W. Somerset Maugham

The Scene is the same as in the preceding Act.

Two days have passed. It is Wednesday afternoon.

Mrs. Wharton is sitting by a little table, looking reflectively in front of her. On the table is a work-basket, and by the side of this a baby’s shirt that she is making. A fire is alight in the grate. After a minute, John comes in. She looks up at him with a pleasant smile. He goes to her and puts his hand on her shoulder. She gently pats his hand.

John.

Are you idling, mother? It’s not often I catch you giving the devil an opportunity.

Mrs. Wharton.

Isn’t it wicked of me?

John.

What is this you’re up to? What in heaven’s name are you making a baby’s shirt for? Hang it all, I’m not married yet.

Mrs. Wharton.

[Pretending to be a little shocked.] Don’t be naughty, John. It’s for poor Annie Black’s baby.

John.

Who’s she?

Mrs. Wharton.

She was engaged to Edward Driffield, the carpenter’s second man, and they were going to be married next time he came home on leave. He’s been killed, and she’s expecting a baby.

John.

Poor thing.

Mrs. Wharton.

The Pooles are looking after her. You see, she had nowhere to go, and they didn’t want her to have to go to the Workhouse, so Mrs. Poole has taken her in at the Vicarage. And I said I’d make all the baby’s things.

John.

[Affectionately.] You’re a nice old mother.

Mrs. Wharton.

Don’t you think it was good of the Pooles?

John.

Yes, charming.

Mrs. Wharton.

They’re coming here this afternoon, John. I wanted the Vicar to see your father.... I haven’t told your father they’re coming.

John.

Haven’t you?

Mrs. Wharton.

He’s rather sensitive just now. It’s quite natural, isn’t it? And I didn’t know exactly how he’d take it. I thought if Mrs. Poole came too it would look as though it were just a friendly visit. And perhaps the Vicar will have an opportunity to say a few words to your father.

John.

[Smiling.] I take it that you want me to help you to leave them alone together.

Mrs. Wharton.

I hate doing anything underhand, John, but I think it would help your father so much if he could have a little private talk with the Vicar.

John.

Why didn’t you suggest it to him?

Mrs. Wharton.

I didn’t like to. I was afraid he’d be vexed. I thought he’d suggest it himself.

John.

[Very tenderly.] Don’t distress yourself, mother.

Mrs. Wharton.

I’m trying not to think of it, John. My only hope is that the end may come without suffering.

John.

I wasn’t thinking of that.

Mrs. Wharton.

[After a moment’s pause.] I don’t know what you mean, John.

John.

Yes, you do. You only have to look in father’s face.

Mrs. Wharton.

I really don’t understand. [Almost vehemently.] You’re wrong, John. He suffers much more pain than you think. That’s what gives him that look.

John.

[Gravely.] It’s fear that’s in his face, mother, the fear of death. You know it just as well as I do.

Mrs. Wharton.

[With dismay.] I was so hoping that no one would know but me. It tears my heart. And I can do nothing. And he’s so strange. Sometimes he looks at me almost as though I were his enemy.

John.

He doesn’t want to die, does he? At the bottom of his heart is envy because you can go on living.

Mrs. Wharton.

Have you noticed that? I tried not to see it.

John.

Don’t be angry with him or disappointed. You know, it’s a hard thing to die for all of us. Generally one’s vitality is lowered so that life seems rather a burden, and it’s not very hard then to make a seemly end. But poor father’s got something much more difficult to face.

Mrs. Wharton.

He’s been supported all his life by his confidence in the great truths of our religion. Oh, John, it’s so dreadful that just at this moment, when he must put them all to the test, he should falter. It’s almost a betrayal of the God who loves him.

John.

My dear, you can’t imagine that God won’t understand? What do these last weeks matter beside a life that has been cheerful and innocent, devout, unselfish, and dutiful? We were talking about it the other day, don’t you remember? And I claimed that a man should be judged by what he believed and did in the heyday of his strength, and not by what was wrung from him in a moment of anguish. Pray that God may give my father courage and resignation.

Mrs. Wharton.

How can you ask me to pray, John, when you don’t believe in God?

John.

Pray all the same, my dear, and for me too.

Mrs. Wharton.

I don’t suppose I shall survive your father very long, dear. Husbands and wives who’ve been so much to one another as we have don’t often make a very good job of separation. I’m so glad to think that you’ll have Sylvia.

John.

Sylvia’s a good girl, isn’t she?

Mrs. Wharton.

When you were away I was dreadfully anxious on my own account, of course, but I was anxious on hers too. She’s had a very hard time with her mother, and there’s been dreadfully little money, only their pensions; if anything had happened to you, when her mother died she would have had practically nothing. You’ve been engaged so long and she’s not very young any more. It’s not likely that anyone else would have wanted to marry her.

John.

Mother darling, you’re being terribly sentimental now.

Mrs. Wharton.

[With comic indignation.] I’m not, John. You don’t know what it is for a penniless woman to be quite alone in the world when she’s lost her youth.

John.

Yes, I do. But the tears needn’t come into your eyes, because Sylvia and I are going to be married and her future is quite adequately provided for.

Mrs. Wharton.

She’s the only girl I’ve ever known that I could bear to think of your marrying.

John.

