The Essential Plays of George Bernard Shaw (Illustrated Edition). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ though no genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago.

      The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak.

      JUDITH (running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last! (She attempts to embrace him.)

      ANDERSON (keeping her off). Take care, my love: I’m wet. Wait till I get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith.) Now! (She flies into his arms.) I am not late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast.

      JUDITH. I’m sure it’s slow this evening. I’m so glad you’re back.

      ANDERSON (taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious, my dear?

      JUDITH. A little.

      ANDERSON. Why, you’ve been crying.

      JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind: it’s all over now. (A bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats to the long seat, listening.) What’s that?

      ANDERSON (following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down with him). Only King George, my dear. He’s returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. Soldiers don’t ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole town.

      JUDITH. Do you think there is really any danger?

      ANDERSON. Not the least in the world.

      JUDITH. You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it.

      ANDERSON. My dear: in this world there is always danger for those who are afraid of it. There’s a danger that the house will catch fire in the night; but we shan’t sleep any the less soundly for that.

      JUDITH. Yes, I know what you always say; and you’re quite right. Oh, quite right: I know it. But — I suppose I’m not brave: that’s all. My heart shrinks every time I think of the soldiers.

      ANDERSON. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for costing a little pain.

      JUDITH. Yes, I suppose so. (Embracing him again.) Oh how brave you are, my dear! (With tears in her eyes.) Well, I’ll be brave too: you shan’t be ashamed of your wife.

      ANDERSON. That’s right. Now you make me happy. Well, well! (He rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes.) I called on Richard Dudgeon on my way back; but he wasn’t in.

      JUDITH (rising in consternation). You called on that man!

      ANDERSON (reassuring her). Oh, nothing happened, dearie. He was out.

      JUDITH (almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation to her). But why did you go there?

      ANDERSON (gravely). Well, it is all the talk that Major Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown — make an example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. He pounced on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there; and it is the general belief that he will pounce on Richard as the worst here.

      JUDITH. But Richard said —

      ANDERSON (goodhumoredly cutting her short). Pooh! Richard said! He said what he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my dear. He said what perhaps (God forgive him!) he would like to believe. It’s a terrible thing to think of what death must mean for a man like that. I felt that I must warn him. I left a message for him.

      JUDITH (querulously). What message?

      ANDERSON. Only that I should be glad to see him for a moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if he would look in here when he was passing he would be welcome.

      JUDITH (aghast). You asked that man to come here!

      ANDERSON. I did.

      JUDITH (sinking on the seat and clasping her hands). I hope he won’t come! Oh, I pray that he may not come!

      ANDERSON. Why? Don’t you want him to be warned?

      JUDITH. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it wrong to hate a blasphemer and a villain? I do hate him! I can’t get him out of my mind: I know he will bring harm with him. He insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted his mother.

      ANDERSON (quaintly). Well, dear, let’s forgive him; and then it won’t matter.

      JUDITH. Oh, I know it’s wrong to hate anybody; but —

      ANDERSON (going over to her with humorous tenderness). Come, dear, you’re not so wicked as you think. The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of inhumanity. After all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you’ll be surprised to find how like hate is to love. (She starts, strangely touched — even appalled. He is amused at her.) Yes: I’m quite in earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can’t bear to let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners than lovers. Think of those very same people with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, selfrespecting, determined to be independent of one another, careful of how they speak of one another — pooh! haven’t you often thought that if they only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and wives? Come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. Eh?

      JUDITH. Oh, don’t say that: don’t say that, Tony, even in jest. You don’t know what a horrible feeling it gives me.

      ANDERSON (Laughing). Well, well: never mind, pet. He’s a bad man; and you hate him as he deserves. And you’re going to make the tea, aren’t you?

      JUDITH (remorsefully). Oh yes, I forgot. I’ve been keeping you waiting all this time. (She goes to the fire and puts on the kettle.)

      ANDERSON (going to the press and taking his coat off). Have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat?

      JUDITH. Yes, dear. (She goes to the table, and sets about putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.)

      ANDERSON (as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off). Did anyone call when I was out?

      JUDITH. No, only — (someone knocks at the door. With a start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming) Who’s that?

      ANDERSON (going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder). All right, pet, all right. He won’t eat you, whoever he is. (She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. He goes СКАЧАТЬ