delicacy of touch with such power of feeling. Don’t you think so?”
Caroline felt the movement as he looked towards her.
“She is extraordinary,” she answered with honesty. She never doubted for an instant that he was referring to Cecily Antrim. No one in the entire theatre would have needed assurance on that. She hoped her voice had not sounded as cool as she felt. He had made no secret of how profoundly he admired Cecily. Caroline wondered now if the regard was personal as well as professional. It brushed by her with a coldness she preferred to dismiss.
“I knew you would love her,” Joshua went on. “She has a moral courage which is almost unique. Nothing deters her from fighting for her beliefs.”
Caroline made herself smile. She refused to ask what those beliefs were. After watching the first act of the play, she greatly preferred not to know.
“You are quite right,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage. She was no actress at all. “I always admire courage. . more than almost any other quality. . except perhaps kindness.”
Joshua’s reply was cut short by a knock at the door of the box. He stood up to reply, and a moment later a man in his late forties came in, tall and slim with a mild, rather austere face. The woman beside him was almost beautiful. Her features were regular, her eyes wide, deep-set and very blue. There was perhaps a lack of humor in her which robbed her of the final magic.
They were a Mr. and Mrs. Marchand. Caroline had known them for over a year and enjoyed their company on many occasions. She was pleased they had called. Without question they would feel as she did regarding the play. In fact, she was surprised they had come to see it. Like her, they could not have known its content.
Their first remarks after being introduced to Pitt proved her correct.
“Extraordinary!” Ralph Marchand said quietly, his face reflecting his puzzlement. He avoided Caroline’s eyes, as if he had not yet overcome his embarrassment at the subject and could not easily discuss it in a woman’s company.
Joshua offered Mrs. Marchand his seat, and she accepted it, thanking him.
“Remarkable woman,” Mr. Marchand went on, obviously referring to Cecily Antrim. “I realize, of course, that she is merely acting what the playwright has written, but I am sorry a woman of such talent should lend herself to this. And frankly I am surprised that the Lord Chamberlain permitted it a license to be performed!”
Joshua leaned gracefully against the wall near the edge of the red, plush-padded balcony, his hands in his pockets. “Actually I should be very surprised if she didn’t have considerable sympathy with the character,” he replied. “I think it was a part she chose to play.”
Mr. Marchand looked surprised and, Caroline thought, also disappointed.
“Really? Oh. .”
“I cannot understand the Lord Chamberlain either,” Mrs. Marchand said sadly, her blue eyes very wide. “He is lacking in his duties that he has not exercised his power to censor it. He is supposed to be there for our protection. That, after all, is his purpose, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is, my dear,” her husband assured her. “It seems he does not appreciate the harm his laxity is doing.”
Caroline glanced at Joshua. She knew his views on censorship, and she was afraid he would say something which would offend the Marchands, but she did not know how to prevent it without in turn hurting him. “It is a difficult decision,” she said tentatively.
“It may require courage,” Mrs. Marchand replied without hesitation. “But if he accepts the office then we have the right to expect that much of him.”
Caroline could understand exactly what she meant. She knew instinctively her concerns, and yet she was equally sure Joshua would not. She was surprised how moderate his answer was when he spoke.
“Protection is a double-edged sword, Mrs. Marchand.” He did not move from his relaxed position against the corner of the balcony, but Caroline could see the more angular lines of his body as his muscles tensed.
Mrs. Marchand looked at him guardedly. “Double-edged?” she enquired.
“What is it you would like to be protected from?” Joshua kept his voice level and gentle.
Mr. Marchand moved slightly, only a changing of weight.
“From the corruption of decency,” Mrs. Marchand replied, anger and certainty ringing in her tone. Unconsciously she put her hand towards her husband. “From the steady destruction of our way of life by the praising of immorality and selfishness. The teaching of young and impressionable people that self-indulgence is acceptable, even good. The exhibiting in public of emotions and practices which should remain private. It cheapens and demeans that which should be sacred. . ”
Caroline knew what she meant, and she more than half agreed with her. The Marchands had a young son, about sixteen years old. Caroline could remember when her daughters were that age, and how hard she had worked to guide and protect them. It had been less difficult then.
She looked at Joshua, knowing he would disagree. But then he had never had children, and that made a world of difference. He had no one to protect in that passionate way that demanded all commitment.
“Is self-denial better than self-indulgence?” Joshua questioned.
Mrs. Marchand’s dark eyebrows rose. “Of course it is. How can you need to ask?”
“But is not one person’s self-denial only the reverse side, the permission, if you like, for another’s self- indulgence?” he asked. He leaned forward a little. “Take the play, for example. When the wife denied herself, was she not making it possible for the husband to delude and indulge himself?”
“I. .” Mrs. Marchand began, then stopped. She was convinced she was right, but not sure how to explain it.
Caroline knew what she meant. The husband’s suffering was public, his wife’s had been private, one of the many things one did not speak of.
“She is disloyal,” Mr. Marchand said for his wife. His voice was not raised in the slightest, but there was a ring of unshakable conviction in it. “Disloyalty can never be right. We should not portray it as such and seek sympathy for it. To do so confuses people who may be uncertain. Women may be led to feel that the wife’s behavior is excusable.”
The smile stayed fixed on Joshua’s face. “And on the other hand, men may be led to question if perhaps their wives have as much need, even right, to happiness as they have,” he countered. “They may even realize that life would be better for both of them if they were to understand that women cannot be married and then safely considered to be purchased, for use when desired, like a carpet sweeper or a clothes mangle.”
Mr. Marchand looked confused. “A what?”
“A clothes mangle,” Joshua replied with a sudden shift to lightness. “A machine for wringing the excess water out of laundry.”
“I have no idea what you mean!” Marchand looked at Caroline.
But it was Pitt who interpreted for him. “I think what Mr. Fielding is saying is that one person’s protection may be another person’s imprisonment; or one person’s idea of freedom another’s idea of license,” he explained. “If we refuse to look at anyone else’s pain because it is different from ours and makes us feel uncomfortable-or because it is the same and embarrasses us-then we are neither a liberal nor a generous society, and we will slowly suffocate ourselves to death.”
“Good heavens!” Mr. Marchand said softly. “You are very radical, sir.”
“I thought I was rather conservative,” Pitt said with surprise. “I found the play distinctly uncomfortable as well.”
“But do you think it should be suppressed?” Joshua said quickly.
Pitt hesitated. “That’s a harsh step to take. . ”
“It subverts decency and family life,” Mrs. Marchand put in, leaning forward over her taffeta skirts, her hands folded.
“It questions values,” Joshua corrected. “Must we never do that? Then how can we grow? We shall never learn anything or improve upon anything. Worse than that, we shall never understand other people, and perhaps not ourselves either.” His face was keen, the emotion naked now as he forgot his intended moderation. “If we do that we are hardly worth the nobility of being human, of having intelligence, freedom of will, or the power of judgment.”
Caroline could see the imminent possibility of the discussion’s becoming ugly and a friendship’s being lost.