Well, as she’s the only girl I ever knew that I could bear to marry, we’re both quite satisfied.

[Kate enters, followed by Mrs. Littlewood.

Kate.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Exit Kate.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Kissing Mrs. Wharton.] How do you do?

Mrs. Wharton.

How are you, my dear?

Mrs. Littlewood.

[To John.] I brought you a wedding present, John.

[She hands him a small case in which is a pearl pin.

John.

Oh, I say, that is splendid of you. Just look, mother. Isn’t it a ripper?

Mrs. Littlewood.

It was Archie’s, you know. He always used to be so proud of it.

John.

It’s awfully good of you to give me something that belonged to him.

Mrs. Wharton.

That is nice of you, Charlotte.

Mrs. Littlewood.

Nonsense. It wasn’t any use to me any more. I thought it much better that John should have it than that it should lie in a safe. They tell me pearls go yellow if they’re not worn.

Mrs. Wharton.

John, dear, go and smoke a cigarette in the garden. I want to have a chat with Mrs. Littlewood.

John.

All right, mother.

[He goes out.

Mrs. Littlewood.

Do you know that I’m thinking of letting my house? I only kept it so that the boys should have a home to come to when they had a holiday, and now that they’re both dead, I think I shall find it more amusing to live in London. I shall join a bridge club.

Mrs. Wharton.

Charlotte, what does it mean? Why do you talk like that?

Mrs. Littlewood.

My dear, why shouldn’t I join a bridge club? [With a smile.] At my age it’s surely quite respectable.

Mrs. Wharton.

I’m bewildered. Don’t you want me to talk of your boys?

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Drily.] If you feel you really must pour out your sympathy, you may; but I don’t know that I particularly want it.

Mrs. Wharton.

No one can understand you. You’ve behaved so strangely since you came back from France.... I think it was dreadful of you to go to the theatre when the poor lad was hardly cold in his grave. You seem to think of nothing but bridge.

Mrs. Littlewood.

I suppose different people take things in different ways.

Mrs. Wharton.

I wonder if you’re quite in your right mind.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Somewhat amused.] Yes, I saw you wondered that.

Mrs. Wharton.

If you only knew how eager I am to help you. But you won’t let me come near you. We’ve known one another for more than thirty years, Charlotte. Why do you put up a stone wall between us?

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Gently, as though she were talking to a child.] My dear, don’t worry your kind heart. If I wanted your help I would come to you at once. But I don’t. I really don’t.

[Mrs. Wharton hears her husband’s step on the stairs.

Mrs. Wharton.

Here is George. [Going to the window.] You can come in when you want to, John.

[The Colonel comes into the room. His face is a little whiter than it was two days ago, and there is in his eyes every now and then a haunted look.

Mrs. Wharton.

Charlotte Littlewood is here, George.

Colonel Wharton.

So I see. How do you do?

Mrs. Littlewood.

You’re not looking quite up to the mark to-day, Colonel.

Colonel Wharton.

That’s a cheering thing to say to a man. I’m feeling pretty well.

Mrs. Wharton.

I was thinking he was looking much better the last day or two.

Colonel Wharton.

I presume it’s not on my account that you’ve lit the fire on a day like this.

Mrs. Wharton.

No, I feel a little chilly. You always forget that I’m not as young as I was, George.

[The Colonel sits down in an arm-chair and Mrs. Wharton takes a couple of cushions.

Mrs. Wharton.

Let me put them behind you, darling.

Colonel Wharton.

For goodness’ sake don’t fuss me, Evelyn. If I want cushions I’m perfectly capable of getting them for myself.

[John enters with Sylvia and hears the last two speeches.

John.

Come, come, father, you mustn’t spoil mother. She’s waited on us both for thirty years. Don’t let her get into bad habits at her time of life.

Mrs. Wharton.

Oh, Sylvia, we didn’t expect to see you to-day. You said you’d be too busy.

Sylvia.

I felt I must just look in and see how you all were.

[The Colonel gives her a suspicious look. She kisses Mrs. Wharton and Mrs. Littlewood and the Colonel.

John.

[Showing Sylvia the pearl pin.] Look what Mrs. Littlewood has given me. Makes it worth while being married, doesn’t it?

Sylvia.

Oh, how lovely!

Mrs. Littlewood.

You’ll find a little present waiting for you when you get home.

Sylvia.

How exciting! I shall run all the way back.

Mrs. Wharton.

Now you’re here you’d better stay to tea, darling.

Sylvia.

I really can’t. I’ve got so much to do at home.

John.

Nonsense. You’ve got nothing to do at all. We’re not going to dream of letting you go.

Sylvia.

Remember that you’ll have me always from to-morrow on. Don’t you think you could well spare me to-day?

John.

No.

Sylvia.

Tiresome creature. Though I must say it’s rather pleasing.

Colonel Wharton.

I never saw two young people who were so thoroughly satisfied with one another as you are.

John.

[Putting his arm round Sylvia’s waist.] But I’m not in the least satisfied with Sylvia. I should like her to have jet black hair and eyes like sloes.

Sylvia.

What are sloes, idiot?

John.

I don’t know, but I’ve read about them from my youth up.

Sylvia.

Oh, Colonel, d’you know that on my way here through the fields, I actually saw a rabbit?

John.

