Roger Casement
IRELAND’S HERO
Roger Casement (1864-1916) was an unlikely Irish patriot. Baptized a Catholic, but bred an Ulster Protestant, he was a loyal subject of the British crown for most of his life. He entered the British consular service in 1895. Posted to remote locations in Africa and South America, he won international fame for exposing the brutal exploitation of native peoples in the Belgian Congo and the Putumayo basin between Peru and Columbia.
His humanitarian work earned him a knighthood in 1911. But it gave him little satisfaction. Gradually, he came to realize that beneath the braid of a British consul, there beat an Irish heart. Abandoning his career, he joined the radical wing of the Irish nationalists -- those who wanted complete independence for Ireland, rather than just home rule within the United Kingdom.
When World War I broke out, he went to Germany to negotiate an alliance between the Irish ultra-nationalists and the German government. The alliance promised German help for a projected Irish rebellion. The date was set for April 23, 1916 – Easter Sunday. But when Casement realized that the Germans were not prepared to offer more than token support, he knew that the rising was foredoomed. In a desperate effort to prevent useless bloodshed, he secretly returned to Ireland, where he was apprehended just hours after being put ashore.
Not only had Casement failed to stop the rising, he had put his own neck in an English noose. Transported to London, he was tried for treason and condemned to death.
Even then, his life might have been saved.
Casement was still world-famous for his humanitarian work in the Congo and the Putumayo. “Save Casement” drives were mounted as far away as South America. The Vatican made an appeal. In the United States (then the most important neutral country in the war), Irish-American voters took advantage of the fact that 1916 was an election year to pressure President Wilson and Congress to intervene on Casement’s behalf. Even in England, Casement did not lack sympathizers, particularly among churchmen and intellectuals. He had, after all, returned to Ireland to prevent a rebellion, not to foment one.
In the face of all this pressure, the British government might have had no choice but to accept the sensible suggestion of George Bernard Shaw that Casement be treated not as a traitor, but as a prisoner of war.
Instead, the government played a squalid trump card. British intelligence had managed to get hold of Casement’s diaries, in which his life as a covert homosexual was laid bare. By leaking the graphic details of his sex life, British officialdom got exactly what it wanted: Casement not only dead, but damned.
Bitter Irishmen insisted for years that the diaries had been forged -- a belief reinforced by the British government’s obstinate refusal to declassify them. Finally, in 1959, the diaries were released and authenticated by impartial experts.
Were the Irish a less warm-hearted people, Casement’s story might have ended there. But it did not. Straight or gay, Casement had died a martyr to Ireland, and his countrymen remembered his sacrifice.
It took nearly 50 years to obtain grudging consent from London but finally, in 1965, Casement’s remains were brought home. For four days, his coffin lay in state in Dublin’s Garrison Church of the Sacred Heart as 165,000 mourners filed past to pay their respects. On March 1, Casement was given a state funeral.
Casement’s speech to the court that condemned him to death ranks as one of the noblest and most moving of all patriotic apologia. In his concluding words, he spoke as much for gays and lesbians as for the long-suffering people of his beloved Ireland:
“Where all your rights have become only an accumulated wrong, where men must beg with bated breath for leave to subsist in their own land, to think their own thoughts, to sing their own songs, to gather the fruits of their own labors, and, even while they beg, to see things inexorably withdrawn from them – then, surely, it is a braver, a saner and a truer thing to be a rebel, in act and deed, against such circumstances as these, than to tamely accept it, as the natural lot of men.”
Play by George Bernard Shaw,Caesar and Cleopatra
George Bernard Shaw (26 July 1856 – 2 November 1950) was a world-famous Irish playwright. Born in Dublin, Shaw's first profitable writing was music and literary criticism, but he had a bent for drama: during his career he authored more than sixty plays. Nearly all of his writings dealt sternly with prevailing social problems, but are nicely leavened by a vein of comedy to make their stark themes more palatable. He pondered education, marriage, religion, government, health care, and class privilege and found them all defective, but his ire was most aroused by the exploitation of the working class by heartless employers; his writings seldom fail to censure that abuse.
An ardent socialist, Shaw wrote many brochures and speeches for the Fabian Society and he became an accomplished orator in the furtherance of its causes, which included gaining equal political rights for men and women, alleviating abuses of the working class, rescinding private ownership of productive land, and promoting healthful lifestyles.
Shaw married Charlotte Payne-Townshend, a fellow Fabian, whom he survived. They made their home in Ayot St. Lawrence in a house now called Shaw's Corner. Shaw died there, aged 94, from chronic problems exacerbated by injuries he incurred by falling from a ladder. He is the only person to have been awarded both the Nobel Prize for Literature (1925) and an Oscar (1938). These, repectively, were for his contributions to literature, and for his work on the film Pygmalion.
"Instruction in sex is as important as instruction in food; yet not only are our adolescents not taught the physiology of sex, but never warned that the strongest sexual attraction may exist between persons so incompatible in tastes and capacities that they could not endure living together for a week much less a lifetime." Quote - Shaw
Visiting Ireland as a Homosexual - Not Really a Problem
The classic picture of Ireland as a very religious and generally quite conservative country does not bode well for the gay traveller. But - actually there should be no major problem for you. As long as you are as safety-conscious as you would be in any foreign city or country. Generally the best advice would be "Don't flaunt it too much!"
Gay Ireland - A Complicated Story
Despite the high esteem for the poet Oscar Wilde, the actor Mícheál Mac Liammóir or the nationalist Roger Casement, homosexuals and especially gay men were not really Ireland's favorite daughters and sons. "Sodomy" was punishable by death until 1861 and the "blackmailer's charter" of 1885 (officially known as the Labouchère Amendment) criminalised all "indecency" between men without further definition
These British laws were inherited by the Free State and the Republic. Lesbianism was never the focus of the law. Both male and female homosexuality were, however, strictly condemned by the church.
In the mid-1970s both the Irish Gay Rights Movement and the Northern Ireland Gay Rights Association started their fight against discrimination and for law reform. The Hirschfeld Centre, a community center for gays in Dublin's Fownes Street, became the focus of activities after its official opening on Saint Patrick's Day 1979. All sorts of activities - concrete blocks and home-made bombs were thrown at the Hirschfeld Centre during homophobic attacks, in 1988 it was burned down. Legal struggles were initiated by David Norris, a Joyce expert, gay rights campaigner an Senator. But only in 1993 was homosexuality finally de-criminalized in Ireland.
On a curious note - historians have noted that quite a number of Irish nationalist icons possibly not only harbored a burning passion for Ireland's freedom, but for their fellow revolutionaries as well. The mere suggestion of (latent) homosexuality in these circles, however, is regarded as a sacrilege. Even Roger Casement's well-documented sexual antics are still widely dismissed as "British propaganda".
