[Archie appears at the garden door.]
BERTHA.
I did not deceive you.
[She goes out through the folding doors. Richard remains standing at the table. Archie, when his mother has gone, runs down to Richard.]
ARCHIE.
[Quickly.] Well, did you ask her?
RICHARD.
[Starting.] What?
ARCHIE.
Can I go?
RICHARD.
Yes.
ARCHIE.
In the morning? She said yes?
RICHARD.
Yes. In the morning.
[He puts his arm round his son’s shoulders and looks down at him fondly.]
Second Act
A room in Robert Hand’s cottage at Ranelagh. On the right, forward, a small black piano, on the rest of which is an open piece of music. Farther back a door leading to the street door. In the wall, at the back, folding doors, draped with dark curtains, leading to a bedroom. Near the piano a large table, on which is a tall oil lamp with a wide yellow shade. Chairs, upholstered, near this table. A small cardtable more forward. Against the back wall a bookcase. In the left wall, back, a window looking out into the garden, and, forward, a door and porch, also leading to the garden. Easychairs here and there. Plants in the porch and near the draped folding doors. On the walls are many framed black and white designs. In the right corner, back, a sideboard; and in the centre of the room, left of the table, a group consisting of a standing Turkish pipe, a low oil stove, which is not lit, and a rocking-chair. It is the evening of the same day.
[Robert Hand, in evening dress, is seated at the piano. The candles are not lit but the lamp on the table is lit. He plays softly in the bass the first bars of Wolfram’s song in the last act of ‘Tannhäuser’. Then he breaks off and, resting an elbow on the ledge of the keyboard, meditates. Then he rises and, pulling out a pump from behind the piano, walks here and there in the room ejecting from it into the air sprays of perfume. He inhales the air slowly and then puts the pump back behind the piano. He sits down on a chair near the table and, smoothing his hair carefully, sighs once or twice. Then, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he leans back, stretches out his legs, and waits. A knock is heard at the street door. He rises quickly.]
ROBERT.
[Exclaims.] Bertha!
[He hurries out by the door on the right. There is a noise of confused greeting. After a few moments Robert enters, followed by Richard Rowan, who is in grey tweeds as before but holds in one hand a dark felt hat and in the other an umbrella.]
ROBERT.
First of all let me put these outside.
[He takes the hat and umbrella, leaves them in the hall and returns.]
ROBERT.
[Pulling round a chair.] Here you are. You are lucky to find me in. Why didn’t you tell me today? You were always a devil for surprises. I suppose my evocation of the past was too much for your wild blood. See how artistic I have become. [He points to the walls.] The piano is an addition since your time. I was just strumming out Wagner when you came. Killing time. You see I am ready for the fray. [Laughs.] I was just wondering how you and the vicechancellor were getting on together. [With exaggerated alarm.] But are you going in that suit? O well, it doesn’t make much odds, I suppose. But how goes the time? [He takes out his watch.] Twenty past eight already, I declare!
RICHARD.
Have you an appointment?
ROBERT.
[Laughs nervously.] Suspicious to the last!
RICHARD.
Then I may sit down?
ROBERT.
Of course, of course. [They both sit down.] For a few minutes, anyhow. Then we can both go on together. We are not bound for time. Between eight and nine, he said, didn’t he? What time is it, I wonder? [Is about to look again at his watch; then stops.] Twenty past eight, yes.
RICHARD.
[Wearily, sadly.] Your appointment also was for the same hour. Here.
ROBERT.
What appointment?
RICHARD.
With Bertha.
ROBERT.
[Stares at him.] Are you mad?
RICHARD.
Are you?
ROBERT.
[After a long pause.] Who told you?
RICHARD.
She.
[A short silence.]
ROBERT.
[In a low voice.] Yes. I must have been mad. [Rapidly.] Listen to me, Richard. It is a great relief to me that you have come—the greatest relief. I assure you that ever since this afternoon I have thought and thought how I could break it off without seeming a fool. A great relief! I even intended to send word… a letter, a few lines. [Suddenly.] But then it was too late… [Passes his hand over his forehead.] Let me speak frankly with you; let me tell you everything.
RICHARD.
I know everything. I have known for some time.
ROBERT.
Since when?
RICHARD.
Since it began between you and her.
ROBERT.
[Again rapidly.] Yes, I was mad. But it was merely lightheadedness. I admit that to have asked her here this evening was a mistake. I can explain everything to you. And I will. Truly.
