60 Plays: The George Bernard Shaw Edition (Illustrated). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
(startled into a remonstrance). My dear! (Recollecting herself.) I beg your pardon, Gloria. Certainly, if you wish. (She bows to Valentine and goes out.)
VALENTINE. Oh, if your mother were only a widow! She’s worth six of you.
GLORIA. That is the first thing I have heard you say that does you honor.
VALENTINE. Stuff! Come: say what you want to say and let me go.
GLORIA. I have only this to say. You dragged me down to your level for a moment this afternoon. Do you think, if that had ever happened before, that I should not have been on my guard — that I should not have known what was coming, and known my own miserable weakness?
VALENTINE (scolding at her passionately). Don’t talk of it in that way. What do I care for anything in you but your weakness, as you call it? You thought yourself very safe, didn’t you, behind your advanced ideas! I amused myself by upsetting t h e m pretty easily.
GLORIA (insolently, feeling that now she can do as she likes with him). Indeed!
VALENTINE. But why did I do it? Because I was being tempted to awaken your heart — to stir the depths in you. Why was I tempted? Because Nature was in deadly earnest with me when I was in jest with her. When the great moment came, who was awakened? who was stirred? in whom did the depths break up? In myself — m y s e l f: I was transported: you were only offended — shocked. You were only an ordinary young lady, too ordinary to allow tame lieutenants to go as far as I went. That’s all. I shall not trouble you with conventional apologies. Goodbye. (He makes resolutely for the door.)
GLORIA. Stop. (He hesitates.) Oh, will you understand, if I tell you the truth, that I am not making an advance to you?
VALENTINE. Pooh! I know what you’re going to say. You think you’re not ordinary — that I was right — that you really have those depths in your nature. It flatters you to believe it. (She recoils.) Well, I grant that you are not ordinary in some ways: you are a clever girl (Gloria stifles an exclamation of rage, and takes a threatening step towards him); but you’ve not been awakened yet. You didn’t care: you don’t care. It was my tragedy, not yours. Goodbye. (He turns to the door. She watches him, appalled to see him slipping from her grasp. As he turns the handle, he pauses; then turns again to her, offering his hand.) Let us part kindly.
GLORIA (enormously relieved, and immediately turning her back on him deliberately.) Goodbye. I trust you will soon recover from the wound.
VALENTINE (brightening up as it flashes on him that he is master of the situation after all). I shall recover: such wounds heal more than they harm. After all, I still have my own Gloria.
GLORIA (facing him quickly). What do you mean?
VALENTINE. The Gloria of my imagination.
GLORIA (proudly). Keep your own Gloria — the Gloria of your imagination. (Her emotion begins to break through her pride.) The real Gloria — the Gloria who was shocked, offended, horrified — oh, yes, quite truly — who was driven almost mad with shame by the feeling that all her power over herself had been broken down at her first real encounter with — with — (The color rushes over her face again. She covers it with her left hand, and puts her right on his left arm to support herself.)
VALENTINE. Take care. I’m losing my senses again. (Summoning all her courage, she takes away her hand from her face and puts it on his right shoulder, turning him towards her and looking him straight in the eyes. He begins to protest agitatedly.) Gloria: be sensible: it’s no use: I haven’t a penny in the world.
GLORIA. Can’t you earn one? Other people do.
VALENTINE (half delighted, half frightened). I never could — you’d be unhappy — My dearest love: I should be the merest fortune-hunting adventurer if — (Her grip on his arms tightens; and she kisses him.) Oh, Lord! (Breathless.) Oh, I — (He gasps.) I don’t know anything about women: twelve years’ experience is not enough. (In a gust of jealousy she throws him away from her; and he reels her back into the chair like a leaf before the wind, as Dolly dances in, waltzing with the waiter, followed by Mrs. Clandon and Finch, also waltzing, and Phil pirouetting by himself.)
DOLLY (sinking on the chair at the writing-table). Oh, I’m out of breath. How beautifully you waltz, William!
MRS. CLANDON (sinking on the saddlebag seat on the hearth). Oh, how could you make me do such a silly thing, Finch! I haven’t danced since the soiree at South Place twenty years ago.
GLORIA (peremptorily at Valentine). Get up. (Valentine gets up abjectly.) Now let us have no false delicacy. Tell my mother that we have agreed to marry one another. (A silence of stupefaction ensues. Valentine, dumb with panic, looks at them with an obvious impulse to run away.)
DOLLY (breaking the silence). Number Six!
PHILIP. Sh!
DOLLY (tumultuously). Oh, my feelings! I want to kiss somebody; and we bar it in the family. Where’s Finch?
McCOMAS (starting violently). No, positively — (Crampton appears in the window.)
DOLLY (running to Crampton). Oh, you’re just in time. (She kisses him.) Now (leading him forward) bless them.
GLORIA. No. I will have no such thing, even in jest. When I need a blessing, I shall ask my mother’s.
CRAMPTON (to Gloria, with deep disappointment). Am I to understand that you have engaged yourself to this young gentleman?
GLORIA (resolutely). Yes. Do you intend to be our friend or —
DOLLY (interposing). — or our father?
CRAMPTON. I should like to be both, my child. But surely — ! Mr. Valentine: I appeal to your sense of honor.
VALENTINE. You’re quite right. It’s perfect madness. If we go out to dance together I shall have to borrow five shillings from her for a ticket. Gloria: don’t be rash: you’re throwing yourself away. I’d much better clear straight out of this, and never see any of you again. I shan’t commit suicide: I shan’t even be unhappy. It’ll be a relief to me: I — I’m frightened, I’m positively frightened; and that’s the plain truth.
GLORIA (determinedly). You shall not go.
VALENTINE (quailing). No, dearest: of course not. But — oh, will somebody only talk sense for a moment and bring us all to reason! I can’t. Where’s Bohun? Bohun’s the man. Phil: go and summon Bohun —
PHILIP. From the vastly deep. I go. (He makes his bat quiver in the air and darts away through the window.)
WAITER (harmoniously to Valentine). If you will excuse my putting in a word, sir, do not let a matter of five shillings stand between you and your happiness, sir. We shall be only too pleased to put the ticket down to you: and you can settle at your convenience. Very glad to meet you in any way, very happy and pleased indeed, sir.
PHILIP (reappearing). He comes. (He waves his bat over the window. Bohun comes in, taking off his false nose and throwing it on the table in passing as he comes between Gloria and Valentine.)
VALENTINE. The point is, Mr. Bohun —
McCOMAS (interrupting from the hearthrug). Excuse me, sir: the point must be put to him by a solicitor. The question is one of an engagement between these two young people. The lady has some property, and (looking at Crampton) will probably have a good deal more.
CRAMPTON. Possibly. I hope so.
VALENTINE. And the gentleman hasn’t a rap.
BOHUN (nailing Valentine to the point instantly). Then insist on a settlement. That shocks your delicacy: most sensible precautions do. But you ask my advice; and I give it to you. Have a settlement.
GLORIA (proudly). He shall have a settlement.
VALENTINE. My good sir, I don’t want advice for myself. Give h e r some advice.
BOHUN. She won’t take it. When you’re married, she won’t take yours either — (turning suddenly on Gloria) oh, no, you won’t: you