Attitudes Towards Homosexuality in Ireland
Ireland today prides itself in being an inclusive, non-discriminatory society. Which essentially means that being gay is not a crime in itself anymore and that you may openly follow your sexual orientation. Which does not imply acceptance by all or even most Irish citizens. Homosexuality is still widely regarded as sinful and/or an aberration - with the still powerful Catholic Church not actively trying to promote a different picture. And in public debate (male) homosexuality still is equated with pedophilia on many occasions. You are entering a backwater here!
On the other hand the gay community has established itself and feels no need to live in hiding anymore - for more on Ireland's gay scene see below. But note that this is a fairly recent development and that most openly gay Irish are young. The older generation preferring to stay in the closet they are used to.
While discrimination against gays is officially frowned upon it still exists. Open displays of homosexual affection will raise eyebrows at least, vociferous alarms at worst - and even the Gardai might be confused whether two men kissing are trespassing beyond the boundaries of decency. "Indecent behavior", a catch-all phrase if ever there was one, is a matter for the courts after all. And gay men enquiring about a double room may suddenly find the B&B hopelessly overbooked. Openly gay couples may also attract snide, rude, insulting or downright threatening remarks in pubs. Fortunately most aggression stops at the verbal stage.
The churches play an interesting role in this matter. The Church of Ireland, an Anglican church, seems to be in the middle of a move towards not only acceptance but full embrace. Following in the footsteps of the Church of England with a typical Irish hesitancy. The Roman-Catholic Church in Ireland toes the party line and treats homosexuality as an aberration and gay sex as straightforward sin. Despite (or maybe because of) numerous scandals involving homosexual pedophilia in its own ranks. The worst verbal aggressors against homosexuals are, however, some Presbyterian Churches - bible-thumping could quickly lead to gay-bashing here as homosexuality is roundly demonized. Then again these churches also tend to condemn line-dancing as sinful.
Aggression Against Homosexuals in Ireland
While verbal aggression can happen in almost any context, physical aggression is much rarer and generally affects males. A quick bout of gay-bashing is an accepted pastime in the lowest social stratum, along with joy-riding and spousal abuse.
Add just enough alcohol and the boundaries between these mindless thugs and "decent citizens" start to blur. Making attacks on homosexuals most likely in urban areas in the early hours of any Saturday and Sunday. There is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent this apart from simply walking away from any confrontation without breaking into full flight. Avoid any physical contact with aggressors at all costs - fights in Ireland are notoriously violent.
The Gay Scene in Ireland
Today Ireland has a lively "gay scene", especially in Dublin and Belfast. Some favorite hang-outs like the "George" in Dublin are clearly identifiable by their use of the "rainbow flag", others are far more discreet. The best bet for visitors who want to meet other gay people is to obtain a copy of GCN, the Gay Community News, a monthly magazine with comprehensive listings.
http://www.gcn.ie/
Zones of Tolerance - Where to "Get Nekkid" in Ireland
Here is a run-down of the beaches that have been "claimed" by Irish naturists - for detailed instructions how to get there visit the website of the Irish Naturists' Association. Take note that the "nude" parts of the beaches may be a considerable distance from the nearest car park and other facilities.
Leinster:
* Brittas Bay,
* Corballis,
* Curracloe and
* Dalkey - Vico Road.
Munster:
* Clonakilty Bay,
* Inch,
* Inchidonney and
* Long Strand.
Connacht:
* Achill Island - Trawmore,
* Bartraw,
* Roundstone - Dog's Bay,
* Silver Strand,
* Trawalua Strand and
* Yellow Strand.
According to the website of naturists in the UK there are no official or unofficial nude beaches in Northern Ireland.
On a slightly curious note you might also like to try Dublin's "Forty Foot", a public "gentlemen's" bathing place in the shadow of the James Joyce Tower at Sandycove. Here otherwise conservative gentlemen brave the waves naked, sometimes adding nude aerobics to the entertainment - in plain view of the busy promenade.
Some Final Words of Caution
If you hit any beaches mentioned above, do not get everything off without taking a good look around you first. You should be fairly safe if there are other nudists (or nobody) about. But should a group of elderly nuns and a large gathering of young schoolchildren enjoy the beach nearby it might be unwise to strip off in front of them. Let common sense prevail - bearing in mind that a complaint may lead to a run-in with the law.
Secondly - act naturally, do not flaunt yourself or engage in anything that might be interpreted as "sexually suggestive" or lewd behavior. Let alone with a partner.
And finally - be aware that any rustling hedges might indicate wildlife as well as curious natives. With even topless tanning being rarely seen in Ireland you should get used to becoming an instant attraction to inquisitive (male) eyes.
Oh ... and just by the way ... check up on the Irish weather before planning a nudist holiday here. Average temperatures might see your enthusiasm shrinking fast!
GREGORY LUNN. I'm not being horrid, Mrs. Juno. I'm not going to
be horrid. I love you: that's all. I'm extraordinarily happy.
MRS. JUNO. You will really be good?
GREGORY. I'll be whatever you wish me to be. I tell you I love
you. I love loving you. I don't want to be tired and sorry, as I
should be if I were to be horrid. I don't want you to be tired
and sorry. Do come and sit down again.
MRS. JUNO [coming back to her seat]. You're sure you don't want
anything you oughtn't to?
GREGORY. Quite sure. I only want you [she recoils]. Don't be
alarmed. I like wanting you. As long as I have a want, I have a
reason for living. Satisfaction is death.
MRS. JUNO. Yes; but the impulse to commit suicide is sometimes
irresistible.
GREGORY. Not with you.
MRS. JUNO. What!
GREGORY. Oh, it sounds uncomplimentary; but it isn't really. Do
you know why half the couples who find themselves situated as we
are now behave horridly?
MRS. JUNO. Because they can't help it if they let things go too
far.
GREGORY. Not a bit of it. It's because they have nothing else to
do, and no other way of entertaining each other. You don't know
what it is to be alone with a woman who has little beauty and
less conversation. What is a man to do? She can't talk
interestingly; and if he talks that way himself she doesn't
understand him. He can't look at her: if he does, he only finds
out that she isn't beautiful. Before the end of five minutes they
are both hideously bored. There's only one thing that can save
the situation; and that's what you call being horrid. With a
beautiful, witty, kind woman, there's no time for such follies.
It's so delightful to look at her, to listen to her voice, to
hear all she has to say, that nothing else happens. That is why
the woman who is supposed to have a thousand lovers seldom has
one; whilst the stupid, graceless animals of women have dozens.