RICHARD.
Explain to me what is the word you longed and never dared to say to her. If you can or will.
ROBERT.
[Looks down, then raises his head.] Yes. I will. I admire very much the personality of your… of… your wife. That is the word. I can say it. It is no secret.
RICHARD.
Then why did you wish to keep secret your wooing?
ROBERT.
Wooing?
RICHARD.
Your advances to her, little by little, day after day, looks, whispers. [With a nervous movement of the hands.] Insomma, wooing.
ROBERT.
[Bewildered.] But how do you know all this?
RICHARD.
She told me.
ROBERT.
This afternoon?
RICHARD.
No. Time after time, as it happened.
ROBERT.
You knew? From her? [Richard nods.]. You were watching us all the time?
RICHARD.
[Very coldly.] I was watching you.
ROBERT.
[Quickly.] I mean, watching me. And you never spoke! You had only to speak a word—to save me from myself. You were trying me. [Passes his hand again over his forehead.] It was a terrible trial: now also. [Desperately.] Well, it is past. It will be a lesson to me for all my life. You hate me now for what I have done and for…
RICHARD.
[Quietly, looking at him.] Have I said that I hate you?
ROBERT.
Do you not? You must.
RICHARD.
Even if Bertha had not told me I should have known. Did you not see that when I came in this afternoon I went into my study suddenly for a moment?
ROBERT.
You did. I remember.
RICHARD.
To give you time to recover yourself. It made me sad to see your eyes. And the roses too. I cannot say why. A great mass of overblown roses.
ROBERT.
I thought I had to give them. Was that strange? [Looks at Richard with a tortured expression.] Too many, perhaps? Or too old or common?
RICHARD.
That was why I did not hate you. The whole thing made me sad all at once.
ROBERT.
[To himself.] And this is real. It is happening—to us.
[He stares before him for some moments in silence, as if dazed; then, without turning his head, continues.]
ROBERT.
And she, too, was trying me; making an experiment with me for your sake!
RICHARD.
You know women better than I do. She says she felt pity for you.
ROBERT.
[Brooding.] Pitied me, because I am no longer… an ideal lover. Like my roses. Common, old.
RICHARD.
Like all men you have a foolish wandering heart.
ROBERT.
[Slowly.] Well, you spoke at last. You chose the right moment.
RICHARD.
[Leans forward.] Robert, not like this. For us two, no. Years, a whole life, of friendship. Think a moment. Since childhood, boyhood… No, no. Not in such a way—like thieves—at night. [Glancing about him.] And in such a place. No, Robert, that is not for people like us.
ROBERT.
What a lesson! Richard, I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me that you have spoken—that the danger is passed. Yes, yes. [Somewhat diffidently.] Because… there was some danger for you, too, if you think. Was there not?
RICHARD.
What danger?
ROBERT.
[In the same tone.] I don’t know. I mean if you had not spoken. If you had watched and waited on until…
RICHARD.
Until?
ROBERT.
[Bravely.] Until I had come to like her more and more (because I can assure you it is only a lightheaded idea of mine), to like her deeply, to love her. Would you have spoken to me then as you have just now? [Richard is silent. Robert goes on more boldly.] It would have been different, would it not? For then it might have been too late while it is not too late now. What could I have said then? I could have said only: You are my friend, my dear good friend. I am very sorry but I love her. [With a sudden fervent gesture.] I love her and I will take her from you, however I can, because I love her.
[They look at each other for some moments in silence.]
RICHARD.
[Calmly.] That is the language I have heard often and never believed in. Do you mean by stealth or by violence? Steal you could not in my house because the doors were open; nor take by violence if there were no resistance.
ROBERT.
You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
RICHARD.
[Smiling.] Go on.
ROBERT.
[Diffidently, but bravely.] Do you think you have rights over her—over her heart?
RICHARD.
None.
ROBERT.
For what you have done for her? So much! You claim nothing?
RICHARD.
Nothing.
ROBERT.
[After a pause strikes his forehead with his hand.] What am I saying? Or what am I thinking? I wish you would upbraid me, curse me, hate me as I deserve. You love this woman. I remember all you told me long ago. She is yours, your work. [Suddenly.] And that is why I, too, was drawn to her. You are so strong that you attract me even through her.
RICHARD.
I am weak.
ROBERT.
[With enthusiasm.] You, Richard! You are the incarnation of strength.
RICHARD.
[Holds out his hands.] Feel those