I hear there’s absolutely nothing on the place now, father.

Colonel Wharton.

No, the vermin’s been allowed to increase so. There are one or two cock pheasants round the house and that’s about all. I don’t know what next season—but after all, I needn’t worry myself about next season. That’ll be your trouble, John.

John.

I wish I had as much chance of getting a shot at those cock pheasants as you have.

Colonel Wharton.

By George, I wish I were twenty years younger. I’d take my chance of being shot by a German. It’s a bit better than dying like a rat in a trap.

[Kate enters to announce the Vicar and Mrs. Poole.

Kate.

Mr. and Mrs. Poole.

[Exit.

Mrs. Wharton.

How do you do?

[There are general greetings. The Colonel looks at them and from them to his wife, suspiciously. The Pooles are rather cold with Mrs. Littlewood.

Colonel Wharton.

How do you do? It’s good of you to have come. Sit down.

Mrs. Poole.

Well, Sylvia, are you all ready for to-morrow?

Sylvia.

More or less.

Mrs. Poole.

We thought you might intend to postpone the wedding for a few days.

Colonel Wharton.

They’ve waited long enough. Why should they wish to do that?

Sylvia.

[Hastily.] I told Mrs. Poole yesterday that I didn’t think I could possibly get everything arranged by to-morrow.

Colonel Wharton.

I see that my wife has told you that I’m not very well.

Mrs. Poole.

Oh, aren’t you, Colonel? I’m so sorry to hear that.

Vicar.

She told me this morning after Communion that you weren’t quite up to the mark these days.

Colonel Wharton.

I remember in Egypt, when a horse or a mule sickened, the vultures used to gather round out of an empty sky. Most remarkable.

Mrs. Wharton.

George, what are you saying?

Colonel Wharton.

[With a bitter chuckle.] Did Evelyn ask you to come and minister to me?

Vicar.

It’s not very unnatural that when I hear you’re ill I should like to come and see you. And, of course, it does happen to be one of the duties of my office.

Colonel Wharton.

I don’t know why Evelyn should think I want to be molly-coddled out of the world like an old woman. I’ve faced death before. I don’t suppose anyone wants to die before he must, but when my time comes I hope to face it like a gentleman and a soldier.

John.

Oh, that I should live to hear my own father talking through his hat. Don’t you believe a word those rotten old doctors say. You’ll live to bully your devoted family for another twenty years.

Colonel Wharton.

Don’t talk nonsense to me, John. You all treat me like a child. No one must cross me. I must be petted and spoilt and amused and humoured. God damn it, you never let me forget it for a minute.

Mrs. Wharton.

Shall we go for a little turn in the garden? The sun is out now.

Colonel Wharton.

If you like. I shall stay here. I’m chilly.

Mrs. Wharton.

A stroll would do you good, George. The Vicar was asking how the new Buff Orpingtons were getting on.

Colonel Wharton.

[With a chuckle.] You’re very transparent, my poor Evelyn. When I want to have a chat with the Vicar I’ll let him know.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Who has been watching the scene with some amusement.] Why don’t you have a game of piquet with me, Colonel?

Colonel Wharton.

I haven’t played piquet for years. I will with pleasure. Where are the cards, Evelyn?

Mrs. Wharton.

I’ll get them for you.

[She gets cards from a drawer, and puts them on the card table. The Colonel sits down at the table and sorts the piquet cards out of the pack.

Vicar.

I called on you on Monday, Mrs. Littlewood.

Mrs. Littlewood.

So I heard.

Vicar.

I was told you were not at home. As I walked away it was impossible for me not to see that you were in your garden.

Mrs. Littlewood.

It’s inadequately protected from the road.

Vicar.

I was rather hurt. I’m not aware that there’s been anything in my behaviour since I came here to justify you in treating me with discourtesy. Our relations have always been more than cordial.

Mrs. Littlewood.

I didn’t wish to see you.

Vicar.

So much as that I had the intelligence to infer. But I felt it my duty not to allow pique to interfere with the due discharge of my office. I had various things to say to you which I thought you should hear, so yesterday I called again, and again was told you were out.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Coolly.] I didn’t wish to see you.

Vicar.

May I ask why?

Mrs. Littlewood.

Well, I suppose you wanted to talk about my boy. I didn’t think your conversation could give him back to me.

Vicar.

Don’t you think I could have helped you to bear your loss? I think I could have found in my heart words to persuade you to resignation. I might at least have offered you my sympathy.

Mrs. Littlewood.

I’m sorry to seem ungracious, but I don’t want your sympathy.

Vicar.

Your attitude amazes me.

Mrs. Poole.

If we didn’t all know how devoted you were to your sons, one might really think you were indifferent to their loss.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Reflectively.] No, I’m not exactly indifferent.

Vicar.

Since you won’t see me alone, I must say things to you here and now which I should rather have kept for your private ear. I have a right to remonstrate with you because your behaviour is a scandal to my parish.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[With a smile.] Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought it was my welfare you were concerned with. If it’s that of the parish, pray say anything you like.

Vicar.

[Flushing, but not to be put off.] I think it was horrible to go to a music-hall on the very day you had returned from your son’s grave in France. But that was in London, and you outraged nobody but yourself. What you do here is different. This is a very small place, and it’s shameful that you should give parties and go about from house to house playing cards.

