Short Plays

no other way of entertaining each other. You don’t know what it is to be alone with a woman who has little beauty and less conversation. What is a man to do? She can’t talk interestingly; and if he talks that way himself she doesn’t understand him. He can’t look at her: if he does, he only finds out that she isn’t beautiful. Before the end of five minutes they are both hideously bored. There’s only one thing that can save the situation; and that’s what you call being horrid. With a beautiful, witty, kind woman, there’s no time for such follies. It’s so delightful to look at her, to listen to her voice, to hear all she has to say, that nothing else happens. That is why the woman who is supposed to have a thousand lovers seldom has one; whilst the stupid, graceless animals of women have dozens. Mrs. Juno I wonder! It’s quite true that when one feels in danger one talks like mad to stave it off, even when one doesn’t quite want to stave it off. Gregory One never does quite want to stave it off. Danger is delicious. But death isn’t. We court the danger; but the real delight is in escaping, after all. Mrs. Juno I don’t think we’ll talk about it any more. Danger is all very well when you do escape; but sometimes one doesn’t. I tell you frankly I don’t feel as safe as you do⁠—if you really do. Gregory But surely you can do as you please without injuring anyone, Mrs. Juno. That is the whole secret of your extraordinary charm for me. Mrs. Juno I don’t understand. Gregory Well, I hardly know how to begin to explain. But the root of the matter is that I am what people call a good man. Mrs. Juno I thought so until you began making love to me. Gregory But you knew I loved you all along. Mrs. Juno Yes, of course; but I depended on you not to tell me so; because I thought you were good. Your blurting it out spoilt it. And it was wicked besides. Gregory Not at all. You see, it’s a great many years since I’ve been able to allow myself to fall in love. I know lots of charming women; but the worst of it is, they’re all married. Women don’t become charming, to my taste, until they’re fully developed; and by that time, if they’re really nice, they’re snapped up and married. And then, because I am a good man, I have to place a limit to my regard for them. I may be fortunate enough to gain friendship and even very warm affection from them; but my loyalty to their husbands and their hearths and their happiness obliges me to draw a line and not overstep it. Of course I value such affectionate regard very highly indeed. I am surrounded with women who are most dear to me. But every one of them has a post sticking up, if I may put it that way, with the inscription: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. How we all loathe that notice! In every lovely garden, in every dell full of primroses, on every fair hillside, we meet that confounded board; and there is always a gamekeeper round the corner. But what is that to the horror of meeting it on every beautiful woman, and knowing that there is a husband round the corner? I have had this accursed board standing between me and every dear and desirable woman until I thought I had lost the power of letting myself fall really and wholeheartedly in love. Mrs. Juno Wasn’t there a widow? Gregory No. Widows are extraordinarily scarce in modern society. Husbands live longer than they used to; and even when they do die, their widows have a string of names down for their next. Mrs. Juno Well, what about the young girls? Gregory Oh, who cares for young girls? They’re sympathetic. They’re beginners. They don’t attract me. I’m afraid of them. Mrs. Juno That’s the correct thing to say to a woman of my age. But it doesn’t explain why you seem to have put your scruples in your pocket when you met me. Gregory Surely that’s quite clear. I⁠— Mrs. Juno No: please don’t explain. I don’t want to know. I take your word for it. Besides, it doesn’t matter now. Our voyage is over; and tomorrow I start for the north to my poor father’s place. Gregory Surprised. Your poor father! I thought he was alive. Mrs. Juno So he is. What made you think he wasn’t? Gregory You said your poor father. Mrs. Juno Oh, that’s a trick of mine. Rather a silly trick, I suppose; but there’s something pathetic to me about men: I find myself calling them poor So-and-So when there’s nothing whatever the matter with them. Gregory Who has listened in growing alarm. But⁠—I⁠—is?⁠—wa⁠—? Oh Lord! Mrs. Juno What’s the matter? Gregory Nothing. Mrs. Juno Nothing! Rising anxiously. Nonsense: you’re ill. Gregory No. It was something about your late husband⁠— Mrs. Juno My late husband! What do you mean? Clutching him, horror-stricken. Don’t tell me he’s dead. Gregory Rising, equally appalled. Don’t tell me he’s alive. Mrs. Juno Oh, don’t frighten me like this. Of course he’s alive⁠—unless you’ve heard anything. Gregory The first day we met⁠—on the boat⁠—you spoke to me of your poor dear husband. Mrs. Juno Releasing him, quite reassured. Is that all? Gregory Well, afterwards you called him poor Tops. Always poor Tops, or poor dear Tops. What could I think? Mrs. Juno Sitting down again. I wish you hadn’t given me such a shock about him; for I haven’t been treating him at all well. Neither have you. Gregory Relapsing into his seat, overwhelmed. And you mean to tell me you’re not a widow! Mrs. Juno Gracious, no! I’m not in black. Gregory Then I have been behaving like a blackguard. I have broken my promise to my mother. I shall never have an easy conscience again. Mrs. Juno I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Gregory You thought I was a libertine? Mrs. Juno No: