60 Plays: The George Bernard Shaw Edition (Illustrated). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
you? What have I not endured from you — endured with angelic patience? Did I not find out, before our friendship was a fortnight old, that all your advanced views were merely a fashion picked up and followed like any other fashion, without understanding or meaning a word of them? Did you not, in spite of your care for your own liberty, set up claims on me compared to which the claims of the most jealous wife would have been trifles. Have I a single woman friend whom you have not abused as old, ugly, vicious —
JULIA (quickly looking up). So they are.
CHARTERIS. Well, then, I’ll come to grievances that even you can understand. I accuse you of habitual and intolerable jealousy and ill temper; of insulting me on imaginary provocation: of positively beating me; of stealing letters of mine —
JULIA (rising). Yes, nice letters.
CHARTERIS. — of breaking your solemn promises not to do it again; of spending hours — aye, days! piecing together the contents of my waste paper basket in your search for more letters; and then representing yourself as an ill used saint and martyr wantonly betrayed and deserted by a selfish monster of a man.
JULIA. I was justified in reading your letters. Our perfect confidence in one another gave me the right to do it.
CHARTERIS. Thank you. Then I hasten to break off a confidence which gives such rights. (Sits down sulkily on sofa.)
JULIA (with her right hand on the back of the sofa, bending over him threateningly). You have no right to break it off.
CHARTERIS. I have. You refused to marry me because —
JULIA. I did not. You never asked me. If we were married, you would never dare treat me as you are doing now.
CHARTERIS (laboriously going back to his argument). It was understood between us as people of advanced views that we were not to marry because, as the law stands, I might have become a drunkard, a —
JULIA. — a criminal, an imbecile or a horror. You said that before. (Sits down beside him with a fling.)
CHARTERIS (politely). I beg your pardon, my dear. I know I have a habit of repeating myself. The point is that you reserved your freedom to give me up when you pleased.
JULIA. Well, what of that? I do not please to give you up; and I will not. You have not become a drunkard or a criminal.
CHARTERIS. You don’t see the point yet, Julia. You seem to forget that in reserving your freedom to leave me in case I should turn out badly, you also reserved my freedom to leave you in case you should turn out badly.
JULIA. Very ingenious. And pray, have I become a drunkard, or a criminal, or an imbecile?
CHARTERIS (rising). You have become what is infinitely worse than all three together — a jealous termagant.
JULIA (shaking her head bitterly). Yes, abuse me — call me names.
CHARTERIS. I now assert the right I reserved — the right of breaking with you when I please. Advanced views, Julia, involve advanced duties: you cannot be an advanced woman when you want to bring a man to your feet, and a conventional woman when you want to hold him there against his will. Advanced people form charming friendships: conventional people marry. Marriage suits a good deal of people; and its first duty is fidelity. Friendship suits some people; and its first duty is unhesitating, uncomplaining acceptance of a notice of a change of feeling from either side. You chose friendship instead of marriage. Now do your duty, and accept your notice.
JULIA. Never! We are engaged in the eye of — the eye of —
CHARTERIS (sitting down quickly beside her). Yes, Julia. Can’t you get it out? In the eye of something that advanced women don’t believe in, en?
JULIA (throwing herself at his feet). O Leonard, don’t be cruel. I am too miserable to argue — to think. I only know I love you. You reproach me with not wanting to marry you. I would have married you at any time after I came to love you, if you had asked me. I will marry you now if you will.
CHARTERIS. I won’t, my dear. That’s flat. We’re intellectually incompatible.
JULIA. But why? We could be so happy. You love me — I know you love me — I feel it. You say “My dear” to me: you have said it several times this evening. I know I have been wicked, odious, bad. I say nothing in defence of myself. But don’t be hard on me. I was distracted by the thought of losing you. I can’t face life without you Leonard. I was happy when I met you: I had never loved anyone; and if you had only let me alone I could have gone on contentedly by myself. But I can’t now. I must have you with me. Don’t cast me off without a thought of all I have at stake. I could be a friend to you if you would only let me — if you would only tell me your plans — give me a share in your work — treat me as something more than the amusement of an idle hour. Oh Leonard, Leonard, you’ve never given me a chance: indeed you haven’t. I’ll take pains; I’ll read; I’ll try to think; I’ll conquer my jealousy; I’ll — (She breaks down, rocking her head desperately on his knee and writhing.) Oh, I’m mad: I’m mad: you’ll kill me if you desert me.
CHARTERIS (petting her). My dear love, don’t cry — don’t go on in this way. You know I can’t help it.
JULIA (sobbing as he rises and coaxingly lifts her with him). Oh, you can, you can. One word from you will make us happy for ever.
CHARTERIS (diplomatically). Come, my dear: we really must go. We can’t stay until Cuthbertson comes. (Releases her gently and takes her mantle from the table.) Here is your mantle: put it on and be good. You have given me a terrible evening: you must have some consideration for me.
JULIA (dangerous again). Then I am to be cast off.
CHARTERIS (coaxingly). You are to put on your bonnet, dearest. (He puts the mantle on her shoulders.)
JULIA (with a bitter half laugh, half sob). Well, I suppose I must do what I am told. (She goes to the table, and looks for her bonnet. She sees the yellow-backed French novel.) Ah, look at that! (holds it out to him.) Look — look at what the creature reads — filthy, vile French stuff that no decent woman would touch. And you — you have been reading it with her.
CHARTERIS. You recommended that book to me yourself.
JULIA. Faugh! (Dashes it on the floor.)
CHARTERIS (running anxiously to the book). Don’t damage property, Julia. (He picks it up and dusts it.) Making scenes is an affair of sentiment: damaging property is serious. (Replaces it on the table.) And now do pray come along.
JULIA (implacably). You can go: there is nothing to prevent you. I will not stir. (She sits down stubbornly on the sofa.)
CHARTERIS (losing patience). Oh come! I am not going to begin all this over again. There are limits even to my forbearance. Come on.
JULIA. I will not, I tell you.
CHARTERIS. Then good night. (He makes resolutely for the door. With a rush, she gets there before him, and bars his way.) I thought you wanted me to go.
JULIA (at the door). You shall not leave me here alone.
CHARTERIS. Then come with me.
JULIA. Not until you have sworn to me to give up that woman.
CHARTERIS. My dear, I will swear anything if you will only come away and put an end to this.
JULIA (perplexed — doubting him). You will swear?
CHARTERIS. Solemnly. Propose the oath. I have been on the point of swearing for the last half hour.
JULIA (despairingly). You are only making fun of me. I want no oaths. I want your promise — your sacred word of honour.
CHARTERIS. Certainly — anything you demand, on condition that you come away immediately. On my sacred word of honour as a gentleman — as an Englishman — as anything you like — I will never see her again, never speak to her, never think of her. Now come.
JULIA. But are you in earnest? Will you keep your word?
CHARTERIS