Mrs. Poole.

It seems so heartless not to wear mourning.

John.

[Rather flippantly, to prevent the conversation from growing too awkward.] Why? I certainly should hate anyone to wear mourning for me.

Vicar.

You give all and sundry the impression that you’re perfectly callous. What influence do you think such a thing may have on these young fellows in the village who have to risk their lives with all the other brave lads at the front? You take from them the comfort that we at home love them and if they fall will hold their memories gratefully in our hearts for ever.

Mrs. Littlewood.

I shouldn’t have thought the eccentricity of one old woman could matter very much to anyone.

[She pauses and looks out into the open for a moment, and then makes up her mind to speak. She speaks quite quietly, almost to herself.

When they sent for me and I went over to France I wasn’t very anxious, because I knew that God, who had taken my eldest son, would leave my second. You see, he was the only one I had left. And when I got there and found he was dead—I suddenly felt that it didn’t matter.

Mrs. Wharton.

My dear, what do you mean? How can you say such a thing?

John.

Don’t, mother. Let her go on.

Mrs. Littlewood.

I didn’t feel that anything very much mattered. It’s difficult to explain exactly what I mean. I feel that I have nothing more to do with the world and the world has nothing more to do with me. So far as I’m concerned it’s a failure. You know I wasn’t very happy in my married life, but I loved my two sons, and they made everything worth while, and now they’re gone. Let others take up the—the adventure. I step aside.

Mrs. Wharton.

You’ve suffered too much, my dear.

Mrs. Littlewood.

No, the strange thing is that I haven’t suffered very much. Don’t you know how sometimes one has a horrid dream and knows one’s only dreaming all the time? [To the Vicar, with the same good temper, almost amused.] You’re surprised that I should go to the theatre. Why? To me, it’s no more unreal a spectacle than life. Life does seem to me just like a play now. I can’t take it very seriously. I feel strangely detached. I have no ill-feeling for my fellow-creatures, but you don’t seem very real to me or very important. Why shouldn’t I play bridge with you?

Vicar.

Oh, but, my dear, my dear, there’s one reality that you can never escape from. There’s God.

[A flash passes behind the old woman’s eyes. She rises and puts out her hand as though to ward off a blow.

Mrs. Littlewood.

I don’t think we’ll talk about God if you please. I prefer to play piquet.

[She sits down at the table at which the Colonel has already taken his seat.

Colonel Wharton.

Do you play four hands or six to the game?

Mrs. Littlewood.

Four—and double the first and last. It makes it more exciting.

Colonel Wharton.

Shall we cut for deal?

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Cutting.] You’re not likely to beat that.

Colonel Wharton.

I suppose in the Vicar’s presence we daren’t play for money?

Mrs. Littlewood.

We’ll pretend he’s not there. Will a shilling a hundred suit you?

Colonel Wharton.

I don’t think that’ll break either of us.

[Kate enters, followed by Dr. Macfarlane.

Kate.

Dr. Macfarlane.

[Exit.

Dr. Macfarlane.

How d’you do?

Mrs. Wharton.

[Shaking hands with him.] So nice of you to come in.

Dr. Macfarlane.

How is the Colonel to-day?

Colonel Wharton.

Playing piquet.

John.

You’re coming to-morrow, aren’t you, Doctor?

Dr. Macfarlane.

Of course I am. I brought you both into the world. I have almost a personal interest in seeing you made one flesh.

Vicar.

[Jovially.] It’s many a long day since you’ve been inside a church, Doctor.

Dr. Macfarlane.

Since you clerical gentlemen left off threatening me with eternal flames I feel justified in following my own inclinations in the matter.

Vicar.

[Chaffing him.] But we still believe in annihilation.

Dr. Macfarlane.

I’m willing to take my chance of that. It has no terrors for a man who’s not had a holiday for twenty years.

Vicar.

You’re not an irreligious man. I don’t know why you don’t come to church.

Dr. Macfarlane.

Shall I tell you? Because after repeated experiment I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m not a whit the better for it.

John.

You’ll have to give him up, Vicar. He’s a stubborn old thing. He takes advantage of the fact that he’s the only doctor within ten miles who won’t kill you so long as he can make seven and sixpence a visit by keeping you alive.

Colonel Wharton.

Do you mean to say that our Church doesn’t believe any longer in eternal punishment?

John.

Oh, father, hell has always left me perfectly cold. You and I are quite safe. You see, mother would never be happy in heaven without us, and God couldn’t refuse her anything she asked.

Mrs. Wharton.

[Affectionately.] John, what nonsense you talk.

Mrs. Poole.

I sometimes think the modern Church has been very rash in surrendering a belief which has the authority of Our Lord himself. How many sinners have been brought to repentance by the fear of everlasting punishment!

John.

That rather suggests calling down fire from heaven to light a cigar.

Mrs. Poole.

That may be funny, but I don’t see the point of it.

John.

[Good-humouredly.] Well, I should have thought it hardly required anything so tremendous as eternity to deal with human wickedness. I suppose sin is due to a man’s character, which he can’t help, or to his ignorance, for which he isn’t to blame.

Vicar.

In fact, to your mind sin is all moonshine.

John.

