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, horror-stricken 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
