MORRIS. You....
[_Puts his hand to his hip. The_ DOCTOR _puts his hand on his shoulder._
DOCTOR. Gentlemen, I think you are both forgetting yourselves.
CONJURER. Perhaps. [_His tone sinks suddenly to weariness._] I ask pardon for what I said. It was certainly in excess of the young gentleman's deserts. [_Sighs._] I sometimes rather wish I could forget myself.
MORRIS. [_Sullenly, after a pause._] Well, the entertainment's coming on; and you English don't like a scene. I reckon I'll have to bury the blamed old hatchet too.
DOCTOR. [_With a certain dignity, his social type shining through his profession._] Mr. Carleon, you will forgive an old man, who knew your father well, if he doubts whether you are doing yourself justice in treating yourself as an American Indian, merely because you have lived in America. In my old friend Huxley's time we of the middle classes disbelieved in reason and all sorts of things. But we did believe in good manners. It is a pity if the aristocracy can't. I don't like to hear you say you are a savage and have buried a tomahawk. I would rather hear you say, as your Irish ancestors would have said, that you have sheathed your sword with the dignity proper to a gentleman.
MORRIS. Very well. I've sheathed my sword with the dignity proper to a gentleman.
CONJURER. And I have sheathed my sword with the dignity proper to a conjurer.
MORRIS. How does the Conjurer sheath a sword?
CONJURER. Swallows it.
DOCTOR. Then we all agree there shall be no quarrel.
SMITH. May I say a word? I have a great dislike of a quarrel, for a reason quite beyond my duty to my cloth.
MORRIS. And what is that?
SMITH. I object to a quarrel because it always interrupts an argument. May I bring you back for a moment to the argument? You were saying that these modern conjuring tricks are simply the old miracles when they have once been found out. But surely another view is possible. When we speak of things being sham, we generally mean that they are imitations of things that are genuine. Take that Reynolds over there of the Duke's great-grandfather. [_Points to a picture on the wall._] If I were to say it was a copy....
MORRIS. Wal, the Duke's real amiable; but I reckon you'd find what you call the interruption of an argument.
SMITH. Well, suppose I did say so, you wouldn't take it as meaning that Sir Joshua Reynolds never lived. Why should sham miracles prove to us that real Saints and Prophets never lived. There may be sham magic and real magic also.
[_The_ CONJURER _raises his head and listens with a strange air of intentness._
SMITH. There may be turnip ghosts precisely because there are real ghosts. There may be theatrical fairies precisely because there are real fairies. You do not abolish the Bank of England by pointing to a forged bank-note.
MORRIS. I hope the Professor enjoys being called a forged bank-note.
CONJURER. Almost as much as being called the Prospectus of some American Companies.
DOCTOR. Gentlemen! Gentlemen!
CONJURER. I am sorry.
MORRIS. Wal, let's have the argument first, then I guess we can have the quarrel afterwards. I'll clean this house of some encumbrances. See here, Mr. Smith, I'm not putting anything on your real miracle notion. I say, and Science says, that there's a cause for everything. Science will find out that cause, and sooner or later your old miracle will look mighty mean. Sooner or later Science will botanise a bit on your turnip ghosts; and make you look turnips yourselves for having taken any. I say....
DOCTOR. [_In a low voice to_ SMITH.] I don't like this peaceful argument of yours. The boy is getting much too excited.
MORRIS. You say old man Reynolds lived; and Science don't say no. [_He turns excitedly to the picture._] But I guess he's dead now; and you'll no more raise your Saints and Prophets from the dead than you'll raise the Duke's great-grandfather to dance on that wall.
[_The picture begins to sway slightly to and fro on the wall._
DOCTOR. Why, the picture is moving!
MORRIS. [_Turning furiously on the_ CONJURER.] You were in the room before us. Do you reckon that will take us in? You can do all that with wires.
CONJURER. [_Motionless and without looking up from the table._] Yes, I could do all that with wires.
MORRIS. And you reckoned I shouldn't know. [_Laughs with a high crowing laugh._] That's how the derned dirty Spiritualists do all their tricks. They say they can make the furniture move of itself. If it does move they move it; and we mean to know how.
[_A chair falls over with a slight crash._
[MORRIS _almost staggers and momentarily fights for breath and words._
MORRIS. You ... why ... that ... every one knows that ... a sliding plank. It can be done with a sliding plank.
CONJURER. [_Without looking up._] Yes. It can be done with a sliding plank.
