Chapter III: Act III

SCENE:—LORD BELVOIR’S _rooms in Half Moon Street, three months later. Morning. Enter_ NOSEGAY _with a large scent-spray with a rubber grip; he works carefully round the room, spraying curtains, carpet, chairs, chesterfield and cushions. The room has two windows in the back wall, facing the audience and looking on to the street; against the right wall is a Bechstein grand with the stool at the far end, so that, sitting at the piano, you have your back to the window wall and look into the room. There are a few gilt upholstered chairs, a chesterfield near the fireplace to the left, several comfortable arm-chairs, a centre table with a few books, a book-case against the wall opposite the fireplace, and on the wall the landscape of Oliver Bath, and several water-colours. After spraying almost every article in the room except the piano_, NOSEGAY _carefully closes the windows. Suddenly a ring is heard, and he goes out, returning in a few moments preceded by the_ HON. RUPERT CLAVELLY, _a fresh-looking young man of about thirty, with a cheerful air._ CLAVELLY _lifts his head as he enters as if secretly apprehensive of some invisible presence. He does this so adroitly that an eye-witness could hardly describe his action as a sniff._

NOSEGAY. I will tell his lordship you are here.

CLAVELLY. Stop a moment, Nosegay. Tell me: does he—is it ... as strong
as ever?

NOSEGAY. I am afraid, sir, it is.

CLAVELLY. Good Lord, how awful! But here, this room ... it seems all
right, except ... someone’s upset a scent-bottle!

NOSEGAY [_going to the mantelpiece and taking the spray which he has
put down there_]. No, sir, it’s this, sir. I use it every morning,
and always after his lordship has been here—Not that it has much
effect then, sir!

CLAVELLY. Good heavens! Is it as bad as that?

NOSEGAY. Yes, sir; it’s very bad, sir.

CLAVELLY [_his natural cheerfulness somewhat damped_]. Well, perhaps
you had better tell Lord Belvoir I’m here.

NOSEGAY. Yes, sir [_he hesitates_]. Perhaps you won’t mind my making a
suggestion, sir, but....

CLAVELLY. Certainly, Nosegay, what is it?

NOSEGAY. Well, you see, sir, this is the first time you have seen his
lordship since....

CLAVELLY. Since the Raub dinner?

NOSEGAY. Yes, sir, and ... it will be a great shock, sir. It might
help you if you smoked. [_Hesitating and in a lower voice._] And
there’s another thing, sir, his face. It’ll startle you, sir!

CLAVELLY. Oh, I see. Right! Thanks very much, Nosegay. [_He takes out
his case and proceeds to light a cigarette._

[NOSEGAY _goes out carrying the scent-spray. After an interval of a
few minutes the door opens, and_ LORD BELVOIR _enters in a dark silk
flowered dressing-gown. The change in the man is extraordinary. At_
SIR SOLOMON’S _dinner he would have passed as a good-looking young
Englishman of about thirty-three, rather dark, with a slightly
uncommon sensitive expression and the eyes of an artist, but very
youthful, almost immature in spite of his age, like many Englishmen
of his class. Now he looks every year of his age and more. There is
a strange, almost mocking, expression on his face, and his eyes seem
extraordinarily alive. His face has gone a bright blue, the colour
of the Popomack. As he enters, closing the door behind him_,
CLAVELLY _gasps, but moves towards him, holding out his hand_.

CLAVELLY. How are you, Reggie?

BELVOIR [_letting his hand drop_]. Smoking, Clavelly?

CLAVELLY [_taken aback and fearfully disconcerted by the popomack
smell that proceeds from_ LORD BELVOIR]. I only ... I didn’t
know ... I’ll throw it away.

[_He is about to throw the cigarette into the fireplace._

BELVOIR. No, no, that’s all right. They all do it. Everyone I see—not
that I see many nowadays [_grimly_]. You’ll find you need it.

CLAVELLY [_finding himself unconsciously retreating from_ BELVOIR
_pulls himself up sharply and comes nearer_]. But, I say, can’t
anything be done?

BELVOIR. Tell me, Clavelly, this is the first time you’ve seen me
since—since the night. Do you find it very strong?

CLAVELLY [_trying to look as if he were giving an opinion on a matter
of no importance_]. Well, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a bit of a
shock at first, but I daresay....

