Charles Rann Kennedy

“ I hardly dare to name him, but perhaps it was—the Saint.
AUNTIE. What I have done, William, has been done for love of you—you only—you only in the world!
VICAR. Yes: that's what I mean!
[The thought troubles her for a moment; then she paces up and down in agitated rebellion.]
AUNTIE. No! I can't believe it! I can't think that love is as wrong as you say!
VICAR. Love is a spirit of many shapes and shadows: a spirit of fire and darkness—a minister of heaven and hell: Sometimes I think the very damned know love—in a way. ”

“ AUNTIE. My dear William, bricks and mortar require money: you can't run a society without funds!
VICAR. Yes, but what of flesh and blood? What of reputation?
What of a man's name?
AUNTIE. Whatever do you mean now?
VICAR. Didn't his proposal practically amount to this: that we should turn my brother Joshua's name and reputation into a bogus Building Society, of which the funds were to be scraped together from all the naked bodies and the starving bellies of the world, whilst we and our thieving co-directors should collar all the swag? ”

“ ROGERS. Beg your pardon, sir; but . . .
VICAR. Yes, Rogers: what is it?
ROGERS. Mr. Manson sent me, sir; it ain't my fault! . . .
VICAR. Do explain yourself, Rogers!
ROGERS. Well, sir, it's a bit orkard: it's . . . I really don't know what you'll say, sir, I don't really . . .
VICAR [impatiently] . Come, come, come, what is it?
ROGERS. It's a man, sir!
VICAR. Well, there's nothing very extraordinary in that. Wants to see me, eh?
ROGERS. Yes, sir; and what's more, Mr. Manson told me to bring 'im in!
VICAR. Well, why don't you?
ROGERS. 'E's mucked up to the eyes, sir! Bin down the drains! ”

“ MANSON. As a man might know his own soul, sir—As they say in
India. His work has been mine, so to speak.
VICAR. Bless me, you will know him better than I do. I have never seen him since I was quite a little lad.
MARY [with prodigious solemnity] . Just you think, Manson! He's my uncle—my own father's brother!
[MANSON is now up stage between the two.]
MANSON. Your brother, sir?
VICAR [fervently] . I am grateful to God for it, Manson: he is. ”

“ How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I have made him!
AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking of you! Think of our love, William—our great and beautiful love! Isn't that something to make you happy?
VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love?
AUNTIE. Oh, William, you know . . .
VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world like Satan, to slay men's souls? ”

“ Do you know the sort of man you have been living with all these years? Do you see through me? Do you know me?—No: don't speak: I see your answer already—Your own love blinds you! Ha! I am a good man!—I don't drink, I don't swear, I am respectable, I don't blaspheme like Bletchley! Oh yes, and I am a scholar: I can cackle in Greek: I can wrangle about God's name: I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little pedantries of my trade! But do you know what I am? Do you know what your husband is in the sight of God? He is a LIAR!
AUNTIE. William! ”

“ BISHOP [trumpet down] . On the security of one man's name!
MANSON. The pillars of it go up like the brawny trunks of heroes: the sweet human flesh of men and women is moulded about its bulwarks, strong, impregnable: the faces of little children laugh out from every corner-stone: the terrible spans and arches of it are the joined hands of comrades; and up in the heights and spaces there are inscribed the numberless musings of all the dreamers of the world. It is yet building—building and built upon. ”

“ MANSON. Yes, sir: all of them.
[The VICAR stands thoughtful for a moment. He places the paten on the table, beside him.]
VICAR [slowly] . That is not always so easy, Manson; but it is my creed, too.
MANSON. Then— Brother!
[Rapt in thought, the VICAR takes his profferred hand mechanically.]
[MARY enters. She is a slim young girl in her teens, the picture of rosy sweetness and health.]
MARY. Good-morning, Uncle William! Oh! . . . I suppose you're Manson? I must say you look simply ripping! How do you do? My name's Mary. [She offers her hand.]
MANSON [kissing it] . A very dear name, too! ”

“ MARY. That's the question! People have been most rude! Oh, the letters we have had! The funny thing is, for all their fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!—Some say the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-glass windows; but if you ask me . . .
MANSON. Yes, what do you think?
MARY. Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old
Bletchley is right . . . ”

