The Third Series Plays | Page 7

us. We go on, and on. We're a
spectacle!
GEORGE. That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as
you behave yourself.
CLARE. That is--behave as you think right.
GEORGE. Clare, you're pretty riling.
CLARE. I don't want to be horrid. But I am in earnest this time.
GEORGE. So am I.
[CLARE turns to the curtained door.]
GEORGE. Look here! I'm sorry. God knows I don't want to be a brute.
I know you're not happy.
CLARE. And you--are you happy?
GEORGE. I don't say I am. But why can't we be?
CLARE. I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.
GEORGE. We can try.
CLARE. I HAVE--haven't you?
GEORGE. We used----
CLARE. I wonder!
GEORGE. You know we did.
CLARE. Too long ago--if ever.
GEORGE [Coming closer] I--still----
CLARE. [Making a barrier of her hand] You know that's only cupboard

love.
GEORGE. We've got to face the facts.
CLARE. I thought I was.
GEORGE. The facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and
certain things are expected of us. It's suicide for you, and folly for me,
in my position, to ignore that. You have all you can reasonably want;
and I don't--don't wish for any change. If you could bring anything
against me--if I drank, or knocked about town, or expected too much of
you. I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I can see.
CLARE. Well, I think we've talked enough.
[She again moves towards the curtained door.]
GEORGE. Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to
put up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried?
That's simple purgatory. You ought to know.
CLARE. Yes. I haven't yet, have I?
GEORGE. Don't go like that! Do you suppose we're the only couple
who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with
each other and make the best of it.
CLARE. Not by thousands.
GEORGE. Well, why do you imagine they do it?
CLARE. I don't know.
GEORGE. From a common sense of decency.
CLARE. Very!
GEORGE. By Jove! You can be the most maddening thing in all the
world! [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long
slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you might
try to make some amends, I should think.
CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of something
she could not avoid. He puts his hand on her arm.
CLARE. No, no--no!
GEORGE. [Dropping his hand] Can't you make it up?
CLARE. I don't feel very Christian.
She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her. GEORGE
steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the room. He goes to
the window and stands looking out; shuts it with a bang, and again
contemplates the door. Moving forward, he rests his hand on the
deserted card table, clutching its edge, and muttering. Then he crosses

to the door into the hall and switches off the light. He opens the door to
go out, then stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy
sigh. Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the
curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is standing,
unhooking a necklet.
He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud.
CURTAIN.

ACT II
The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer door
opens on to a corridor and stairway. Doors on either side lead to other
rooms. On the walls are unframed reproductions of fine pictures,
secured with tintacks. An old wine-coloured armchair of low and
comfortable appearance, near the centre of the room, is surrounded by a
litter of manuscripts, books, ink, pens and newspapers, as though some
one had already been up to his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's
clock it is only eleven. On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper,
cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. There are many books on shelves,
and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a soft hat, and a
black knobby stick. MALISE sits in his armchair, garbed in trousers,
dressing-gown, and slippers, unshaved and uncollared, writing. He
pauses, smiles, lights a cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last
sentence, holding up a sheet of quarto MS.
MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those
excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace. Only the
monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant
Tyranny."
While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age, in old
dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the corridor. She goes to
a cupboard, brings out from it an apron and a Bissell broom. Her
movements are