BELVOIR. It’s no use, Clavelly. You should see your face.

CLAVELLY [_with a burst of artificial energy_]. Look here, Reggie,
this is damned unnatural! Surely something can be done?

BELVOIR [_quietly_]. No, nothing. I’ve tried everything, do you hear?
Everything!

CLAVELLY [_helplessly_]. But it’ll wear off. It’s sure to wear off.

BELVOIR [_ironically_]. You really think so?

CLAVELLY [_stubbornly_]. Yes, of course I do; it must.

BELVOIR. So many people have said that. Try and think of something
more original.

CLAVELLY [_desperately_]. Have you tried anything? Have you seen any
specialists?

BELVOIR [_ironically_]. Oh, no, of course not. Why should I? There’s
nothing wrong with me, is there? Have another cigarette? Take one of
these; they’re specially strong. I keep them on purpose.

CLAVELLY. Damn your cigarettes! Why don’t you talk decently to a
fellow?

BELVOIR [_lifting his eyebrows_]. What do you want me to say? That you
are the victim of your imagination? That this is a momentary
illusion? That all will be well to-morrow? Comfortable lies to
soften a quarter of an hour’s unpleasantness! I’ve lied all my life,
but I’ve done with lies now!

CLAVELLY [_obstinately_]. I can’t believe there’s nothing to be done.

BELVOIR. You’ll have to believe it. [_with a change of tone_] Not that
it really matters. For my part, I see no reason why _anything_
should be done.

CLAVELLY [_sullenly_]. I don’t understand you.

BELVOIR. I am not conscious of this unpleasantness which apparently
afflicts my friends in my presence. To myself, I am a healthy,
normal person. Why should I fill the rôle they invent for me, and be
the catspaw of their diseased imaginations?

CLAVELLY. Do you mean to say you don’t believe there is anything the
matter with you?

BELVOIR [_frigidly_]. I must ask you to be more careful in your
language. The fact that we have known each other for some time does
not give you the right to make insulting remarks before my face.

CLAVELLY [_heatedly_]. Well, if that’s the way you are going to take
it....

BELVOIR [_coldly_]. Do you suppose there is any other way of taking
it? Shall I call you a fool, and wait for you to argue mildly that
you don’t believe it? Or shall I say that you stink like a skunk?

CLAVELLY. [_Appalled_]. But.... [_He stammers incoherently._

BELVOIR. There are no doubt people who accept their character as their
friends see it, and live the life their friends expect them to live.
People who have no existence except in the minds of others and who
seek to know what others think of them in order that they may live
at all. I am not one of those people.

CLAVELLY. But there is no getting away from facts.

BELVOIR. What are the facts? My presence, let us say, arouses a
particularly unpleasant sensation in you. Am I to pretend that I
share that sensation when I do not? Am I to regulate my life on the
assumption that my presence is an offence to you and a few others
who, I must say, seem to me in no way indispensable to my existence?

CLAVELLY. Well, you cannot ignore their feelings.

BELVOIR. If I cannot share them, or if they deprive me of my
self-respect, I _must_ ignore them.

CLAVELLY. Look here, you know this is all nonsense! Why not be
sensible and let me help you? It must be possible to do something?

BELVOIR [_deliberately_]. Clavelly, I have had three months of being
sensible and allowing my friends to help me, and what have they
done? They have turned me into a perfectly useless, helpless object
on which to exercise their emotions. I might as well be paralysed in
mind and brain, and have lost control of every limb as lead the life
I have led since last November. I have become a mere phenomenon to
be dragged from one specialist to another, to be exhibited carefully
to a few select friends, to be taken out to lunch or dinner
occasionally with as much preparation and stage-management as would
shift an army corps. I have watched my friends actually blooming in
health through their activity in exploiting the emotional and
theatrical possibilities of _me_. Yes, I have become a mere
puppet—an interesting puppet, a puppet that eats and walks and
sleeps, but which exists solely for the amusement of those who pull
its strings, and has no life of its own to interfere with theirs.
Presently they will get tired of me, and I shall be handed on to
others. There always will be others, always an inexhaustible supply
of fresh people to whom I shall be a novelty and a curiosity. But I
have had enough of it: I am going to live my own life.

[_During the conversation_ CLAVELLY _smokes hard, and edges
involuntarily away from_ BELVOIR _whenever he comes near. Now when
he thinks that_ BELVOIR _is not looking, he takes one of the special
cigarettes_ BELVOIR _pointed out to him_.

