CANDIDA 

BERNARD SHAW

1898



ACT I

A fine October morning in the north east suburbs of London, a 
vast district many miles away from the London of Mayfair and St. 
James's, much less known there than the Paris of the Rue de 
Rivoli and the Champs Elysees, and much less narrow, squalid, 
fetid and airless in its slums; strong in comfortable, prosperous 
middle class life; wide-streeted, myriad-populated; well-served 
with ugly iron urinals, Radical clubs, tram lines, and a 
perpetual stream of yellow cars; enjoying in its main 
thoroughfares the luxury of grass-grown "front gardens," 
untrodden by the foot of man save as to the path from the gate to 
the hall door; but blighted by an intolerable monotony of miles 
and miles of graceless, characterless brick houses, black iron 
railings, stony pavements, slaty roofs, and respectably ill 
dressed or disreputably poorly dressed people, quite accustomed 
to the place, and mostly plodding about somebody else's work, 
which they would not do if they themselves could help it. The 
little energy and eagerness that crop up show themselves in 
cockney cupidity and business "push." Even the policemen and the 
chapels are not infrequent enough to break the monotony.
The sun is shining cheerfully; there is no fog; and though the 
smoke effectually prevents anything, whether faces and hands or 
bricks and mortar, from looking fresh and clean, it is not 
hanging heavily enough to trouble a Londoner.

This desert of unattractiveness has its oasis. Near the outer end 
of the Hackney Road is a park of 217 acres, fenced in, not by 
railings, but by a wooden paling, and containing plenty of 
greensward, trees, a lake for bathers, flower beds with the 
flowers arranged carefully in patterns by the admired cockney art 
of carpet gardening and a sandpit, imported from the seaside for 
the delight of the children, but speedily deserted on its 
becoming a natural vermin preserve for all the petty fauna of 
Kingsland, Hackney and Hoxton. A bandstand, an unfinished forum 
for religious, anti-religious and political orators, cricket 
pitches, a gymnasium, and an old fashioned stone kiosk are among 
its attractions. Wherever the prospect is bounded by trees or 
rising green grounds, it is a pleasant place. Where the ground 
stretches far to the grey palings, with bricks and mortar, sky 
signs, crowded chimneys and smoke beyond, the prospect makes it 
desolate and sordid.

The best view of Victoria Park is from the front window of St. 
Dominic's Parsonage, from which not a single chimney is visible. 
The parsonage is a semi-detached villa with a front garden and a 
porch. Visitors go up the flight of steps to the porch: 
tradespeople and members of the family go down by a door under 
the steps to the basement, with a breakfast room, used for all 
meals, in front, and the kitchen at the back. Upstairs, on the 
level of the hall door, is the drawing-room, with its large plate 
glass window looking on the park. In this room, the only 
sitting-room that can be spared from the children and the family 
meals, the parson, the Reverend James Mavor Morell does his work. 
He is sitting in a strong round backed revolving chair at the 
right hand end of a long table, which stands across the window, 
so that he can cheer himself with the view of the park at his 
elbow. At the opposite end of the table, adjoining it, is a 
little table; only half the width of the other, with a typewriter 
on it. His typist is sitting at this machine, with her back to 
the window. The large table is littered with pamphlets, journals, 
letters, nests of drawers, an office diary, postage scales and 
the like. A spare chair for visitors having business with the 
parson is in the middle, turned to his end. Within reach of his 
hand is a stationery case, and a cabinet photograph in a frame. 
Behind him the right hand wall, recessed above the fireplace, is 
fitted with bookshelves, on which an adept eye can measure the 
parson's divinity and casuistry by a complete set of Browning's 
poems and Maurice's Theological Essays, and guess at his politics 
from a yellow backed Progress and Poverty, Fabian Essays, a Dream 
of John Ball, Marx's Capital, and half a dozen other literary 
landmarks in Socialism. Opposite him on the left, near the 
typewriter, is the door. Further down the room, opposite the 
fireplace, a bookcase stands on a cellaret, with a sofa near it. 
There is a generous fire burning; and the hearth, with a 
comfortable armchair and a japanned flower painted coal scuttle 
at one side, a miniature chair for a boy or girl on the other, a 
nicely varnished wooden mantelpiece, with neatly moulded shelves, 
tiny bits of mirror let into the panels, and a travelling clock 
in a leather case (the inevitable wedding present), and on the 
wall above a large autotype of the chief figure in Titian's 
Virgin of the Assumption, is very inviting. Altogether the room 
is the room of a good housekeeper, vanquished, as far as the 
table is concerned, by an untidy man, but elsewhere mistress of 
the situation. The furniture, in its ornamental aspect, betrays 
the style of the advertised "drawing-room suite" of the pushing 
suburban furniture dealer; but there is nothing useless or 
pretentious in the room. The paper and panelling are dark, 
throwing the big cheery window and the park outside into strong 
relief.

The Reverend James Mavor Morell is a Christian Socialist 
clergyman of the Church of England, and an active member of the 
Guild of St. Matthew and the Christian Social Union. A vigorous, 
genial, popular man of forty, robust and goodlooking, full of 
energy, with pleasant, hearty, considerate manners, and a sound, 
unaffected voice, which he uses with the clean, athletic 
articulation of a practised orator, and with a wide range and 
perfect command of expression. He is a first rate clergyman, able 
to say what he likes to whom he likes, to lecture people without 
setting himself up against them, to impose his authority on them 
without humiliating them, and to interfere in their business 
without impertinence. His well-spring of spiritual enthusiasm and 
sympathetic emotion has never run dry for a moment: he still eats 
and sleeps heartily enough to win the daily battle between 
exhaustion and recuperation triumphantly. Withal, a great baby, 
pardonably vain of his powers and unconsciously pleased with 
himself. He has a healthy complexion, a good forehead, with the 
brows somewhat blunt, and the eyes bright and eager, a mouth 
resolute, but not particularly well cut, and a substantial nose, 
with the mobile, spreading nostrils of the dramatic orator, but, 
like all his features, void of subtlety.

