The Admirable Crichton | Page 6

LADY MARY (arching her brows). It is only you, Ernest; I thought

there was some one here (and she also bestows herself on cushions).
ERNEST (a little piqued, and deserting the footstool). Had a very tiring
day also, Mary?
LADY MARY (yawning). Dreadfully. Been trying on
engagement-rings all the morning.
ERNEST (who is as fond of gossip as the oldest club member). What's
that? (To AGATHA.) Is it Brocklehurst?
(The energetic AGATHA nods.)
You have given your warm young heart to Brocky?
(LADY MARY is impervious to his humour, but he continues bravely.)
I don't wish to fatigue you, Mary, by insisting on a verbal answer, but if,
without straining yourself, you can signify Yes or No, won't you make
the effort?
(She indolently flashes a ring on her most important finger, and he
starts back melodramatically.)
The ring! Then I am too late, too late! (Fixing LADY MARY sternly,
like a prosecuting counsel.) May I ask, Mary, does Brocky know? Of
course, it was that terrible mother of his who pulled this through.
Mother does everything for Brocky. Still, in the eyes of the law you
will be, not her wife, but his, and, therefore, I hold that Brocky ought to
be informed. Now--
(He discovers that their languorous eyes have closed.)
If you girls are shamming sleep in the expectation that I shall awaken
you in the manner beloved of ladies, abandon all such hopes.
(CATHERINE and AGATHA look up without speaking.)
LADY MARY (speaking without looking up). You impertinent boy.

ERNEST (eagerly plucking another epigram from his quiver). I knew
that was it, though I don't know everything. Agatha, I'm not young
enough to know everything.
(He looks hopefully from one to another, but though they try to grasp
this, his brilliance baffles them.)
AGATHA (his secret admirer). Young enough?
ERNEST (encouragingly). Don't you see? I'm not young enough to
know everything.
AGATHA. I'm sure it's awfully clever, but it's so puzzling.
(Here CRICHTON ushers in an athletic, pleasant-faced young
clergyman, MR. TREHERNE, who greets the company.)
CATHERINE. Ernest, say it to Mr. Treherne.
ERNEST. Look here, Treherne, I'm not young enough to know
everything.
TREHERNE. How do you mean, Ernest?
ERNEST. (a little nettled). I mean what I say.
LADY MARY. Say it again; say it more slowly.
ERNEST. I'm--not--young--enough--to--know--everything.
TREHERNE. I see. What you really mean, my boy, is that you are not
old enough to know everything.
ERNEST. No, I don't.
TREHERNE. I assure you that's it.
LADY MARY. Of course it is.

CATHERINE. Yes, Ernest, that's it.
(ERNEST, in desperation, appeals to CRICHTON.)
ERNEST. I am not young enough, Crichton, to know everything.
(It is an anxious moment, but a smile is at length extorted from
CRICHTON as with a corkscrew.)
CRICHTON. Thank you, sir. (He goes.)
ERNEST (relieved). Ah, if you had that fellow's head, Treherne, you
would find something better to do with it than play cricket. I hear you
bowl with your head.
TREHERNE (with proper humility). I'm afraid cricket is all I'm good
for, Ernest.
CATHERINE (who thinks he has a heavenly nose). Indeed, it isn't. You
are sure to get on, Mr. Treherne.
TREHERNE. Thank you, Lady Catherine.
CATHERINE. But it was the bishop who told me so. He said a
clergyman who breaks both ways is sure to get on in England.
TREHERNE. I'm jolly glad.
(The master of the house comes in, accompanied by LORD
BROCKLEHURST. The EARL OF LOAM is a widower, a
philanthropist, and a peer of advanced ideas. As a widower he is at least
able to interfere in the domestic concerns of his house--to rummage in
the drawers, so to speak, for which he has felt an itching all his
blameless life; his philanthropy has opened quite a number of other
drawers to him; and his advanced ideas have blown out his figure. He
takes in all the weightiest monthly reviews, and prefers those that are
uncut, because he perhaps never looks better than when cutting them;
but he does not read them, and save for the cutting it would suit him as
well merely to take in the covers. He writes letters to the papers, which

are printed in a type to scale with himself, and he is very jealous of
those other correspondents who get his type. Let laws and learning, art
and commerce die, but leave the big type to an intellectual aristocracy.
He is really the reformed House of Lords which will come some day.
Young LORD BROCKLEHURST is nothing save for his rank. You
could pick him up by the handful any day in Piccadilly or Holborn,
buying socks--or selling them.)
LORD LOAM (expansively). You are here, Ernest. Feeling fit for the
voyage, Treherne?
TREHERNE. Looking forward to it enormously.
LORD LOAM. That's right. (He chases his children about as if