Part 4

ROBERT. [_Quickly._] I mean, watching me. And you never spoke! You had only to speak a word—to save me from myself. You were trying me. [_Passes his hand again over his forehead._] It was a terrible trial: now also. [_Desperately._] Well, it is past. It will be a lesson to me for all my life. You hate me now for what I have done and for...

RICHARD. [_Quietly, looking at him._] Have I said that I hate you?

ROBERT. Do you not? You must.

RICHARD. Even if Bertha had not told me I should have known. Did you not see that when I came in this afternoon I went into my study suddenly for a moment?

ROBERT. You did. I remember.

RICHARD. To give you time to recover yourself. It made me sad to see your eyes. And the roses too. I cannot say why. A great mass of overblown roses.

ROBERT. I thought I had to give them. Was that strange? [_Looks at Richard with a tortured expression._] Too many, perhaps? Or too old or common?

RICHARD. That was why I did not hate you. The whole thing made me sad all at once.

ROBERT. [_To himself._] And this is real. It is happening—to us.

[_He stares before him for some moments in silence, as if dazed; then, without turning his head, continues._]

ROBERT. And she, too, was trying me; making an experiment with me for your sake!

RICHARD. You know women better than I do. She says she felt pity for you.

ROBERT. [_Brooding._] Pitied me, because I am no longer... an ideal lover. Like my roses. Common, old.

RICHARD. Like all men you have a foolish wandering heart.

ROBERT. [_Slowly._] Well, you spoke at last. You chose the right moment.

RICHARD. [_Leans forward._] Robert, not like this. For us two, no. Years, a whole life, of friendship. Think a moment. Since childhood, boyhood... No, no. Not in such a way—like thieves—at night. [_Glancing about him._] And in such a place. No, Robert, that is not for people like us.

ROBERT. What a lesson! Richard, I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me that you have spoken—that the danger is passed. Yes, yes. [_Somewhat diffidently._] Because... there was some danger for you, too, if you think. Was there not?

RICHARD. What danger?

ROBERT. [_In the same tone._] I don’t know. I mean if you had not spoken. If you had watched and waited on until...

RICHARD. Until?

ROBERT. [_Bravely._] Until I had come to like her more and more (because I can assure you it is only a lightheaded idea of mine), to like her deeply, to love her. Would you have spoken to me then as you have just now? [_Richard is silent. Robert goes on more boldly._] It would have been different, would it not? For then it might have been too late while it is not too late now. What could I have said then? I could have said only: You are my friend, my dear good friend. I am very sorry but I love her. [_With a sudden fervent gesture._] I love her and I will take her from you, however I can, because I love her.

[_They look at each other for some moments in silence._]

RICHARD. [_Calmly._] That is the language I have heard often and never believed in. Do you mean by stealth or by violence? Steal you could not in my house because the doors were open; nor take by violence if there were no resistance.

ROBERT. You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.

RICHARD. [_Smiling._] Go on.

ROBERT. [_Diffidently, but bravely._] Do you think you have rights over her—over her heart?

RICHARD. None.

ROBERT. For what you have done for her? So much! You claim nothing?

RICHARD. Nothing.

ROBERT. [_After a pause strikes his forehead with his hand._] What am I saying? Or what am I thinking? I wish you would upbraid me, curse me, hate me as I deserve. You love this woman. I remember all you told me long ago. She is yours, your work. [_Suddenly._] And that is why I, too, was drawn to her. You are so strong that you attract me even through her.

RICHARD. I am weak.

ROBERT. [_With enthusiasm._] You, Richard! You are the incarnation of strength.

RICHARD. [_Holds out his hands._] Feel those hands.

ROBERT. [_Taking his hands._] Yes. Mine are stronger. But I meant strength of another kind.

RICHARD. [_Gloomily._] I think you would try to take her by violence.

[_He withdraws his hands slowly._]

ROBERT. [_Rapidly._] Those are moments of sheer madness when we feel an intense passion for a woman. We see nothing. We think of nothing. Only to possess her. Call it brutal, bestial, what you will.