The typist, Miss Proserpine Garnett, is a brisk little woman of 
about 30, of the lower middle class, neatly but cheaply dressed 
in a black merino skirt and a blouse, rather pert and quick of 
speech, and not very civil in her manner, but sensitive and 
affectionate. She is clattering away busily at her machine whilst 
Morell opens the last of his morning's letters. He realizes its 
contents with a comic groan of despair.

PROSERPINE. Another lecture?

MORELL. Yes. The Hoxton Freedom Group want me to address them on 
Sunday morning (great emphasis on "Sunday," this being the 
unreasonable part of the business). What are they?

PROSERPINE. Communist Anarchists, I think.

MORELL. Just like Anarchists not to know that they can't have a 
parson on Sunday! Tell them to come to church if they want to 
hear me: it will do them good. Say I can only come on Mondays and 
Thursdays. Have you the diary there?

PROSERPINE (taking up the diary). Yes.

MORELL. Have I any lecture on for next Monday? 

PROSERPINE (referring to diary). Tower Hamlets Radical Club.

MORELL. Well, Thursday then?

PROSERPINE. English Land Restoration League. 

MORELL. What next?

PROSERPINE. Guild of St. Matthew on Monday. Independent Labor 
Party, Greenwich Branch, on Thursday. Monday, Social-Democratic 
Federation, Mile End Branch. Thursday, first Confirmation class--
(Impatiently). Oh, I'd better tell them you can't come. They're 
only half a dozen ignorant and conceited costermongers without 
five shillings between them.

MORELL (amused). Ah; but you see they're near relatives of mine, 
Miss Garnett.

PROSERPINE (staring at him). Relatives of YOURS! 

MORELL. Yes: we have the same father--in Heaven. 

PROSERPINE (relieved). Oh, is that all?

MORELL (with a sadness which is a luxury to a man whose voice 
expresses it so finely). Ah, you don't believe it. Everybody says 
it: nobody believes it--nobody. (Briskly, getting back to 
business.) Well, well! Come, Miss Proserpine, can't you find a 
date for the costers? What about the 25th?: that was vacant the 
day before yesterday.

PROSERPINE (referring to diary). Engaged--the Fabian Society.

MORELL. Bother the Fabian Society! Is the 28th gone too?

PROSERPINE. City dinner. You're invited to dine with the 
Founder's Company.

MORELL. That'll do; I'll go to the Hoxton Group of Freedom 
instead. (She enters the engagement in silence, with implacable 
disparagement of the Hoxton Anarchists in every line of her face. 
Morell bursts open the cover of a copy of The Church Reformer, 
which has come by post, and glances through Mr. Stewart Hendlam's 
leader and the Guild of St. Matthew news. These proceedings are 
presently enlivened by the appearance of Morell's curate, the 
Reverend Alexander Mill, a young gentleman gathered by Morell 
from the nearest University settlement, whither he had come from 
Oxford to give the east end of London the benefit of his 
university training. He is a conceitedly well intentioned, 
enthusiastic, immature person, with nothing positively unbearable 
about him except a habit of speaking with his lips carefully 
closed for half an inch from each corner, a finicking 
arthulation, and a set of horribly corrupt vowels, notably ow for 
o, this being his chief means of bringing Oxford refinement
to bear on Hackney vulgarity. Morell, whom he has won over by a 
doglike devotion, looks up indulgently from The Church Reformer 
as he enters, and remarks) Well, Lexy! Late again, as usual.

LEXY. I'm afraid so. I wish I could get up in the morning.

MORELL (exulting in his own energy). Ha! ha! (Whimsically.) Watch 
and pray, Lexy: watch and pray.

LEXY. I know. (Rising wittily to the occasion.) But how can I 
watch and pray when I am asleep? Isn't that so, Miss Prossy?

PROSERPINE (sharply). Miss Garnett, if you please. 

LEXY. I beg your pardon--Miss Garnett. 

PROSERPINE. You've got to do all the work to-day. 

LEXY. Why?

PROSERPINE. Never mind why. It will do you good to earn your 
supper before you eat it, for once in a way, as I do. Come: don't 
dawdle. You should have been off on your rounds half an hour ago.

LEXY (perplexed). Is she in earnest, Morell?

MORELL (in the highest spirits--his eyes dancing). Yes. _I_ am 
going to dawdle to-day.

LEXY. You! You don't know how.
 
MORELL (heartily). Ha! ha! Don't I? I'm going to have this day 
all to myself--or at least the forenoon. My wife's coming back: 
she's due here at 11.45.

LEXY (surprised). Coming back already--with the children? I 
thought they were to stay to the end of the month. 

MORELL. So they are: she's only coming up for two days, to get 
some flannel things for Jimmy, and to see how we're getting on 
without her.

LEXY (anxiously). But, my dear Morell, if what Jimmy and Fluffy 
had was scarlatina, do you think it wise--

MORELL. Scarlatina!--rubbish, German measles. I brought it into 
the house myself from the Pycroft Street School. A parson is like 
a doctor, my boy: he must face infection as a soldier must face 
bullets. (He rises and claps Lexy on the shoulder.) Catch the 
measles if you can, Lexy: she'll nurse you; and what a piece of 
luck that will be for you!--eh?

LEXY (smiling uneasily). It's so hard to understand you about 
Mrs. Morell--

MORELL (tenderly). Ah, my boy, get married--get married to a good 
woman; and then you'll understand. That's a foretaste of what 
will be best in the Kingdom of Heaven we are trying to establish 
on earth. That will cure you of dawdling. An honest man feels 
that he must pay Heaven for every hour of happiness with a good 
spell of hard, unselfish work to make others happy. We have no 
more right to consume happiness without producing it than to 
consume wealth without producing it. Get a wife like my Candida; 
and you'll always be in arrear with your repayment. (He pats Lexy 
affectionately on the back, and is leaving the room when Lexy 
calls to him.)

LEXY. Oh, wait a bit: I forgot. (Morell halts and turns with the 
door knob in his hand.) Your father-in-law is coming round to see 
you. (Morell shuts the door again, with a complete change of 
manner.)

