第 11 页

Walpole goes. Ridgeon is about to follow him; but Sir Patrick stops him

with a look.

RIDGEON. What has happened?

SIR PATRICK. Do you remember Jane Marsh's arm?

RIDGEON. Is that whats happened?

SIR PATRICK. Thats whats happened. His lung has gone like Jane's arm.

I never saw such a case. He has got through three months galloping

consumption in three days.

RIDGEON. B. B. got in on the negative phase.

SIR PATRICK. Negative or positive, the lad's done for. He wont last out

the afternoon. He'll go suddenly: Ive often seen it.

RIDGEON. So long as he goes before his wife finds him out, I dont care.

I fully expected this.

SIR PATRICK [drily] It's a little hard on a lad to be killed because his

wife has too high an opinion of him. Fortunately few of us are in any

danger of that.

Sir Ralph comes from the inner room and hastens between them, humanely

concerned, but professionally elate and communicative.

B. B. Ah, here you are, Ridgeon. Paddy's told you, of course.

RIDGEON. Yes.

B. B. It's an enormously interesting case. You know, Colly, by Jupiter,

if I didnt know as a matter of scientific fact that I'd been stimulating

the phagocytes, I should say I'd been stimulating the other things.

What is the explanation of it, Sir Patrick? How do you account for it,

Ridgeon? Have we over-stimulated the phagocytes? Have they not only

eaten up the bacilli, but attacked and destroyed the red corpuscles as

well? a possibility suggested by the patient's pallor. Nay, have they

finally begun to prey on the lungs themselves? Or on one another? I

shall write a paper about this case.

Walpole comes back, very serious, even shocked. He comes between B. B.

and Ridgeon.

WALPOLE. Whew! B. B.: youve done it this time.

B. B. What do you mean?

WALPOLE. Killed him. The worst case of neglected blood-poisoning I ever

saw. It's too late now to do anything. He'd die under the anaesthetic.

B. B. [offended] Killed! Really, Walpole, if your monomania were not

well known, I should take such an expession very seriously.

SIR PATRICK. Come come! When youve both killed as many people as I have

in my time youll feel humble enough about it. Come and look at him,

Colly.

Ridgeon and Sir Patrick go into the inner room.

WALPOLE. I apologize, B. B. But it's blood-poisoning.

B. B. [recovering his irresistible good nature] My dear Walpole,

everything is blood-poisoning. But upon my soul, I shall not use any of

that stuff of Ridgeon's again. What made me so sensitive about what you

said just now is that, strictly between ourselves, Ridgeon cooked our

young friend's goose.

Jennifer, worried and distressed, but always gentle, comes between them

from the inner room. She wears a nurse's apron.

MRS. DUBEDAT. Sir Ralph: what am I to do? That man who insisted on

seeing me, and sent in word that business was important to Louis, is

a newspaper man. A paragraph appeared in the paper this morning saying

that Louis is seriously ill; and this man wants to interview him about

it. How can people be so brutally callous?

WALPOLE [moving vengefully towards the door] You just leave me to deal

with him!

MRS DUBEDAT [stopping him] But Louis insists on seeing him: he almost

began to cry about it. And he says he cant bear his room any longer. He

says he wants to [she struggles with a sob]--to die in his studio. Sir

Patrick says let him have his way: it can do no harm. What shall we do?

B B. [encouragingly] Why, follow Sir Patrick's excellent advice, of

course. As he says, it can do him no harm; and it will no doubt do him

good--a great deal of good. He will be much the better for it.

MRS DUBEDAT [a little cheered] Will you bring the man up here, Mr

Walpole, and tell him that he may see Louis, but that he mustnt exhaust

him by talking? [Walpole nods and goes out by the outer door]. Sir

Ralph, dont be angry with me; but Louis will die if he stays here. I

must take him to Cornwall. He will recover there.

B. B. [brightening wonderfully, as if Dubedat were already saved]

Cornwall! The very place for him! Wonderful for the lungs. Stupid of me

not to think of it before. You are his best physician after all, dear

lady. An inspiration! Cornwall: of course, yes, yes, yes.

MRS DUBEDAT [comforted and touched] You are so kind, Sir Ralph. But dont

give me much or I shall cry; and Louis cant bear that.

B. B. [gently putting his protecting arm round her shoulders] Then let

us come back to him and help to carry him in. Cornwall! of course, of

course. The very thing! [They go together into the bedroom].