RICHARD. [_A little timidly._] I am afraid that that longing to possess a woman is not love.

ROBERT. [_Impatiently._] No man ever yet lived on this earth who did not long to possess—I mean to possess in the flesh—the woman whom he loves. It is nature’s law.

RICHARD. [_Contemptuously._] What is that to me? Did I vote it?

ROBERT. But if you love... What else is it?

RICHARD. [_Hesitatingly._] To wish her well.

ROBERT. [_Warmly._] But the passion which burns us night and day to possess her. You feel it as I do. And it is not what you said now.

RICHARD. Have you...? [_He stops for an instance._] Have you the luminous certitude that yours is the brain in contact with which she must think and understand and that yours is the body in contact with which her body must feel? Have you this certitude in yourself?

ROBERT. Have you?

RICHARD. [_Moved._] Once I had it, Robert: a certitude as luminous as that of my own existence—or an illusion as luminous.

ROBERT. [_Cautiously._] And now?

RICHARD. If you had it and I could feel that you had it—even now...

ROBERT. What would you do?

RICHARD. [_Quietly._] Go away. You, and not I, would be necessary to her. Alone as I was before I met her.

ROBERT. [_Rubs his hands nervously._] A nice little load on my conscience!

RICHARD. [_Abstractedly._] You met my son when you came to my house this afternoon. He told me. What did you feel?

ROBERT. [_Promptly._] Pleasure.

RICHARD. Nothing else?

ROBERT. Nothing else. Unless I thought of two things at the same time. I am like that. If my best friend lay in his coffin and his face had a comic expression I should smile. [_With a little gesture of despair._] I am like that. But I should suffer too, deeply.

RICHARD. You spoke of conscience... Did he seem to you a child only—or an angel?

ROBERT. [_Shakes his head._] No. Neither an angel nor an Anglo-Saxon. Two things, by the way, for which I have very little sympathy.

RICHARD. Never then? Never even... with her? Tell me. I wish to know.

ROBERT. I feel in my heart something different. I believe that on the last day (if it ever comes), when we are all assembled together, that the Almighty will speak to us like this. We will say that we lived chastely with one other creature...

RICHARD. [_Bitterly._] Lie to Him?

ROBERT. Or that we tried to. And He will say to us: Fools! Who told you that you were to give yourselves to one being only? You were made to give yourselves to many freely. I wrote that law with My finger on your hearts.

RICHARD. On woman’s heart, too?

ROBERT. Yes. Can we close our heart against an affection which we feel deeply? Should we close it? Should she?

RICHARD. We are speaking of bodily union.

ROBERT. Affection between man and woman must come to that. We think too much of it because our minds are warped. For us today it is of no more consequence than any other form of contact—than a kiss.

RICHARD. If it is of no consequence why are you dissatisfied till you reach that end? Why were you waiting here tonight?

ROBERT. Passion tends to go as far as it can; but, you may believe me or not, I had not that in my mind—to reach that end.

RICHARD. Reach it if you can. I will use no arm against you that the world puts in my hand. If the law which God’s finger has written on our hearts is the law you say I too am God’s creature.

[_He rises and paces to and fro some moments in silence. Then he goes towards the porch and leans against the jamb. Robert watches him._]

ROBERT. I always felt it. In myself and in others.

RICHARD. [_Absently._] Yes?

ROBERT. [_With a vague gesture._] For all. That a woman, too, has the right to try with many men until she finds love. An immoral idea, is it not? I wanted to write a book about it. I began it...

RICHARD. [_As before._] Yes?

ROBERT. Because I knew a woman who seemed to me to be doing that—carrying out that idea in her own life. She interested me very much.

RICHARD. When was this?

ROBERT. O, not lately. When you were away.

[_Richard leaves his place rather abruptly and again paces to and fro._]

ROBERT. You see, I am more honest than you thought.

RICHARD. I wish you had not thought of her now—whoever she was, or is.

ROBERT. [_Easily._] She was and is the wife of a stockbroker.