I think it a pity that Christianity has laid so much stress on it. We assert in church that we’re miserable sinners, but I don’t think we mean it, and what’s more I don’t think we are.

Mrs. Poole.

We are conceived in sin, and sin is part of our inheritance. Why did Christ die if not to atone for the sin of men?

John.

In war one gets to know very intimately all sorts of queer people. I don’t suppose I shall ever know any men so well as I knew the men in my company. They were honest and brave and cheerful, unselfish, good fellows; perhaps they swore a good deal, and they got drunk if they had the chance, and they had the glad eye for a pretty girl. But do you think they were sinners for that? I don’t.

Vicar.

Look in your own heart and say if you are not conscious of grievous, terrible sin.

John.

Frankly, I’m not.

Vicar.

Do you mean to say that you have nothing to reproach yourself with?

John.

I’ve done a certain number of things which I think were rather foolish, but I can’t think of anything that I’m particularly ashamed of.

Vicar.

Do you mean to tell me that you’ve always been perfectly chaste?

John.

I’m normal and healthy. I’ve been no more chaste than any other man of my age.

Vicar.

And isn’t that sin?

John.

I don’t think so. I think it’s human nature.

Vicar.

We’re arguing at cross-purposes. If when you say “white” you mean what the rest of the world calls “black,” all words are futile.

John.

[With a smile.] The singular thing is that if I’d answered your question with a “yes,” you would probably have thought me a liar or a fool.

Vicar.

This terrible condition of humanity, which seems to cry out against the very idea either of man’s dignity, or of God’s justice, has but one explanation, and that is sin.

John.

You’re referring to the war? It needs some explaining, doesn’t it?

Vicar.

Every Christian must have asked himself why God allows the infamous horror of war. I’m told the padres are constantly being asked by the brave lads at the Front why the Almighty allows it to continue. I can’t blame anyone for being puzzled. I’ve wrestled with the question long and anxiously.... I can’t believe that God would leave His children to suffer without a clue to His intention.

Mrs. Poole.

The ways of God are inscrutable. How can we tell what are the aims of the eternal? We only know that they are good.

John.

Meanwhile men are being killed like flies, their wives and mothers are left desolate, and their children fatherless.

Vicar.

You mustn’t forget exactly what is meant by “Almighty.” It means not so much able to do all things as powerful over all things.

John.

Ah, the padre of my regiment told me that. I may be very stupid, but I think the distinction rather fine. For the plain man the difficulty remains. Either God can’t stop the war even if He wants to, or He can stop it and won’t.

Mrs. Poole.

In my opinion there can be no hesitation. It is written: “Not a sparrow shall fall on the ground without your Father.”

Vicar.

Remember that we have free will and God makes use of our free will to punish us and to teach us and to make us more worthy of His grace and mercy. Man, born in sin, justly brought this long-drawn disaster on himself as surely as Adam brought on himself the divine punishment which we all inherit.

John.

If I saw two small boys fighting I’d separate them, even though one was a lazy little beggar and the other had stolen Farmer Giles’ apples. I wouldn’t sit by and let them seriously hurt one another so that they should be better boys in future.

Mrs. Poole.

But you speak as though all this suffering must be useless. We all know how suffering can purify and elevate. I’ve seen it myself over and over again.

Dr. Macfarlane.

People say that. They’re generally thinking of elderly ladies in comfortable circumstances who with the aid of a very good doctor show a becoming resignation in a chronic disease.

John.

I should like some of those people who talk about the purifying influence of suffering to have a mouthful of gas and see how they liked it.

Vicar.

The war is terrible. Its cruelty is terrible. The suffering it has caused is terrible. There is only one explanation for it; and that is the loving kindness and the infinite mercy of our heavenly Father.

John.

Can you bring yourself to believe that?

Vicar.

We were given over to drunkenness and lust, to selfishness and flippancy and pride. It needed this tremendous trial to purify us. It will be a nobler England that comes out of the furnace. Oh, I pray to God that all this blood may wash our souls clean so that we may once more be found worthy in His sight.

Mrs. Poole.

Amen.

John.

You must evidently know much more about it than I do. When the men in my company did things I thought were wrong I used to jolly them a bit. I fancy I got better results than if I’d bashed them on the head with a sledge-hammer.

Vicar.

Sin began with the beginning of the human story and has continued through all its course. The motive of the divine redemption lies in the fact that men, though created for so lofty a purpose, have plunged so deep into sin and have so deeply defaced in themselves the image of God, that only the self-sacrificing act of God in redeeming them can raise them from ruin.

John.

I wish you’d been a company-commander and had seen how gaily a man can give his life for his friend.

Vicar.

But I know, my dear boy, I know. And do you think God will be unmindful of their sacrifice? I pray and believe that they will find mercy in His sight. I am sure He is more ready to pardon than to punish. After all, our Lord came to call sinners to repentance, and who should know better than the Ministers of God that to err is human, to forgive, divine?

Mrs. Littlewood.

And who is going to forgive God?

Mrs. Wharton.

[With horror.] Charlotte!

Vicar.

[With grave disapproval.] Don’t you think that is rather blasphemous?

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Quietly and deliberately at first, but with ever-increasing excitement.] Ever since I was a child I’ve served God with all my might, and with all my heart, and with all my soul. I’ve tried always to lead my life in accordance with His will. I never forgot that I was as nothing in His sight. I’ve been weak and sinful, but I’ve tried to do my duty.