CLAVELLY [_comfortably handing him the cigarette box_]. Well, I don’t
see what you are going to do. What about Muriel?

BELVOIR [_hotly_]. What has Muriel got to do with you!

CLAVELLY [_flushing_]. Nothing ... I only wondered how she was taking
it. [_lamely_] I haven’t seen her for some time—you know I’ve been
away.

BELVOIR. Pity you ever came back. I should have thought Africa was
just the place for you.

CLAVELLY. Now my dear old chap you’re not going to ruffle me. I take
it that your engagement is not yet broken off.

BELVOIR. What did you come here for? Have you no better way of
spending your time?

CLAVELLY. Look here, isn’t there anything I can do for you?

BELVOIR [_with a deliberate sneer_]. How much longer do you think you
can stand it?

CLAVELLY [_flushing_]. I didn’t come here to be insulted by an old
friend.

BELVOIR. Are you sure?

CLAVELLY [_nettled_]. Well, if you are determined to act in this
manner there is nothing for me but to go.

BELVOIR. Your limited intelligence is working at last.

[CLAVELLY, _furious, seizes his hat and stick and leaves the room
without another word._ BELVOIR _paces about the room for a few
minutes and then, standing near the curtains, suddenly sniffs the
air. He frowns violently and rings the bell._

_Enter_ NOSEGAY.

BELVOIR. What is this smell of scent?

NOSEGAY [_blandly_]. What scent, my lord?

BELVOIR. Damn you! Don’t quibble with me! The place reeks of scent.
Who brought it?

[NOSEGAY _does not reply_. BELVOIR _stares at him furiously as if
about to strike him, and then with a tremendous effort controls
himself, and walks away_.

NOSEGAY. You have never objected to it before, my lord, and I have
been doing it for the last month.

[BELVOIR _is facing the window with his back to_ NOSEGAY; _after a
few seconds he turns_.

BELVOIR. Nosegay, I want to talk to you. I have no fault to find with
you, but if you are to stay with me, we must understand each other.
It is possible that you would like to find another situation
[NOSEGAY _shakes his head_]. Wait a moment! If you do—and in the
circumstances it would be only natural, and I should in no way
resent it—I shall make it my business to find you a situation in
every way as good as your place with me before ... before the event
of three months ago.

NOSEGAY [_after a slight pause, simply_]. I have no wish to leave you,
my lord.

BELVOIR. Thank you, Nosegay. And I should feel parting with you
deeply. But we must not let any feeling of ... friendship blind us
into imagining that it will bear the strain of our ordinary daily
life. The situation must be a possible one without any feeling
entering into it on one side or the other. Do you understand me?

NOSEGAY. Perfectly, my lord.

BELVOIR. Good! [_pauses, then resolutely._] Now, do you think you can
put up with and totally ignore this ... this affliction of mine
indefinitely? Don’t you feel that it will become too much for you?

NOSEGAY. May I ask, my lord, is it ... permanent?

BELVOIR. Yes. At all events, I am going to act henceforth as if it
were. I am going to seek no cure. I am going to put it completely
out of my mind and out of my life. It does not exist for me. It must
not exist for you. But is that possible?

NOSEGAY. Will you permit me to ask a personal question, my lord? I
have often wondered, but do you not notice it at all yourself?

BELVOIR. Absolutely not at all! Now can you live with me, and put it
completely out of your mind?

NOSEGAY [_slowly_]. Yes, my lord, I think I can. I never had a very
keen sense of....

BELVOIR [_smiling_]. No! Or you couldn’t have sprayed the room with
that filthy scent. Well, no more of that sort of thing, mind! And
now we’ll consider it settled [_the bell rings_]. See who it is.

[_Exit_ NOSEGAY _and re-enters after a second_.

NOSEGAY. Sir Philo Phaoron, my lord.

BELVOIR. Show him up. [_Exit_ NOSEGAY.

[_A noise as of a man dragging upstairs heavily is heard, then a
curiously muffled voice shouting_, Mind those pipes, Nosegay! This
way! Be careful now! _Suddenly the door flies open and_ SIR PHILO
PHAORON _enters clothed from head to foot in a complete
diving-dress, followed by_ NOSEGAY _carrying the long air pipes and
communicating line. Waving one hand to_ BELVOIR, _he has a speaking
trumpet in the other with which he signals to_ NOSEGAY _to deposit
the tubes on the floor_.

