The Gospel of the Brothers Barnabas: Present Day. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

      CONRAD. If I could count on nine hundred and sixty years I could make myself a real biologist, instead of what I am now: a child trying to walk. Are you sure you might not become a good clergyman if you had a few centuries to do it in?

      HASLAM. Oh, theres nothing much the matter with me: it's quite easy to be a decent parson. It's the Church that chokes me off. I couldnt stick it for nine hundred years. I should chuck it. You know, sometimes, when the bishop, who is the most priceless of fossils, lets off something more than usually out-of-date, the bird starts in my garden.

      FRANKLYN. The bird?

      HASLAM. Oh yes. Theres a bird there that keeps on singing 'Stick it or chuck it: stick it or chuck it'—just like that—for an hour on end in the spring. I wish my father had found some other shop for me.

      The parlor maid comes back.

      THE PARLOR MAID. Any letters for the post, sir?

      FRANKLYN. These. [He proffers a basket of letters. She comes to the table and takes them].

      HASLAM [to the maid] Have you told Mr Barnabas yet?

      THE PARLOR MAID [flinching a little] No, sir.

      FRANKLYN. Told me what?

      HASLAM. She is going to leave you.

      FRANKLYN. Indeed? I'm sorry. Is it our fault, Mr Haslam?

      HASLAM. Not a bit. She is jolly well off here.

      THE PARLOR MAID [reddening] I have never denied it, sir: I couldnt ask for a better place. But I have only one life to live; and I maynt get a second chance. Excuse me, sir; but the letters must go to catch the post. [She goes out with the letters.]

      The two brothers look inquiringly at Haslam.

      HASLAM. Silly girl! Going to marry a village woodman and live in a hovel with him and a lot of kids tumbling over one another, just because the fellow has poetic-looking eyes and a moustache.

      CONRAD [demurring] She said it was because she had only one life.

      HASLAM. Same thing, poor girl! The fellow persuaded her to chuck it; and when she marries him she'll have to stick it. Rotten state of things, I call it.

      CONRAD. You see, she hasnt time to find out what life really means. She has to die before she knows.

      HASLAM [agreeably] Thats it.

      FRANKLYN. She hasnt time to form a well-instructed conscience.

      HASLAM [still more cheerfully] Quite.

      FRANKLYN. It goes deeper. She hasnt time to form a genuine conscience at all. Some romantic points of honor and a few conventions. A world without conscience: that is the horror of our condition.

      HASLAM [beaming] Simply fatuous. [Rising] Well, I suppose I'd better be going. It's most awfully good of you to put up with my calling.

      CONRAD [in his former low ghostly tone] You neednt go, you know, if you are really interested.

      HASLAM [fed up] Well, I'm afraid I ought to—I really must get back—I have something to do in the—

      FRANKLYN [smiling benignly and rising to proffer his hand] Goodbye.

      CONRAD [gruffly, giving him up as a bad job] Goodbye.

      HASLAM. Goodbye. Sorry—er—

      As the rector moves to shake hands with Franklyn, feeling that he is making a frightful mess of his departure, a vigorous sunburnt young lady with hazel hair cut to the level of her neck, like an Italian youth in a Gozzoli picture, comes in impetuously. She seems to have nothing on but her short skirt, her blouse, her stockings, and a pair of Norwegian shoes: in short, she is a Simple-Lifer.

      THE SIMPLE-LIFER [swooping on Conrad and kissing him] Hallo, Nunk. Youre before your time.

      CONRAD. Behave yourself. Theres a visitor.

      She turns quickly and sees the rector. She instinctively switches at her Gozzoli fringe with her fingers, but gives it up as hopeless.

      FRANKLYN. Mr Haslam, our new rector. [To Haslam] My daughter Cynthia.

      CONRAD. Usually called Savvy, short for Savage.

      SAVVY. I usually call Mr Haslam Bill, short for William. [She strolls to the hearthrug, and surveys them calmly from that commanding position].

      FRANKLYN. You know him?

      SAVVY. Rather. Sit down, Bill.

      FRANKLYN. Mr Haslam is going, Savvy. He has an engagement.

      SAVVY. I know. I'm the engagement.

      CONRAD. In that case, would you mind taking him into the garden while I talk to your father?

      SAVVY [to Haslam] Tennis?

      HASLAM. Rather!

      SAVVY. Come on. [She dances out. He runs boyishly after her].

      FRANKLYN [leaving his table and beginning to walk up and down the room discontentedly] Savvy's manners jar on me. They would have horrified her grandmother.

      CONRAD [obstinately] They are happier manners than Mother's manners.

      FRANKLYN. Yes: they are franker, wholesomer, better in a hundred ways. And yet I squirm at them. I cannot get it out of my head that Mother was a well-mannered woman, and that Savvy has no manners at all.

      CONRAD. There wasnt any pleasure in Mother's fine manners. That makes a biological difference.

      FRANKLYN. But there was beauty in Mother's manners, grace in them, style in them: above all, decision in them. Savvy is such a cub.

      CONRAD. So she ought to be, at her age.

      FRANKLYN. There it comes again! Her age! her age!

      CONRAD. You want her to be fully grown at eighteen. You want to force her into a stuck-up, artificial, premature self-possession before she has any self to possess. You just let her alone: she is right enough for her years.

      FRANKLYN. I have let her alone; and look at the result! Like all the other young people who have been let alone, she becomes a Socialist. That is, she becomes hopelessly demoralized.

      CONRAD. Well, arnt you a Socialist?

      FRANKLYN. Yes; but that is not the same thing. You and I were brought up in the old bourgeois morality. We were taught bourgeois manners and bourgeois points of honor. Bourgeois manners may be snobbish manners: there may be no pleasure in them, as you say; but they are better than no manners. Many bourgeois points of honor may be false; but at least they exist. The women know what to expect and what is expected of them. Savvy doesn't. She is a Bolshevist and nothing else. She has to improvise her manners and her conduct as she goes along. It's often charming, no doubt; but sometimes she puts her foot in it frightfully; and then I feel that she is blaming me for not teaching her better.

      CONRAD. Well, you have something better to teach her now, at all events.

      FRANKLYN. Yes: but it is too late. She doesn't trust me now. She doesn't talk about such things to me. She doesnt read anything I write. She never comes to hear me lecture. I am out of it as far as Savvy is concerned. [He resumes his seat at the writing-table].

      CONRAD. I must have a talk to her.

      FRANKLYN. Perhaps she will listen to you. You are not her father.

      CONRAD. I sent her my last book. I can break the ice by asking her what she made of it.

      FRANKLYN. When she heard you were coming, she asked me whether all the leaves were cut, in case it fell into your hands. She hasnt read a word of it.

      CONRAD [rising indignantly] What!

      FRANKLYN [inexorably] Not a word of it.

      CONRAD [beaten] Well, I suppose it's only