THE COLLECTED PLAYS OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

      Basil.

      [Gravely.] Jenny would kill herself if I didn't marry her.

      John.

      You don't seriously think she'd do that. People don't commit suicide so easily, you know.

      Basil.

      You've thought of a great deal, John—you've not thought of the child. I can't let the child skulk into the world like a thief. Let him come in openly and lawfully. And let him go through the world with an honest name. Good heavens, the world's bad enough without fettering him all his life with a hideous stigma.

      John.

      Oh, my dear Basil ...

      Basil.

      [Interrupting.] You can bring forward a thousand objections, but nothing alters the fact that, under the circumstances, there's only one way open to a man of honour.

      John.

      [Drily.] Well, it's a way that may do credit to your heart, but scarcely to your understanding.

      Basil.

      I thought you'd see at once that I was doing the only possible thing.

      John.

      My dear Basil, you talk of pity, and you talk of duty, but are you sure there's anything more in it than vanity? You've set yourself up on a sort of moral pinnacle. Are you sure you don't admire your own heroism a little too much?

      Basil.

      [With a good-natured smile.] Does it look so petty as that in your eyes? After all, it's only common morality.

      John.

      [Impatiently.] But, my dear chap, its absurd to act according to an unrealisable ideal in a world that's satisfied with the second-rate. You're tendering bank-notes to African savages, among whom cowrie shells are common coin.

      Basil.

      [Smiling.] I don't know what you mean.

      John.

      Society has made its own decalogue, a code that's just fit for middling people who are not very good and not very wicked. But Society punishes you equally if your actions are higher than its ideal or lower.

      Basil.

      Sometimes it makes a god of you when you're dead.

      John.

      But it takes precious good care to crucify you when you're alive.

      [There is a knock at the door, and Mrs. Griggs comes in.

      Mrs. Griggs.

      Some more visitors, Sir.

      Basil.

      Show 'em in. [To John] It's Jenny. She said she was coming to tea.

      John.

      [With a smile.] Oh, the cake was for her, was it? Would you like me to go?

      Basil.

      Not unless you choose. Do you suppose I'm ashamed?

      John.

      I thought, after all you've told me, you might not care for me to see her.

      [Jenny Bush and her brother James come in. She is very pretty, with delicate features and a beautiful complexion: her fair hair is abundant and very elaborately arranged. She is dressed smartly, rather showily. It is the usual type of barmaid, or tea-girl, a shade more refined perhaps than the common run. Her manners are unobjectionable, but not those of a gentlewoman. James is a young man with clean-shaven face and a sharp expression. He is over-dressed in a very horsey manner, and is distinctly more vulgar than his sister. He talks English with a cockney accent, not invariably dropping his aitches, but only now and then. He is over cordial and over genial.

      Jenny.

      [Going up to Basil.] I'm awfully late, I couldn't come before.

      James.

      [Jocosely.] Don't mind me. Give 'im a kiss, old tart.

      Jenny.

      Oh, I brought my brother Jimmie to see you.

      Basil.

      [Shaking hands.] How d'you do?

      James.

      Nicely, thanks. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

      Jenny.

      [Looking at John and suddenly recognising him.]

      Well, I never! If that isn't old John Halliwell. I didn't expect to see you. This is a treat.

      John.

      How d'you do?

      Jenny.

      What are you doing here?

      John.

      I've been having a cup of tea with Basil.

      Jenny.

      [Looking at the tea-things.] D'you always drink out of three cups at once?

      John.

      My wife has been here—and her sister.

      Jenny.

      Oh, I see. Fancy your being married. How d'you like it?

      John.

      All right, thanks.

      [Basil pours out a cup of tea, and during the following speeches gives Jenny milk and sugar and cake.

      James.

      People say it wants a bit of gettin' used to.

      John.

      Mr. Bush, you're a philosopher.

      James.

      Well, I will say this for myself, you'd want to get up early in the morning to catch me nappin'. I didn't catch your name.

      John.

      Halliwell.

      James.

      'Alliwell?

      John.

      [Emphasising the H.] Halliwell.

      James.

      That's what I say—'Alliwell. I knew a fellow in the meat trade called 'Alliwell. Any relation?

      John.

      I don't think so.

      James.

      Fine business 'e 'ad too. There's a rare lot of money to be made out of meat.

      John.

      I dare say.

      Jenny.

      [To John.] It is a long time since I've seen you. I suppose you've quietened down now you're a married man. You were a hot 'un when you was a bachelor.

      James.

      [Facetiously.] Don't make 'im blush, Jenny. Accidents will 'appen in the best regulated families. And boys will be boys, as they say in the Bible.

      John.

      I think I must be off, Basil.

      James.

      Well, I'll be toddlin' too. I only come in just to say 'ow d'you do to my future brother-in-law. I'm a fellow as likes to be cordial. There's no 'aughtiness about me.

      Basil.

      [Politely, but not effusively.] Oh; won't you stay and have some tea?

      James.

      No, thanks. I'm not much of an 'and at tea; I leave that to females. I like something stronger myself.

      Jenny.

      [Remonstrating.] Jimmie!