RICHARD. [_Turning._] You know him?

ROBERT. Intimately.

[_Richard sits down again in the same place and leans forward, his head on his hands._]

ROBERT. [_Moving his chair a little closer._] May I ask you a question?

RICHARD. You may.

ROBERT. [_With some hesitation._] Has it never happened to you in these years—I mean when you were away from her, perhaps, or travelling—to... betray her with another. Betray her, I mean, not in love. Carnally, I mean... Has that never happened?

RICHARD. It has.

ROBERT. And what did you do?

RICHARD. [_As before._] I remember the first time. I came home. It was night. My house was silent. My little son was sleeping in his cot. She, too, was asleep. I wakened her from sleep and told her. I cried beside her bed; and I pierced her heart.

ROBERT. O, Richard, why did you do that?

RICHARD. Betray her?

ROBERT. No. But tell her, waken her from sleep to tell her. It was piercing her heart.

RICHARD. She must know me as I am.

ROBERT. But that is not you as you are. A moment of weakness.

RICHARD. [_Lost in thought._] And I was feeding the flame of her innocence with my guilt.

ROBERT. [_Brusquely._] O, don’t talk of guilt and innocence. You have made her all that she is. A strange and wonderful personality—in my eyes, at least.

RICHARD. [_Darkly._] Or I have killed her.

ROBERT. Killed her?

RICHARD. The virginity of her soul.

ROBERT. [_Impatiently._] Well lost! What would she be without you?

RICHARD. I tried to give her a new life.

ROBERT. And you have. A new and rich life.

RICHARD. Is it worth what I have taken from her—her girlhood, her laughter, her young beauty, the hopes in her young heart?

ROBERT. [_Firmly._] Yes. Well worth it. [_He looks at Richard for some moments in silence._] If you had neglected her, lived wildly, brought her away so far only to make her suffer...

[_He stops. Richard raises his head and looks at him._]

RICHARD. If I had?

ROBERT. [_Slightly confused._] You know there were rumours here of your life abroad—a wild life. Some persons who knew you or met you or heard of you in Rome. Lying rumours.

RICHARD. [_Coldly._] Continue.

ROBERT. [_Laughs a little harshly._] Even I at times thought of her as a victim. [_Smoothly._] And of course, Richard, I felt and knew all the time that you were a man of great talent—of something more than talent. And that was your excuse—a valid one in my eyes.

RICHARD. Have you thought that it is perhaps now—at this moment—that I am neglecting her? [_He clasps his hands nervously and leans across toward Robert._] I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last—wholly and many times.

ROBERT. [_Draws back at once._] My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer.

RICHARD. [_Continuing._] You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit.

ROBERT. [_Eagerly._] A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proceeds, the eternal law of nature herself.

RICHARD. And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious?

ROBERT. That will never be. Never.

RICHARD. And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both?

ROBERT. [_Gravely._] It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that.

RICHARD. [_Contemptuously._] I care very little whether it is or not because there is something I fear much more.

ROBERT. [_Shakes his head._] You fear? I disbelieve you, Richard. Since we were boys together I have followed your mind. You do not know what moral fear is.

RICHARD. [_Lays his hand on his arm._] Listen. She is dead. She lies on my bed. I look at her body which I betrayed—grossly and many times. And loved, too, and wept over. And I know that her body was always my loyal slave. To me, to me only she gave... [_He breaks off and turns aside, unable to speak._]

ROBERT. [_Softly._] Do not suffer, Richard. There is no need. She is loyal to you, body and soul. Why do you fear?

RICHARD. [_Turns towards him, almost fiercely._] Not that fear. But that I will reproach myself then for having taken all for myself because I would not suffer her to give to another what was hers and not mine to give, because I accepted from her her loyalty and made her life poorer in love. That is my fear. That I stand between her and any moments of life that should be hers, between her and you, between her and anyone, between her and anything. I will not do it. I cannot and I will not. I dare not.

[_He leans back in his chair breathless, with shining eyes. Robert rises quietly, and stands behind his chair._]

ROBERT. Look here, Richard. We have said all there is to be said. Let the past be past.