MRS. JUNO. I wonder! It's quite true that when one feels in
danger one talks like mad to stave it off, even when one doesn't
quite want to stave it off.
GREGORY. One never does quite want to stave it off. Danger is
delicious. But death isn't. We court the danger; but the real
delight is in escaping, after all.
MRS. JUNO. I don't think we'll talk about it any more. Danger is
all very well when you do escape; but sometimes one doesn't. I
tell you frankly I don't feel as safe as you do--if you really
do.
GREGORY. But surely you can do as you please without injuring
anyone, Mrs. Juno. That is the whole secret of your extraordinary
charm for me.
MRS. JUNO. I don't understand.
GREGORY. Well, I hardly know how to begin to explain. But the
root of the matter is that I am what people call a good man.
MRS. JUNO. I thought so until you began making love to me.
GREGORY. But you knew I loved you all along.
MRS. JUNO. Yes, of course; but I depended on you not to tell me
so; because I thought you were good. Your blurting it out spoilt
it. And it was wicked besides.
GREGORY. Not at all. You see, it's a great many years since I've
been able to allow myself to fall in love. I know lots of
charming women; but the worst of it is, they're all married.
Women don't become charming, to my taste, until they're fully
developed; and by that time, if they're really nice, they're
snapped up and married. And then, because I am a good man, I have
to place a limit to my regard for them. I may be fortunate enough
to gain friendship and even very warm affection from them; but my
loyalty to their husbands and their hearths and their happiness
obliges me to draw a line and not overstep it. Of course I value
such affectionate regard very highly indeed. I am surrounded with
women who are most dear to me. But every one of them has a post
sticking up, if I may put it that way, with the inscription
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. How we all loathe that notice! In
every lovely garden, in every dell full of primroses, on every
fair hillside, we meet that confounded board; and there is always
a gamekeeper round the corner. But what is that to the horror of
meeting it on every beautiful woman, and knowing that there is a
husband round the corner? I have had this accursed board standing
between me and every dear and desirable woman until I thought I
had lost the power of letting myself fall really and
wholeheartedly in love.
MRS. JUNO. Wasn't there a widow?
GREGORY. No. Widows are extraordinarily scarce in modern society.
Husbands live longer than they used to; and even when they do
die, their widows have a string of names down for their next.
MRS. JUNO. Well, what about the young girls?
GREGORY. Oh, who cares for young girls? They're sympathetic.
They're beginners. They don't attract me. I'm afraid of them.
MRS. JUNO. That's the correct thing to say to a woman of my age.
But it doesn't explain why you seem to have put your scruples in
your pocket when you met me.
GREGORY. Surely that's quite clear. I--
MRS. JUNO. No: please don't explain. I don't want to know. I take
your word for it. Besides, it doesn't matter now. Our voyage is
over; and to-morrow I start for the north to my poor father's
place.
GREGORY [surprised]. Your poor father! I thought he was alive.
MRS. JUNO. So he is. What made you think he wasn't?
GREGORY. You said your POOR father.
MRS. JUNO. Oh, that's a trick of mine. Rather a silly trick, I
Suppose; but there's something pathetic to me about men: I find
myself calling them poor So-and-So when there's nothing whatever
the matter with them.
GREGORY [who has listened in growing alarm]. But--I--is?--
wa--? Oh, Lord!
MRS. JUNO. What's the matter?
GREGORY. Nothing.
MRS. JUNO. Nothing! [Rising anxiously]. Nonsense: you're ill.
GREGORY. No. It was something about your late husband--
MRS. JUNO. My LATE husband! What do you mean? [clutching him,
horror-stricken]. Don't tell me he's dead.
GREGORY [rising, equally appalled]. Don't tell me he's alive.
MRS. JUNO. Oh, don't frighten me like this. Of course he's
alive--unless you've heard anything.
GREGORY. The first day we met--on the boat--you spoke to me of
your poor dear husband.
MRS. JUNO [releasing him, quite reassured]. Is that all?
GREGORY. Well, afterwards you called him poor Tops. Always poor
Tops, Our poor dear Tops. What could I think?
MRS. JUNO [sitting down again]. I wish you hadn't given me such a
shock about him; for I haven't been treating him at all well.
Neither have you.
GREGORY [relapsing into his seat, overwhelmed]. And you mean to
tell me you're not a widow!
MRS. JUNO. Gracious, no! I'm not in black.
GREGORY. Then I have been behaving like a blackguard. I have
broken my promise to my mother. I shall never have an easy
conscience again.
MRS. JUNO. I'm sorry. I thought you knew.
GREGORY. You thought I was a libertine?
MRS. JUNO. No: of course I shouldn't have spoken to you if I had
thought that. I thought you liked me, but that you knew, and
would be good.
GREGORY [stretching his hands towards her breast]. I thought the
burden of being good had fallen from my soul at last. I saw
nothing there but a bosom to rest on: the bosom of a lovely woman
of whom I could dream without guilt. What do I see now?
MRS. JUNO. Just what you saw before.
GREGORY [despairingly]. No, no.
MRS. JUNO. What else?
GREGORY. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted: Trespassers Will Be
Prosecuted.
MRS. JUNO. They won't if they hold their tongues. Don't be such a
coward. My husband won't eat you.
GREGORY. I'm not afraid of your husband. I'm afraid of my
conscience.
MRS. JUNO [losing patience]. Well! I don't consider myself at all
a badly behaved woman; for nothing has passed between us that was
not perfectly nice and friendly; but really! to hear a grown-up
man talking about promises to his mother!
GREGORY [interrupting her]. Yes, Yes: I know all about that. It's
not romantic: it's not Don Juan: it's not advanced; but we feel
it all the same. It's far deeper in our blood and bones than all
the romantic stuff. My father got into a scandal once: that was
why my mother made me promise never to make love to a married
woman. And now I've done it I can't feel honest. Don't pretend to
despise me or laugh at me. You feel it too. You said just now
that your own conscience was uneasy when you thought of your
husband. What must it be when you think of my wife?
MRS. JUNO [rising aghast]. Your wife!!! You don't dare sit there
and tell me coolly that you're a married man!
GREGORY. I never led you to believe I was unmarried.
MRS. JUNO. Oh! You never gave me the faintest hint that you had a
wife.
GREGORY. I did indeed. I discussed things with you that only
married people really understand.
MRS. JUNO. Oh!!
GREGORY. I thought it the most delicate way of letting you know.
MRS. JUNO. Well, you ARE a daisy, I must say. I suppose that's
vulgar; but really! really!! You and your goodness! However, now
we've found one another out there's only one thing to be done.
Will you please go?
GREGORY [rising slowly]. I OUGHT to go.
MRS. JUNO. Well, go.
