Exiles

a nice country place there and the air is mild. Bertha Why are you going? Robert Looks at her in silence. Can you not guess one reason? Bertha On account of me? Robert Yes. It is not pleasant for me to remain here just now. Bertha Sits down helplessly. But this is cruel of you, Robert. Cruel to me and to him also. Robert Has he asked⁠ ⁠… what happened? Bertha Joining her hands in despair. No. He refuses to ask me anything. He says he will never know. Robert Nods gravely. Richard is right there. He is always right. Bertha But, Robert, you must speak to him. Robert What am I to say to him? Bertha The truth! Everything! Robert Reflects. No, Bertha. I am a man speaking to a man. I cannot tell him everything. Bertha He will believe that you are going away because you are afraid to face him after last night. Robert After a pause. Well, I am not a coward any more than he. I will see him. Bertha Rises. I will call him. Robert Catching her hands. Bertha! What happened last night? What is the truth that I am to tell? He gazes earnestly into her eyes. Were you mine in that sacred night of love? Or have I dreamed it? Bertha Smiles faintly. Remember your dream of me. You dreamed that I was yours last night. Robert And that is the truth⁠—a dream? That is what I am to tell? Bertha Yes. Robert Kisses both her hands. Bertha! In a softer voice. In all my life only that dream is real. I forget the rest. He kisses her hands again. And now I can tell him the truth. Call him. Bertha goes to the door of Richard’s study and knocks. There is no answer. She knocks again. Bertha Dick! There is no answer. Mr. Hand is here. He wants to speak to you, to say goodbye. He is going away. There is no answer. She beats her hand loudly on the panel of the door and calls in an alarmed voice. Dick! Answer me! Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He comes at once to Robert but does not hold out his hand. Richard Calmly. I thank you for your kind article about me. Is it true that you have come to say goodbye? Robert There is nothing to thank me for, Richard. Now and always I am your friend. Now more than ever before. Do you believe me, Richard? Richard sits down on a chair and buries his face in his hands. Bertha and Robert gaze at each other in silence. Then she turns away and goes out quietly on the right. Robert goes towards Richard and stands near him, resting his hands on the back of a chair, looking down at him. There is a long silence. A Fishwoman is heard crying out as she passes along the road outside. The Fishwoman Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Dublin bay herrings! Robert Quietly. I will tell you the truth, Richard. Are you listening? Richard Raises his face and leans back to listen. Yes. Robert sits on the chair beside him. The Fishwoman is heard calling out farther away. The Fishwoman Fresh herrings! Dublin bay herrings! Robert I failed, Richard. That is the truth. Do you believe me? Richard I am listening. Robert I failed. She is yours, as she was nine years ago, when you met her first. Richard When we met her first, you mean. Robert Yes. He looks down for some moments. Shall I go on? Richard Yes. Robert She went away. I was left alone⁠—for the second time. I went to the vicechancellor’s house and dined. I said you were ill and would come another night. I made epigrams new and old⁠—that one about the statues also. I drank claret cup. I went to my office and wrote my article. Then⁠ ⁠… Richard Then? Robert Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there⁠—and also women. At least, they looked like women. I danced with one of them. She asked me to see her home. Shall I go on? Richard Yes. Robert I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on? Richard Yes. Robert She wept. She told me she was the divorced wife of a barrister. I offered her a sovereign as she told me she was short of money. She would not take it and wept very much. Then she drank some melissa water from a little bottle which she had in her satchel. I saw her enter her house. Then I walked home. In my room I found that my coat was all stained with the melissa water. I had no luck even with my coats yesterday: that was the second one. The idea came to me then to change my suit and go away by the morning boat. I packed my valise and went to bed. I am going away by the next train to my cousin, Jack Justice, in Surrey. Perhaps for a fortnight. Perhaps longer. Are you disgusted? Richard Why did you not go by the boat? Robert I slept it out. Richard You intended to go without saying goodbye⁠—without coming here? Robert Yes. Richard Why? Robert My story is not very nice, is it? Richard But you have come. Robert Bertha sent me a message to come. Richard But for that⁠ ⁠… ? Robert But for that I should not have come. Richard Did it strike you that if you had gone without coming here I should have understood it⁠—in my own way? Robert Yes, it did. Richard What, then, do you wish me to believe? Robert I wish you to believe that I failed. That Bertha is yours now as she was nine years ago, when you⁠—when we⁠—met her first. Richard Do you want to know what I did? Robert No. Richard I came home at once. Robert Did you hear Bertha return? Richard No. I wrote all the night. And thought. Pointing