Candida

Heaven, and refusing to go in. Oh, you can’t think how heroic it was, and how uncomfortable! Then⁠— Morell Steadily controlling his suspense. Then? Marchbanks Prosaically slipping down into a quite ordinary attitude in the chair. Then she couldn’t bear being read to any longer. Morell And you approached the gate of Heaven at last? Marchbanks Yes. Morell Well? Fiercely. Speak, man: have you no feeling for me? Marchbanks Softly and musically. Then she became an angel; and there was a flaming sword that turned every way, so that I couldn’t go in; for I saw that that gate was really the gate of Hell. Morell Triumphantly. She repulsed you! Marchbanks Rising in wild scorn. No, you fool: if she had done that I should never have seen that I was in Heaven already. Repulsed me! You think that would have saved me⁠—virtuous indignation! Oh, you are not worthy to live in the same world with her. He turns away contemptuously to the other side of the room. Morell Who has watched him quietly without changing his place. Do you think you make yourself more worthy by reviling me, Eugene? Marchbanks Here endeth the thousand and first lesson. Morell: I don’t think much of your preaching after all: I believe I could do it better myself. The man I want to meet is the man that Candida married. Morell The man that⁠—? Do you mean me? Marchbanks I don’t mean the Reverend James Mavor Morell, moralist and windbag. I mean the real man that the Reverend James must have hidden somewhere inside his black coat⁠—the man that Candida loved. You can’t make a woman like Candida love you by merely buttoning your collar at the back instead of in front. Morell Boldly and steadily. When Candida promised to marry me, I was the same moralist and windbag that you now see. I wore my black coat; and my collar was buttoned behind instead of in front. Do you think she would have loved me any the better for being insincere in my profession? Marchbanks On the sofa hugging his ankles. Oh, she forgave you, just as she forgives me for being a coward, and a weakling, and what you call a snivelling little whelp and all the rest of it. Dreamily. A woman like that has divine insight: she loves our souls, and not our follies and vanities and illusions, or our collars and coats, or any other of the rags and tatters we are rolled up in. He reflects on this for an instant; then turns intently to question Morell. What I want to know is how you got past the flaming sword that stopped me. Morell Meaningly. Perhaps because I was not interrupted at the end of ten minutes. Marchbanks Taken aback. What! Morell Man can climb to the highest summits; but he cannot dwell there long. Marchbanks It’s false: there can he dwell forever and there only. It’s in the other moments that he can find no rest, no sense of the silent glory of life. Where would you have me spend my moments, if not on the summits? Morell In the scullery, slicing onions and filling lamps. Marchbanks Or in the pulpit, scrubbing cheap earthenware souls? Morell Yes, that, too. It was there that I earned my golden moment, and the right, in that moment, to ask her to love me. I did not take the moment on credit; nor did I use it to steal another man’s happiness. Marchbanks Rather disgustedly, trotting back towards the fireplace. I have no doubt you conducted the transaction as honestly as if you were buying a pound of cheese. He stops on the brink of the hearthrug and adds, thoughtfully, to himself, with his back turned to Morell: I could only go to her as a beggar. Morell Starting. A beggar dying of cold⁠—asking for her shawl? Marchbanks Turning, surprised. Thank you for touching up my poetry. Yes, if you like, a beggar dying of cold asking for her shawl. Morell Excitedly. And she refused. Shall I tell you why she refused? I can tell you, on her own authority. It was because of⁠— Marchbanks She didn’t refuse. Morell Not! Marchbanks She offered me all I chose to ask for, her shawl, her wings, the wreath of stars on her head, the lilies in her hand, the crescent moon beneath her feet⁠— Morell Seizing him. Out with the truth, man: my wife is my wife: I want no more of your poetic fripperies. I know well that if I have lost her love and you have gained it, no law will bind her. Marchbanks Quaintly, without fear or resistance. Catch me by the shirt collar, Morell: she will arrange it for me afterwards as she did this morning. With quiet rapture. I shall feel her hands touch me. Morell You young imp, do you know how dangerous it is to say that to me? Or with a sudden misgiving has something made you brave? Marchbanks I’m not afraid now. I disliked you before: that was why I shrank from your touch. But I saw today⁠—when she tortured you⁠—that you love her. Since then I have been your friend: you may strangle me if you like. Morell Releasing him. Eugene: if that is not a heartless lie⁠—if you have a spark of human feeling left in you⁠—will you tell me what has happened during my absence? Marchbanks What happened! Why, the flaming sword⁠—Morell stamps with impatience. Well, in plain prose, I loved her so exquisitely that I wanted nothing more than the happiness of being in such love. And before I had time to come down from the highest summits, you came in. Morell Suffering deeply. So it is still unsettled⁠—still the misery of doubt. Marchbanks Misery! I am the happiest of men. I desire nothing now but her happiness. With dreamy enthusiasm. Oh, Morell, let us both give her up. Why should she have to choose between a wretched little nervous disease like me, and