Three Plays by Granville-Barker. Granville-Barker Harley
george comes slowly along the terrace, in his hand an open book, which some people might suppose he was reading. He speaks with studied calm.
george. You are very excited, my good man.
abud. She's brought you a child, sir.
ann. Your child!
george. Certainly.
abud. Thank God, Sir!
george. I will if I please.
ann. And she's doing well.
abud. There's a messenger come post.
george. To be sure . . it might have been bad news.
And slowly he crosses the garden towards the house.
abud. [Suddenly, beyond all patience.] Run . . damn you!
george makes one supreme effort to maintain his dignity, but fails utterly. He gasps out …
george. Yes, I will. [And runs off as hard as he can.]
abud. [In an ecstasy.] This is good. Oh, Dolly and God . . this is good!
ann. [Round eyed.] I wonder that you can be pleased.
abud. [Apologising . . without apology.] It's life.
ann. [Struck.] Yes, it is.
And she goes towards the house, thinking this over.
THE THIRD ACT
It is near to sunset. The garden is shadier than before.
abud is still working. carnaby leete comes from the house followed by dr. remnant. He wears his right arm in a sling. His face is flushed, his speech rapid.
carnaby. Parson, you didn't drink enough wine … damme, the wine was good.
dr. remnant. I am very grateful for an excellent dinner.
carnaby. A good dinner, sir, is the crown to a good day's work.
dr. remnant. It may also be a comfort in affliction. Our philosophy does ill, Mr. Leete, when it despises the more simple means of contentment.
carnaby. And which will be the better lover of a woman, a hungry or a well-fed man?
dr. remnant. A good meal digests love with it; for what is love but a food to live by . . but a hungry love will ofttimes devour its owner.
carnaby. Admirable! Give me a man in love to deal with. Vous l'avez vu?
dr. remnant. Speak Latin, Greek or Hebrew to me, Mr. Leete.
carnaby. French is the language of little things. My poor France! Ours is a little world, Parson … a man may hold it here. [His open hand.] Lord John Carp's a fine fellow.
dr. remnant. Son of a Duke.
carnaby. And I commend to you the originality of his return. At twelve we fight … at one-thirty he proposes marriage to my daughter. D'ye see him humbly on his knees? Will there be rain, I wonder?
dr. remnant. We need rain . . Abud?
abud. Badly, sir.
carnaby. Do we want a wet journey tomorrow! Where's Sarah?
dr. remnant. Lady Cottesham's taking tea.
carnaby. [To abud with a sudden start.] And why the devil didn't you marry my daughter-in-law . . my own gardener?
george appears dressed for riding.
george. Good-bye, sir, for the present.
carnaby. Boots and breeches!
george. You shouldn't be about in the evening air with a green wound in your arm. You drank wine at dinner. Be careful, sir.
carnaby. Off to your wife and the expected?
george. Yes, sir.
carnaby. Riding to Watford?
george. From there alongside the North Coach, if I'm in time.
carnaby. Don't founder my horse. Will ye leave the glorious news with your grandfather at Wycombe?
george. I won't fail to. [Then to abud.] We've been speaking of you.
abud. It was never any secret, sir.
george. Don't apologise.
Soon after this abud passes out of sight.
carnaby. Nature's an encumbrance to us, Parson.
dr. remnant. One disapproves of flesh uninspired.
carnaby. She allows you no amusing hobbies . . always takes you seriously.
george. Good-bye, Parson.
dr. remnant. [As he bows.] Your most obedient.
carnaby. And you trifle with damnable democracy, with pretty theories of the respect due to womanhood and now the result … hark to it squalling.
dr. remnant. Being fifty miles off might not one say: The cry of the new-born?
carnaby. Ill-bred babies squall. There's no poetic glamour in the world will beautify an undesired infant . . George says so.
george. I did say so.
carnaby. I feel the whole matter deeply.
george half laughs.
carnaby. George, after days of irritability, brought to bed of a smile. That's a home thrust of a metaphor.
george laughs again.
carnaby. Twins!
george. Yes, a boy and a girl … I'm the father of a boy and a girl.
carnaby. [In dignified, indignant horror.] No one of you dared tell me that much!
sarah and ann come from the house.
george. You could have asked me for news of your grandchildren.
carnaby. Twins is an insult.
sarah. But you look very cheerful, George.
george. I am content.
sarah. I'm surprised.
george. I am surprised.
sarah. Now what names for them?
carnaby. No family names, please.
george. We'll wait for a dozen years or so and let them choose their own.
dr. remnant. But, sir, christening will demand—
carnaby. Your son should have had my name, sir.
george. I know the rule . . as I have my grandfather's which I take no pride in.
sarah. George!
george. Not to say that it sounds his, not mine.
carnaby. Our hopes of you were high once.
george. Sarah, may I kiss you? [He kisses her cheek.] Let me hear what you decide to do.
carnaby. The begetting you, sir, was a waste of time.
george. [Quite pleasantly.] Don't say that.
At the top of the steps ann is waiting for him.
ann. I'll see you into the saddle.
george.