GREGORY. Yes. Er--[he tries to go]. I--I somehow can't. [He sits
down again helplessly]. My conscience is active: my will is
paralyzed. This is really dreadful. Would you mind ringing the
bell and asking them to throw me out? You ought to, you know.
MRS. JUNO. What! make a scandal in the face of the whole hotel!
Certainly not. Don't be a fool.
GREGORY. Yes; but I can't go.
MRS. JUNO. Then I can. Goodbye.
GREGORY [clinging to her hand]. Can you really?
MRS. JUNO. Of course I--[she wavers]. Oh, dear! [They contemplate
one another helplessly]. I can't. [She sinks on the lounge, hand
in hand with him].
GREGORY. For heaven's sake pull yourself together. It's a
question of self-control.
MRS. JUNO [dragging her hand away and retreating to the end of
the chesterfield]. No: it's a question of distance. Self-control
is all very well two or three yards off, or on a ship, with
everybody looking on. Don't come any nearer.
GREGORY. This is a ghastly business. I want to go away; and I
can't.
MRS. JUNO. I think you ought to go [he makes an effort; and she
adds quickly] but if you try I shall grab you round the neck and
disgrace myself. I implore you to sit still and be nice.
GREGORY. I implore you to run away. I believe I can trust myself
to let you go for your own sake. But it will break my heart.
MRS. JUNO. I don't want to break your heart. I can't bear to
think of your sitting here alone. I can't bear to think of
sitting alone myself somewhere else. It's so senseless--so
ridiculous--when we might be so happy. I don't want to be wicked,
or coarse. But I like you very much; and I do want to be
affectionate and human.
GREGORY. I ought to draw a line.
MRS. JUNO. So you shall, dear. Tell me: do you really like me? I
don't mean LOVE me: you might love the housemaid--
GREGORY [vehemently]. No!
MRS. JUNO. Oh, yes you might; and what does that matter, anyhow?
Are you really fond of me? Are we friends--comrades? Would you be
sorry if I died?
GREGORY [shrinking]. Oh, don't.
MRS. JUNO. Or was it the usual aimless man's lark: a mere
shipboard flirtation?
GREGORY. Oh, no, no: nothing half so bad, so vulgar, so wrong. I
assure you I only meant to be agreeable. It grew on me before I
noticed it.
MRS. JUNO. And you were glad to let it grow?
GREGORY. I let it grow because the board was not up.
MRS. JUNO. Bother the board! I am just as fond of Sibthorpe as--
GREGORY. Sibthorpe!
MRS. JUNO. Sibthorpe is my husband's Christian name. I oughtn't
to call him Tops to you now.
GREGORY [chuckling]. It sounded like something to drink. But I
have no right to laugh at him. My Christian name is Gregory,
which sounds like a powder.
MRS. JUNO [chilled]. That is so like a man! I offer you my
heart's warmest friendliest feeling; and you think of nothing but
a silly joke. A quip like that makes you forget me.
GREGORY. Forget you! Oh, if I only could!
MRS. JUNO. If you could, would you?
GREGORY [burying his shamed face in his hands]. No: I'd die
first. Oh, I hate myself.
MRS. JUNO. I glory in myself. It's so jolly to be reckless. CAN a
man be reckless, I wonder.
GREGORY [straightening himself desperately]. No. I'm not
reckless. I know what I'm doing: my conscience is awake. Oh,
where is the intoxication of love? the delirium? the madness that
makes a man think the world well lost for the woman he adores? I
don't think anything of the sort: I see that it's not worth it: I
know that it's wrong: I have never in my life been cooler, more
businesslike.
MRS. JUNO. [opening her arms to him] But you can't resist me.
GREGORY. I must. I ought [throwing himself into her arms]. Oh, my
darling, my treasure, we shall be sorry for this.
MRS. JUNO. We can forgive ourselves. Could we forgive ourselves
if we let this moment slip?
GREGORY. I protest to the last. I'm against this. I have been
pushed over a precipice. I'm innocent. This wild joy, this
exquisite tenderness, this ascent into heaven can thrill me to
the uttermost fibre of my heart [with a gesture of ecstasy she
hides her face on his shoulder]; but it can't subdue my mind or
corrupt my conscience, which still shouts to the skies that I'm
not a willing party to this outrageous conduct. I repudiate the
bliss with which you are filling me.
MRS. JUNO. Never mind your conscience. Tell me how happy you are.
GREGORY. No, I recall you to your duty. But oh, I will give you
my life with both hands if you can tell me that you feel for me
one millionth part of what I feel for you now.
MRS. JUNO. Oh, yes, yes. Be satisfied with that. Ask for no more.
Let me go.
GREGORY. I can't. I have no will. Something stronger than either
of us is in command here. Nothing on earth or in heaven can part
us now. You know that, don't you?
MRS. JUNO. Oh, don't make me say it. Of course I know. Nothing--
not life nor death nor shame nor anything can part us.
A MATTER-OF-FACT MALE VOICE IN THE CORRIDOR. All right. This must
be it.
The two recover with a violent start; release one another; and
spring back to opposite sides of the lounge.
GREGORY. That did it.
MRS. JUNO [in a thrilling whisper] Sh--sh--sh! That was my
husband's voice.
GREGORY. Impossible: it's only our guilty fancy.
A WOMAN'S VOICE. This is the way to the lounge. I know it.
GREGORY. Great Heaven! we're both mad. That's my wife's voice.
MRS. JUNO. Ridiculous! Oh! we're dreaming it all. We [the door
opens; and Sibthorpe Juno appears in the roseate glow of the
corridor (which happens to be papered in pink) with Mrs. Lunn,
like Tannhauser in the hill of Venus. He is a fussily energetic
little man, who gives himself an air of gallantry by greasing the
points of his moustaches and dressing very carefully. She is a
tall, imposing, handsome, languid woman, with flashing dark eyes
and long lashes. They make for the chesterfield, not noticing the
two palpitating figures blotted against the walls in the gloom on
either side. The figures flit away noiselessly through the window
and disappear].
JUNO [officiously] Ah: here we are. [He leads the way to the
sofa]. Sit down: I'm sure you're tired. [She sits]. That's right.
[He sits beside her on her left]. Hullo! [he rises] this sofa's
quite warm.
MRS. LUNN [bored] Is it? I don't notice it. I expect the sun's
been on it.
JUNO. I felt it quite distinctly: I'm more thinly clad than you.
[He sits down again, and proceeds, with a sigh of satisfaction].
What a relief to get off the ship and have a private room! That's
the worst of a ship. You're under observation all the time.
MRS. LUNN. But why not?
JUNO. Well, of course there's no reason: at least I suppose not.