MORELL (surprised and not pleased). Mr. Burgess?

LEXY. Yes. I passed him in the park, arguing with somebody. He 
gave me good day and asked me to let you know that he was coming.

MORELL (half incredulous). But he hasn't called here for--I may 
almost say for years. Are you sure, Lexy? You're not joking, are 
you?

LEXY (earnestly). No, sir, really.

MORELL (thoughtfully). Hm! Time for him to take another look at 
Candida before she grows out of his knowledge. (He resigns 
himself to the inevitable, and goes out. Lexy looks after him 
with beaming, foolish worship.)

LEXY. What a good man! What a thorough, loving soul he is!
(He takes Morell's place at the table, making himself very 
comfortable as he takes out a cigaret.)

PROSERPINE (impatiently, pulling the letter she has been working 
at off the typewriter and folding it.) Oh, a man ought to be able 
to be fond of his wife without making a fool of himself about 
her.

LEXY (shocked). Oh, Miss Prossy!

PROSERPINE (rising busily and coming to the stationery case to 
get an envelope, in which she encloses the letter as she speaks). 
Candida here, and Candida there, and Candida everywhere! (She 
licks the envelope.) It's enough to drive anyone out of their 
SENSES (thumping the envelope to make it stick) to hear a 
perfectly commonplace woman raved about in that absurd manner 
merely because she's got good hair, and a tolerable figure.

LEXY (with reproachful gravity). I think her extremely beautiful, 
Miss Garnett. (He takes the photograph up; looks at it; and adds, 
with even greater impressiveness) EXTREMELY beautiful. How fine 
her eyes are!

PROSERPINE. Her eyes are not a bit better than mine--now! (He 
puts down the photograph and stares austerely at her.) And you 
know very well that you think me dowdy and second rate enough.

LEXY (rising majestically). Heaven forbid that I should think of 
any of God's creatures in such a way! (He moves stiffly away from 
her across the room to the neighbourhood of the bookcase.)

PROSERPINE. Thank you. That's very nice and comforting.

LEXY (saddened by her depravity). I had no idea you had any 
feeling against Mrs. Morell.

PROSERPINE (indignantly). I have no feeling against her. She's 
very nice, very good-hearted: I'm very fond of her and can 
appreciate her real qualities far better than any man can. (He 
shakes his head sadly and turns to the bookcase, looking along 
the shelves for a volume. She follows him with intense 
pepperiness.) You don't believe me? (He turns and faces her. She 
pounces at him with spitfire energy.) You think I'm jealous. Oh, 
what a profound knowledge of the human heart you have, Mr. Lexy 
Mill! How well you know the weaknesses of Woman, don't you? It 
must be so nice to be a man and have a fine penetrating intellect 
instead of mere emotions like us, and to know that the reason we 
don't share your amorous delusions is that we're all jealous
of one another! (She abandons him with a toss of her shoulders, 
and crosses to the fire to warm her hands.)

LEXY. Ah, if you women only had the same clue to Man's strength 
that you have to his weakness, Miss Prossy, there would be no 
Woman Question.

PROSERPINE (over her shoulder, as she stoops, holding her hands 
to the blaze). Where did you hear Morell say that? You didn't 
invent it yourself: you're not clever enough.

LEXY. That's quite true. I am not ashamed of owing him that, as I 
owe him so many other spiritual truths. He said it at the annual 
conference of the Women's Liberal Federation. Allow me to add 
that though they didn't appreciate it, I, a mere man, did. (He 
turns to the bookcase again, hoping that this may leave her 
crushed.)

PROSERPINE (putting her hair straight at the little panel of 
mirror in the mantelpiece). Well, when you talk to me, give me 
your own ideas, such as they are, and not his. You never cut a 
poorer figure than when you are trying to imitate him.

LEXY (stung). I try to follow his example, not to imitate him.

PROSERPINE (coming at him again on her way back to her work). 
Yes, you do: you IMITATE him. Why do you tuck your umbrella under 
your left arm instead of carrying it in your hand like anyone 
else? Why do you walk with your chin stuck out before you, 
hurrying along with that eager look in your eyes--you, who never 
get up before half past nine in the morning? Why do you say  
"knoaledge" in church, though you always say "knolledge" in 
private conversation! Bah! do you think I don't know? (She goes 
back to the typewriter.) Here, come and set about your work: 
we've wasted enough time for one morning. Here's a copy of the 
diary for to-day. (She hands him a memorandum.) 

LEXY (deeply offended). Thank you. (He takes it and stands at the 
table with his back to her, reading it. She begins to transcribe 
her shorthand notes on the typewriter without troubling herself 
about his feelings. Mr. Burgess enters unannounced. He is a man 
of sixty, made coarse and sordid by the compulsory selfishness of 
petty commerce, and later on softened into sluggish bumptiousness 
by overfeeding and commercial success. A vulgar, ignorant, 
guzzling man, offensive and contemptuous to people whose labor is 
cheap, respectful to wealth and rank, and quite sincere and 
without rancour or envy in both attitudes. Finding him without 
talent, the world has offered him no decently paid work except 
ignoble work, and he has become in consequence, somewhat hoggish. 
But he has no suspicion of this himself, and honestly regards his 
commercial prosperity as the inevitable and socially wholesome 
triumph of the ability, industry, shrewdness and experience in 
business of a man who in private is easygoing, affectionate and 
humorously convivial to a fault. Corporeally, he is a podgy man, 
with a square, clean shaven face and a square beard under his 
chin; dust colored, with a patch of grey in the centre, and small 
watery blue eyes with a plaintively sentimental expression, which 
he transfers easily to his voice by his habit of pompously 
intoning his sentences.)

BURGESS (stopping on the threshold, and looking round). They told 
me Mr. Morell was here.

PROSERPINE (rising). He's upstairs. I'll fetch him for you.

BURGESS (staring boorishly at her). You're not the same young 
lady as used to typewrite for him?

PROSERPINE. No.