[_Exit_ NOSEGAY _closing the door_.

Whatever’s the meaning of this, Phaoron?

[SIR PHILO _lumbers heavily across to the window and opens it.
Putting his trumpet to his helmet he shouts_ More air! Pump harder,
you devils! I’m suffocating! _Then he closes it, turns and waves
both hands to_ BELVOIR, _and shouts through his speaking trumpet_.

SIR PHILO. Help me open this!

[BELVOIR _unscrews a nut as he is directed and then the front of the
helmet swings open, revealing the beaming face of_ SIR PHILO
_covered with perspiration_.] Phew! it’s hot in this rig-out. What a
relief to find no one here! Well, my boy, how are you? Isn’t this a
magnificent idea? [_Pointing to his diving-suit._ LORD BELVOIR
_continues to stare at him in amazement_.] I only thought of it the
other day. Now I can go anywhere. It’s absolutely air-proof.

BELVOIR. Do you mean to say that you’ve been about in that get-up?

SIR PHILO. Certainly! and what is more, my boy, it’s been an immense
success. Three nights ago I tried it for the first time at the Royal
Geographical Society’s dinner. I had been fearfully upset at the
thought of missing it. You know life hasn’t really been worth living
these last three months, and the idea that I should never go there
again just about put the finishing touch on. I was sitting at home—I
hadn’t been out for a couple of weeks—reading some rotten book, _The
Memoirs of a New Guinea Magistrate_ it was, and the fellow was
describing the diving in the pearl fisheries there when the idea
suddenly came to me. I jumped up, went to the telephone, ordered the
whole rig-out, and hired two seamen and a pumping engine—Do you hear
it? It’s outside—and tried it. It was perfect. Now my man dresses me
in the morning, and when the fellows arrive they put the engine in
the car, and I can go anywhere.

BELVOIR. Good God! And how did you get on at the dinner?

SIR PHILO. Of course, I couldn’t eat anything, but my reception was
tremendous. There was a fellow there who had just come back from
climbing Mount Everest, but he was an absolute frost. No one took
the slightest notice of him. At dinner I made a speech—with this
trumpet and a special metal diaphragm in the helmet I can speak
perfectly—I rose in a perfect storm of cheers. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said,
‘you see before you one who has suffered a severe blow at the hands
of Fate—a calamity such as has hitherto befallen no living man’ (Of
course we don’t know about those Chinese fellows who have eaten it.
Probably they smelt so much already that they never noticed it.)
‘But nothing, gentlemen, can daunt the spirit of a member of the
Royal Geographical Society.’ At this they positively yelled at me.
Earl Brasston—you know old Copper-eye—slapped me on the back; he was
nearly delirious, poor fellow, and drank my health, but they pulled
him down, and shouted ‘Go on! go on!’ So I went on—I went on for
nearly an hour. Upon my soul, I couldn’t have believed I was capable
of such eloquence. And the scene afterwards was terrific. They sent
down drinks to my seamen, and I was in a panic lest they should get
drunk and forget to pump, but all went well. And do you know, I’m
simply loaded with invitations. And I’ve got to spend next week-end
at Brasston, the old boy absolutely insisted. I say! I forgot to
tell those fellows to stop pumping! [_He rushes to the window, opens
it and shouts._] Stop pumping there, until I let you know!

BELVOIR. Well, I suppose you feel the problem’s solved?

SIR PHILO [_ever so slightly damped_]. Well, it’s a solution, isn’t
it?

BELVOIR. And what about the enquiries Professor Hermann was making?

SIR PHILO. About that antidote? I heard from him; he has found
nothing; but [_cheerfully_] I am not going to bother about that now.

BELVOIR. Do you propose to go about for the rest of your days like
this?

SIR PHILO. Why not? As a matter of fact, I rather enjoy it. After all,
dress is a mere matter of convention. It’s only a question of
getting used to it. Everybody I’ve seen so far has been thrilled by
my appearance.

BELVOIR. And how long do you think that’s going to last?

SIR PHILO. Oh! I don’t know, and in any case there’ll always be fresh
worlds to conquer—‘To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.’ Just
imagine my first appearance in Paris at the Institut Français. Old
Flammarion would think me a new star.

