60 Plays: The George Bernard Shaw Edition (Illustrated). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

it). Yes: I must be off presently.

      BURGESS (momentously). Don’t let me detain you, Mr. Mill. What I come about is private between me and Mr. Morell.

      LEXY (huffily). I have no intention of intruding, I am sure, Mr. Burgess. Good morning.

      BURGESS (patronizingly). Oh, good morning to you. (Morell returns as Lexy is making for the door.)

      MORELL (to Lexy). Off to work?

      LEXY. Yes, sir.

      MORELL (patting him affectionately on the shoulder). Take my silk handkerchief and wrap your throat up. There’s a cold wind. Away with you.

      (Lexy brightens up, and goes out.)

      BURGESS. Spoilin’ your curates, as usu’l, James. Good mornin’. When I pay a man, an’ ‘is livin’ depen’s on me, I keep him in his place.

      MORELL (rather shortly). I always keep my curates in their places as my helpers and comrades. If you get as much work out of your clerks and warehousemen as I do out of my curates, you must be getting rich pretty fast. Will you take your old chair?

      (He points with curt authority to the arm chair beside the fireplace; then takes the spare chair from the table and sits down in front of Burgess.)

      BURGESS (without moving). Just the same as hever, James!

      MORELL. When you last called — it was about three years ago, I think — you said the same thing a little more frankly. Your exact words then were: “Just as big a fool as ever, James?”

      BURGESS (soothingly). Well, perhaps I did; but (with conciliatory cheerfulness) I meant no offence by it. A clergyman is privileged to be a bit of a fool, you know: it’s on’y becomin’ in his profession that he should. Anyhow, I come here, not to rake up hold differences, but to let bygones be bygones. (Suddenly becoming very solemn, and approaching Morell.) James: three year ago, you done me a hill turn. You done me hout of a contrac’; an’ when I gev you ‘arsh words in my nat’ral disappointment, you turned my daughrter again me. Well, I’ve come to act the part of a Cherischin. (Offering his hand.) I forgive you, James.

      MORELL (starting up). Confound your impudence!

      BURGESS (retreating, with almost lachrymose deprecation of this treatment). Is that becomin’ language for a clergyman, James? — and you so partic’lar, too?

      MORELL (hotly). No, sir, it is not becoming language for a clergyman. I used the wrong word. I should have said damn your impudence: that’s what St. Paul, or any honest priest would have said to you. Do you think I have forgotten that tender of yours for the contract to supply clothing to the workhouse?

      BURGESS (in a paroxysm of public spirit). I acted in the interest of the ratepayers, James. It was the lowest tender: you can’t deny that.

      MORELL. Yes, the lowest, because you paid worse wages than any other employer — starvation wages — aye, worse than starvation wages — to the women who made the clothing. Your wages would have driven them to the streets to keep body and soul together. (Getting angrier and angrier.) Those women were my parishioners. I shamed the Guardians out of accepting your tender: I shamed the ratepayers out of letting them do it: I shamed everybody but you. (Boiling over.) How dare you, sir, come here and offer to forgive me, and talk about your daughter, and —

      BURGESS. Easy, James, easy, easy. Don’t git hinto a fluster about nothink. I’ve howned I was wrong.

      MORELL (fuming about). Have you? I didn’t hear you.

      BURGESS. Of course I did. I hown it now. Come: I harsk your pardon for the letter I wrote you. Is that enough?

      MORELL (snapping his fingers). That’s nothing. Have you raised the wages?

      BURGESS (triumphantly). Yes.

      MORELL (stopping dead). What!

      BURGESS (unctuously). I’ve turned a moddle hemployer. I don’t hemploy no women now: they’re all sacked; and the work is done by machinery. Not a man ‘as less than sixpence a hour; and the skilled ‘ands gits the Trade Union rate. (Proudly.) What ‘ave you to say to me now?

      MORELL (overwhelmed). Is it possible! Well, there’s more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth — (Going to Burgess with an explosion of apologetic cordiality.) My dear Burgess, I most heartily beg your pardon for my hard thoughts of you. (Grasps his hand.) And now, don’t you feel the better for the change? Come, confess, you’re happier. You look happier.

      BURGESS (ruefully). Well, p’raps I do. I s’pose I must, since you notice it. At all events, I git my contrax asseppit (accepted) by the County Council. (Savagely.) They dussent’ave nothink to do with me unless I paid fair wages — curse ’em for a parcel o’ meddlin’ fools!

      MORELL (dropping his hand, utterly discouraged). So that was why you raised the wages! (He sits down moodily.)

      BURGESS (severely, in spreading, mounting tones). Why else should I do it? What does it lead to but drink and huppishness in workin’ men? (He seats himself magisterially in the easy chair.) It’s hall very well for you, James: it gits you hinto the papers and makes a great man of you; but you never think of the ‘arm you do, puttin’ money into the pockets of workin’ men that they don’t know ‘ow to spend, and takin’ it from people that might be makin’ a good huse on it.

      MORELL (with a heavy sigh, speaking with cold politeness). What is your business with me this morning? I shall not pretend to believe that you are here merely out of family sentiment.

      BURGESS (obstinately). Yes, I ham — just family sentiment and nothink else.

      MORELL (with weary calm). I don’t believe you!

      BURGESS (rising threateningly). Don’t say that to me again, James Mavor Morell.

      MORELL (unmoved). I’ll say it just as often as may be necessary to convince you that it’s true. I don’t believe you.

      BURGESS (collapsing into an abyss of wounded feeling). Oh, well, if you’re determined to be unfriendly, I s’pose I’d better go. (He moves reluctantly towards the door. Morell makes no sign. He lingers.) I didn’t hexpect to find a hunforgivin’ spirit in you, James. (Morell still not responding, he takes a few more reluctant steps doorwards. Then he comes back whining.) We huseter git on well enough, spite of our different opinions. Why are you so changed to me? I give you my word I come here in pyorr (pure) frenliness, not wishin’ to be on bad terms with my hown daughrter’s ‘usban’. Come, James: be a Cherishin and shake ‘ands. (He puts his hand sentimentally on Morell’s shoulder.)

      MORELL (looking up at him thoughtfully). Look here, Burgess. Do you want to be as welcome here as you were before you lost that contract?

      BURGESS. I do, James. I do — honest.

      MORELL. Then why don’t you behave as you did then?

      BURGESS (cautiously removing his hand). ‘Ow d’y’mean?

      MORELL. I’ll tell you. You thought me a young fool then.

      BURGESS (coaxingly). No, I didn’t, James. I —

      MORELL (cutting him short). Yes, you did. And I thought you an old scoundrel.

      BURGESS (most vehemently deprecating this gross self-accusation on Morell’s part). No, you didn’t, James. Now you do yourself a hinjustice.

      MORELL. Yes, I did. Well, that did not prevent our getting on very well together. God made you what I call a scoundrel as he made me what you call a fool. (The effect of this observation on Burgess is to remove the keystone of his moral arch. He becomes bodily weak, and, with his eyes fixed on Morell in a helpless stare, puts out his hand apprehensively to balance himself, as if the floor had suddenly sloped under him. Morell proceeds in the same tone of quiet conviction.) It was not for me to quarrel with his handiwork in the one case more than in the other. So long as you come here honestly as a selfrespecting, thorough, convinced scoundrel, justifying your scoundrelism, and proud of it, you are welcome. But (and now Morell’s