RICHARD. [_Quickly and harshly._] Wait. One thing more. For you, too, must know me as I am—now.

ROBERT. More? Is there more?

RICHARD. I told you that when I saw your eyes this afternoon I felt sad. Your humility and confusion, I felt, united you to me in brotherhood. [_He turns half round towards him._] At that moment I felt our whole life together in the past, and I longed to put my arm around your neck.

ROBERT. [_Deeply and suddenly touched._] It is noble of you, Richard, to forgive me like this.

RICHARD. [_Struggling with himself._] I told you that I wished you not to do anything false and secret against me—against our friendship, against her; not to steal her from me craftily, secretly, meanly—in the dark, in the night—you, Robert, my friend.

ROBERT. I know. And it was noble of you.

RICHARD. [_Looks up at him with a steady gaze._] No. Not noble. Ignoble.

ROBERT. [_Makes an involuntary gesture._] How? Why?

RICHARD. [_Looks away again: in a lower voice._] That is what I must tell you too. Because in the very core of my ignoble heart I longed to be betrayed by you and by her—in the dark, in the night—secretly, meanly, craftily. By you, my best friend, and by her. I longed for that passionately and ignobly, to be dishonoured for ever in love and in lust, to be...

ROBERT. [_Bending down, places his hands over Richard’s mouth._] Enough. Enough. [_He takes his hands away._] But no. Go on.

RICHARD. To be for ever a shameful creature and to build up my soul again out of the ruins of its shame.

ROBERT. And that is why you wished that she...

RICHARD. [_With calm._] She has spoken always of her innocence, as I have spoken always of my guilt, humbling me.

ROBERT. From pride, then?

RICHARD. From pride and from ignoble longing. And from a motive deeper still.

ROBERT. [_With decision._] I understand you.

[_He returns to his place and begins to speak at once, drawing his chair closer._]

ROBERT. May it not be that we are here and now in the presence of a moment which will free us both—me as well as you—from the last bonds of what is called morality. My friendship for you has laid bonds on me.

RICHARD. Light bonds, apparently.

ROBERT. I acted in the dark, secretly. I will do so no longer. Have you the courage to allow me to act freely?

RICHARD. A duel—between us?

ROBERT. [_With growing excitement._] A battle of both our souls, different as they are, against all that is false in them and in the world. A battle of your soul against the spectre of fidelity, of mine against the spectre of friendship. All life is a conquest, the victory of human passion over the commandments of cowardice. Will you, Richard? Have you the courage? Even if it shatters to atoms the friendship between us, even if it breaks up for ever the last illusion in your own life? There was an eternity before we were born: another will come after we are dead. The blinding instant of passion alone—passion, free, unashamed, irresistible—that is the only gate by which we can escape from the misery of what slaves call life. Is not this the language of your own youth that I heard so often from you in this very place where we are sitting now? Have you changed?

RICHARD. [_Passes his hand across his brow._] Yes. It is the language of my youth.

ROBERT. [_Eagerly, intensely._] Richard, you have driven me up to this point. She and I have only obeyed your will. You yourself have roused these words in my brain. Your own words. Shall we? Freely? Together?

RICHARD. [_Mastering his emotion._] Together no. Fight your part alone. I will not free you. Leave me to fight mine.

ROBERT. [_Rises, decided._] You allow me, then?

RICHARD. [_Rises also, calmly._] Free yourself.

[_A knock is heard at the hall door._]

ROBERT. [_In alarm._] What does this mean?

RICHARD. [_Calmly._] Bertha, evidently. Did you not ask her to come?

ROBERT. Yes, but... [_Looking about him._] Then I am going, Richard.

RICHARD. No. I am going.

ROBERT. [_Desperately._] Richard, I appeal to you. Let me go. It is over. She is yours. Keep her and forgive me, both of you.

RICHARD. Because you are generous enough to allow me?

ROBERT. [_Hotly._] Richard, you will make me angry with you if you say that.