BELVOIR [_sighing_]. Ah, well! I suppose it’s possible.

SIR PHILO. Possible, of course it’s possible! It’s rather different
for you, I admit. My life outside this apparatus is over. I can
retire to my shell, and the little society I need I can now get by
taking my shell along with me. In fact, I need never come out of it.
All that exists of me to-day at my age is a voice, still issuing
from this decaying body whose increasing foulness I henceforth
disguise for ever. Only my spirit shall move among men, like a sound
issuing out of the tomb.

BELVOIR [_thoughtfully_]. Do you know, I believe you are right.

SIR PHILO. I’m sure of it. I consider myself most fortunate. I am like
a man in the Arabian Nights to whom in a dream some marvellous
transformation has happened, but I am awake, and it is still true. I
wouldn’t go back now to the days before I ate the popomack for
anything. That reminds me, have there been any answers to our
advertisement in the _Times_?

BELVOIR. Not yet, but of course it is still appearing.

SIR PHILO. Did you arrange for it to appear at the same time in the
Shanghai and Pekin papers?

BELVOIR. Yes, but I’m not very hopeful.

[_The bell rings and presently_ NOSEGAY _enters_.

NOSEGAY. Sir Solomon Raub. [_Exit_ NOSEGAY.

[_Enter_ SIR SOLOMON, _in top hat, morning coat, white spats,
looking as glossy and confident as ever, but with, for the curious
observer, a slight uneasiness beneath his outward smooth manner. In
his ears and nostrils are wads of cotton wool._

SIR SOLOMON. How d’ye do, Belvoir?

[_He suddenly sees_ SIR PHILO.

SIR PHILO [_beaming_]. ’Morning, Sir Solomon. [_He slaps him on the
back, and one of the cotton-wool wads drops out._] What’s this?
[_Picking it up._

SIR SOLOMON [_slightly ruffled, snatching it and putting it in his
nose again, pointing to_ SIR PHILO’S _diving-suit_]. And what may I
ask is this?

SIR PHILO. This is my new way of dressing, Sir Solomon. In future you
will always see me arrayed, not as the inferior mass of mankind, but
as one who has eaten the popomack.

SIR SOLOMON [_glaring at him_]. I’m glad you think it a subject for
tomfoolery. Four days ago you told me you couldn’t stand it any
longer, and threatened to commit suicide. My health’s getting ruined
for want of sleep. I’ve not slept for weeks. I’m worn out rushing
from place to place seeing people, to try to discover some means of
getting rid of this awful thing, and here you stand and joke about
it!

SIR PHILO [_cheerfully_]. Have you seen the _Times_ this morning?

SIR SOLOMON. No, I haven’t. I’ve just glanced at it!

SIR PHILO. Well, you evidently did not read the account of the Royal
Geographical Society’s dinner. I was the hero of it. The man from
the Himalayas was nowhere.

SIR SOLOMON. You! At the dinner!

SIR PHILO. Yes.

SIR SOLOMON. How? Whatever do you mean?

SIR PHILO. I in my new popomack equipment. Didn’t you notice the two
sailors and the vacuum cleaner outside the house as you came in?

SIR SOLOMON. Yes. I saw some sort of machine in a car. [_Shortly._

SIR PHILO [_triumphantly_]. Well, it’s mine, but it’s not a vacuum
cleaner, it’s a diving pump for my diving-dress. I was just going
when you came. I’ll be off now and give you a demonstration. [_He
goes and opens the window._] Hallo! Start pumping there! [_He closes
the window._] [_To_ BELVOIR]. Help me to screw this on [_With the
help of_ BELVOIR _he screws on the face of the diving helmet, then
lifts his speaking trumpet to his face_.] Call Nosegay to help me
down. [BELVOIR _rings_.

[NOSEGAY _enters and takes up his air pipes_.

Carefully, Nosegay! Good-bye, my boy. Au revoir, Sir Solomon. Don’t
forget to read that article in the _Times_ [_at the door to_
BELVOIR]. Let me know if you get any answer to the advertisement.
[_Exit with_ NOSEGAY.

[SIR SOLOMON _and_ BELVOIR _sit down gloomily and listen to the car
driving away. The noise fades. Silence._

SIR SOLOMON. I always thought that man was a buffoon.