Mrs. Wharton.

Yes, dear, you’ve been an example to us all.

Mrs. Littlewood.

[Taking no notice.] Honestly, I’ve done everything I could that I thought was pleasing in His sight. I’ve praised Him and magnified His name. You’ve heard that my husband deserted me when I’d borne him two children, and I was left alone. I brought them up to be honest, upright and God-fearing men. When God took my eldest son I wept, but I turned to the Lord and said: “Thy will be done.” He was a soldier, and he took his chance, and he died in a good cause.

Vicar.

A great and a good cause.

Mrs. Littlewood.

But why did God take my second? He was the only one I had left, the only comfort of my old age, my only joy, the only thing I had to prevent me from seeing that my life had been wasted and it would have been better if I had never been born. I haven’t deserved that. When a horse has served me long and faithfully till he’s too old to work I have the right to send him to the knacker’s yard, but I don’t, I put him out to grass. I wouldn’t treat a dog as my Father has treated me. I’ve been cheated. You say that God will forgive us our sins, but who is going to forgive God? Not I. Never. Never!

Mrs. Wharton.

Don’t be angry with her, Vicar. She’s beside herself with grief.

Vicar.

She’ll come back. She’s like a petulant child that has been thwarted for its good. It cries and stamps, but in a little while it throws itself into its mother’s arms, and begs, all tears, for forgiveness.

Mrs. Poole.

[With a little sigh of relief.] I knew you’d take it like that, Norman. You’re so tolerant and broad-minded.

Vicar.

I think I see my way to help her, poor soul.

John.

I wonder how. Your only explanation of evil is sin. I daresay you can get people to acknowledge that they’ve deserved their own suffering. But you’ll never prevent them from being revolted at the suffering of others. Why is evil permitted in the world by an all-good God?

Vicar.

I can hardly hope that any answer of mine will satisfy you. By God’s grace I am a Christian. You are an atheist.

John.

That suggests a very dogmatic attitude. I don’t see how anyone can positively assert that there is no God. It would be as reasonable as to assert that there’s nothing on the other side of a wall that you can’t look over.

Vicar.

Do you believe in God?

John.

I don’t think it’s quite your business to ask me. [With a smile.] Wasn’t it St. Paul who said: “Be not zealous overmuch.”

Vicar.

You can’t be unaware that by certain statements of yours the other day you gave the greatest pain to those nearest and dearest to you.

Sylvia.

What you said made me very unhappy, John. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the Vicar and asked his advice.

John.

Don’t you think that a man’s belief is his own affair? I don’t want to interfere with other people’s. Why can’t they leave me quietly to mine?

Sylvia.

It can’t be entirely your affair, John. You and I propose to be married to-morrow. It’s only reasonable that I should know exactly how you stand in a matter that concerns me so closely.

John.

I hadn’t thought of that. I daresay there’s something in what you say. I’m willing to do my best to explain to you and to father and mother. But I really think we needn’t drag strangers in.

Mrs. Wharton.

I think it would be much better if you would talk with the Vicar, John. We don’t pretend to be very clever, and it wouldn’t mean much if you asked us questions that we couldn’t answer.

Vicar.

When you’re ill you send for a doctor, he prescribes for you, and you get well.

John.

[With a smile.] What do you think of that, doctor?

Dr. Macfarlane.

It is an idea that we do our little best to spread about the world.

Vicar.

Anyhow, you take a doctor’s advice and you don’t argue with him. Why? Because he’s an expert, and you presume that he knows his business. Why should the science of the immortal soul be a less complicated affair than the science of the perishable body?

Mrs. Wharton.

Look upon us as very silly, old-fashioned people, and be kind to us. If various doubts are troubling you, put them frankly before the Vicar. Perhaps he can help you.

Vicar.

[Sincerely.] Believe me, I’ll do everything in my power.

Mrs. Wharton.

And if he can convince you that you were wrong, I know you too well to dream that pride would stop you from confessing it. It would give us such heartfelt joy, my dear, if you could believe again as you did when you were a little child and used to say your prayers kneeling on my lap.

Vicar.

I really think I can help you. Won’t you forget that I’m a stranger and let me try?

Dr. Macfarlane.

Perhaps you’d like me to leave you. I was only waiting till the Colonel had finished his game so that I might take him upstairs and have a look at him. But I can come back later.

John.

I don’t mind your staying at all. [To the Vicar.] What is it you wish to ask me?

Vicar.

Do you believe in the God in whose name you were baptised into the Church?

John.

No!

Vicar.

That at all events is frank and honest. But aren’t you a little out of date? One of the most gratifying occurrences of recent years has been the revival of belief among thoughtful men.

John.

I should have thought it was a revival of rhetoric rather than of religion. I’m not enormously impressed by the cultured journalist who uses God to balance a sentence or adorn a phrase.

Vicar.

But it hasn’t only been among educated men. Not the least remarkable thing about the war has been the return of our brave lads at the Front to the faith which so many of us thought they had forgotten. What is your explanation of that?

John.

Fear with the most part. Perplexity with the rest.

Vicar.

Don’t you think it very rash to reject a belief that all the ablest men in the world have held since the dawn of history?

John.

