA (wondering). What? (With a puzzled glance at him.) I 
can't quite follow that. Those sonnets of yours have perfectly 
addled me. Why should there be a sword between us?

MARCHBANKS (evasively). Oh, never mind. (He stoops to pick up the 
manuscript.)

CANDIDA. Put that down again, Eugene. There are limits to my 
appetite for poetry--even your poetry. You've been reading to me 
for more than two hours--ever since James went out. I want to 
talk.

MARCHBANKS (rising, scared). No: I mustn't talk. (He looks round 
him in his lost way, and adds, suddenly) I think I'll go out and 
take a walk in the park. (Making for the door.)

CANDIDA. Nonsense: it's shut long ago. Come and sit down on the 
hearth-rug, and talk moonshine as you usually do. I want to be 
amused. Don't you want to? 

MARCHBANKS (in half terror, half rapture). Yes.

CANDIDA. Then come along. (She moves her chair back a little to 
make room. He hesitates; then timidly stretches himself on the 
hearth-rug, face upwards, and throws back his head across her 
knees, looking up at her.)

MARCHBANKS. Oh, I've been so miserable all the evening,
because I was doing right. Now I'm doing wrong; and I'm happy.

CANDIDA (tenderly amused at him). Yes: I'm sure you feel a great 
grown up wicked deceiver--quite proud of yourself, aren't you?

MARCHBANKS (raising his head quickly and turning a little to look 
round at her). Take care. I'm ever so much older than you, if you 
only knew. (He turns quite over on his knees, with his hands 
clasped and his arms on her lap, and speaks with growing impulse, 
his blood beginning to stir.) May I say some wicked things to 
you?

CANDIDA (without the least fear or coldness, quite nobly, and 
with perfect respect for his passion, but with a touch of her 
wise-hearted maternal humor). No. But you may say anything you 
really and truly feel. Anything at all, no matter what it is. I 
am not afraid, so long as it is your real self that speaks, and 
not a mere attitude--a gallant attitude, or a wicked attitude, or 
even a poetic attitude. I put you on your honor and truth. Now 
say whatever you want to.

MARCHBANKS (the eager expression vanishing utterly from his lips 
and nostrils as his eyes light up with pathetic spirituality). 
Oh, now I can't say anything: all the words I know belong to some 
attitude or other--all except one.

CANDIDA. What one is that?

MARCHBANKS (softly, losing himself in the music of the name). 
Candida, Candida, Candida, Candida, Candida. I must say that now, 
because you have put me on my honor and truth; and I never think 
or feel Mrs. Morell: it is always Candida.

CANDIDA. Of course. And what have you to say to Candida?

MARCHBANKS. Nothing, but to repeat your name a thousand times. 
Don't you feel that every time is a prayer to you? 

CANDIDA. Doesn't it make you happy to be able to pray?

MARCHBANKS. Yes, very happy.

CANDIDA. Well, that happiness is the answer to your prayer. Do 
you want anything more?

MARCHBANKS (in beatitude). No: I have come into heaven, where 
want is unknown.

(Morell comes in. He halts on the threshold, and takes in the 
scene at a glance.)

MORELL (grave and self-contained). I hope I don't disturb you.
(Candida starts up violently, but without the smallest 
embarrassment, laughing at herself. Eugene, still kneeling, saves 
himself from falling by putting his hands on the seat of the 
chair, and remains there, staring open mouthed at Morell.)