BELVOIR. Perhaps, but he has solved the problem.

SIR SOLOMON. You don’t mean to say you think you can carry on like
that?

BELVOIR. No, he has only solved his own problem. It remains for me to
solve mine.

SIR SOLOMON. Did he tell you what Hermann says?

BELVOIR. He told me they had no hope of being able to do anything.

SIR SOLOMON. And I’ve heard the same from the Oriental School of
Medicine in Paris.

BELVOIR. Well? I’m not going to trouble about anything of that sort in
the future.

SIR SOLOMON [_alarmed_]. What do you mean?

BELVOIR [_as if thinking to himself_]. It has nothing to do with my
life. To bother oneself with it at all is a mere concession to other
people’s feelings—like wearing a top hat at a wedding.

SIR SOLOMON [_somewhat relieved_]. Well, how many weddings would you
be asked to if you made a habit of appearing in flannels, or—to use
a much nearer analogy—naked.

BELVOIR. More than you think, perhaps; but I don’t grant your analogy.

SIR SOLOMON. The difference is very slight, I assure you. You find it
difficult to realize now. You probably forget at times that there is
anything the matter with you at all since you yourself cannot notice
it [BELVOIR _winces_]. But can’t you remember, can’t you recall what
it was like when I cut it—before you ate it?

BELVOIR. Well, it can’t be so unendurable when you’ve been sitting
here for some time ... and there’s Nosegay.

SIR SOLOMON [_pointing to his nosepad_]. This is a very inadequate
protection, I assure you, but nevertheless without it I could not
stay here much longer. Even so, I suffer extreme discomfort.

BELVOIR [_rising_]. I’ve no wish to inconvenience you.

SIR SOLOMON. Please sit down. Any formality of that sort is out of
place between us.

BELVOIR [_bitterly_]. Yes, you think I have lost even the right to a
conventional courtesy.

SIR SOLOMON. Well, it’s no use living in a fool’s paradise. If I have
to come into a man’s presence padded like this he cannot be
squeamish about trifles.

BELVOIR [_hostile_]. I am not aware that I asked you to come.

SIR SOLOMON. What do you mean? Come, don’t be foolish. I only want to
help you.

BELVOIR. And I am not aware of having asked for your help.

SIR SOLOMON [_with a glance at him_]. I fully understand what you must
be feeling. Believe me, I have the deepest sympathy for you;
especially, as you must realize, when I am in some sort the cause of
your misfortune.

BELVOIR [_violently_]. Misfortune? What misfortune?

SIR SOLOMON [_a little uneasy_]. Well, well, we won’t quarrel over a
word. [_Soothingly._] I have another matter to talk to you about.

BELVOIR [_coldly_]. Indeed! What is it?

[SIR SOLOMON _looks nettled for a moment, then continues smoothly_].
It’s about Muriel. You, of course, realize that in the circumstances
a continuance of your engagement is impossible.

BELVOIR. Impossible! Why?

SIR SOLOMON [_beginning to get ruffled_]. Surely you don’t need me to
tell you why! Be reasonable!

BELVOIR. Reasonable? Why should I be reasonable?

SIR SOLOMON [_is about to retort, but checks himself, then speaks_].
Lord Belvoir, I don’t know why you are adopting this curious
attitude, but I am sure you would not wish to take advantage of
Muriel’s reluctance to break off an engagement which she cannot
possibly desire to continue, but which in the circumstances her
natural sensitiveness may prevent her repudiating.

BELVOIR. You say she wishes to be released from our engagement.

SIR SOLOMON [_evasively but with an assumed vigour_]. Naturally, she
must do so.

BELVOIR [_politely_]. You must forgive me if I fail to see the
necessity or to accept the implication.

SIR SOLOMON [_angrily_]. That’s nonsense! You must see that she can’t
possibly marry you.

BELVOIR. I am sorry not to share your low opinion of me, but I don’t.
I, on the contrary, think very highly of you. I think your manners
are charming.

SIR SOLOMON [_exasperated_]. Don’t waste your irony on me! You refuse
to release her. Very well! It is not of any consequence, but I must
say I’m surprised, I expected you to act like a gentleman.

BELVOIR [_with cold irony_]. I! A gentleman! Do you come into a
gentleman’s presence disinfected like that?