Walpole returns with The Newspaper Man, a cheerful, affable young

man who is disabled for ordinary business pursuits by a congenital

erroneousness which renders him incapable of describing accurately

anything he sees, or understanding or reporting accurately anything he

hears. As the only employment in which these defects do not matter is

journalism (for a newspaper, not having to act on its description and

reports, but only to sell them to idly curious people, has nothing but

honor to lose by inaccuracy and unveracity), he has perforce become a

journalist, and has to keep up an air of high spirits through a

daily struggle with his own illiteracy and the precariousness of his

employment. He has a note-book, and occasionally attempts to make a note;

but as he cannot write shorthand, and does not write with ease in

any hand, he generally gives it up as a bad job before he succeeds in

finishing a sentence.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [looking round and making indecisive attempts at

notes] This is the studio, I suppose.

WALPOLE. Yes.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [wittily] Where he has his models, eh?

WALPOLE [grimly irresponsive] No doubt.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Cubicle, you said it was?

WALPOLE. Yes, tubercle.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Which way do you spell it: is it c-u-b-i-c-a-l or

c-l-e?

WALPOLE. Tubercle, man, not cubical. [Spelling it for him]

T-u-b-e-r-c-l-e.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Oh! tubercle. Some disease, I suppose. I thought he

had consumption. Are you one of the family or the doctor?

WALPOLE. I'm neither one nor the other. I am Mister Cutler Walpole. Put

that down. Then put down Sir Colenso Ridgeon.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Pigeon?

WALPOLE. Ridgeon. [Contemptuously snatching his book] Here: youd better

let me write the names down for you: youre sure to get them wrong. That

comes of belonging to an illiterate profession, with no qualifications

and no public register. [He writes the particulars].

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Oh, I say: you have got your knife into us, havnt

you?

WALPOLE [vindictively] I wish I had: I'd make a better man of you. Now

attend. [Shewing him the book] These are the names of the three doctors.

This is the patient. This is the address. This is the name of the

disease. [He shuts the book with a snap which makes the journalist

blink, and returns it to him]. Mr Dubedat will be brought in here

presently. He wants to see you because he doesnt know how bad he is.

We'll allow you to wait a few minutes to humor him; but if you talk to

him, out you go. He may die at any moment.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [interested] Is he as bad as that? I say: I am in

luck to-day. Would you mind letting me photograph you? [He produces a

camera]. Could you have a lancet or something in your hand?

WALPOLE. Put it up. If you want my photograph you can get it in Baker

Street in any of the series of celebrities.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN. But theyll want to be paid. If you wouldnt mind

[fingering the camera]--?

WALPOLE. I would. Put it up, I tell you. Sit down there and be quiet.

The Newspaper Man quickly sits down on the piano stool as Dubedat, in an

invalid's chair, is wheeled in by Mrs Dubedat and Sir Ralph. They place

the chair between the dais and the sofa, where the easel stood before.

Louis is not changed as a robust man would be; and he is not scared. His

eyes look larger; and he is so weak physically that he can hardly move,

lying on his cushions, with complete languor; but his mind is active; it

is making the most of his condition, finding voluptuousness in languor

and drama in death. They are all impressed, in spite of themselves,

except Ridgeon, who is implacable. B.B. is entirely sympathetic and

forgiving. Ridgeon follows the chair with a tray of milk and stimulants.

Sir Patrick, who accompanies him, takes the tea-table from the corner

and places it behind the chair for the tray. B. B. takes the easel chair

and places it for Jennifer at Dubedat's side, next the dais, from which

the lay figure ogles the dying artist. B. B. then returns to Dubedat's

left. Jennifer sits. Walpole sits down on the edge of the dais. Ridgeon

stands near him.

LOUIS [blissfully] Thats happiness! To be in a studio! Happiness!

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear. Sir Patrick says you may stay here as long as

you like.

LOUIS. Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, my darling.

LOUIS. Is the newspaper man here?

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [glibly] Yes, Mr Dubedat: I'm here, at your service. I

represent the press. I thought you might like to let us have a few words

about--about--er--well, a few words on your illness, and your plans for

the season.

LOUIS. My plans for the season are very simple. I'm going to die.