[_The_ DOCTOR _draws nearer to_ MORRIS, _who faces about, addressing him passionately._
MORRIS. You were right on the spot, Doc, when you talked about that red lamp of yours. That red lamp is the light of science that will put out all the lanterns of your turnip ghosts. It's a consuming fire, Doctor, but it is the red light of the morning. [_Points at it in exalted enthusiasm._] Your priests can no more stop that light from shining or change its colour and its radiance than Joshua could stop the sun and moon. [_Laughs savagely._] Why, a real fairy in an elfin cloak strayed too near the lamp an hour or two ago; and it turned him into a common society clown with a white tie.
[_The lamp at the end of the garden turns blue. They all look at it in silence._
MORRIS. [_Splitting the silence on a high unnatural note._] Wait a bit! Wait a bit! I've got you! I'll have you!... [_He strides wildly up and down the room, biting his finger._] You put a wire ... no, that can't be it....
DOCTOR. [_Speaking to him soothingly._] Well, well, just at this moment we need not inquire....
MORRIS. [_Turning on him furiously._] You call yourself a man of science, and you dare to tell me not to inquire!
SMITH. We only mean that for the moment you might let it alone.
MORRIS. [_Violently._] No, Priest, I will not let it alone. [_Pacing the room again._] Could it be done with mirrors? [_He clasps his brow._] You have a mirror.... [_Suddenly, with a shout._] I've got it! I've got it! Mixture of lights! Why not? If you throw a green light on a red light....
[_Sudden silence._
SMITH. [_Quietly to the_ DOCTOR.] You don't get blue.
DOCTOR. [_Stepping across to the_ CONJURER.] If you have done this trick, for God's sake undo it.
[_After a silence, the light turns red again._
MORRIS. [_Dashing suddenly to the glass doors and examining them._] It's the glass! You've been doing something to the glass!
[_He stops suddenly and there is a long silence._
CONJURER. [_Still without moving._] I don't think you will find anything wrong with the glass.
MORRIS. [_Bursting open the glass doors with a crash._] Then I'll find out what's wrong with the lamp.
[_Disappears into the garden._
DOCTOR. It is still a wet night, I am afraid.
SMITH. Yes. And somebody else will be wandering about the garden now.
[_Through the broken glass doors_ MORRIS _can be seen marching backwards and forwards with swifter and swifter steps._
SMITH. I suppose in this case the Celtic twilight will not get on the chest.
DOCTOR. Oh, if it were only the chest!
_Enter_ PATRICIA.
PATRICIA. Where is my brother?
[_There is an embarrassed silence, in which the_ CONJURER _answers._
CONJURER. I am afraid he is walking about in Fairyland.
PATRICIA. But he mustn't go out on a night like this; it's very dangerous!
CONJURER. Yes, it is very dangerous. He might meet a fairy.
PATRICIA. What do you mean?
CONJURER. You went out in this sort of weather and you met this sort of fairy, and so far it has only brought you sorrow.
&
nbsp; PATRICIA. I am going out to find my brother.
[_She goes out into the garden through the open doors._
SMITH. [_After a silence, very suddenly._] What is that noise? She is not singing those songs to him, is she?
CONJURER. No. He does not understand the language of the elves.
SMITH. But what are all those cries and gasps I hear?
CONJURER. The normal noises, I believe, of a quiet business man.
DOCTOR. Sir, I can understand your being bitter, for I admit you have been uncivilly received; but to speak like that just now....
[PATRICIA _reappears at the garden doors, very pale._
PATRICIA. Can I speak to the Doctor?
DOCTOR. My dear lady, certainly. Shall I fetch the Duke?
PATRICIA. I would prefer the Doctor.
SMITH. Can I be of any use?
PATRICIA. I only want the Doctor.
[_She goes out again, followed by_ DR. GRIMTHORPE. _The others look at each other._
SMITH. [_Quietly._] That last was a wonderful trick of yours.
CONJURER. Thank you. I suppose you mean it was the only one you didn't see through.
SMITH. Something of the kind, I confess. Your last trick was the best trick I have ever seen. It is so good that I wish you had not done it.
CONJURER. And so do I.
SMITH. How do you mean? Do you wish you had never been a conjurer?
CONJURER. I wish I had never been born.
[_Exit_ CONJURER.
[_A silence. The_ DOCTOR _enters, very grave._
DOCTOR. It is all right so far. We have brought him back.
SMITH. [_Drawing near to him._] You told me there was mental trouble with the girl.