BURGESS (assenting). No: she was younger. (Miss Garnett stolidly 
stares at him; then goes out with great dignity. He receives this 
quite obtusely, and crosses to the hearth-rug, where he turns and 
spreads himself with his back to the fire.) Startin' on your 
rounds, Mr. Mill?

LEXY (folding his paper and pocketing it). Yes: I must be off 
presently.

BURGESS (momentously). Don't let me detain you, Mr. Mill. What I
come about is private between me and Mr. Morell.

LEXY (huffily). I have no intention of intruding, I am sure, Mr. 
Burgess. Good morning.

BURGESS (patronizingly). Oh, good morning to you. (Morell returns 
as Lexy is making for the door.)

MORELL (to Lexy). Off to work? 

LEXY. Yes, sir.

MORELL (patting him affectionately on the shoulder). Take my silk 
handkerchief and wrap your throat up. There's a cold wind. Away 
with you.

(Lexy brightens up, and goes out.)

BURGESS. Spoilin' your curates, as usu'l, James. Good mornin'. 
When I pay a man, an' 'is livin' depen's on me, I keep him in his 
place. 

MORELL (rather shortly). I always keep my curates in their places 
as my helpers and comrades. If you get as much work out of your 
clerks and warehousemen as I do out of my curates, you must be 
getting rich pretty fast. Will you take your old chair?

(He points with curt authority to the arm chair beside the 
fireplace; then takes the spare chair from the table and sits 
down in front of Burgess.)

BURGESS (without moving). Just the same as hever, James! 

MORELL. When you last called--it was about three years ago, I 
think--you said the same thing a little more frankly. Your exact 
words then were: "Just as big a fool as ever, James?"

BURGESS (soothingly). Well, perhaps I did; but (with conciliatory 
cheerfulness) I meant no offence by it. A clergyman is privileged 
to be a bit of a fool, you know: it's on'y becomin' in his 
profession that he should. Anyhow, I come here, not to rake up 
hold differences, but to let bygones be bygones. (Suddenly 
becoming very solemn, and approaching Morell.) James: three year 
ago, you done me a hill turn. You done me hout of a contrac'; an' 
when I gev you 'arsh words in my nat'ral disappointment, you 
turned my daughrter again me. Well, I've come to act the part of 
a Cherischin. (Offering his hand.) I forgive you, James.

MORELL (starting up). Confound your impudence! 

BURGESS (retreating, with almost lachrymose deprecation of this 
treatment). Is that becomin' language for a clergyman, James?--
and you so partic'lar, too?

MORELL (hotly). No, sir, it is not becoming language for a 
clergyman. I used the wrong word. I should have said damn your 
impudence: that's what St. Paul, or any honest priest would have 
said to you. Do you think I have forgotten that tender of yours 
for the contract to supply clothing to the workhouse? 

BURGESS (in a paroxysm of public spirit). I acted in the interest 
of the ratepayers, James. It was the lowest tender: you can't 
deny that.

MORELL. Yes, the lowest, because you paid worse wages than any 
other employer--starvation wages--aye, worse than starvation 
wages--to the women who made the clothing. Your wages would have 
driven them to the streets to keep body and soul together. 
(Getting angrier and. angrier.) Those women were my parishioners. 
I shamed the Guardians out of accepting your tender: I shamed the 
ratepayers out of letting them do it: I shamed everybody but you. 
(Boiling over.) How dare you, sir, come here and offer to forgive 
me, and talk about your daughter, and--

BURGESS. Easy, James, easy, easy. Don't git hinto a fluster about 
nothink. I've howned I was wrong.

MORELL (fuming about). Have you? I didn't hear you.

BURGESS. Of course I did. I hown it now. Come: I harsk your 
pardon for the letter I wrote you. Is that enough?

MORELL (snapping his fingers). That's nothing. Have you raised 
the wages?

BURGESS (triumphantly). Yes. 

MORELL (stopping dead). What!

BURGESS (unctuously). I've turned a moddle hemployer. I don't 
hemploy no women now: they're all sacked; and the work is done by 
machinery. Not a man 'as less than sixpence a hour; and the 
skilled 'ands gits the Trade Union rate. (Proudly.) What 'ave you 
to say to me now?

MORELL (overwhelmed). Is it possible! Well, there's more joy in 
heaven over one sinner that repenteth-- (Going to Burgess with an 
explosion of apologetic cordiality.) My dear Burgess, I most 
heartily beg your pardon for my hard thoughts of you. (Grasps his 
hand.) And now, don't you feel the better for the change? Come, 
confess, you're happier. You look happier.

BURGESS (ruefully). Well, p'raps I do. I s'pose I must, since you 
notice it. At all events, I git my contrax asseppit (accepted) by 
the County Council. (Savagely.) They dussent'ave nothink to do 
with me unless I paid fair wages--curse 'em for a parcel o' 
meddlin' fools!

MORELL (dropping his hand, utterly discouraged). So that was why 
you raised the wages! (He sits down moodily.) 

BURGESS (severely, in spreading, mounting tones). Why else should 
I do it? What does it lead to but drink and huppishness in 
workin' men? (He seats himself magisterially in the easy chair.) 
It's hall very well for you, James: it gits you hinto the papers 
and makes a great man of you; but you never think of the 'arm you 
do, puttin' money into the pockets of workin' men that they don't 
know 'ow to spend, and takin' it from people that might be makin' 
a good huse on it.

MORELL (with a heavy sigh, speaking with cold politeness). What 
is your business with me this morning? I shall not pretend to 
believe that you are here merely out of family sentiment.

BURGESS (obstinately). Yes, I ham--just family sentiment and 
nothink else.

MORELL (with weary calm). I don't believe you!

BURGESS (rising threateningly). Don't say that to me again, James 
Mavor Morell.

MORELL (unmoved). I'll say it just as often as may be necessary 
to convince you that it's true. I don't believe you.

