Candida

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