by James Joyce
ROBERT
Have you?
RICHARD
(Moved.) Once I had it, Robert: a certitude as luminous as that of my own existence — or an illusion as luminous.
ROBERT
(Cautiously.) And now?
RICHARD
If you had it and I could feel that you had it — even now...
ROBERT
What would you do?
RICHARD
(Quietly.) Go away. You, and not I, would be necessary to her. Alone as I was before I met her.
578
ROBERT
(Rubs his hands nervously.) A nice little load on my conscience!
RICHARD
(Abstractedly.) You met my son when you came to my house this afternoon. He told me. What did you feel?
ROBERT
(Promptly.) Pleasure.
RICHARD
Nothing else?
ROBERT
Nothing else. Unless I thought of two things at the same time. I am like that. If my best friend lay in his coffin and his face had a comic expression I should smile. (With a little gesture of despair.) I am like that. But I should suffer too, deeply.
RICHARD
You spoke of conscience... Did he seem to you a child only — or an angel?
ROBERT
(Shakes his head.) No. Neither an angel nor an Anglo-Saxon. Two things, by the way, for which I have very little sympathy.
RICHARD
Never then? Never even... with her? Tell me. I wish to know.
ROBERT
I feel in my heart something different. I believe that on the last day (if it ever comes), when we are all assembled together, that the Almighty will speak to us like this. We will say that we lived chastely with one other creature...
RICHARD
(Bitterly.) Lie to Him?
ROBERT
Or that we tried to. And He will say to us: Fools! Who told you that you were to give yourselves to one being only? You were made to give yourselves to many freely. I wrote that law with My finger on your hearts.
RICHARD
On woman’s heart, too?
ROBERT
Yes. Can we close our heart against an affection which we feel deeply? Should we close it? Should she?
RICHARD
We are speaking of bodily union.
579
ROBERT
Affection between man and woman must come to that. We think too much of it because our minds are warped. For us today it is of no more consequence than any other form of contact — than a kiss.
RICHARD
If it is of no consequence why are you dissatisfied till you reach that end? Why were you waiting here tonight?
ROBERT
Passion tends to go as far as it can; but, you may believe me or not, I had not that in my mind — to reach that end.
RICHARD
Reach it if you can. I will use no arm against you that the world puts in my hand. If the law which God’s finger has written on our hearts is the law you say I too am God’s creature.
(He rises and paces to and fro some moments in silence. Then he goes towards the porch and leans against the jamb. Robert watches him.)
ROBERT
I always felt it. In myself and in others.
RICHARD
(Absently.) Yes?
ROBERT
(With a vague gesture.) For all. That a woman, too, has the right to try with many men until she finds love. An immoral idea, is it not? I wanted to write a book about it. I began it...
RICHARD
(As before.) Yes?
ROBERT
Because I knew a woman who seemed to me to be doing that — carrying out that idea in her own life. She interested me very much.
RICHARD
When was this?
ROBERT
O, not lately. When you were away.
(Richard leaves his place rather abruptly and again paces to and fro.)
ROBERT
You see, I am more honest than you thought.
RICHARD
I wish you had not thought of her now — whoever she was, or is.
580
ROBERT
(Easily.) She was and is the wife of a stockbroker.
RICHARD
(Turning.) You know him?
ROBERT
Intimately.
(Richard sits down again in the same place and leans forward, his head on his hands.)
ROBERT
(Moving his chair a little closer.) May I ask you a question?
RICHARD
You may.
ROBERT
(With some hesitation.) Has it never happened to you in these years — I mean when you were away from her, perhaps, or travelling — to... betray her with another. Betray her, I mean, not in love. Carnally, I mean... Has that never happened?
RICHARD
It has.
ROBERT
And what did you do?
RICHARD
(As before.) I remember the first time. I came home. It was night. My house was silent. My little son was sleeping in his cot. She, too, was asleep. I wakened her from sleep and told her. I cried beside her bed; and I pierced her heart.
ROBERT
O, Richard, why did you do that?
RICHARD
Betray her?
ROBERT
No. But tell her, waken her from sleep to tell her. It was piercing her heart.
RICHARD
She must know me as I am.
ROBERT
But that is not you as you are. A moment of weakness.
RICHARD
(Lost in thought.) And I was feeding the flame of her innocence with my guilt.
ROBERT
(Brusquely.) O, don’t talk of guilt and innocence. You have made her all that she is. A strange and wonderful personality — in my eyes, at least.
RICHARD
(Darkly.) Or I have killed her.
ROBERT
Killed her?
581
RICHARD
The virginity of her soul.
ROBERT
(Impatiently.) Well lost! What would she be without you?
RICHARD
I tried to give her a new life.
