Three Plays by Granville-Barker Part 109

TREBELL. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a shock if I shot myself . . it would make them think about things.

FRANCES. [_With one catch of wretched laughter._] Oh, my dear, if shooting's wanted . . shoot them. Or I'll do it for you.

_He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand still grasping his._

TREBELL. You see, f.a.n.n.y, as I said to Gilbert last night . . our lives are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and dying for others. The first is easy . . it's a way out of boredom. To make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure and certain hope that it really doesn't matter . . that G.o.d is infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after our death than men do while we live?

FRANCES. I want your promise, Henry.

TREBELL. You know I never make promises . . it's taking oneself too seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too.

I've upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better go and finish dressing? [_She doesn't move._] My dear . . you don't propose to hold my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I still could jump out of a window.

FRANCES. I'll trust you, Henry.

_She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final grip she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently than ever._

TREBELL. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it?

FRANCES. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice through the years that remain. [_Instinctively she rectifies some little untidiness in the room._] What fools they are to think they can run that government without you!

TREBELL. Horsham will do his best. [_Then, as for the second time she reaches the door._] Don't take away my razors, will you? I only use them for shaving.

FRANCES. [_Almost blushing._] I half meant to . . I'm sorry. After all, Henry, just because they are forgetting in personal feelings what's best for the country . . it's your duty not to. You'll stand by and do what you can, won't you?

TREBELL. [_His queer smile returning, in contrast to her seriousness._]

Disestablishment. It's a very interesting problem. I must think it out.

FRANCES. [_Really puzzled._] What do you mean?

_He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her.

His smile changes into a graver gladness._

TREBELL. Something has happened . . in spite of me. My heart's clean again. I'm ready for fresh adventures.

FRANCES. [_With a nod and answering gladness._] That's right.

_So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move.

When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries them carefully into_ WALTER KENT'S _room and arranges them as carefully on his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then with a sudden movement bangs the door._

_Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full of light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open, showing you_ KENT'S _door still closed. At the big writing table in_ TREBELL'S _chair sits_ WEDGECROFT, _pale and grave, intent on finishing a letter_.

FRANCES _comes to find him. For a moment she leans on the table silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a broken woman. When she speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly._

FRANCES. Lord Horsham is in the drawing room . . and I can't see him, I really can't. He has come to say he is sorry . . and I should tell him that it is his fault, partly. I know I should . . and I don't want to.

Won't you go in? What are you writing?

WEDGECROFT, _with his physicianly pre-occupation, can attend, understand, sympathise, without looking up at her_.

WEDGECROFT. Never mind. A necessary note . . to the Coroner's office.

Yes, I'll see Horsham.

FRANCES. I've managed to get the pistol out of his hand. Was that wrong . . oughtn't I to have touched it?

WEDGECROFT. Of course you oughtn't. You must stay away from the room.

I'd better have locked the door.

FRANCES. [_Pitifully._] I'm sorry . . but I couldn't bear to see the pistol in his hand. I won't go back. After all he's not there in the room, is he? But how long do you think the spirit stays near the body . .

how long? When people die gently of age or weakness . . . But when the spirit and body are so strong and knit together and all alive as his . . .

WEDGECROFT. [_His hand on hers._] Hush . . hush.

FRANCES. His face is very eager . . as if it still could speak. I know that.

MRS. FARRANT _comes through the open doorway_. FRANCES _hears her steps and turning falls into her outstretched arms to cry there_.

FRANCES. Oh, Julia!

MRS. FARRANT. Oh my dear f.a.n.n.y! I came with Cyril Horsham . . I don't think Simpson even saw me.

FRANCES. I can't go in and talk to him.

MRS. FARRANT. He'll understand. But I heard you come in here . .

WEDGECROFT. I'll tell Horsham.

_He has finished and addressed his letter, so he goes out with it._ FRANCES _lifts her head. These two are in accord and can speak their feelings without disguise or preparation._

FRANCES. Julia, Julia . . isn't it unbelievable?

MRS. FARRANT. I'd give . . oh, what wouldn't I give to have it undone!

FRANCES. I knew he meant to . . and yet I thought I had his promise. If he really meant to . . I couldn't have stopped it, could I?

MRS. FARRANT. Walter sent to tell me and I sent round to . . .

FRANCES. Walter came soon after, I think. Julia, I was in my room . . it was nearly breakfast time . . when I heard the shot. Oh . . don't you think it was cruel of him?

MRS. FARRANT. He had a right to. We must remember that.

FRANCES. You say that easily of my brother . . you wouldn't say it of your husband.

_They are apart by this._ JULIA FARRANT _goes to her gently_.

MRS. FARRANT. f.a.n.n.y . . will it leave you so very lonely?

FRANCES. Yes . . lonelier than you can ever be. You have children. I'm just beginning to realise. . .

MRS. FARRANT. [_Leading her from the mere selfishness of sorrow._]

There's loneliness of the spirit, too.