RICHARD. Angry or not, I will not live on your generosity. You have asked her to meet you here tonight and alone. Solve the question between you.

ROBERT. [_Promptly._] Open the door. I shall wait in the garden. [_He goes towards the porch._] Explain to her, Richard, as best you can. I cannot see her now.

RICHARD. I shall go. I tell you. Wait out there if you wish.

[_He goes out by the door on the right. Robert goes out hastily through the porch but comes back the same instant._]

ROBERT. An umbrella! [_With a sudden gesture._] O!

[_He goes out again through the porch. The hall door is heard to open and close. Richard enters, followed by Bertha, who is dressed in a darkbrown costume and wears a small dark red hat. She has neither umbrella nor waterproof._]

RICHARD. [_Gaily._] Welcome back to old Ireland!

BERTHA. [_Nervously, seriously._] Is this the place?

RICHARD. Yes, it is. How did you find it?

BERTHA. I told the cabman. I didn’t like to ask my way. [_Looking about her curiously._] Was he not waiting? Has he gone away?

RICHARD. [_Points towards the garden._] He is waiting. Out there. He was waiting when I came.

BERTHA. [_Selfpossessed again._] You see, you came after all.

RICHARD. Did you think I would not?

BERTHA. I knew you could not remain away. You see, after all you are like all other men. You had to come. You are jealous like the others.

RICHARD. You seem annoyed to find me here.

BERTHA. What happened between you?

RICHARD. I told him I knew everything, that I had known for a long time. He asked how. I said from you.

BERTHA. Does he hate me?

RICHARD. I cannot read in his heart.

BERTHA. [_Sits down helplessly._] Yes. He hates me. He believes I made a fool of him—betrayed him. I knew he would.

RICHARD. I told him you were sincere with him.

BERTHA. He does not believe it. Nobody would believe it. I should have told him first—not you.

RICHARD. I thought he was a common robber, prepared to use even violence against you. I had to protect you from that.

BERTHA. That I could have done myself.

RICHARD. Are you sure?

BERTHA. It would have been enough to have told him that you knew I was here. Now I can find out nothing. He hates me. He is right to hate me. I have treated him badly, shamefully.

RICHARD. [_Takes her hand._] Bertha, look at me.

BERTHA. [_Turns to him._] Well?

RICHARD. [_Gazes into her eyes and then lets her hand fall._] I cannot read in your heart either.

BERTHA. [_Still looking at him._] You could not remain away. Do you not trust me? You can see I am quite calm. I could have hidden it all from you.

RICHARD. I doubt that.

BERTHA. [_With a slight toss of her head._] O, easily if I had wanted to.

RICHARD. [_Darkly._] Perhaps you are sorry now that you did not.

BERTHA. Perhaps I am.

RICHARD. [_Unpleasantly._] What a fool you were to tell me! It would have been so nice if you had kept it secret.

BERTHA. As you do, no?

RICHARD. As I do, yes. [_He turns to go._] Goodbye for a while.

BERTHA. [_Alarmed, rises._] Are you going?

RICHARD. Naturally. My part is ended here.

BERTHA. To her, I suppose?

RICHARD. [_Astonished._] Who?

BERTHA. Her ladyship. I suppose it is all planned so that you may have a good opportunity. To meet her and have an intellectual conversation!

RICHARD. [_With an outburst of rude anger._] To meet the devil’s father!

BERTHA. [_Unpins her hat and sits down._] Very well. You can go. Now I know what to do.

RICHARD. [_Returns, approaches her._] You don’t believe a word of what you say.

BERTHA. [_Calmly._] You can go. Why don’t you?

RICHARD. Then you have come here and led him on in this way on account of me. Is that how it is?

BERTHA. There is one person in all this who is not a fool. And that is you. I am though. And he is.

RICHARD. [_Continuing._] If so you have indeed treated him badly and shamefully.

BERTHA. [_Points at him._] Yes. But it was your fault. And I will end it now. I am simply a tool for you. You have no respect for me. You never had because I did what I did.

RICHARD. And has he respect?