ROBERT
And you have. A new and rich life.
RICHARD
Is it worth what I have taken from her — her girlhood, her laughter, her young beauty, the hopes in her young heart?
ROBERT
(Firmly.) Yes. Well worth it. (He looks at Richard for some moments in silence.) If you had neglected her, lived wildly, brought her away so far only to make her suffer...
(He stops. Richard raises his head, and looks at him.)
RICHARD
If I had?
ROBERT
(Slightly confused.) You know there were rumours here of your life abroad — a wild life. Some persons who knew you or met you or heard of you in Rome. Lying rumours.
RICHARD
(Coldly.) Continue.
ROBERT
(Laughs a little harshly.) Even I at times thought of her as a victim. (Smoothly.) And of course, Richard, I felt and knew all the time that you were a man of great talent — of something more than talent. And that was your excuse — a valid one in my eyes.
RICHARD
Have you thought that it is perhaps now — at this moment — that I am neglecting her? (He clasps his hands nervously and leans across toward Robert.) I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last — wholly and many times.
ROBERT
(Draws back at once.) My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer.
RICHARD
(Continuing.) You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit.
582
ROBERT
(Eagerly.) A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proc
eeds, the eternal law of nature herself.
RICHARD
And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious?
ROBERT
That will never be. Never.
RICHARD
And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both?
ROBERT
(Gravely.) It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that.
RICHARD
(Contemptuously.) I care very little whether it is or not because there is something I fear much more.
ROBERT
(Shakes his head.) You fear? I disbelieve you, Richard. Since we were boys together I have followed your mind. You do not know what moral fear is.
RICHARD
(Lays his hand on his arm.) Listen. She is dead. She lies on my bed. I look at her body which I betrayed — grossly and many times. And loved, too, and wept over. And I know that her body was always my loyal slave. To me, to me only she gave... (He breaks off and turns aside, unable to speak.)
ROBERT
(Softly.) Do not suffer, Richard. There is no need. She is loyal to you, body and soul. Why do you fear?
RICHARD
(Turns towards him, almost fiercely.) Not that fear. But that I will reproach myself then for having taken all for myself because I would not suffer her to give to another what was hers and not mine to give, because I accepted from her her loyalty and made her life poorer in love. That is my fear. That I stand between her and any moments of life that should be hers, between her and you, between her and anyone, between her and anything. I will not do it. I cannot and I will not. I dare not.
583
(He leans back in his chair breathless, with shining eyes. Robert rises quietly, and stands behind his chair.)
ROBERT
Look here, Richard. We have said all there is to be said. Let the past be past.
RICHARD
(Quickly and harshly.) Wait. One thing more. For you, too, must know me as I am — now.
ROBERT
More? Is there more?
RICHARD
I told you that when I saw your eyes this afternoon I felt sad. Your humility and confusion, I felt, united you to me in brotherhood. (He turns half round towards him.) At that moment I felt our whole life together in the past, and I longed to put my arm around your neck.
ROBERT
(Deeply and suddenly touched.) It is noble of you, Richard, to forgive me like this.
RICHARD
(Struggling with himself.) I told you that I wished you not to do anything false and secret against me — against our friendship, against her; not to steal her from me craftily, secretly, meanly — in the dark, in the night — you, Robert, my friend.
ROBERT
I know. And it was noble of you.
RICHARD
(Looks tip at him with a steady gaze.) No. Not noble. Ignoble.
ROBERT
(Makes an involuntary gesture.) How? Why?
RICHARD
(Looks away again: in a lower voice.) That is what I must tell you too. Because in the very core of my ignoble heart I longed to be betrayed by you and by her — in the dark, in the night — secretly, meanly, craftily. By you, my best friend, and by her. I longed for that passionately and ignobly, to be dishonoured for ever in love and in lust, to be...
584
ROBERT
(Bending down, places his hands over Richard’s mouth.) Enough. Enough. (He takes his hands away.) But no. Go on.
RICHARD
To be for ever a shameful creature and to build up my soul again out of the ruins of its shame.
ROBERT
And that is why you wished that she...
RICHARD
(With calm.) She has spoken always of her innocence, as I have spoken always of my guilt, humbling me.
ROBERT
From pride, then?
RICHARD
From pride and from ignoble longing. And from a motive deeper still.
ROBERT
(With decision.) I understand you.
(He returns to his place and begins to speak at once, drawing his chair closer.)
ROBERT
May it not be that we are here and now in the presence of a moment which will free us both — me as well as you — from the last bonds of what is called morality. My friendship for you has laid bonds on me.
RICHARD
Light bonds, apparently.
ROBERT
I acted in the dark, secretly. I will do so no longer. Have you the courage to allow me to act freely?
RICHARD
A duel — between us?