When you’re dealing with a belief, neither the number nor the ability of those who hold it makes it a certainty. Only proof can do that.

Mrs. Poole.

Are you quite sure that at the bottom of your heart it’s not conceit that makes you think differently from the rest of us?

Vicar.

No, my dear, let us not ascribe unworthy motives to our antagonist.

John.

[Smiling.] At all events, not yet.

Vicar.

What makes you think that the existence of God can’t be proved?

John.

I suppose at this time of day people wouldn’t still be proving it if proof were possible.

Vicar.

My dear fellow, the fact that there is no people on the face of the earth, however barbarous and degraded, without some belief in God, is the most conclusive proof you can want.

John.

What of? It’s conclusive proof that the desire for His existence is universal. It’s not proof that the desire is fulfilled.

Vicar.

I see you have the usual Rationalistic arguments at your fingers’ ends. Believe me, they’re old friends, and if I’ve answered them once I’ve answered them a thousand times.

John.

And have you ever convinced anyone who wasn’t convinced before?

Vicar.

I can’t make the blind to see, you know.

John.

I wonder that hasn’t suggested to you a very obvious conclusion.

Vicar.

What?

John.

Why, that arguments are futile. Think for a minute. You don’t believe in God for any of the reasons that are given for His existence. You believe in Him because with all your heart you feel that He exists. No argument can ever touch that feeling. The heart is independent of logic and its rules.

Vicar.

I daresay there’s something in what you say.

John.

Well, it’s the same with me. If you ask me why I don’t believe in the existence of God I suppose I can give you a certain number of reasons, but the real one, the one that gives all the others their force, is that I feel it in my heart.

Vicar.

What is the cause of your feeling?

John.

I’m sure you’ll think it very insufficient. I had a friend and he was killed.

Vicar.

I’m afraid one must be prepared to lose one’s friends in a war like this.

John.

I daresay it’s very silly and sentimental of me. One gets used to one’s pals dying. Someone says to you: “So-and-So’s knocked out.” And you answer: “Is he really? Poor chap.” And you don’t think very much more about it. Robbie Harrison wasn’t quite an ordinary man.

Mrs. Wharton.

I was afraid you’d feel his death very much. You never mentioned it in your letters. I felt it was because you couldn’t bear to speak of it.

John.

He was one of those lucky beggars who do everything a little better than anybody else. He was clever and awfully nice-looking and amusing. I never knew anyone who loved life so much as he did.

Mrs. Wharton.

Yes, I remember his saying to me once: “Isn’t it ripping to be alive?”

John.

But there was something more in him than that. He had one quality which was rather out of the ordinary. It’s difficult to explain what it was like. It seemed to shine about him like a mellow light. It was like the jolly feeling of the country in May. And do you know what it was? Goodness. Just goodness. He was the sort of man that I should like to be.

Mrs. Wharton.

He was a dear.

John.

I was awfully excited when war was declared. I was in India at the time. I moved heaven and earth to get out to the Front. I thought war the noblest sport in the world. I found it a dreary, muddy, dirty, stinking, bloody business. And I suppose Robbie’s death was the last straw. It seemed so unjust. I don’t know that it was grief so much that I felt as indignation. I was revolted by all the horror and pain and suffering.

Mrs. Poole.

You must have seen some dreadful things.

John.

Perhaps it’s Christianity that has shown us the possibility of a higher morality than Christianity teaches. I daresay I’m quite wrong. I can only tell you that all that’s moral in my soul revolts at the thought of a God who can permit the monstrous iniquity of war. I can’t believe that there is a God in heaven.

Vicar.

But do you realise that if there isn’t, the world is meaningless?

John.

That may be. But if there is it’s infamous.

Vicar.

What have you got to put in the place of religion? What answer can you give to the riddle of the universe?

John.

I may think your answer wrong and yet have no better one to put in its place.

Vicar.

Have you nothing to tell us at all when we ask you why man is here and what is his destiny? You are like a rudderless ship in a stormy sea.

John.

I suppose the human race has arisen under the influence of conditions which are part of the earth’s history, and under the influence of other conditions it will come to an end. I don’t see that there is any more meaning in life than in the statement that two and two are four.

Sylvia.

[With suppressed passion.] Then you think that all our efforts and struggles, our pain and sorrow, our aims, are senseless?

John.

Do you remember our going to the Russian ballet before the war? I’ve never forgotten a certain gesture of one of the dancers. It was an attitude she held for an instant, in the air; it was the most lovely thing I ever saw in my life; you felt it could only have been achieved by infinite labour, and the fact that it was so fleeting, like the shadow of a bird flying over a river, made it all the more wonderful. I’ve often thought of it since, and it has seemed to me a very good symbol of life.

Sylvia.

John, you can’t be serious.

John.

I’ll tell you what I mean. Life seems to me like a huge jig-saw puzzle that doesn’t make any picture, but if we like we can make little patterns, as it were, out of the pieces.

Sylvia.

What is the use of that?

John.

There’s no use, and no need. It’s merely something we can do for our own satisfaction. Pain and sorrow are some of the pieces that we have to deal with. By making the most of all our faculties, by using all our opportunities, out of the manifold events of life, our deeds, our feelings, our thoughts, we can make a design which is intricate, dignified, and beautiful. And death at one stroke completes and destroys it.

