The Complete Works of George Bernard Shaw. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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      “Absurd!” said Mary suddenly, after gazing incredulously at the actress for a moment. “It cannot be. And yet I verily believe it is. Lady Geraldine: is not that Madge Brailsford?”

      “I really think it is,” said Lady Geraldine, using her opera glass. “How shockingly she is painted! And yet I don’t believe it is, either. That woman is evidently very clever, which Madge never was, so far as I could see. And the voice is quite different.”

      “Oho!” said Jack. “It was I who found that voice for her.”

      Then it is Madge,” said Mary.

      “Of course it is. Rub your eyes and see for yourself.” Mary looked and looked, as if she could hardly believe it yet. At the end of the act, the principal performers, including Magdalen, were called before the curtain and heartily applauded. Jack, though contemptuous of popular demonstrations, joined in this, making as much noise as possible, and impatiently bidding Mary take off her gloves, that she might clap her hands with more effect. A moment afterwards, there was a hasty knocking at the door of the box. Mary looked across the theatre; saw that Adrian’s chair was vacant; and turned red. Jack opened the door, and admitted, not Adrian, but Mr Brailsford, who hurried to the front of the box; shook Lady Geraldine’s hand nervously; made a hasty bow right and left to Mary and Mrs Herbert; and, after making as though he had something particular to say, sat down in Jack’s chair and said nothing. He was greatly agitated.

      “Well, Mr Brailsford, said Lady Geraldine, smiling. “Dare I congratulate you?”

      “Not a word — not a word,” he said, as if he were half-suffocated. “I beg your pardon for coming into your box. I am a broken man — disgraced by my own daughter. My favorite daughter, sir — madame — I beg your pardon again. You can tell this young lady that she was my favorite daughter.”

      “But you must not take her brilliant success in this way,” said Lady Geraldine gently,looking at him with surprise and pity. “And remember that you have other girls.”

      “Psha! Whish-h-h!” hissed the old gentleman, throwing up his hand and snapping his fingers. “They arc all born fools — like their mother. She is like me, the only one who is like me. Did you ever see such impudence? A girl brought up as she was, walking out of a house in Kensington Palace Gardens onto the stage, and playing a Parisian — a French — God bless me, a drab! to the life. It was perfection. I’ve seen everybody that ever acted — years before your ladyship was born. I remember Miss O’Neill, aye, and Mrs Jordan; Mars, Rachel, Piccolomini! she’s better than any of them, except Miss O’Neill — I was young in her time. She wouldn’t be kept from it. I set my face against it. So did her mother — who could no more appreciate her than a turnip could. So did we all. We locked her up; we took her money from her; I threatened to disown her — and so I will too; but she had her way in spite of us all. Just like me: exactly like me. Why, when I was her age, I cared no more for my family than I did for Buonaparte. It’s in her blood. I should have been on the stage myself only it’s a blackguard profession; and a man who can write tragedy does not need to act it. I will turn over some of my old manuscripts; and she shall show the world what her old father can do. And did you notice how self-possessed she was? I saw the nerves under it. I felt them. Nervousness always played the devil with me. I tell you, madame — and I am qualified to speak on the subject — that she walks the stage and gives out her lines in the true old style. You don’t know these things, Miss Mary: you are too young: you never saw great acting. But I know. I had lessons from the great Young: Edmund Kean was a mountebank beside him. I was the best pupil of Charles Mayne Young, and of little Dutch Sam — but that was another matter. No true lady would paint her face and make an exhibition of herself on a public stage for money. Still, it is a most extraordinary thing that a young girl like that, without any teaching or preparation, should walk out of a drawing room onto the stage, and take London by storm.”

      “But has she not had some little experience in the provinces?” said Mary.

      Certainly not,” said Mr Brailsford impatiently. Strolling about with a parcel of vagabond pantomimists is not experience — not proper experience for a young lady. She is the first Brailsford that ever played for money in a public theatre. She is not a Brailsford at all. I have forbidden her to use the name she’s disgraced.”

      “Come,” said Lady Geraldine. “You are proud of her. You know you are.”

      “I am not. I have refused to see her. I have disowned her. If I caught one of her sisters coming to witness this indecent French play of which she is the life and soul — what would it be without her, Lady Geraldine? Tell me that.”

      “It would be the dullest business imaginable.”

      “Hal ha:” cried Brailsford, with a triumphant gesture: “I should think so. Dull as ditch-water. Her voice alone would draw all London to listen.

      Perhaps you think that I taught her to speak. I tell you, Mrs. Herbert, I would have slain her with my own hand as soon as trained her for such a profession. Who taught her then? Why — ?”

      “I did,” said Jack. Mr Brailsford, who had not noticed his presence before, stared at him, and stiffened as he did so.

      “I believe you are already acquainted with Mr Jack.” said Lady Geraldine, watching them with some anxiety.

      “You see what she has made of herself,” said Jack, looking hard at him. “I helped her to do it: you opposed her. Which of us was in the right?”

      “I will not go into that question with you, sir,” said Mr Brailsfod, raising his voice and waving his glove. Ï do not approve of my daughter’s proceedings.” He turned from Jack to Mrs Herbert, and made a brave effort to chat with her with a jaunty air. “A distinguished audience, tonight I think I saw somewhere in the house, your son, not the least distinguished of us. Painting is a noble art. I remember when painters did not stand as well in society as they do now; but never in my life have I failed in respect for them. Never. A man is the better for contemplating a great picture. Your son has an enviable career before him.”

      “So I am told.”

      “Not a doubt of it. He is a fine young man — as he indeed could not fail to be with such an inheritance of personal graces and mental endowments.”

      “He is very like his father.”

      “Possibly, madame,” said Mr. Brailsford, bowing. “But I never saw his father.”

      “Whatever his career may be, I shall have little part in it. I did not encourage him to become an artist. I opposed his doing so as well as I could. I was mistaken, I suppose: it is easier than I thought to become a popular painter. But children never forgive such mistakes.”

      “Forgive!” exclaimed Mr. Brailsford, his withered cheek reddening faintly. “If you have forgiven him for disregarding your wishes, you can hardly believe that he will be so unnatural as to cherish any bad feeling towards you. Eh?”

      “It is not unnatural to resent an unmerited wound to one’s vanity. If I could honestly admire Adrian’s work even now, I have no doubt he would consent to be reconciled to me in time. But I cannot. His pictures seem weak and sentimental to me. I can see the deficiencies of his character in every line of them. I always thought that genius was an indispensable condition to success.”

      “Ha! ha!” said Jack. “What you call success is the compensation of the man who has no genius. If you had believed in his genius, and yet wanted success for him, you might have opposed him СКАЧАТЬ