ROBERT
(With growing excitement.) A battle of both our souls, different as they are, against all that is false in them and in the world. A battle of your soul against the spectre of fidelity, of mine against the spectre of friendship. All life is a conquest, the victory of human passion over the commandments of cowardice. Will you, Richard? Have you the courage? Even if it shatters to atoms the friendship between us, even if it breaks up for ever the last illusion in your own life? There was an eternity before we were born: another will come after we are dead. The blinding instant of passion alone — passion, free, unashamed, irresistible — that is the only gate by which we can escape from the misery of what slaves call life. Is not this the language of your own youth that I heard so often from you in this very place where we are sitting now? Have you changed?
585
RICHARD
(Passes his hand across his brow.) Yes. It is the language of my youth.
ROBERT
(Eagerly, intensely.) Richard, you have driven me up to this point. She and I have only obeyed your will. You yourself have roused these words in my brain. Your own words. Shall we? Freely? Together?
RICHARD
(Mastering his emotion.) Together no. Fight your part alone. I will not free you. Leave me to fight mine.
ROBERT
(Rises, decided.) You allow me, then?
RICHARD
(Rises also, calmly.) Free yourself.
(A knock is heard at the hall door.)
ROBERT
(In alarm.) What does this mean?
RICHARD
(Calmly.) Bertha, evidently. Did you not ask her to come?
ROBERT
Yes, but... (Looking about him.) Then I am going, Richard.
RICHARD
No. I am going.
ROBERT
(Desperately.) Richard, I appeal to you. Let me go. It is over. She is yours. Keep her and forgive me, both of you.
RICHARD
Because you are generous enough to allow me?
ROBERT
(Hotly.) Richard, you will make me angry with you if you say that.
RICHARD
Angry or not, I will not live on your generosity. You have asked her to meet you here tonight and alone. Solve the question between you.
ROBERT
(Promptly.) Open the door. I shall wait in the garden. (He goes towards the porch.) Explain to her, Richard, as best you can. I cannot see her now.
586
RICHARD
I shall go. I tell you. Wait out there if you wish.
(He goes out by the door on the right. Robert goes out hastily through the porch but comes back the same instant.)
ROBERT
An umbrella! (With a sudden gesture.) O!
(He goes out again through the porch. The hall door is heard to open and close. Richard enters, followed by Bertha, who is dressed in a darkbrown costume, and wears a small dark red hat. She has neither umbrella nor waterproof.)
RICHARD
(Gaily.) Welcome back to old Ireland!
BERTHA
(Nervously, seriously.) Is this the place?
RICHARD
Yes, it is. How did you find it?
BERTHA
I told the cabman. I didn’t like to ask my way. (Looking about her curiously.) Was he not waiting? Has he gone away?
RICHARD
(Points towards the garden.) He is waiting. Out there. He was waiting when I came.
BERTHA
(Selfpossessed again.) You see, you came after all.
RICHARD
Did you think I would not?
BERTHA
I knew you could not remain away. You see, after all you are like all other men. You had to come. You are jealous like the others.
RICHARD
You seem annoyed to find me here.
BERTHA
What happened between you?
RICHARD
I told him I knew everything, that I had known for a long time. He asked how. I said from you.
BERTHA
Does he hate me?
RICHARD
I cannot read in his heart.
BERTHA
(Sits down helplessly.) Yes. He hates me. He believes I made a fool of him — betrayed him. I knew he would.
RICHARD
I told him you were sincere with him.
587
BERTHA
He does not believe it. Nobody would believe it. I should have told him first — not you.
RICHARD
I thought he was a common robber, prepared to use even violence against you. I had to protect you from that.
BERTHA
That I could have done myself.
RICHARD
Are you sure?
BERTHA
It would have been enough to have told him that you knew I was here. Now I can find out nothing. He hates me. He is right to hate me. I have treated him badly, shamefully.
RICHARD
(Takes her hand.) Bertha, look at me.
BERTHA
(Turns to him.) Well?
RICHARD
(Gazes into her eyes and then lets her hand fall.) I cannot read in your heart either.
BERTHA
(Still looking at him.) You could not remain away. Do you not trust me? You can see I am quite calm. I could have hidden it all from you.
RICHARD
I doubt that.
BERTHA
(With a slight toss of her head.) O, easily if I had wanted to.
RICHARD
(Darkly.) Perhaps you are sorry now that you did not.
BERTHA
Perhaps I am.
RICHARD
(Unpleasantly.) What a fool you were to tell me! It would have been so nice if you had kept it secret.
BERTHA
As you do, no?
RICHARD
As I do, yes. (He turns to go.) Goodbye for a while.
BERTHA
(Alarmed, rises.) Are you going?