But, you know, part of the romance of a journey is that a man
keeps imagining that something might happen; and he can't do that
if there are a lot of people about and it simply can't happen.
MRS. LUNN. Mr. Juno: romance is all very well on board ship; but
when your foot touches the soil of England there's an end of it.
JUNO. No: believe me, that's a foreigner's mistake: we are the
most romantic people in the world, we English. Why, my very
presence here is a romance.
MRS. LUNN [faintly ironical] Indeed?
JUNO. Yes. You've guessed, of course, that I'm a married man.
MRS. LUNN. Oh, that's all right. I'm a married woman.
JUNO. Thank Heaven for that! To my English mind, passion is not
real passion without guilt. I am a red-blooded man, Mrs. Lunn: I
can't help it. The tragedy of my life is that I married, when
quite young, a woman whom I couldn't help being very fond of. I
longed for a guilty passion--for the real thing--the wicked
thing; and yet I couldn't care twopence for any other woman when
my wife was about. Year after year went by: I felt my youth
slipping away without ever having had a romance in my life; for
marriage is all very well; but it isn't romance. There's nothing
wrong in it, you see.
MRS. LUNN. Poor man! How you must have suffered!
JUNO. No: that was what was so tame about it. I wanted to suffer.
You get so sick of being happily married. It's always the happy
marriages that break up. At last my wife and I agreed that we
ought to take a holiday.
MRS. LUNN. Hadn't you holidays every year?
JUNO. Oh, the seaside and so on! That's not what we meant. We
meant a holiday from one another.
MRS. LUNN. How very odd!
JUNO. She said it was an excellent idea; that domestic felicity
was making us perfectly idiotic; that she wanted a holiday, too.
So we agreed to go round the world in opposite directions. I
started for Suez on the day she sailed for New York.
MRS. LUNN [suddenly becoming attentive] That's precisely what
Gregory and I did. Now I wonder did he want a holiday from me!
What he said was that he wanted the delight of meeting me after a
long absence.
JUNO. Could anything be more romantic than that? Would anyone
else than an Englishman have thought of it? I daresay my
temperament seems tame to your boiling southern blood--
MRS. LUNN. My what!
JUNO. Your southern blood. Don't you remember how you told me,
that night in the saloon when I sang "Farewell and adieu to you
dear Spanish ladies," that you were by birth a lady of Spain?
Your splendid Andalusian beauty speaks for itself.
MRS. LUNN. Stuff! I was born in Gibraltar. My father was Captain
Jenkins. In the artillery.
JUNO [ardently] It is climate and not race that determines the
temperament. The fiery sun of Spain blazed on your cradle; and it
rocked to the roar of British cannon.
MRS. LUNN. What eloquence! It reminds me of my husband when he
was in love before we were married. Are you in love?
JUNO. Yes; and with the same woman.
MRS. LUNN. Well, of course, I didn't suppose you were in love
with two women.
JUNO. I don't think you quite understand. I meant that I am in
love with you.
MRS. LUNN [relapsing into deepest boredom] Oh, that! Men do fall
in love with me. They all seem to think me a creature with
volcanic passions: I'm sure I don't know why; for all the
volcanic women I know are plain little creatures with sandy hair.
I don't consider human volcanoes respectable. And I'm so tired of
the subject! Our house is always full of women who are in love
with my husband and men who are in love with me. We encourage it
because it's pleasant to have company.
JUNO. And is your husband as insensible as yourself?
MRS. LUNN. Oh, Gregory's not insensible: very far from it; but I
am the only woman in the world for him.
JUNO. But you? Are you really as insensible as you say you are?
MRS. LUNN. I never said anything of the kind. I'm not at all
insensible by nature; but (I don't know whether you've noticed
it) I am what people call rather a fine figure of a woman.
JUNO [passionately] Noticed it! Oh, Mrs. Lunn! Have I been able
to notice anything else since we met?
MRS. LUNN. There you go, like all the rest of them! I ask you,
how do you expect a woman to keep up what you call her
sensibility when this sort of thing has happened to her about
three times a week ever since she was seventeen? It used to upset
me and terrify me at first. Then I got rather a taste for it. It
came to a climax with Gregory: that was why I married him. Then
it became a mild lark, hardly worth the trouble. After that I
found it valuable once or twice as a spinal tonic when I was run
down; but now it's an unmitigated bore. I don't mind your
declaration: I daresay it gives you a certain pleasure to make
it. I quite understand that you adore me; but (if you don't mind)
I'd rather you didn't keep on saying so.
JUNO. Is there then no hope for me?
MRS. LUNN. Oh, yes. Gregory has an idea that married women keep
lists of the men they'll marry if they become widows. I'll put
your name down, if that will satisfy you.
JUNO. Is the list a long one?
MRS. LUNN. Do you mean the real list? Not the one I show to
Gregory: there are hundreds of names on that; but the little
private list that he'd better not see?
JUNO. Oh, will you really put me on that? Say you will.
MRS. LUNN. Well, perhaps I will. [He kisses her hand]. Now don't
begin abusing the privilege.
JUNO. May I call you by your Christian name?
MRS. LUNN. No: it's too long. You can't go about calling a woman
Seraphita.
JUNO [ecstatically] Seraphita!
MRS. LUNN. I used to be called Sally at home; but when I married
a man named Lunn, of course that became ridiculous. That's my one
little pet joke. Call me Mrs. Lunn for short. And change the
subject, or I shall go to sleep.
JUNO. I can't change the subject. For me there is no other
subject. Why else have you put me on your list?
MRS. LUNN. Because you're a solicitor. Gregory's a solicitor. I'm
accustomed to my husband being a solicitor and telling me things
he oughtn't to tell anybody.
JUNO [ruefully] Is that all? Oh, I can't believe that the voice
of love has ever thoroughly awakened you.
MRS. LUNN. No: it sends me to sleep. [Juno appeals against this
by an amorous demonstration]. It's no use, Mr. Juno: I'm
hopelessly respectable: the Jenkinses always were. Don't you
realize that unless most women were like that, the world couldn't
go on as it does?
JUNO [darkly] You think it goes on respectably; but I can tell
you as a solicitor--
MRS. LUNN. Stuff! of course all the disreputable people who get
into trouble go to you, just as all the sick people go to the
doctors; but most people never go to a solicitor.
JUNO [rising, with a growing sense of injury] Look here, Mrs.
Lunn: do you think a man's heart is a potato? or a turnip? or a
ball of knitting wool? that you can throw it away like this?
MRS. LUNN. I don't throw away balls of knitting wool. A man's
heart seems to me much like a sponge: it sops up dirty water as
well as clean.