BURGESS (collapsing into an abyss of wounded feeling). Oh, well, 
if you're determined to be unfriendly, I s'pose I'd better go. 
(He moves reluctantly towards the door. Morell makes no sign. He 
lingers.) I didn't hexpect to find a hunforgivin' spirit in you, 
James. (Morell still not responding, he takes a few more 
reluctant steps doorwards. Then he comes back whining.) We 
huseter git on well enough, spite of our different opinions. Why 
are you so changed to me? I give you my word I come here in pyorr 
(pure) frenliness, not wishin' to be on bad terms with my hown 
daughrter's 'usban'. Come, James: be a Cherishin and shake 'ands. 
(He puts his hand sentimentally on Morell's shoulder.) 

MORELL (looking up at him thoughtfully). Look here, Burgess. Do 
you want to be as welcome here as you were before you lost that 
contract?

BURGESS. I do, James. I do--honest.

MORELL. Then why don't you behave as you did then? 

BURGESS (cautiously removing his hand). 'Ow d'y'mean? 

MORELL. I'll tell you. You thought me a young fool then.

BURGESS (coaxingly). No, I didn't, James. I--

MORELL (cutting him short). Yes, you did. And I thought you an 
old scoundrel.

BURGESS (most vehemently deprecating this gross self-accusation 
on Morell's part). No, you didn't, James. Now you do yourself a 
hinjustice.

MORELL. Yes, I did. Well, that did not prevent our getting on 
very well together. God made you what I call a scoundrel as he 
made me what you call a fool. (The effect of this observation on 
Burgess is to remove the keystone of his moral arch. He becomes 
bodily weak, and, with his eyes fixed on Morell in a helpless 
stare, puts out his hand apprehensively to balance himself, as if 
the floor had suddenly sloped under him. Morell proceeds in the 
same tone of quiet conviction.) It was not for me to quarrel with 
his handiwork in the one case more than in the other. So long as 
you come here honestly as a self-respecting, thorough, convinced 
scoundrel, justifying your scoundrelism, and proud of it, you are 
welcome. But (and now Morell's tone becomes formidable; and he 
rises and strikes the back of the chair for greater emphasis) I 
won't have you here snivelling about being a model employer and a 
converted man when you're only an apostate with your coat turned 
for the sake of a County Council contract. (He nods at him to 
enforce the point; then goes to the hearth-rug, where he takes up 
a comfortably commanding position with his back to the fire, and 
continues) No: I like a man to be true to himself, even in
wickedness. Come now: either take your hat and go; or else sit 
down and give me a good scoundrelly reason for wanting to be 
friends with me. (Burgess, whose emotions have subsided 
sufficiently to be expressed by a dazed grin, is relieved by this 
concrete proposition. He ponders it for a moment, and then, 
slowly and very modestly, sits down in the chair Morell has just 
left.) That's right. Now, out with it. 

BURGESS (chuckling in spite of himself.) Well, you ARE a queer 
bird, James, and no mistake. But (almost enthusiastically) one 
carnt 'elp likin' you; besides, as I said afore, of course one 
don't take all a clorgyman says seriously, or the world couldn't 
go on. Could it now? (He composes himself for graver discourse, 
and turning his eyes on Morell proceeds with dull seriousness.) 
Well, I don't mind tellin' you, since it's your wish we should be 
free with one another, that I did think you a bit of a fool once; 
but I'm beginnin' to think that p'r'aps I was be'ind the times a 
bit.

MORELL (delighted ). Aha! You're finding that out at last, are 
you?

BURGESS (portentously). Yes, times 'as changed mor'n I could a 
believed. Five yorr (year) ago, no sensible man would a thought 
o' takin' up with your ideas. I hused to wonder you was let 
preach at all. Why, I know a clorgyman that 'as bin kep' hout of 
his job for yorrs by the Bishop of London, although the pore 
feller's not a bit more religious than you are. But to-day, if 
henyone was to offer to bet me a thousan' poun' that you'll end 
by bein' a bishop yourself, I shouldn't venture to take the bet. 
You and yore crew are gettin' hinfluential: I can see that. 
They'll 'ave to give you something someday, if it's only to stop 
yore mouth. You 'ad the right instinc' arter all, James: the line 
you took is the payin' line in the long run fur a man o' your 
sort.

MORELL (decisively--offering his hand). Shake hands, Burgess. Now 
you're talking honestly. I don't think they'll make me a bishop; 
but if they do, I'll introduce you to the biggest jobbers I can 
get to come to my dinner parties.

BURGESS (who has risen with a sheepish grin and accepted the hand 
of friendship). You will 'ave your joke, James. Our quarrel's 
made up now, isn't it?

A WOMAN'S VOICE. Say yes, James.

Startled, they turn quickly and find that Candida has just come 
in, and is looking at them with an amused maternal indulgence 
which is her characteristic expression. She is a woman of 33, 
well built, well nourished, likely, one guesses, to become 
matronly later on, but now quite at her best, with the double 
charm of youth and motherhood. Her ways are those of a woman who 
has found that she can always manage people by engaging their 
affection, and who does so frankly and instinctively without the 
smallest scruple. So far, she is like any other pretty woman who 
is just clever enough to make the most of her sexual attractions 
for trivially selfish ends; but Candida's serene brow, courageous 
eyes, and well set mouth and chin signify largeness of mind and 
dignity of character to ennoble her cunning in the affections. A 
wisehearted observer, looking at her, would at once guess that 
whoever had placed the Virgin of the Assumption over her hearth 
did so because he fancied some spiritual resemblance between 
them, and yet would not suspect either her husband or herself of 
any such idea, or indeed of any concern with the art of Titian.

Just now she is in bonnet and mantle, laden with a strapped rug 
with her umbrella stuck through it, a handbag, and a supply of 
illustrated papers.

MORELL (shocked at his remissness). Candida! Why--(looks at his 
watch, and is horrified to find it so late.) My darling! 
(Hurrying to her and seizing the rug strap, pouring forth his 
remorseful regrets all the time.) I intended to meet
you at the train. I let the time slip. (Flinging the rug on the 
sofa.) I was so engrossed by--(returning to her)--I forgot--
oh!(He embraces her with penitent emotion.) 