MRS DUBEDAT [tortured] Louis--dearest--

LOUIS. My darling: I'm very weak and tired. Dont put on me the horrible

strain of pretending that I dont know. Ive been lying there listening to

the doctors--laughing to myself. They know. Dearest: dont cry. It makes

you ugly; and I cant bear that. [She dries her eyes and recovers herself

with a proud effort]. I want you to promise me something.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, yes: you know I will. [Imploringly] Only, my love, my

love, dont talk: it will waste your strength.

LOUIS. No: it will only use it up. Ridgeon: give me something to keep me

going for a few minutes--one of your confounded anti-toxins, if you dont

mind. I have some things to say before I go.

RIDGEON [looking at Sir Patrick] I suppose it can do no harm? [He

pours out some spirit, and is about to add soda water when Sir Patrick

corrects him].

SIR PATRICK. In milk. Dont set him coughing.

LOUIS [after drinking] Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear.

LOUIS. If theres one thing I hate more than another, it's a widow.

Promise me that youll never be a widow.

MRS DUBEDAT. My dear, what do you mean?

LOUIS. I want you to look beautiful. I want people to see in your eyes

that you were married to me. The people in Italy used to point at Dante

and say "There goes the man who has been in hell." I want them to point

at you and say "There goes a woman who has been in heaven." It has been

heaven, darling, hasnt it--sometimes?

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh yes, yes. Always, always.

LOUIS. If you wear black and cry, people will say "Look at that

miserable woman: her husband made her miserable."

MRS DUBEDAT. No, never. You are the light and the blessing of my life. I

never lived until I knew you.

LOUIS [his eyes glistening] Then you must always wear beautiful dresses

and splendid magic jewels. Think of all the wonderful pictures I shall

never paint.

[She wins a terrible victory over a sob] Well, you must be transfigured

with all the beauty of those pictures. Men must get such dreams from

seeing you as they never could get from any daubing with paints and

brushes. Painters must paint you as they never painted any mortal woman

before. There must be a great tradition of beauty, a great atmosphere

of wonder and romance. That is what men must always think of when they

think of me. That is the sort of immortality I want. You can make that

for me, Jennifer. There are lots of things you dont understand that

every woman in the street understands; but you can understand that and

do it as nobody else can. Promise me that immortality. Promise me you

will not make a little hell of crape and crying and undertaker's horrors

and withering flowers and all that vulgar rubbish.

MRS DUBEDAT. I promise. But all that is far off, dear. You are to come

to Cornwall with me and get well. Sir Ralph says so.

LOUIS. Poor old B. B.

B. B. [affected to tears, turns away and whispers to Sir Patrick] Poor

fellow! Brain going.

LOUIS. Sir Patrick's there, isn't he?

SIR PATRICK. Yes, yes. I'm here.

LOUIS. Sit down, wont you? It's a shame to keep you standing about.

SIR PATRICK. Yes, Yes. Thank you. All right.

LOUIS. Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear.

LOUIS [with a strange look of delight] Do you remember the burning bush?

MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, Yes. Oh, my dear, how it strains my heart to remember

it now!

LOUIS. Does it? It fills me with joy. Tell them about it.

MRS DUBEDAT. It was nothing--only that once in my old Cornish home we

lit the first fire of the winter; and when we looked through the window

we saw the flames dancing in a bush in the garden.

LOUIS. Such a color! Garnet color. Waving like silk. Liquid lovely flame

flowing up through the bay leaves, and not burning them. Well, I shall

be a flame like that. I'm sorry to disappoint the poor little worms; but

the last of me shall be the flame in the burning bush. Whenever you see

the flame, Jennifer, that will be me. Promise me that I shall be burnt.

MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, if I might be with you, Louis!

LOUIS. No: you must always be in the garden when the bush flames. You

are my hold on the world: you are my immortality. Promise.

MRS DUBEDAT. I'm listening. I shall not forget. You know that I promise.

LOUIS. Well, thats about all; except that you are to hang my pictures at

the one-man show. I can trust your eye. You wont let anyone else touch

them.

MRS DUBEDAT. You can trust me.

LOUIS. Then theres nothing more to worry about, is there? Give me some

more of that milk. I'm fearfully tired; but if I stop talking I shant

begin again. [Sir Ralph gives him a drink. He takes it and looks up

quaintly]. I say, B. B., do you think anything would stop you talking?

B. B. [almost unmanned] He confuses me with you, Paddy. Poor fellow!