Candida quotes

Staring at him. Relatives of yours!

Yes: we have the same father⁠—in Heaven.

Relieved. Oh, is that all?

With a sadness which is a luxury to a man whose voice expresses it so finely.

Ah, you don’t believe it. Everybody says it: nobody believes it⁠—nobody.

Briskly, getting back to business. Well, well! Come, Miss Proserpine, can’t you find a date for the costers? What about the 25th?: that was vacant the day before yesterday.

Impatiently, pulling the letter she has been working at off the typewriter and folding it.

Oh, a man ought to be able to be fond of his wife without making a fool of himself about her.

Rising busily and coming to the stationery case to get an envelope, in which she encloses the letter as she speaks. Candida here, and Candida there, and Candida everywhere! She licks the envelope.

He nods at him to enforce the point; then goes to the hearthrug, where he takes up a comfortably commanding position with his back to the fire, and continues.

No: I like a man to be true to himself, even in wickedness.

Come now: either take your hat and go; or else sit down and give me a good scoundrelly reason for wanting to be friends with me. Burgess, whose emotions have subsided sufficiently to be expressed by a dazed grin, is relieved by this concrete proposition.

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.

Do you think that the things people make fools of themselves about are any less real and true than the things they behave sensibly about? Morell’s gaze wavers for the first time. He instinctively averts his face and stands listening, startled and thoughtful.

They are more true: they are the only things that are true.

You are very calm and sensible and moderate with me because you can see that I am a fool about your wife;

Oh, do you think I don’t know all that?

Do you think that the things people make fools of themselves about are any less real and true than the things they behave sensibly about?

Morell’s gaze wavers for the first time. He instinctively averts his face and stands listening, startled and thoughtful. They are more true: they are the only things that are true.

Impetuously.

It’s the gift of the gab, nothing more and nothing less.

What has your knack of fine talking to do with the truth, any more than playing the organ has? I’ve never been in your church; but I’ve been to your political meetings; and I’ve seen you do what’s called rousing the meeting to enthusiasm:

Offering his arm to Candida. Come and lay the table. She takes it and they go to the door together. As they go out he adds:

I am the happiest of men.

So was I—an hour ago.

Offering his arm to Candida. Come and lay the table. She takes it and they go to the door together. As they go out he adds: I am the happiest of men.

So was I⁠—an hour ago.

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—

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.

At his normal pitch, but with deep melancholy. All the love in the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is shy, shy, shy. That is the world’s tragedy.

Almost whispering. It must be asked for: it is like a ghost: it cannot speak unless it is first spoken to. At his normal pitch, but with deep melancholy.

All the love in the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is shy, shy, shy. That is the world’s tragedy.

With a deep sigh he sits in the spare chair and buries his face in his hands.

Hopelessly.

Nothing that’s worth saying is proper.

He rises, and wanders about the room in his lost way, saying: I can’t understand you, Miss Garnett. What am I to talk about?

You needn’t.

I know already that it must.

But mind: if you ever say I said so, I’ll deny it.

To Morell, relieved and laughing. Oh, you’re only shocked! Is that all?

How conventional all you unconventional people are!

Come: be’ave yourself, Candy. What’ll Mr. Morchbanks think of you?

Then come along. She moves her chair back a little to make room. He hesitates; then timidly stretches himself on the hearthrug, face upwards, and throws back his head across her knees, looking up at her.

Oh, I’ve been so miserable all the evening, because I was doing right. Now I’m doing wrong; and I’m happy.

Tenderly amused at him. Yes: I’m sure you feel a great grown up wicked deceiver—quite proud of yourself, aren’t you?

The eager expression vanishing utterly from his lips and nostrils as his eyes light up with pathetic spirituality.

Oh, now I can’t say anything: all the words I know belong to some attitude or other⁠—all except one.

Softly, losing himself in the music of the name. Candida, Candida, Candida, Candida, Candida. I must say that now, because you have put me on my honor and truth; and I never think or feel Mrs. Morell: it is always Candida.

Scrambling up—eagerly. The very, very, very same way.

I have been playing the good man just like you.

When you began your heroics about leaving me here with Candida—

Oh, yes: I’ve got that far.

Heroics are infectious: I caught the disease from you.

I swore not to say a word in your absence that I would not have said a month ago in your presence.

On the sofa hugging his ankles. Oh, she forgave you, just as she forgives me for being a coward, and a weakling, and what you call a snivelling little whelp and all the rest of it. Dreamily.

A woman like that has divine insight: she loves our souls, and not our follies and vanities and illusions, or our collars and coats, or any other of the rags and tatters we are rolled up in.

He reflects on this for an instant; then turns intently to question Morell. What I want to know is how you got past the flaming sword that stopped me.

Meaningly. Perhaps because I was not interrupted at the end of ten minutes.

Man can climb to the highest summits; but he cannot dwell there long.

It’s false: there can he dwell forever and there only. It’s in the other moments that he can find no rest, no sense of the silent glory of life. Where would you have me spend my moments, if not on the summits?

With infinite contempt for this puerility.

Much good your dying would do me!

Candida, my dear: this altercation is hardly quite seemingly. It is a matter between two men; and I am the right person to settle it.

Stubbornly. Yes, I do.

I’m only a beer teetotaller, not a champagne teetotaller.

I don’t like beer. Are there any letters for me to answer, Mr. Morell?

Quite quietly. And you, Eugene? What do you offer?

My weakness! my desolation! my heart’s need!

Impressed. That’s a good bid, Eugene. Now I know how to make my choice.

Significantly.

I give myself to the weaker of the two.

Eugene divines her meaning at once: his face whitens like steel in a furnace that cannot melt it.

Ask the tradesmen who want to worry James and spoil his beautiful sermons who it is that puts them off. When there is money to give, he gives it: when there is money to refuse, I refuse it.

I build a castle of comfort and indulgence and love for him, and stand sentinel always to keep little vulgar cares out.

I make him master here, though he does not know it, and could not tell you a moment ago how it came to be so. With sweet irony.