Candida

The best view of Victoria Park is from the front window of St. Dominic’s Parsonage, from which not a single chimney is visible. The parsonage is a semidetached villa with a front garden and a porch. Visitors go up the flight of steps to the porch: tradespeople and members of the family go down by a door under the steps to the basement, with a breakfast room, used for all meals, in front, and the kitchen at the back. Upstairs, on the level of the hall door, is the drawing-room, with its large plate glass window looking on the park. In this room, the only sitting-room that can be spared from the children and the family meals, the parson, the Reverend James Mavor Morell does his work. He is sitting in a strong round-backed revolving chair at the right-hand end of a long table, which stands across the window, so that he can cheer himself with the view of the park at his elbow. At the opposite end of the table, adjoining it, is a little table only half the width of the other, with a typewriter on it. His typist is sitting at this machine, with her back to the window. The large table is littered with pamphlets, journals, letters, nests of drawers, an office diary, postage scales and the like. A spare chair for visitors having business with the parson is in the middle, turned to his end. Within reach of his hand is a stationery case, and a cabinet photograph in a frame.

Morell

Looking up at him thoughtfully. Look here, Burgess. Do you want to be as welcome here as you were before you lost that contract?

Burgess

I do, James. I do⁠—honest.

Morell

Then why don’t you behave as you did then?

Burgess

Cautiously removing his hand. ’Ow d’y’mean?

Morell

I’ll tell you. You thought me a young fool then.

Burgess

Coaxingly. No, I didn’t, James. I⁠—

Morell

Cutting him short. Yes, you did. And I thought you an old scoundrel.

Burgess

Most vehemently deprecating this gross self-accusation on Morell’s part. No, you didn’t, James. Now you do yourself a hinjustice.

Morell

Yes, I did. Well, that did not prevent our getting on very well together. God made you what I call a scoundrel as he made me what you call a fool. The effect of this observation on Burgess is to remove the keystone of his moral arch. He becomes bodily weak, and, with his eyes fixed on Morell in a helpless stare, puts out his hand apprehensively to balance himself, as if the floor had suddenly sloped under him. Morell proceeds in the same tone of quiet conviction: It was not for me to quarrel with his handiwork in the one case more than in the other. So long as you come here honestly as a self-respecting, thorough, convinced scoundrel, justifying your scoundrelism, and proud of it, you are welcome.

I’m very fond of you, my boy, and I should like you to see for yourself what a happy thing it is to be married as I am.

Marchbanks

Happy!⁠—your marriage! You think that! You believe that!

Morell

Buoyantly. I know it, my lad. La Rochefoucauld said that there are convenient marriages, but no delightful ones. You don’t know the comfort of seeing through and through a thundering liar and rotten cynic like that fellow. Ha, ha! Now off with you to the park, and write your poem. Half past one, sharp, mind: we never wait for anybody.

Marchbanks

Wildly. No: stop: you shan’t. I’ll force it into the light.

Morell

Puzzled. Eh? Force what?

Marchbanks

I must speak to you. There is something that must be settled between us.

Morell

With a whimsical glance at the clock. Now?

Marchbanks

Passionately. Now. Before you leave this room. He retreats a few steps, and stands as if to bar Morell’s way to the door.

Morell

Without moving, and gravely, perceiving now that there is something serious the matter. I’m not going to leave it, my dear boy: I thought you were. Eugene, baffled by his firm tone, turns his back on him, writhing with anger. Morell goes to him and puts his hand on his shoulder strongly and kindly, disregarding his attempt to shake it off. Come: sit down quietly; and tell me what it is. And remember; we are friends, and need not fear that either of us will be anything but patient and kind to the other, whatever we may have to say.

Marchbanks

Marchbanks

Simply. Really! Oh, then you are shy, like me. Isn’t that so?

Proserpine

Certainly I am not shy. What do you mean?

Marchbanks

Secretly. You must be: that is the reason there are so few love affairs in the world. We all go about longing for love: it is the first need of our natures, the loudest cry of our hearts; but we dare not utter our longing: we are too shy. Very earnestly. Oh, Miss Garnett, what would you not give to be without fear, without shame⁠—

Proserpine

Scandalized. Well, upon my word!

Marchbanks

With petulant impatience. Ah, don’t say those stupid things to me: they don’t deceive me: what use are they? Why are you afraid to be your real self with me? I am just like you.

Proserpine

Like me! Pray, are you flattering me or flattering yourself? I don’t feel quite sure which. She turns to go back to the typewriter.

Marchbanks

Stopping her mysteriously. Hush! I go about in search of love; and I find it in unmeasured stores in the bosoms of others. But when I try to ask for it, this horrible shyness strangles me; and I stand dumb, or worse than dumb, saying meaningless things⁠—foolish lies. And I see the affection I am longing for given to dogs and cats and pet birds, because they come and ask for it. Almost whispering. It must be asked for: it is like a ghost: it cannot speak unless it is first spoken to.

But suppose he learns it from a bad woman, as so many men do, especially poetic men, who imagine all women are angels! Suppose he only discovers the value of love when he has thrown it away and degraded himself in his ignorance. Will he forgive me then, do you think?

Morell

Forgive you for what?

Candida

Realizing how stupid he is, and a little disappointed, though quite tenderly so. Don’t you understand? He shakes his head. She turns to him again, so as to explain with the fondest intimacy. I mean, will he forgive me for not teaching him myself? For abandoning him to the bad women for the sake of my goodness⁠—my purity, as you call it? Ah, James, how little you understand me, to talk of your confidence in my goodness and purity! I would give them both to poor Eugene as willingly as I would give my shawl to a beggar dying of cold, if there were nothing else to restrain me. Put your trust in my love for you, James, for if that went, I should care very little for your sermons⁠—mere phrases that you cheat yourself and others with every day. She is about to rise.

Morell

His words!

Candida

Checking herself quickly in the act of getting up, so that she is on her knees, but upright. Whose words?

Morell

Eugene’s.

Candida