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

so far, to one of them. (Rhetorically.) The sort you know is based on mutual respect, on recognition of the right of every member of the household to independence and privacy (her emphasis on “privacy” is intense) in their personal concerns. And because you have always enjoyed that, it seems such a matter of course to you that you don’t value it. But (with biting acrimony) there is another sort of family life: a life in which husbands open their wives’ letters, and call on them to account for every farthing of their expenditure and every moment of their time; in which women do the same to their children; in which no room is private and no hour sacred; in which duty, obedience, affection, home, morality and religion are detestable tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of punishments and lies, coercion and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion, recrimination — Oh! I cannot describe it to you: fortunately for you, you know nothing about it. (She sits down, panting. Gloria has listened to her with flashing eyes, sharing all her indignation.)

      DOLLY (inaccessible to rhetoric). See Twentieth Century Parents, chapter on Liberty, passim.

      MRS. CLANDON (touching her shoulder affectionately, soothed even by a gibe from her). My dear Dolly: if you only knew how glad I am that it is nothing but a joke to you, though it is such bitter earnest to me. (More resolutely, turning to Philip.) Phil, I never ask you questions about your private concerns. You are not going to question me, are you?

      PHILIP. I think it due to ourselves to say that the question we wanted to ask is as much our business as yours.

      DOLLY. Besides, it can’t be good to keep a lot of questions bottled up inside you. You did it, mamma; but see how awfully it’s broken out again in me.

      MRS. CLANDON. I see you want to ask your question. Ask it.

      DOLLY AND PHILIP (beginning simultaneously). Who — (They stop.)

      PHILIP. Now look here, Dolly: am I going to conduct this business or are you?

      DOLLY. You.

      PHILIP. Then hold your mouth. (Dolly does so literally.) The question is a simple one. When the ivory snatcher —

      MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil!

      PHILIP. Dentist is an ugly word. The man of ivory and gold asked us whether we were the children of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall. In pursuance of the precepts in your treatise on Twentieth Century Conduct, and your repeated personal exhortations to us to curtail the number of unnecessary lies we tell, we replied truthfully the we didn’t know.

      DOLLY. Neither did we.

      PHILIP. Sh! The result was that the gum architect made considerable difficulties about accepting our invitation to lunch, although I doubt if he has had anything but tea and bread and butter for a fortnight past. Now my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that we had a father, and that you probably know who he was.

      MRS. CLANDON (her agitation returning). Stop, Phil. Your father is nothing to you, nor to me (vehemently). That is enough. (The twins are silenced, but not satisfied. Their faces fall. But Gloria, who has been following the altercation attentively, suddenly intervenes.)

      GLORIA (advancing). Mother: we have a right to know.

      MRS. CLANDON (rising and facing her). Gloria! “We!” Who is “we”?

      GLORIA (steadfastly). We three. (Her tone is unmistakable: she is pitting her strength against her mother for the first time. The twins instantly go over to the enemy.)

      MRS. CLANDON (wounded). In your mouth “we” used to mean you and I, Gloria.

      PHILIP (rising decisively and putting away the stool). We’re hurting you: let’s drop it. We didn’t think you’d mind. I don’t want to know.

      DOLLY (coming off the table). I’m sure I don’t. Oh, don’t look like that, mamma. (She looks angrily at Gloria.)

      MRS. CLANDON (touching her eyes hastily with her handkerchief and sitting down again). Thank you, my dear. Thanks, Phil.

      GLORIA (inexorably). We have a right to know, mother.

      MRS. CLANDON (indignantly). Ah! You insist.

      GLORIA. Do you intend that we shall never know?

      DOLLY. Oh, Gloria, don’t. It’s barbarous.

      GLORIA (with quiet scorn). What is the use of being weak? You see what has happened with this gentleman here, mother. The same thing has happened to me.

      MRS. CLANDON } (all { What do you mean?

      DOLLY } together). { Oh, tell us.

      PHILIP } { What happened to you?

      GLORIA. Oh, nothing of any consequence. (She turns away from them and goes up to the easy chair at the fireplace, where she sits down, almost with her back to them. As they wait expectantly, she adds, over her shoulder, with studied indifference.) On board the steamer the first officer did me the honor to propose to me.

      DOLLY. No, it was to me.

      MRS. CLANDON. The first officer! Are you serious, Gloria? What did you say to him? (correcting herself) Excuse me: I have no right to ask that.

      GLORIA. The answer is pretty obvious. A woman who does not know who her father was cannot accept such an offer.

      MRS. CLANDON. Surely you did not want to accept it?

      GLORIA (turning a little and raising her voice). No; but suppose I had wanted to!

      PHILIP. Did that difficulty strike you, Dolly?

      DOLLY. No, I accepted him.

      GLORIA } (all crying { Accepted him!

      MRS. CLANDON } out { Dolly!

      PHILIP } together) { Oh, I say!

      DOLLY (naively). He did look such a fool!

      MRS. CLANDON. But why did you do such a thing, Dolly?

      DOLLY. For fun, I suppose. He had to measure my finger for a ring. You’d have done the same thing yourself.

      MRS. CLANDON. No, Dolly, I would not. As a matter of fact the first officer did propose to me; and I told him to keep that sort of thing for women were young enough to be amused by it. He appears to have acted on my advice. (She rises and goes to the hearth.) Gloria: I am sorry you think me weak; but I cannot tell you what you want. You are all too young.

      PHILIP. This is rather a startling departure from Twentieth Century principles.

      DOLLY (quoting). “Answer all your children’s questions, and answer them truthfully, as soon as they are old enough to ask them.” See Twentieth Century Motherhood —

      PHILIP. Page one —

      DOLLY. Chapter one —

      PHILIP. Sentence one.

      MRS. CLANDON. My dears: I did not say that you were too young to know. I said you were too young to be taken into my confidence. You are very bright children, all of you; but I am glad for your sakes that you are still very inexperienced and consequently very unsympathetic. There are some experiences of mine that I cannot bear to speak of except to those who have gone through what I have gone through. I hope you will never be qualified for such confidences. But I will take care that you shall learn all you want to know. Will that satisfy you?

      PHILIP. Another grievance, Dolly.

      DOLLY. We’re not sympathetic.

      GLORIA (leaning forward in her chair and looking earnestly up at her mother). Mother: I did not mean to be unsympathetic.

      MRS. CLANDON (affectionately). Of course not, dear. Do you think I don’t understand?

      GLORIA (rising). But, mother —

      MRS. CLANDON (drawing back a little). Yes?

      GLORIA (obstinately). It is nonsense to tell us that our father is nothing to us.

      MRS. CLANDON (provoked to sudden resolution). Do you remember your father?

      GLORIA