BURGESS (a little shamefaced and doubtful of his reception).
How ors you, Candy? (She, still in Morell's arms, offers
him her cheek, which he kisses.) James and me is come to
a unnerstandin'--a honourable unnerstandin'. Ain' we, James?

MORELL (impetuously). Oh, bother your understanding! You've kept 
me late for Candida. (With compassionate fervor.) My poor love: 
how did you manage about the luggage?--how--

CANDIDA (stopping him and disengaging herself ). There, there, 
there. I wasn't alone. Eugene came down yesterday; and we 
traveled up together.

MORELL (pleased). Eugene!

CANDIDA. Yes: he's struggling with my luggage, poor boy. Go out, 
dear, at once; or he will pay for the cab; and I don't want that. 
(Morell hurries out. Candida puts down her handbag; then takes 
off her mantle and bonnet and puts them on the sofa with the rug, 
chatting meanwhile.) Well, papa, how are you getting on at home?

BURGESS. The 'ouse ain't worth livin' in since you left it, 
Candy. I wish you'd come round and give the gurl a talkin' to. 
Who's this Eugene that's come with you? 

CANDIDA. Oh, Eugene's one of James's discoveries. He found him 
sleeping on the Embankment last June. Haven't you noticed our new 
picture (pointing to the Virgin)? He gave us that.

BURGESS (incredulously). Garn! D'you mean to tell me--your hown 
father!--that cab touts or such like, orf the Embankment, buys 
pictur's like that? (Severely.) Don't deceive me, Candy: it's a 
'Igh Church pictur; and James chose it hisself.

CANDIDA. Guess again. Eugene isn't a cab tout.

BURGESS. Then wot is he? (Sarcastically.) A nobleman, I 'spose.

CANDIDA (delighted--nodding). Yes. His uncle's a peer--a real 
live earl.

BURGESS (not daring to believe such good news). No!

CANDIDA. Yes. He had a seven day bill for 55 pounds in his pocket 
when James found him on the Embankment. He thought he couldn't 
get any money for it until the seven days were up; and he was too 
shy to ask for credit. Oh, he's a dear boy! We are very fond of 
him.  

BURGESS (pretending to belittle the aristocracy, but with his 
eyes gleaming). Hm, I thort you wouldn't git a piorr's (peer's) 
nevvy visitin' in Victoria Park unless he were a bit of a flat. 
(Looking again at the picture.) Of course I don't 'old with that 
pictur, Candy; but still it's a 'igh class, fust rate work of 
art: I can see that. Be sure you hintroduce me to him, Candy. (He 
looks at his watch anxiously.) I can only stay about two minutes.

Morell comes back with Eugene, whom Burgess contemplates 
moist-eyed with enthusiasm. He is a strange, shy youth of 
eighteen, slight, effeminate, with a delicate childish voice, and 
a hunted, tormented expression and shrinking manner that show the 
painful sensitiveness that very swift and acute apprehensiveness 
produces in youth, before the character has grown to its full 
strength. Yet everything that his timidity and frailty suggests 
is contradicted by his face. He is miserably irresolute, does 
not know where to stand or what to do with his hands and feet, is 
afraid of Burgess, and would run away into solitude if he dared; 
but the very intensity with which he feels a perfectly 
commonplace position shows great nervous force, and his nostrils 
and mouth show a fiercely petulant wilfulness, as to the quality 
of which his great imaginative eyes and fine brow are reassuring. 
He is so entirely uncommon as to be almost unearthly; and to 
prosaic people there is something noxious in this unearthliness, 
just as to poetic people there is something angelic in it. His
dress is anarchic. He wears an old blue serge jacket, unbuttoned 
over a woollen lawn tennis shirt, with a silk handkerchief for a 
cravat, trousers matching the jacket, and brown canvas shoes.
In these garments he has apparently lain in the heather and waded 
through the waters; but there is no evidence of his having ever 
brushed them.

As he catches sight of a stranger on entering, he stops, and 
edges along the wall on the opposite side of the room.

MORELL (as he enters). Come along: you can spare us quarter of an 
hour, at all events. This is my father-in-law, Mr. Burgess--Mr. 
Marchbanks.

MARCHBANKS (nervously backing against the bookcase). Glad to meet 
you, sir.

BURGESS (crossing to him with great heartiness, whilst Morell 
joins Candida at the fire). Glad to meet YOU, I'm shore, Mr. 
Morchbanks. (Forcing him to shake hands.) 'Ow do you find 
yoreself this weather? 'Ope you ain't lettin' James put no 
foolish ideas into your 'ed?

MARCHBANKS. Foolish ideas! Oh, you mean Socialism. No.

BURGESS. That's right. (Again looking at his watch.) Well, I must 
go now: there's no 'elp for it. Yo're not comin' my way, are you, 
Mr. Morchbanks?

MARCHBANKS. Which way is that? 

BURGESS. Victawriar Pork station. There's a city train at 12.25.

MORELL. Nonsense. Eugene will stay to lunch with us, I expect.

MARCHBANKS (anxiously excusing. himself ). No--I--I--

BURGESS. Well, well, I shan't press you: I bet you'd rather lunch 
with Candy. Some night, I 'ope, you'll come and dine with me at 
my club, the Freeman Founders in Nortn Folgit. Come, say you 
will.

MARCHBANKS. Thank you, Mr. Burgess. Where is Norton Folgate--down 
in Surrey, isn't it? (Burgess, inexpressibly tickled, begins to 
splutter with laughter.)

CANDIDA (coming to the rescue). You'll lose your train, papa, if 
you don't go at once. Come back in the afternoon and tell Mr. 
Marchbanks where to find the club.

BURGESS (roaring with glee). Down in Surrey--har, har! that's not 
a bad one. Well, I never met a man as didn't know Nortn Folgit 
before.(Abashed at his own noisiness.) Good-bye, Mr. Morchbanks: 
I know yo're too 'ighbred to take my pleasantry in bad part. (He 
again offers his hand.) 

MARCHBANKS (taking it with a nervous jerk). Not at all.

BURGESS. Bye, bye, Candy. I'll look in again later on. So long, 
James.