JUNO. I have never been treated like this in my life. Here am I,
a married man, with a most attractive wife: a wife I adore, and
who adores me, and has never as much as looked at any other man
since we were married. I come and throw all this at your feet.
I! I, a solicitor! braving the risk of your husband putting me
into the divorce court and making me a beggar and an outcast! I
do this for your sake. And you go on as if I were making no
sacrifice: as if I had told you it's a fine evening, or asked you
to have a cup of tea. It's not human. It's not right. Love has
its rights as well as respectability [he sits down again, aloof
and sulky].
MRS. LUNN. Nonsense! Here, here's a flower [she gives him one].
Go and dream over it until you feel hungry. Nothing brings people
to their senses like hunger.
JUNO [contemplating the flower without rapture] What good's this?
MRS. LUNN [snatching it from him] Oh! you don't love me a bit.
JUNO. Yes I do. Or at least I did. But I'm an Englishman; and I
think you ought to respect the conventions of English life.
MRS. Juxo. But I am respecting them; and you're not.
JUNO. Pardon me. I may be doing wrong; but I'm doing it in a
proper and customary manner. You may be doing right; but you're
doing it in an unusual and questionable manner. I am not prepared
to put up with that. I can stand being badly treated: I'm no
baby, and can take care of myself with anybody. And of course I
can stand being well treated. But the thing I can't stand is
being unexpectedly treated, It's outside my scheme of life. So
come now! you've got to behave naturally and straightforwardly
with me. You can leave husband and child, home, friends, and
country, for my sake, and come with me to some southern isle--or
say South America--where we can be all in all to one another. Or
you can tell your husband and let him jolly well punch my head if
he can. But I'm damned if I'm going to stand any eccentricity.
It's not respectable.
GREGORY [coming in from the terrace and advancing with dignity to
his wife's end of the chesterfield]. Will you have the goodness,
sir, in addressing this lady, to keep your temper and refrain
from using profane language?
MRS. LUNN [rising, delighted] Gregory! Darling [she enfolds him
in a copious embrace]!
JUNO [rising] You make love to another man to my face!
MRS. LUNN. Why, he's my husband.
JUNO. That takes away the last rag of excuse for such conduct. A
nice world it would be if married people were to carry on their
endearments before everybody!
GREGORY. This is ridiculous. What the devil business is it of
yours what passes between my wife and myself? You're not her
husband, are you?
JUNO. Not at present; but I'm on the list. I'm her prospective
husband: you're only her actual one. I'm the anticipation: you're
the disappointment.
MRS. LUNN. Oh, my Gregory is not a disappointment. [Fondly] Are
you, dear?
GREGORY. You just wait, my pet. I'll settle this chap for you.
[He disengages himself from her embrace, and faces Juno. She sits
down placidly]. You call me a disappointment, do you? Well, I
suppose every husband's a disappointment. What about yourself?
Don't try to look like an unmarried man. I happen to know the
lady you disappointed. I travelled in the same ship with her;
and--
JUNO. And you fell in love with her.
GREGORY [taken aback] Who told you that?
JUNO. Aha! you confess it. Well, if you want to know, nobody told
me. Everybody falls in love with my wife.
GREGORY. And do you fall in love with everybody's wife?
JUNO. Certainly not. Only with yours.
MRS. LUNN. But what's the good of saying that, Mr. Juno? I'm
married to him; and there's an end of it.
JUNO. Not at all. You can get a divorce.
MRS. LUNN. What for?
JUNO. For his misconduct with my wife.
GREGORY [deeply indignant] How dare you, sir, asperse the
character of that sweet lady? a lady whom I have taken under my
protection.
JUNO. Protection!
MRS. JUNO [returning hastily] Really you must be more careful
what you say about me, Mr. Lunn.
JUNO. My precious! [He embraces her]. Pardon this betrayal of my
feeling; but I've not seen my wife for several weeks; and she is
very dear to me.
GREGORY. I call this cheek. Who is making love to his own wife
before people now, pray?
MRS. LUNN. Won't you introduce me to your wife, Mr. Juno?
MRS. JUNO. How do you do? [They shake hands; and Mrs. Juno sits
down beside Mrs. Lunn, on her left].
MRS. LUNN. I'm so glad to find you do credit to Gregory's taste.
I'm naturally rather particular about the women he falls in love
with.
JUNO [sternly] This is no way to take your husband's
unfaithfulness. [To Lunn] You ought to teach your wife better.
Where's her feelings? It's scandalous.
GREGORY. What about your own conduct, pray?
JUNO. I don't defend it; and there's an end of the matter.
GREGORY. Well, upon my soul! What difference does your not
defending it make?
JUNO. A fundamental difference. To serious people I may appear
wicked. I don't defend myelf: I am wicked, though not bad at
heart. To thoughtless people I may even appear comic. Well, laugh
at me: I have given myself away. But Mrs. Lunn seems to have no
opinion at all about me. She doesn't seem to know whether I'm
wicked or comic. She doesn't seem to care. She has no more sense.
I say it's not right. I repeat, I have sinned; and I'm prepared
to suffer.
MRS. JUNO. Have you really sinned, Tops?
MRS. LUNN [blandly] I don't remember your sinning. I have a
shocking bad memory for trifles; but I think I should remember
that--if you mean me.
JUNO [raging] Trifles! I have fallen in love with a monster.
GREGORY. Don't you dare call my wife a monster.
MRS. JUNO [rising quickly and coming between them]. Please don't
lose your temper, Mr. Lunn: I won't have my Tops bullied.
GREGORY. Well, then, let him not brag about sinning with my wife.
[He turns impulsively to his wife; makes her rise; and takes her
proudly on his arm]. What pretension has he to any such honor?
JUNO. I sinned in intention. [Mrs. Juno abandons him and resumes
her seat, chilled]. I'm as guilty as if I had actually sinned.
And I insist on being treated as a sinner, and not walked over as
if I'd done nothing, by your wife or any other man.
MRS. LUNN. Tush! [She sits down again contemptuously].
JUNO [furious] I won't be belittled.
MRS. LUNN [to Mrs. Juno] I hope you'll come and stay with us now
that you and Gregory are such friends, Mrs. Juno.
JUNO. This insane magnanimity--
MRS. LUNN. Don't you think you've said enough, Mr. Juno? This is
a matter for two women to settle. Won't you take a stroll on the
beach with my Gregory while we talk it over. Gregory is a
splendid listener.
JUNO. I don't think any good can come of a conversation between
Mr. Lunn and myself. We can hardly be expected to improve one
another's morals. [He passes behind the chesterfield to Mrs.
Lunn's end; seizes a chair; deliberately pushes it between
Gregory and Mrs. Lunn; and sits down with folded arms, resolved
not to budge].