Mrs. Poole.

I wonder why you’re coming to church to-morrow to be married?

John.

[With a smile.] I think Sylvia would be outraged at the thought of being married in a registry office.

Mrs. Poole.

It’s lucky for you the Vicar is broad-minded. A stricter man might think it his duty to refuse the blessing of the Church to an unbeliever.

Mrs. Wharton.

[Anxiously.] Vicar, you’re not thinking of doing anything like that?

Vicar.

I confess the question has crossed my mind. [Kindly.] I don’t think I can bring myself to expose such good Christians as you and Sylvia to such a humiliation.

Sylvia.

You need not harass yourself, Vicar. I’ve decided not to marry John.

John.

[Aghast.] Sylvia! Sylvia, you can’t mean that!

Sylvia.

I was dreadfully troubled the other day when you told us you’d lost your faith, but I hadn’t the courage to say anything then. It came as such an awful shock.

John.

But you never made the least sign.

Sylvia.

I hadn’t time to think it out, but I’ve been thinking hard ever since, day and night, and I’ve listened very carefully to what you’ve said to-day. I can’t keep up the pretence any more. I’ve quite made up my mind. I won’t marry you.

John.

But in God’s name, why?

Sylvia.

You are not the John I loved and promised myself to. It’s a different man that has come back from abroad. I have nothing in common with that man.

John.

Sylvia, you don’t mean to say that you don’t care for me any more because on certain matters I don’t hold the same views as you?

Sylvia.

But those matters are the most important in the world. You talk as though it were a difference of opinion over the colour of our drawing-room curtains. You don’t even understand me any more.

John.

How can I understand something that seems absolutely unreasonable to me?

Sylvia.

Do you think religion is something I take up with my Prayer-book when I go to church, and put away on a shelf when I get home again? John, God is a living presence that is always with me. I never at any moment lose the consciousness of that divine love which with infinite mercy tends and protects me.

John.

But, dear heart, you know me well enough. You know I would never hinder you in the exercise of your religion. I would always treat it with the utmost respect.

Sylvia.

How could we possibly be happy when all that to me is the reason and the beauty of life, to you is nothing but a lie?

John.

With tolerance on both sides, and, I hope, respect, there’s no reason why two people shouldn’t live peaceably together no matter how different their views are.

Sylvia.

How can I be tolerant when I see you deep in error? Oh, it’s more than error, it’s sin. You’ve had your choice between light and darkness, and you’ve deliberately chosen darkness. You are a deserter. If words mean anything at all you are condemned.

John.

But, my dear, a man believes what he can. You don’t seriously think that a merciful God is going to punish him because he’s unable to believe something that he finds incredible?

Sylvia.

No one doubts that Our Lord will have mercy on those who have never had the chance of receiving His teaching. You’ve had the chance, and you’ve refused to take it. Do you forget the Parable of the Ten Talents? It is a terrible warning.

John.

After all, if I’m wrong I hurt nobody but myself.

Sylvia.

You forget what marriage is. It makes us one flesh. I am bidden to cleave to you and to follow you. How can I, when our souls must ever be separated by an unsurpassable abyss?

Mrs. Wharton.

Sylvia, this is a dreadfully grave decision you’re making. Be careful that you’re acting rightly.

John.

Sylvia, you can’t throw me over like this after we’ve been engaged for seven years. It’s too heartless.

Sylvia.

I don’t trust you. I have no hold over you. What have you to aim at beside the satisfaction of your own vulgar appetite? Sin means nothing to you.

John.

My dear, you don’t suppose it’s religion that makes a man decent? If he’s kind and honest and truthful it’s because it’s his nature, not because he believes in God or fears hell.

Sylvia.

We’re neither of us very young any more, there’s no reason why we should make a mystery of natural things. If we married my greatest hope was that we should have children.

John.

It was mine too.

Sylvia.

Have you asked yourself how this would affect them? Which are they to be, Christians or Agnostics?

John.

My dear, I promise you I will not interfere with your teaching of them.

Sylvia.

Do you mean to say you will stand by while they are taught a pack of worthless lies?

John.

Your faith has been the faith of our people for hundreds of years. In the case of a difference of opinion I could not take it on myself to refuse children instruction in it. When they reach years of discretion they can judge for themselves.

Sylvia.

And supposing they ask you about things? The story of Our Saviour appeals to children, you know. It’s very natural that they should put you questions. What will you answer?

John.

I don’t think you could ask me to say what I thought untrue.

Mrs. Wharton.

He could always refer them to you, Sylvia dear.

Sylvia.

You naturally wouldn’t come to church. What sort of an example would you set your children in a matter of which I was impressing on them the enormous importance?

John.

[With a smile.] My dear, surely you’re letting a lack of humour cloud a lively intelligence. Vast numbers of excellent churchmen don’t go to church, and I’m not aware that their children are corrupted by it.

Sylvia.

[Passionately.] You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. It’s a joke to you. It’s all over and done with, John. Let me go. I beseech you to let me go.

Colonel Wharton.

[Half rising from his chair.] I feel most awfully ill.

Mrs. Wharton.

[In alarm.] George!

John.

[Simultaneously.] Father!

[Mrs. Wharton, John, and the Doctor hurry towards him.