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

of the gloomiest thoughts. Suddenly Paramore enters, pale and in the utmost disorder, with the British Medical Journal in his clenched hand. They rise in alarm. He tries to speak, but chokes, clutches at his throat, and staggers. Cuthbertson quickly takes his chair and places it behind Paramore, who sinks into it as they crowd about him, Craven at his right shoulder, Cuthbertson on his left, and Julia behind Craven.)

      CRAVEN. What’s the matter, Paramore?

      JULIA. Are you ill?

      CUTHBERTSON. No bad news, I hope?

      PARAMORE (despairingly). The worst of news! Terrible news! Fatal news! My disease —

      CRAVEN (quickly). Do you mean my disease?

      PARAMORE (fiercely). I mean my disease — Paramore’s disease — the disease I discovered — the work of my life. Look here (pointing to the B. M. J. with a ghastly expression of horror.) If this is true, it was all a mistake: there is no such disease. (Cuthbertson and Julia look at one another, hardly daring to believe the good news.)

      CRAVEN (in strong remonstrance). And you call this bad news! Now really, Paramore —

      PARAMORE (cutting him short hoarsely). It’s natural for you to think only of yourself. I don’t blame you: all invalids are selfish. Only a scientific man can feel what I feel now. (Writhing under a sense of intolerable injustice.) It’s the fault of the wickedly sentimental laws of this country. I was not able to make experiments enough — only three dogs and a monkey. Think of that, with all Europe full of my professional rivals — men burning to prove me wrong! There is freedom in France — enlightened republican France. One Frenchman experiments on two hundred monkeys to disprove my theory. Another sacrifices 36 pounds — three hundred dogs at three francs apiece — to upset the monkey experiments. A third proves them to be both wrong by a single experiment in which he gets the temperature of a camel’s liver 60 degrees below zero. And now comes this cursed Italian who has ruined me. He has a government grant to buy animals with, besides the run of the largest hospital in Italy. (With desperate resolution) But I won’t be beaten by any Italian. I’ll go to Italy myself. I’ll rediscover my disease: I know it exists; I feel it; and I’ll prove it if I have to experiment on every mortal animal that’s got a liver at all. (He folds his arms and breathes hard at them.)

      CRAVEN (his sense of injury growing upon him). Am I to understand, Paramore, that you took it on yourself to pass sentence of death — yes, of Death — on me, on the strength of three dogs and an infernal monkey?

      PARAMORE (utterly contemptuous of Craven’s narrow personal view of the matter). Yes. That was all I could get a license for.

      CRAVEN. Now upon my soul, Paramore, I’m vexed at this. I don’t wish to be unfriendly; but I’m extremely vexed, really. Why, confound it, do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve cut off my meat and drink for a year — made me an object of public scorn — a miserable vegetarian and a teetotaller.

      PARAMORE (rising). Well, you can make up for lost time now. (Bitterly, shewing Craven the Journal) There! you can read for yourself. The camel was fed on beef dissolved in alcohol; and he gained weight under it. Eat and drink as much as you please. (Still unable to stand without support, he makes his way past Cuthbertson to the revolving bookcase and stands there with his back to them, leaning on it with his head on his hand.)

      CRAVEN (grumbling). Oh yes, it’s very easy for you to talk, Paramore. But what am I to say to the Humanitarian societies and the Vegetarian societies that have made me a Vice President?

      CUTHBERTSON (chuckling). Aha! You made a virtue of it, did you, Dan?

      CRAVEN (warmly). I made a virtue of necessity, Jo. No one can blame me.

      JULIA (soothing him). Well, never mind, Daddy. Come back to the dining room and have a good beefsteak.

      CRAVEN (shuddering). Ugh! (Plaintively) No: I’ve lost my old manly taste for it. My very nature’s been corrupted by living on pap. (To Paramore.) That’s what comes of all this vivisection. You go experimenting on horses; and of course the result is that you try to get me into condition by feeding me on beans.

      PARAMORE (curtly, without changing his position). Well, if they’ve done you good, so much the better for you.

      CRAVEN (querulously). That’s all very well; but it’s very vexing. You don’t half see how serious it is to make a man believe that he has only another year to live: you really don’t, Paramore: I can’t help saying it. I’ve made my will, which was altogether unnecessary; and I’ve been reconciled to a lot of people I’d quarrelled with — people I can’t stand under ordinary circumstances. Then I’ve let the girls get round me at home to an extent I should never have done if I’d had my life before me. I’ve done a lot of serious thinking and reading and extra church going. And now it turns out simple waste of time. On my soul, it’s too disgusting: I’d far rather die like a man when I said I would.

      PARAMORE (as before). Perhaps you may. Your heart’s shaky, if that’s any satisfaction to you.

      CRAVEN (offended). You must excuse me, Paramore, if I say that I no longer feel any confidence in your opinion as a medical man. (Paramore’s eye flashes: he straightens himself and listens.) I paid you a pretty stiff fee for that consultation when you condemned me; and I can’t say I think you gave me value for it.

      PARAMORE (turning and facing Craven with dignity). That’s unanswerable, Colonel Craven. I shall return the fee.

      CRAVEN. Oh, it’s not the money; but I think you ought to realize your position. (Paramore turns stiffly away. Craven follows him impulsively, exclaiming remorsefully) Well, perhaps it was a nasty thing of me to allude to it. (He offers Paramore his hand.)

      PARAMORE (conscientiously taking it). Not at all. You are quite in the right, Colonel Craven. My diagnosis was wrong; and I must take the consequences.

      CRAVEN (holding his hand). No, don’t say that. It was natural enough: my liver is enough to set any man’s diagnosis wrong. (A long handshake, very trying to Paramore’s nerves. Paramore then retires to the recess on Ibsen’s left, and throws himself on the divan with a half suppressed sob, bending over the British Medical Journal with his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees.)

      CUTHBERTSON (who has been rejoicing with Julia at the other side of the room). Well, let’s say no more about it. I congratulate you, Craven, and hope you may long be spared. (Craven offers his hand.) No, Dan: your daughter first. (He takes Julia’s hand gently and hands her across to Craven, into whose arms she flies with a gush of feeling.)

      JULIA. Dear old Daddy!

      CRAVEN. Ah, is Julia glad that the old Dad is let off for a few years more?

      JULIA (almost crying). Oh, so glad: so glad! (Cuthbertson sobs audibly. The Colonel is affected. Sylvia, entering from the dining room, stops abruptly at the door on seeing the three. Paramore, in the recess, escapes her notice.)

      SYLVIA. Hallo!

      CRAVEN. Tell her the news, Julia: it would sound ridiculous from me. (He goes to the weeping Cuthbertson, and pats him consolingly on the shoulder.)

      JULIA. Silly: only think! Dad’s not ill at all. It was only a mistake of Dr. Paramore’s. Oh, dear! (She catches Craven’s left hand and stoops to kiss it, his right hand being still on Cuthbertson’s shoulder.)

      SYLVIA (contemptuously). I knew it. Of course it was nothing but eating too much. I always said Paramore was an ass. (Sensation. Cuthbertson, Craven and Julia turn in consternation.)

      PARAMORE (without malice). Never mind, Miss Craven. That is what is being said all over Europe now. Never mind.

      SYLVIA (a little abashed). I’m so sorry, Dr. Paramore. You must excuse a daughter’s feelings.

      CRAVEN (huffed). It evidently doesn’t make much difference to you, Sylvia.

      SYLVIA. I’m not going to be sentimental over it, Dad, you may bet. (Coming to Craven.) Besides, I knew it was nonsense all along. (Petting him.) Poor dear old Dad! why should your days be numbered any more than