GREGORY. Oh! Indeed! Oh, all right. If you come to that--[he
crosses to Mrs. Juno; plants a chair by her side; and sits down
with equal determination].
JUNO. Now we are both equally guilty.
GREGORY. Pardon me. I'm not guilty.
JUNO. In intention. Don't quibble. You were guilty in intention,
as I was.
GREGORY. No. I should rather describe myself guilty in fact, but
not in intention.
JUNO { rising and } What!
MRS. JUNO { exclaiming } No, really--
MRS. LUNN { simultaneously } Gregory!
GREGORY. Yes: I maintain that I am responsible for my intentions
only, and not for reflex actions over which I have no control.
[Mrs. Juno sits down, ashamed]. I promised my mother that I would
never tell a lie, and that I would never make love to a married
woman. I never have told a lie--
MRS. LUNN [remonstrating] Gregory! [She sits down again].
GREGORY. I say never. On many occasions I have resorted to
prevarication; but on great occasions I have always told the
truth. I regard this as a great occasion; and I won't be
intimidated into breaking my promise. I solemnly declare that I
did not know until this evening that Mrs. Juno was married. She
will bear me out when I say that from that moment my intentions
were strictly and resolutely honorable; though my conduct, which
I could not control and am therefore not responsible for, was
disgraceful--or would have been had this gentleman not walked in
and begun making love to my wife under my very nose.
JUNO [flinging himself back into his chair] Well, I like this!
MRS. LUNN. Really, darling, there's no use in the pot calling
the kettle black.
GREGORY. When you say darling, may I ask which of us you are
addressing?
MRS. LUNN. I really don't know. I'm getting hopelessly confused.
JUNO. Why don't you let my wife say something? I don't think she
ought to be thrust into the background like this.
MRS. LUNN. I'm sorry, I'm sure. Please excuse me, dear.
MRS. JUNO [thoughtfully] I don't know what to say. I must think
over it. I have always been rather severe on this sort of thing;
but when it came to the point I didn't behave as I thought I
should behave. I didn't intend to be wicked; but somehow or
other, Nature, or whatever you choose to call it, didn't take
much notice of my intentions. [Gregory instinctively seeks her
hand and presses it]. And I really did think, Tops, that I was
the only woman in the world for you.
JUNO [cheerfully] Oh, that's all right, my precious. Mrs. Lunn
thought she was the only woman in the world for him.
GREGORY [reflectively] So she is, in a sort of a way.
JUNO [flaring up] And so is my wife. Don't you set up to be a
better husband than I am; for you're not. I've owned I'm wrong.
You haven't.
MRS. LUNN. Are you sorry, Gregory?
GREGORY [perplexed] Sorry?
MRS. LUNN. Yes, sorry. I think it's time for you to say you're
sorry, and to make friends with Mr. Juno before we all dine
together.
GREGORY. Seraphita: I promised my mother--
MRS. JUNO [involuntarily] Oh, bother your mother! [Recovering
herself] I beg your pardon.
GREGORY. A promise is a promise. I can't tell a deliberate lie. I
know I ought to be sorry; but the flat fact is that I'm not
sorry. I find that in this business, somehow or other, there is a
disastrous separation between my moral principles and my
conduct.
JUNO. There's nothing disastrous about it. It doesn't matter
about your principles if your conduct is all right.
GREGORY. Bosh! It doesn't matter about your principles if your
conduct is all right.
JUNO. But your conduct isn't all right; and my principles are.
GREGORY. What's the good of your principles being right if they
won't work?
JUNO. They WILL work, sir, if you exercise self-sacrifice.
GREGORY. Oh yes: if, if, if. You know jolly well that
self-sacrifice doesn't work either when you really want a thing.
How much have you sacrificed yourself, pray?
MRS. LUNN. Oh, a great deal, Gregory. Don't be rude. Mr. Juno is
a very nice man: he has been most attentive to me on the voyage.
GREGORY. And Mrs. Juno's a very nice woman. She oughtn't to be;
but she is.
JUNO. Why oughtn't she to be a nice woman, pray?
GREGORY. I mean she oughtn't to be nice to me. And you oughtn't
to be nice to my wife. And your wife oughtn't to like me. And my
wife oughtn't to like you. And if they do, they oughtn't to go on
liking us. And I oughtn't to like your wife; and you oughtn't to
like mine; and if we do we oughtn't to go on liking them. But we
do, all of us. We oughtn't; but we do.
JUNO. But, my dear boy, if we admit we are in the wrong where's
the harm of it? We're not perfect; but as long as we keep the
ideal before us--
GREGORY. How?
JUNO. By admitting we were wrong.
MRS. LUNN [springing up, out of patience, and pacing round the
lounge intolerantly] Well, really, I must have my dinner. These
two men, with their morality, and their promises to their
mothers, and their admissions that they were wrong, and their
sinning and suffering, and their going on at one another as if it
meant anything, or as if it mattered, are getting on my nerves.
[Stooping over the back of the chesterfield to address Mrs. Juno]
If you will be so very good, my dear, as to take my sentimental
husband off my hands occasionally, I shall be more than obliged
to you: I'm sure you can stand more male sentimentality than I
can. [Sweeping away to the fireplace] I, on my part, will do my
best to amuse your excellent husband when you find him tiresome.
JUNO. I call this polyandry.
MRS. LUNN. I wish you wouldn't call innocent things by offensive
names, Mr. Juno. What do you call your own conduct?
JUNO [rising] I tell you I have admitted--
GREGORY { } What's the good of keeping on at that?
MRS. JUNO { together } Oh, not that again, please.
MRS. LUNN { } Tops: I'll scream if you say that again.
JUNO. Oh, well, if you won't listen to me--! [He sits down
again].
MRS. JUNO. What is the position now exactly? [Mrs. Lunn shrugs
her shoulders and gives up the conundrum. Gregory looks at Juno.
Juno turns away his head huffily]. I mean, what are we going to
do?
MRS. LUNN. What would you advise, Mr. Juno?
JUNO. I should advise you to divorce your husband.
MRS. LUNN. Do you want me to drag your wife into court and
disgrace her?
JUNO. No: I forgot that. Excuse me; but for the moment I thought
I was married to you.
GREGORY. I think we had better let bygones be bygones. [To Mrs.
Juno, very tenderly] You will forgive me, won't you? Why should
you let a moment's forgetfulness embitter all our future life?
MRS. JUNO. But it's Mrs. Lunn who has to forgive you.
GREGORY. Oh, dash it, I forgot. This is getting ridiculous.
MRS. LUNN. I'm getting hungry.
MRS. JUNO. Do you really mind, Mrs. Lunn?
