Three Plays by Granville-Barker Part 67

BEATRICE. It isn't. I do think, Booth, you might read that book . . for the honour of the Family.

BOOTH. [_successfully side-tracked. ._ ] I have bought it, Beatrice, and--

BEATRICE. That's the princ.i.p.al thing, of course--

BOOTH. [_. . and discovering it._] But do let us keep to the subject.

BEATRICE. [_with flattering sincerity._] Certainly, Booth. And there is hardly any subject that I wouldn't ask your advice about. But upon this . . do let me know better. Hugh and I will be happier apart.

BOOTH. [_obstinately._] Why?

BEATRICE. [_with resolute patience, having vented a little sigh._] Hugh finds that my opinions distress him. And I have at last lost patience with Hugh.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has been trying to follow this through her spectacles._] What does Beatrice say?

BOOTH. [_translating into a loud sing-song._] That she wishes to leave her husband because she has lost patience!

MRS. VOYSEY. [_with considerable acrimony._] Then you must be a very ill-tempered woman. Hugh has a sweet nature.

HUGH. [_shouting self-consciously._] Nonsense, mother.

BEATRICE. [_shouting good-humouredly._] I quite agree with you, mother.

[_she continues to her husband in an even just tone._] You have a sweet nature, Hugh, and it is most difficult to get angry with you. I have been seven years working up to it. But now that I am angry, I shall never get pleased again.

_The Major returns to his subject, refreshed by a moment's repose._

BOOTH. How has he failed in his duty? Tell us. I'm not bigoted in his favour. I know your faults, Hugh.

_He wags his head at_ HUGH, _who writhes with irritation_.

HUGH. Why can't you leave them alone . . leave us alone?

BEATRICE. I'd state my case against Hugh, if I thought he'd retaliate.

HUGH. [_desperately rounding on his brother._] If I tell you, you won't understand. You understand nothing! Beatrice is angry with me because I won't prost.i.tute my art to make money.

BOOTH. [_glancing at his wife._] Please don't use metaphors of that sort.

BEATRICE. [_reasonably._] Yes, I think Hugh ought to earn more money.

BOOTH. [_quite pleased to be getting along at last._] Well, why doesn't he?

HUGH. I don't want money.

BOOTH. You can't say you don't want money any more than you can say you don't want bread.

BEATRICE. [_as she breaks off her cotton._] It's when one has known what it is to be a little short of both . .

_Now the Major spreads himself and begins to be very wise, while_ HUGH, _to whom this is more intolerable than all, can only clutch his hair_.

BOOTH. You know I never considered Art a very good profession for you, Hugh. And you won't even stick to one department of it. It's a profession that gets people into very bad habits, I consider. Couldn't you take up something else? You could still do those wood-cuts in your spare time to amuse yourself.

HUGH. [_commenting on this with two deliberate shouts of simulated mirth._] Ha! Ha!

BOOTH. [_sublimely superior._] Well, it wouldn't much matter if you didn't do them at all!

BEATRICE. [_subtly._] Booth, there speaks the true critic.

BOOTH. [_deprecating any t.i.tle to omniscience._] Well, I don't pretend to know much about Art but--

HUGH. It would matter to me. There speaks the artist.

BEATRICE. The arrogance of the artist!

HUGH. We have a right to be arrogant.

BEATRICE. Good workmen are humble.

HUGH. And look to their wages.

BEATRICE. Well, I'm only a workman.

_With that she breaks the contact of this quiet deadly hopeless little quarrel by turning her head away. The Major, who has given it most friendly attention, comments . ._

BOOTH. Of course! Quite so! I'm sure all that is a very interesting difference of opinion.

MRS. VOYSEY _leaves her armchair for her favourite station at the dining table_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Booth is the only one of you that I can hear at all distinctly. But if you two foolish young people think you want to separate . . try it. You'll soon come back to each other and be glad to.

People can't fight against Nature for long. And marriage is a natural state . . once you're married.

BOOTH. [_with intense approval._] Quite right, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY. I know.

_She resumes the Nineteenth Century. The Major, to the despair of everybody, makes yet another start; trying oratory this time._

BOOTH. My own opinion is, Beatrice and Hugh, that you don't realise the meaning of the word marriage. I don't call myself a religious man . .

but dash it all, you were married in church! . . And you then entered upon an awful compact! . . Surely . . as a woman, Beatrice . . the religious point of it ought to appeal to you. Good Lord, suppose everybody were to carry on like this! And have you considered, Beatrice, that . . whether you're right or whether you're wrong . . if you desert Hugh, you cut yourself off from the Family.

BEATRICE. [_with the sweetest of smiles._] That will distress me terribly.

BOOTH. [_not doubting her for a moment._] Of course.

HUGH _flings up his head and finds relief at last in many words_.

HUGH. I wish to Heaven I'd ever been able to cut myself off from the family! Look at Trenchard.