MORELL. Must you go?

BURGESS. Don't stir. (He goes out with unabated heartiness.)

MORELL. Oh, I'll see you out. (He follows him out. Eugene stares 
after them apprehensively, holding his breath until Burgess 
disappears.)

CANDIDA (laughing). Well, Eugene. (He turns with a start and 
comes eagerly towards her, but stops irresolutely as he meets her 
amused look.) What do you think of my father?

MARCHBANKS. I--I hardly know him yet. He seems to be a very nice 
old gentleman.

CANDIDA (with gentle irony). And you'll go to the Freeman 
Founders to dine with him, won't you?

MARCHBANKS (miserably, taking it quite seriously). Yes, if it 
will please you.

CANDIDA (touched). Do you know, you are a very nice boy, Eugene, 
with all your queerness. If you had laughed at my father I 
shouldn't have minded; but I like you ever so much better for 
being nice to him.

MARCHBANKS. Ought I to have laughed? I noticed that he said 
something funny; but I am so ill at ease with strangers; and I 
never can see a joke! I'm very sorry. (He sits down on the sofa, 
his elbows on his knees and his temples between his fists, with 
an expression of hopeless suffering.)

CANDIDA (bustling him goodnaturedly). Oh, come! You great baby, 
you! You are worse than usual this morning. Why were you so 
melancholy as we came along in the cab?

MARCHBANKS. Oh, that was nothing. I was wondering how much I 
ought to give the cabman. I know it's utterly silly; but you 
don't know how dreadful such things are to me--how I shrink from 
having to deal with strange people. (Quickly and reassuringly.) 
But it's all right. He beamed all over and touched his hat when 
Morell gave him two shillings. I was on the point of offering him 
ten. (Candida laughs heartily. Morell comes back with a few 
letters and newspapers which have come by the midday post.)

CANDIDA. Oh, James, dear, he was going to give the cabman ten 
shillings--ten shillings for a three minutes' drive--oh, dear!

MORELL (at the table, glancing through the letters). Never mind 
her, Marchbanks. The overpaying instinct is a generous one: 
better than the underpaying instinct, and not so common.

MARCHBANKS (relapsing into dejection). No: cowardice, 
incompetence. Mrs. Morell's quite right.

CANDIDA. Of course she is. (She takes up her handbag.) And now I 
must leave you to James for the present. I suppose you are too 
much of a poet to know the state a woman finds her house in when 
she's been away for three weeks. Give me my rug. (Eugene takes 
the strapped rug from the couch, and gives it to her. She takes 
it in her left hand, having the bag in her right.) Now hang my 
cloak across my arm. (He obeys.) Now my hat. (He puts it into the 
hand which has the bag.) Now open the door for me. (He hurries up 
before her and opens the door.) Thanks. (She goes out; and 
Marchbanks shuts the door.)

MORELL (still busy at the table). You'll stay to lunch, 
Marchbanks, of course.

MARCHBANKS (scared). I mustn't. (He glances quickly at Morell, 
but at once avoids his frank look, and adds, with obvious 
disingenuousness) I can't.

MORELL (over his shoulder). You mean you won't. 

MARCHBANKS (earnestly). No: I should like to, indeed. Thank you 
very much. But--but--

MORELL (breezily, finishing with the letters and coming close to 
him). But--but--but--but--bosh! If you'd like to stay, stay. You 
don't mean to persuade me you have anything else to do. If you're 
shy, go and take a turn in the park and write poetry until half 
past one; and then come in and have a good feed.

MARCHBANKS. Thank you, I should like that very much. But I really 
mustn't. The truth is, Mrs. Morell told me not to. She said she 
didn't think you'd ask me to stay to lunch, but that I was to 
remember, if you did, that you didn't really want me to. 
(Plaintively.) She said I'd understand; but I don't. Please don't 
tell her I told you.

MORELL (drolly). Oh, is that all? Won't my suggestion that you 
should take a turn in the park meet the difficulty? 

MARCHBANKS. How?

MORELL (exploding good-humoredly). Why, you duffer--(But this 
boisterousness jars himself as well as Eugene. He checks himself, 
and resumes, with affectionate seriousness) No: I won't put it in 
that way. My dear lad: in a happy marriage like ours, there is 
something very sacred in the return of the wife to her home. 
(Marchbanks looks quickly at him, half anticipating his meaning.) 
An old friend or a truly noble and sympathetic soul is not in the 
way on such occasions; but a chance visitor is. (The hunted, 
horrors-tricken expression comes out with sudden vividness in 
Eugene's face as he understands. Morell, occupied with his own
thought, goes on without noticing it.) Candida thought I
would rather not have you here; but she was wrong. I'm very fond 
of you, my boy, and I should like you to see for yourself what a 
happy thing it is to be married as I am.

MARCHBANKS, Happy!--YOUR marriage! You think that! You believe 
that!

MORELL (buoyantly). I know it, my lad. La Rochefoucauld said that 
there are convenient marriages, but no delightful ones. You don't 
know the comfort of seeing through and through a thundering liar 
and rotten cynic like that fellow. Ha, ha! Now off with you to 
the park, and write your poem. Half past one, sharp, mind: we 
never wait for anybody.

MARCHBANKS (wildly). No: stop: you shan't. I'll force it into the 
light.

MORELL (puzzled). Eh? Force what?

MARCHBANKS. I must speak to you. There is something that must be 
settled between us.

MORELL (with a whimsical glance at the clock). Now? 

MARCHBANKS (passionately). Now. Before you leave this room. (He 
retreats a few steps, and stands as if to bar Morell's way to the 
door.)

MORELL (without moving, and gravely, perceiving now that there is 
something serious the matter). I'm not going to leave it, my dear 
boy: I thought YOU were. (Eugene, baffled by his firm tone, turns 
his back on him, writhing with anger. Morell goes to him and puts 
his hand on his shoulder strongly and kindly, disregarding his 
attempt to shake it off) Come: sit down quietly; and tell me what 
it is. And remember; we are friends, and need not fear that 
either of us will be anything but patient and kind to the other, 
whatever we may have to say.