DOCTOR. [_Looking at him steadily._] No. I told you there was mental trouble in the family.
SMITH. [_After a silence._] Where is Mr. Morris Carleon?
DOCTOR. I have got him into bed in the next room. His sister is looking after him.
SMITH. His sister! Oh, then do you believe in fairies?
DOCTOR. Believe in fairies? What do you mean?
SMITH. At least you put the person who does believe in them in charge of the person who doesn't.
DOCTOR. Well, I suppose I do.
SMITH. You don't think she'll keep him awake all night with fairy tales?
DOCTOR. Certainly not.
SMITH. You don't think she'll throw the medicine-bottle out of window and administer--er--a dewdrop, or anything of that sort? Or a four-leaved clover, say?
DOCTOR. No; of course not.
SMITH. I only ask because you scientific men are a little hard on us clergymen. You don't believe in a priesthood; but you'll admit I'm more really a priest than this Conjurer is really a magician. You've been talking a lot about the Bible and the Higher Criticism. But even by the Higher Criticism the Bible is older than the language of the elves--which was, as far as I can make out, invented this afternoon. But Miss Carleon believed in the wizard. Miss Carleon believed in the language of the elves. And you put her in charge of an invalid without a flicker of doubt: because you trust women.
DOCTOR. [_Very seriously._] Yes, I trust women.
SMITH. You trust a woman with the practical issues of life and death, through sleepless hours when a shaking hand or an extra grain would kill.
DOCTOR. Yes.
SMITH. But if the woman gets up to go to early service at my church, you call her weak-minded and say that nobody but women can believe in religion.
DOCTOR. I should never call this woman weak-minded--no, by God, not even if she went to church.
SMITH. Yet there are many as strong-minded who believe passionately in going to church.
DOCTOR. Weren't there as many who believed passionately in Apollo?
SMITH. And what harm came of believing in Apollo? And what a mass of harm may have come of not believing in Apollo? Does it never strike you that doubt can be a madness, as well be faith? That asking questions may be a disease, as well as proclaiming doctrines? You talk of religious mania! Is there no such thing as irreligious mania? Is there no such thing in the house at this moment?
DOCTOR. Then you think no one should question at all.
SMITH. [_With passion, pointing to the next room._] I think _that_ is what comes of questioning! Why can't you leave the universe alone and let it mean what it likes? Why shouldn't the thunder be Jupiter? More men have made themselves silly by wondering what the devil it was if it wasn't Jupiter.
DOCTOR. [_Looking at him._] Do you believe in your own religion?
SMITH. [_Returning the look equally steadily._] Suppose I don't: I should still be a fool to question it. The child who doubts about Santa Claus has insomnia. The child who believes has a good night's rest.
DOCTOR. You are a Pragmatist.
_Enter_ DUKE, _absent-mindedly._
SMITH. That is what the lawyers call vulgar abuse. But I do appeal to practise. Here is a family over which you tell me a mental calamity hovers. Here is the boy who questions everything and a girl who can believe anything. Upon which has the curse fallen?
DUKE. Talking about the Pragmatists. I'm glad to hear.... Ah, very forward movement! I suppose Roosevelt now.... [_Silence._] Well, we move you know, we move! First there was the Missing Link. [_Silence._] No! _First_ there was Protoplasm--and _then_ there was the Missing Link; and Magna Carta and so on. [_Silence._] Why, look at the Insurance Act!
DOCTOR. I would rather not.
DUKE. [_Wagging a playful finger at him._] Ah, prejudice, prejudice! You doctors, you know! Well, I never had any myself.
[_Silence._
DOCTOR. [_Breaking the silence in unusual exasperation._] Any what?
DUKE. [_Firmly._] Never had any Marconis myself. Wouldn't touch 'em. [_Silence._] Well, I must speak to Hastings.
[_Exit_ DUKE, _aimlessly._
DOCTOR. [_Exploding._] Well, of all the.... [_Turns to_ SMITH.] You asked me just now which member of the family had inherited the family madness.
SMITH. Yes; I did.
DOCTOR. [_In a low, emphatic voice._] On my living soul, I believe it must be the Duke.
CURTAIN
ACT III
_Room partly darkened, a table with a lamp on it, and an empty chair. From room next door faint and occasional sounds of the tossing or talking of the invalid._
_Enter_ DOCTOR GRIMTHORPE _with a rather careworn air, and a medicine bottle in his hand. He puts it on the table, and sits down in the chair as if keeping a vigil._
The Essential G. K. Chesterton Page 205