MRS. LUNN. My dear Mrs. Juno, Gregory is one of those terribly
uxorious men who ought to have ten wives. If any really nice
woman will take him off my hands for a day or two occasionally, I
shall be greatly obliged to her.
GREGORY. Seraphita: you cut me to the soul [he weeps].
MRs. LUNN. Serve you right! You'd think it quite proper if it cut
me to the soul.
MRS. JUNO. Am I to take Sibthorpe off your hands too, Mrs. Lunn?
JUNO [rising] Do you suppose I'll allow this?
MRS. JUNO. You've admitted that you've done wrong, Tops. What's
the use of your allowing or not allowing after that?
JUNO. I do not admit that I have done wrong. I admit that what I
did was wrong.
GREGORY. Can you explain the distinction?
JUNO. It's quite plain to anyone but an imbecile. If you tell me
I've done something wrong you insult me. But if you say that
something that I did is wrong you simply raise a question of
morals. I tell you flatly if you say I did anything wrong you
will have to fight me. In fact I think we ought to fight anyhow.
I don't particularly want to; but I feel that England expects us
to.
GREGORY. I won't fight. If you beat me my wife would share my
humiliation. If I beat you, she would sympathize with you and
loathe me for my brutality.
MRS. LUNN. Not to mention that as we are human beings and not
reindeer or barndoor fowl, if two men presumed to fight for us we
couldn't decently ever speak to either of them again.
GREGORY. Besides, neither of us could beat the other, as we
neither of us know how to fight. We should only blacken each
other's eyes and make fools of ourselves.
JUNO. I don't admit that. Every Englishman can use his fists.
GREGORY. You're an Englishman. Can you use yours?
JUNO. I presume so: I never tried.
MRS. JUNO. You never told me you couldn't fight, Tops. I thought
you were an accomplished boxer.
JUNO. My precious: I never gave you any ground for such a belief.
MRS. JUNO. You always talked as if it were a matter of course.
You spoke with the greatest contempt of men who didn't kick other
men downstairs.
JUNO. Well, I can't kick Mr. Lunn downstairs. We're on the ground
floor.
MRS. JUNO. You could throw him into the harbor.
GREGORY. Do you want me to be thrown into the harbor?
MRS. JUNO. No: I only want to show Tops that he's making a
ghastly fool of himself.
GREGORY [rising and prowling disgustedly between the chesterfield
and the windows] We're all making fools of ourselves.
JUNO [following him] Well, if we're not to fight, I must insist
at least on your never speaking to my wife again.
GREGORY. Does my speaking to your wife do you any harm?
JUNO. No. But it's the proper course to take. [Emphatically]. We
MUST behave with some sort of decency.
MRS. LUNN. And are you never going to speak to me again, Mr.
Juno?
JUNO. I'm prepared to promise never to do so. I think your
husband has a right to demand that. Then if I speak to you after,
it will not be his fault. It will be a breach of my promise; and
I shall not attempt to defend my conduct.
GREGORY [facing him] I shall talk to your wife as often as she'll
let me.
MRS. JUNO. I have no objection to your speaking to me, Mr. Lunn.
JUNO. Then I shall take steps.
GREGORY. What steps?
Juno. Steps. Measures. Proceedings. What steps as may seem
advisable.
MRS. LUNN [to Mrs. Juno] Can your husband afford a scandal, Mrs.
Juno?
MRS. JUNO. No.
MRS. LUNN. Neither can mine.
GREGORY. Mrs. Juno: I'm very sorry I let you in for all this. I
don't know how it is that we contrive to make feelings like ours,
which seems to me to be beautiful and sacred feelings, and which
lead to such interesting and exciting adventures, end in vulgar
squabbles and degrading scenes.
JUNO. I decline to admit that my conduct has been vulgar or
degrading.
GREGORY. I promised--
JUNO. Look here, old chap: I don't say a word against your
mother; and I'm sorry she's dead; but really, you know, most
women are mothers; and they all die some time or other; yet that
doesn't make them infallible authorities on morals, does it?
GREGORY. I was about to say so myself. Let me add that if you do
things merely because you think some other fool expects you to do
them, and he expects you to do them because he thinks you expect
him to expect you to do them, it will end in everybody doing what
nobody wants to do, which is in my opinion a silly state of
things.
JUNO. Lunn: I love your wife; and that's all about it.
GREGORY. Juno: I love yours. What then?
JUNO. Clearly she must never see you again.
MRS. JUNO. Why not?
JUNO. Why not! My love: I'm surprised at you.
MRS. JUNO. Am I to speak only to men who dislike me?
JUNO. Yes: I think that is, properly speaking, a married woman's
duty.
MRS. JUNO. Then I won't do it: that's flat. I like to be liked. I
like to be loved. I want everyone round me to love me. I don't
want to meet or speak to anyone who doesn't like me.
JUNO. But, my precious, this is the most horrible immorality.
MRS. LUNN. I don't intend to give up meeting you, Mr. Juno. You
amuse me very much. I don't like being loved: it bores me. But I
do like to be amused.
JUNO. I hope we shall meet very often. But I hope also we shall
not defend our conduct.
MRS. JUNO [rising] This is unendurable. We've all been flirting.
Need we go on footling about it?
JUNO [huffily] I don't know what you call footling--
MRS. JUNO [cutting him short] You do. You're footling. Mr. Lunn
is footling. Can't we admit that we're human and have done with
it?
JUNO. I have admitted it all along. I--
MRS. JUNO [almost screaming] Then stop footling.
The dinner gong sounds.
MRS. LUNN [rising] Thank heaven! Let's go in to dinner. Gregory:
take in Mrs. Juno.
GREGORY. But surely I ought to take in our guest, and not my own
wife.
MRS. LUNN. Well, Mrs. Juno is not your wife, is she?
GREGORY. Oh, of course: I beg your pardon. I'm hopelessly
confused. [He offers his arm to Mrs. Juno, rather
apprehensively].
MRS. JUNO. You seem quite afraid of me [she takes his arm].
GREGORY. I am. I simply adore you. [They go out together; and as
they pass through the door he turns and says in a ringing voice
to the other couple] I have said to Mrs. Juno that I simply adore
her. [He takes her out defiantly].
MRS. LUNN [calling after him] Yes, dear. She's a darling. [To
Juno] Now, Sibthorpe.
JUNO [giving her his arm gallantly] You have called me
Sibthorpe! Thank you. I think Lunn's conduct fully justifies me
in allowing you to do it.
MRS. LUNN. Yes: I think you may let yourself go now.
JUNO. Seraphita: I worship you beyond expression.
MRS. LUNN. Sibthorpe: you amuse me beyond description. Come.
[They go in to dinner together].