MARCHBANKS (twisting himself round on him). Oh, I am not 
forgetting myself: I am only (covering his face desperately with 
his hands) full of horror. (Then, dropping his hands, and 
thrusting his face forward fiercely at Morell, he goes on 
threateningly.) You shall see whether this is a time for patience 
and kindness. (Morell, firm as a rock, looks indulgently at him.) 
Don't look at me in that self-complacent way. You think yourself 
stronger than I am; but I shall stagger you if you have a heart 
in your breast.

MORELL (powerfully confident). Stagger me, my boy. Out with it.

MARCHBANKS. First--

MORELL. First? 

MARCHBANKS. I love your wife.

(Morell recoils, and, after staring at him for a moment in utter 
amazement, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Eugene is taken 
aback, but not disconcerted; and he soon becomes indignant and 
contemptuous.)

MORELL (sitting down to have his laugh out). Why, my dear child, 
of course you do. Everybody loves her: they can't help it. I like 
it. But (looking up whimsically at him) I say, Eugene: do you 
think yours is a case to be talked about? You're under twenty: 
she's over thirty. Doesn't it look rather too like a case of calf 
love?

MARCHBANKS (vehemently). YOU dare say that of her! You think that 
way of the love she inspires! It is an insult to her! 

MORELL (rising; quickly, in an altered tone). To her! Eugene:
take care. I have been patient. I hope to remain patient. But 
there are some things I won't allow. Don't force me to show you 
the indulgence I should show to a child. Be a man.

MARCHBANKS (with a gesture as if sweeping something behind him). 
Oh, let us put aside all that cant. It horrifies me when I think 
of the doses of it she has had to endure in all the weary years 
during which you have selfishly and blindly sacrificed her to 
minister to your self-sufficiency--YOU (turning on him) who have 
not one thought--one sense--in common with her.

MORELL (philosophically). She seems to bear it pretty well. 
(Looking him straight in the face.) Eugene, my boy: you are 
making a fool of yourself--a very great fool of yourself. There's 
a piece of wholesome plain speaking for you.

MARCHBANKS. Oh, do you think I don't know all that? Do you think 
that the things people make fools of themselves about are any 
less real and true than the things they behave sensibly about? 
(Morell's gaze wavers for the first time. He instinctively averts 
his face and stands listening, startled and thoughtful.) They are 
more true: they are the only things that are true. You are very 
calm and sensible and moderate with me because you can see that I 
am a fool about your wife; just as no doubt that old man who was 
here just now is very wise over your socialism, because he sees 
that YOU are a fool about it. (Morell's perplexity deepens 
markedly. Eugene follows up his advantage, plying him fiercely 
with questions.) Does that prove you wrong? Does your complacent 
superiority to me prove that I am wrong?

MORELL (turning on Eugene, who stands his ground). Marchbanks: 
some devil is putting these words into your mouth. It is easy--
terribly easy--to shake a man's faith in himself. To take 
advantage of that to break a man's spirit is devil's work. Take 
care of what you are doing. Take care.

MARCHBANKS (ruthlessly). I know. I'm doing it on purpose. I told 
you I should stagger you. 

(They confront one another threateningly for a moment. Then 
Morell recovers his dignity.)

MORELL (with noble tenderness). Eugene: listen to me. Some day, I 
hope and trust, you will be a happy man like me. (Eugene chafes 
intolerantly, repudiating the worth of his happiness. Morell, 
deeply insulted, controls himself with fine forbearance, and 
continues steadily, with great artistic beauty of delivery) You 
will be married; and you will be working with all your might and 
valor to make every spot on earth as happy as your own home. You 
will be one of the makers of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth; and
--who knows?--you may be a pioneer and master builder where I am 
only a humble journeyman; for don't think, my boy, that I cannot 
see in you, young as you are, promise of higher powers than I can 
ever pretend to. I well know that it is in the poet that the 
holy spirit of man--the god within him--is most godlike. It 
should make you tremble to think of that--to think that the heavy 
burthen and great gift of a poet may be laid upon you.

MARCHBANKS (unimpressed and remorseless, his boyish crudity of 
assertion telling sharply against Morell's oratory). It does not 
make me tremble. It is the want of it in others that makes me 
tremble.

MORELL (redoubling his force of style under the stimulus of his 
genuine feelinq and Eugene's obduracy). Then help to kindle it in 
them--in ME---not to extinguish it. In the future--when you are 
as happy as I am--I will be your true brother in the faith. I 
will help you to believe that God has given us a world that 
nothing but our own folly keeps from being a paradise. I will 
help you to believe that every stroke of your work is sowing 
happiness for the great harvest that all--even the humblest--
shall one day reap. And last, but trust me, not least, I will 
help you to believe that your wife loves you and is happy in her 
home. We need such help, Marchbanks: we need it greatly and
always. There are so many things to make us doubt, if once we let 
our understanding be troubled. Even at home, we sit as if in 
camp, encompassed by a hostile army of doubts. Will you play the 
traitor and let them in on me?

MARCHBANKS (looking round him). Is it like this for her here 
always? A woman, with a great soul, craving for reality, truth, 
freedom, and being fed on metaphors, sermons, stale perorations, 
mere rhetoric. Do you think a woman's soul can live on your 
talent for preaching?

MORELL (Stung). Marchbanks: you make it hard for me to control 
myself. My talent is like yours insofar as it has any real worth 
at all. It is the gift of finding words for divine truth.

MARCHBANKS (impetuously). It's the gift of the gab, nothing more 
and nothing less. What has your knack of fine talking to do with 
the truth, any more than playing the organ has? I've never been 
in your church; but I've been to your political meetings; and 
I've seen you do what's called rousing the meeting to enthusiasm: 
that is, you excited them until they behaved exactly as if they 
were drunk. And their wives looked on and saw clearly enough
what fools they were. Oh, it's an old story: you'll find it
in the Bible. I imagine King David, in his fits of enthusiasm, 
was very like you. (Stabbing him with the words.) "But his wife 
despised him in her heart."