SIR SOLOMON [_shrugging his shoulders_]. I’ve already said that you
have my deepest sympathy.

[_Rising from his seat._

BELVOIR [_controlling himself with an effort_]. Sympathy! Do you think
that if you were not Muriel’s father I should tolerate these
insults? I accept you such as you are; I make no reference to your
defects, personal or moral, but do you therefore think yourself
perfect? My God! I have at least as much difficulty in stomaching
you as you have me! _You_ have my deepest sympathy!

SIR SOLOMON. Thank you, but you see, unlike you, I do not need it. I
at least do not fill my daughter with repulsion.

BELVOIR [_startled_]. Repulsion!

SIR SOLOMON [_mockingly_]. Does that surprise you? Why have you never
been to our house during the last three months? You simply did not
dare to meet her?

BELVOIR. While there was hope I wished to spare her unnecessary
annoyance.

SIR SOLOMON. Annoyance! Three months’ absence to spare a woman a
little annoyance! Well, let that pass, but now? Dare you see her
now?

BELVOIR [_after a slight pause_]. Yes.

SIR SOLOMON [_seeming surprised for a moment, then he laughs_]. I’ve
always said few men have the pluck to face the truth about
themselves.... You’ll have a rude awakening!

BELVOIR. Perhaps, but in that case I shall feel I have had a fortunate
escape.

SIR SOLOMON [_sneering_]. You do value yourself highly. What
attraction do you think you can possibly have for a woman?

BELVOIR. Am I so different a person to-day from the man I was three
months ago?

SIR SOLOMON. You are only physically abhorrent! But perhaps you
believe in the marriage of souls?

BELVOIR [_with a slight shudder_]. I believe that I do not exist
merely as a smell.

SIR SOLOMON. That is true, though there is very little a woman gets
from a man except through her senses. If there were no other man in
the world, no doubt any woman would accept you. But have you
something that no other man has got? [_He bursts out into
laughter._] Ha! Ha! Ha! Of course you have! Ha! Ha! Ha! [BELVOIR
_waits without stirring_. SIR SOLOMON _suddenly stops laughing. He
continues deliberately_] Have you anything else that no other man
has got which a woman can share, can appreciate and enjoy, which
will make it worth her while to endure such a sacrifice as marrying
you entails?

BELVOIR [_gloomily_]. That is what I have got to find out.

SIR SOLOMON. Yes, and when in your presumption you have told yourself
you possess it, you have got to find that _she_ desires it. Humph!
like most men you are a fool where women are concerned! I tell you
that in twelve months my daughter will be engaged to someone else.
In twenty-four months she will be married to someone else. In three
years she will have children by someone else, and the difference
between those children and the children she would have had by you
will not matter to her, or to the universe.

BELVOIR. It may be so, but I don’t believe it.

SIR SOLOMON. Do you think that if you were blotted out to-morrow it
would make any difference to the future? Do you imagine the world
would cease to go on, or that it would be the poorer without you?
Every hen clucks when it has laid its egg, thinking it the only egg
in the universe. Even supposing you are unique, that there is no one
living exactly like you, and—which is quite another point—that your
singularity is of value, do you really believe that Life which has
produced you once cannot produce you again?

BELVOIR. That is what I believe, what I must believe.

SIR SOLOMON. Millions of worms crawling in the Palaeozoic mud
struggled like you, each one for its existence, as if the future
depended upon it. But did any one worm matter? Did they matter even
in their millions? Poor blind existences, they could not conceive a
world without worms, as you perhaps cannot conceive a world without
men, but I tell you that men _and_ worms are like the foam on the
waves of the sea, mere fleeting gestures of the wind signifying
nothing.

BELVOIR. I do not believe it. The breath of life is not without but
within. You yourself do not believe it or why should you care who
marries your daughter?

SIR SOLOMON. I don’t. Do you think I believe she matters, or that
whomever she married I should not despise, as I despise all men,
lusting after women because they can’t help it, and slaving to
satisfy their lusts? It is all loathsome, but I can at least cloak
its loathsomeness in delighting my senses. I can feast my eyes on
the beauty of the bride and the male vigour of the bridegroom, and
in imagination enjoy their nuptial delight, drowning my disgust in
champagne; but I will not tolerate [_with an expression of disgust_]
an offence in my nostrils, as I would not keep a stinking weed in my
garden among my roses.

