The Collected Dramas of George Bernard Shaw (Illustrated Edition). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
CHARTERIS. Just so; she couldn’t have made a worse choice. But she won’t listen to reason. I’ve talked to her like a father myself — I assure you, my dear Craven, I’ve said everything that you could have said; but it’s no use: she won’t give me up. And if she won’t listen to me, what likelihood is there of her listening to you?
CRAVEN (in angry bewilderment). Cuthbertson: did you ever hear anything like this?
CUTHBERTSON. Never! Never!
CHARTERIS. Oh, bother? Come, don’t behave like a couple of conventional old fathers: this is a serious affair. Look at these letters (producing a letter and a letter-card.) This (showing the card) is from Grace — by the way, Cuthbertson, I wish you’d ask her not to write on letter-cards: the blue colour makes it so easy for Julia to pick the bits out of my waste paper basket and piece them together. Now listen. “My dear Leonard: Nothing could make it worth my while to be exposed to such scenes as last night’s. You had much better go back to Julia and forget me. Yours sincerely, Grace Tranfield.”
CUTHBERTSON (infuriated). Damnation!
CHARTERIS (turning to Craven and preparing to read the letter). Now for Julia. (The Colonel turns away to hide his face from Charteris, anticipating a shock, and puts his hand on a chair to steady himself.) “My dearest boy. Nothing will make me believe that this odious woman can take my place in your heart. I send some of the letters you wrote me when we first met; and I ask you to read them. They will recall what you felt when you wrote them. You cannot have changed so much as to be indifferent to me: whoever may have struck your fancy for the moment, your heart is still mine” — and so on: you know the sort of thing— “Ever and always your loving Julia.” (The Colonel sinks on the chair and covers his face with his hand.) You don’t suppose she’s serious, do you: that’s the sort of thing she writes me three times a day. (To Cuthbertson) Grace is in earnest though, confound it. (He holds out Grace’s letter.) A blue card as usual! This time I shall not trust the waste paper basket. (He goes to the fire, and throws the letters into it.)
CUTHBERTSON (facing him with folded arms as he comes down again). May I ask, Mr. Charteris, is this the New Humour?
CHARTERIS (still too preoccupied with his own difficulty to have any sense of the effect he is producing on the others). Oh, stuff! Do you suppose it’s a joke to be situated as I am? You’ve got your head so stuffed with the New Humour and the New Woman and the New This, That and the Other, all mixed up with your own old Adam, that you’ve lost your senses.
CUTHBERTSON (strenuously). Do you see that old man, grown grey in the honoured service of his country, whose last days you have blighted?
CHARTERIS (surprised, looking at Craven and realizing his distress with genuine concern). I’m very sorry. Come, Craven; don’t take it to heart. (Craven shakes his head.) I assure you it means nothing: it happens to me constantly.
CUTHBERTSON. There is only one excuse for you. You are not fully responsible for your actions. Like all advanced people, you have got neurasthenia.
CHARTERIS (appalled). Great Heavens! what’s that?
CUTHBERTSON. I decline to explain. You know as well as I do. I am going downstairs now to order lunch. I shall order it for three; but the third place is for Paramore, whom I have invited, not for you. (He goes out through the left hand door.)
CHARTERIS (putting his hand on Craven’s shoulder). Come, Craven; advise me. You’ve been in this sort of fix yourself probably.
CRAVEN. Charteris: no woman writes such letters to a man unless he has made advances to her.
CHARTERIS (mournfully). How little you know the world, Colonel! The New Woman is not like that.
CRAVEN. I can only give you very old fashioned advice, my boy; and that is that it’s well to be off with the Old Woman before you’re on with the New. I’m sorry you told me. You might have waited for my death: it’s not far off now. (His head droops again. Julia and Paramore enter on the right. Julia stops as she catches sight of Charteris, her face clouding and her breast heaving. Paramore, seeing the Colonel apparently ill, hurries down to him with the bedside manner in full play.)
CHARTERIS (seeing Julia). Oh Lord! (He retreats under the lee of the revolving bookstand.)
PARAMORE (sympathetically to the Colonel). Allow me. (Takes his wrist and begins to count his pulse.)
CRAVEN (looking up). Eh? (Withdraws his hand and rises rather crossly.) No, Paramore: it’s not my liver now: it’s private business. (A chase now begins between Julia and Charteris, all the more exciting to them because the huntress and her prey must alike conceal the real object of their movements from the others. Charteris first makes for the right hand door. Julia immediately moves back to it, barring his path. He doubles back round the bookstand, setting it whirling as he makes for the left door, Julia crossing in pursuit of him. He is about to escape when he is cut off by the return of Cuthbertson. He turns back and sees Julia close upon him. There being nothing else for it, he bolts up into the recess to the left of the fireplace.)
CUTHBERTSON. Good morning, Miss Craven. (They shake hands.) Won’t you join us at lunch? Paramore’s coming too.
JULIA. Thanks: I shall be very pleased. (She goes up with affected purposelessness towards the recess. Charteris, almost trapped in it, crosses to the right hand recess by way of the fender, knocking down the fire irons with a crash as he does so.)
CRAVEN (who has crossed to the whirling bookcase and stopped it). What the dickens are you doing there, Charteris?
CHARTERIS. Nothing. It’s such a confounded room to get about in.
JULIA (maliciously). Yes, isn’t it. (She is moving back to guard the right hand door, when Cuthbertson appears at it.)
CUTHBERTSON. May I take you down? (He offers her his arm.)
JULIA. No, really: you know it’s against the rules of the club to coddle women in any way. Whoever is nearest to the door goes first.
CUTHBERTSON. Oh well, if you insist. Come, gentlemen: let us go to lunch in the Ibsen fashion — the unsexed fashion. (He goes out on the left followed by Paramore, laughing. Craven goes last. He turns at the door to see whether Julia is coming, and stops when he sees she is not.)
CRAVEN. Come, Julia.
JULIA (with patronising affection). Yes, Daddy, dear, presently. (Charteris is meanwhile stealing to the right hand door.) Don’t wait for me: I’ll come in a moment. (The Colonel hesitates.) It’s all right, Daddy.
CRAVEN (very gravely). Don’t be long, my dear. (He goes out.)
CHARTERIS. I’m off. (Makes a dash for the right hand door.)
JULIA (darting at him and seizing his wrist). Aren’t you coming?
CHARTERIS. No. Unhand me Julia. (He tries to get away: she holds him.) If you don’t let me go, I’ll scream for help.
JULIA (reproachfully). Leonard! (He breaks away from her.) Oh, how can you be so rough with me, dear. Did you get my letter?
CHARTERIS. Burnt it — (she turns away, struck to the heart, and buries her face in her hands) — along with hers.
JULIA (quickly turning again). Hers! Has she written to you?
CHARTERIS. Yes, to break off with me on your account.
JULIA (her eyes gleaming). Ah!
CHARTERIS. You are pleased. Wretch! Now you have lost the last scrap of my regard. (He turns to go, but is stopped by the return of Sylvia. Julia turns away and stands pretending to read a paper which she picks up from the table.)
SYLVIA (offhandedly). Hallo, Charteris: how are you getting on? (She takes his arm familiarly and walks down the room with him.) Have you seen Grace Tranfield this morning? (Julia drops the paper and comes a step nearer to listen.) You generally know where she is to be found.
CHARTERIS. I shall never know any more, Sylvia. She’s quarrelled with me.
SYLVIA.