The Collected Works of George Bernard Shaw: Plays, Novels, Articles, Letters and Essays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ short, Aurélie, you do not love me, and never have loved me.”

      “Not in your way.”

      “Why did you not tell me this before?”

      “Because, whilst you loved me, it would have wounded you.”

      “I love you still; and you know it. Why did you not tell me so before we were married?”

      “Ah, I had forgotten that. I must have loved you then. But you were only half real: I did not know you. What is the matter with you?”

      “You ask me what is the matter, after — after—”

      “Come and sit by me, and be tranquil. You are making grimaces like a comedian. I do more for you than you deserve; for I still cherish you as my husband, whilst you make bargains, as you call it, with other women.”

      “Aurélie,” he said, sternly: “there is one course, and only one, left to us. We must separate.”

      “Separate! And for why?”

      “Because you do not love me. I suspected it before: now I know it. Your respect for me has vanished too. I can at least set you free: I owe that much to myself. You may not see the necessity for this; and I cannot make you see it. None the less, we must separate.”

      “And what shall I do for a husband? Do you forget your duty to me and to my child? Well, it does not matter. Go. But look you, Adrian, if you abandon your home only to draw that woman away from hers, it will be an infamy — one that will estrange me from you forever. Do not hope, when you tire of her — for one tires of all pronounced people, and she, in face and character, is very pronounced — do not hope to console yourself with me. You may be weak and foolish if you will; but when you cease to be a man of honor, you are no longer my Adrian.”

      “And how, in heaven’s name, shall I be the worse for that, since already I am no longer your Adrian? You have told me that vou never cared for me—”

      “Chut! I tell thee that I am not of a nature to fall in love. Becalm ; and do not talk of separation, and such silly things. Have I not been good to her and to you this day?”

      “Upon my soul,” cried Adrian despairingly, “I believe you are either mad or anxious to make me mad.”

      “He is swearing!” she ejaculated, lifting her hands.

      “I am not in love with Mary,” he continued. “It is a gross and absurd libel on both of us to say so. If anyone be to blame, you are — yes, you, Aurélie. You have put the vilest construction on a perfectly innocent action of mine; and now you tell me with the most cynical coolness that you do not care for me.

      Aurélie, implying by a little shrug that she gave him up, rose and went to the piano. The moment her fingers touched the keys, she seemed to forget him. But she stopped presently, and said with grave surprise, “What did you say, Adrian?”

      “Nothing,” he replied shortly.

      “Nothing!” she repeated incredulously.

      “Nothing that was intended for your ears. Since you overheard me, I beg your pardon. I do not often offend you with such language; but tonight I do say with all my soul, ‘Damn that pianoforte.’”

      “Without doubt you have often said so before under your breath,” said Aurélie, closing the instrument quietly.

      “Are you going?” he said anxiously, as she moved toward the door. “No,” he exclaimed, springing forward, and timidly putting his arm about her, “I did not mean that I disliked your playing. I only hate the piano when you make me jealous of it — when you go to it to forget me.”

      “It does not matter. Be tranquil. I am not offended,” she said coldly, trying to disengage herself.

      “You are indeed, Aurélie. Pray do not be so quick to—”

      “Adrian: you are worrying me — you will make me cry; and then I will never forgive you. Let me go.”

      At the threat of crying he released her, and stood looking piteously at her.

      “You should nut make scenes with me,” she said plaintively. “Where is my handkerchief? I had it a moment ago.”

      “Here it is, my darling.” he said humbly, picking it from the floor where it had fallen. She took it without thanking him. Then, glancing petulantly at him, and seeing him dejected and wistful, she relented and stretched out her arms for a caress.

      “Mon âme,” she whispered, as she rested her face against his.

      “Ma vie,” he said fervently, and clasped her with a shudder of delight to his breast.

      CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      Early in the afternoon of the following day, which was Sunday, Charlie Sutherland presented himself at Church Street, Kensington and asked Mrs Simpson, who opened the door, if Mr Jack was within.

      “No, sir,” said Mrs. Simpson, gravely. “He is not in just at present.”

      On being pressed as to when he would be in, Mrs. Simpson became vague and evasive, although she expressed sympathy for the evident disappointment of the visitor. At last he said he would probably call again, and turned disconsolately away. He had not gone far when, hearing a shout, he looked back, and saw Jack, uncombed, unshaven, in broken slippers, and a stained and tattered coat, running after him, bareheaded.

      “Come up — come back,” cried Jack, his brazen tones somewhat forced by loss of breath. “It’s all a mistake. That jade — come along.” He seized Charlie by the arm, and began to drag him back to the house as he spoke. The boys of the neighborhood soon assembled to look with awe at the capture of Charlie, only a few of the older and less reverent venturing to ridicule the scene by a derisive cheer. Jack marched his visitor upstairs to a large room, which occupied nearly the whole of the first floor. A grand pianoforte in the centre was covered with writing materials, music in print and manuscript, old newspapers, and unwashed coffee cups. The surrounding carpet was in such a state as to make it appear that periodically, when the litter became too cumbrous, it was swept away and permitted to lie on the floor just it chanced to fall. The chairs, the cushions of which seemed to have been much used as pen-wipers, were occupied, some with heaps of clothes, others with books turned inside out to mark the place at which the reader had put them down, one with a boot, the fellow of which lay in the fender, and one with a kettle, which had been recently lifted from the fire which, in spite of the season, burnt in the grate.

      Black, brown and yellow stains of ink, coffee, and yolk of egg were on everything in the place.

      “Sit down,” said Jack, impetuously thrusting his former pupil into the one empty chair, a comfortable one with elbows, shiny with constant use. He then sought a seat for himself, and in so doing became aware of Mrs Simpsom, who had come in during his absence with the hopeless project of making the room ready for the visitor.

      “Here,” he said, “Get some more coffee, and some buttered rolls. Where have you taken all the chairs? СКАЧАТЬ