BELVOIR [_pale_]. Are you sure that you may not fill your daughter
with repulsion?

SIR SOLOMON [_going to the door_]. You do not know women, and Muriel
is not my daughter for nothing. If she never meets you again she may
pity you, and even remember you with what fools call affection, but
if she met you, you could inspire her only with disgust.

[_Exit_ SIR SOLOMON.

[BELVOIR _turns and stares into the empty fireplace. Presently_
NOSEGAY _enters with a note which he presents to_ BELVOIR.

NOSEGAY. Miss Raub is downstairs, my lord, and asked me to give you
this note.

BELVOIR [_opening it_]. Is she alone?

NOSEGAY. Yes, my lord.

BELVOIR [_hesitates and walks about the room_]. Ask her to come up.
[_Exit_ NOSEGAY. _He returns in a moment and opens the door._

NOSEGAY. Miss Raub. [_Exit_ NOSEGAY.

[MURIEL _is charmingly dressed as usual. At the doorway she falters,
turns visibly pale, then walks into the room._

MURIEL. I had to come. Why have you never been to see me?

BELVOIR [_he does not attempt to approach her, but moves farther away
towards the piano_]. Your father has just been here.

MURIEL [_involuntarily_]. What a narrow escape!

BELVOIR. Ah! You realize that!

MURIEL [_nervously_]. Why was he here—any news—anything special?

BELVOIR. If you mean, did he bring any good news, No!

MURIEL. Any bad?

BELVOIR. Not really. Tell me, Muriel, have you ever shared these
fatuous expectations of my being cured of this—?

MURIEL. Why fatuous? [_hesitatingly_]. I have always hoped....

BELVOIR. Well, there is no hope. Do you understand? Absolutely no
hope!

MURIEL [_desperately_]. I don’t believe it! I can’t believe it!

BELVOIR. Professor Hermann says so. Your father has heard the same
thing from Paris. You see, it is something quite out of the
ordinary, and in a way natural. To alter it now is like trying to
change the colour of one’s eyes.

MURIEL [_faltering_]. It’s incredible!

BELVOIR. I have made up my mind. I am not going to waste my life going
from specialist to specialist and running after every new quack, who
thinks he can cure me of a disability of which I am not conscious,
which in no way affects my mental or physical vigour, and which is
really as irrelevant to my true personality as a wooden leg. If I am
not to become like one of these unhappy victims of imaginary
diseases who exist only as a subject for medical experiment and
discussion, I must abolish from my mind the very existence of this
affliction. This would be quite easy for me to do if I could live
absolutely alone, but as that is impossible, the only alternative is
for my friends also to be completely oblivious of it, to put it
completely out of their minds for ever. Those who cannot do this I
shall not number among my friends, and I will take care to show them
that they are not wanted. [_He pauses_, MURIEL _does not speak.
Anxiously_] Muriel, you are silent! What are you thinking?

MURIEL [_softly_]. You are asking a great deal from them. You, of
course, do not realize how much.

BELVOIR. Muriel! Is it so very much? To ignore a mere sensation, an
ugly sensation, if you will, but do they never put up with ugliness
in the world about them? Are they so sensitive that they cannot
tolerate a slight physical discomfort for the sake of— [_He
hesitates._

MURIEL [_gently_]. For the sake of what?

BELVOIR [_stares in front of him: he does not dare to look at her_]. I
have not always wholly liked the people I have known intimately.
There have been things about them, personal things, sometimes
physical, sometimes neither physical nor mental, but far deeper,
which have aroused in me profound distaste. I have even felt about
some that they were evil, a feeling far worse than any that can be
caused by a mere physical deformity, yet I have never turned my back
on them without a consciousness of loss.

MURIEL [_with a slight shudder_]. How one longs to be brave!

BELVOIR [_he does not look at her_]. Muriel!

MURIEL [_as if in a dream_]. I do not understand these things. One
does them, or one doesn’t do them, and one never knows what one is
going to do. I am afraid of myself. What am I going to do? [_She
walks slowly towards_ BELVOIR, _who stands absolutely motionless,
and puts her arms around him_.] Reg—! [_She faints._

[BELVOIR _places her gently on the chesterfield and rings the bell_.
[NOSEGAY _enters_.

BELVOIR. Miss Raub has fainted. Call the housekeeper, and bring some
brandy.

CURTAIN