“ Uncle William, and Uncle Joshua, and of all the good and noble men I had ever seen or heard of in my life; but still—that wasn't quite like a father, was it? I thought a father must be much, much better than anything else in the world! He must be brave, he must be beautiful, he must be good! ”

“ MANSON. Yes—looks after drains.
BISHOP. Do you mean to tell me that I've been sitting down to breakfast with a common working-man?
MANSON. Yes; have you never done that before?
BISHOP. My dear sir, whatever do you take me for?
MANSON. A bishop of God's church.
BISHOP. Precisely! Is it your custom to breakfast with working-men?
MANSON. Every morning. You see, I'm prejudiced: I was one myself, once.
BISHOP. You? . . .
MANSON. Yes—a long time ago, though: people have forgotten. ”

“ AUNTIE. William!
VICAR. The devil's own bishop!
AUNTIE. At least, he isn't a WORKING-MAN!
VICAR [as though stung] . Ah! . . .
[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with passion. They remain so.]
[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast. ROGERS goes out immediately.]
MANSON. Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to nine, didn't you, sir?
VICAR. Yes.
MANSON. Breakfasts served, ma'am. It's served, sir.
[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he goes to each separately.]
[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.] ”

“ BISHOP. Well, my dear sir, I think I ought to!
ROBERT. Then, go there! Aymen . . .
Now I'll go an' 'av' a look at our Bill's drains, damn 'is eyes!
[He goes out through the main door, repentant.]
BISHOP. The scoundrel! Did you hear what he said? I shall certainly report him to his bishop!
MANSON. I don't think I should. His bishop doesn't mind a little plain speech now and again.
BISHOP. A little plain speech! Do you think it's right for a clergyman to—to direct me to perdition?
MANSON. I think you are making a mistake: the man who gave you your—direction is not a clergyman. ”

“ MARY. Oh, Uncle Joshua isn't his only name—don't you think that! He's a very important person, I can tell you! His name's on everybody's lips!
MANSON [dryly] . Really!
MARY. Can't you guess? . . . Think of the very biggest person you ever heard of in this world!
MANSON. In this world: that sounds rather like . . . Does he give free libraries?
MARY. I can't say I ever heard of that; but he does things quite as wonderful! Listen! What do you think of the BISHOP OF BENARES!!
MANSON [unimpressed] . Oh, it's the—Bishop of Benares, is it? ”

“ You shall not go! . . .
ROBERT. Why, wot is there to fear? Ain't it worth while, to move away that load o' muck!
VICAR. The stench—the horror—the darkness . . .
ROBERT. What's it matter, if the comrides up above 'av' light an' joy an' a breath of 'olesome air to sing by? . . .
VICAR. Hour by hour—dying—alone . . .
ROBERT. The comrides up in the spans an arches, joinin' 'ands . . .
VICAR. Fainter and fainter, below there, and at last—an endless silence! . . .
ROBERT. 'Igh in the dome, the 'ammerin's of the comrides as 'av' climbed aloft!
AUNTIE. William, there is yet one other way! . . . ”

“ Brought me here on a trumped-up story of relationship with the Bishop of Benares, to insult me! Oh, what would that godly man say if he heard of it!—And he shall hear of it, believe me! Your infamy shall be spread abroad! So this is your revenge, sir— [he turns to the VICAR] —your revenge for the contumely with which I have very properly treated you, sir! Now I understand why I was made to sit down and eat sausages with a butler—yes, sir, with a butler and a common working-man! Oh! I could die with shame! You have bereft me of all words! You . . . You . . . You are no scholar, sir! ”

“ Listen long enough, and you will learn that it is made up of the beating of human hearts, of the nameless music of men's souls—that is, if you have ears. If you have eyes, you will presently see the church itself—a looming mystery of many shapes and shadows, leaping sheer from floor to dome. ”

“ BISHOP. May I trouble you again?
[MANSON gravely fixes the ear-trumpet in his ear.]
ROBERT. That's right: stick the damned thing in 'is ear-'ole, comride!
MANSON [through the trumpet] . Your sacred obligations.
BISHOP. Precisely, precisely! Er— Shall we sit?
[They do so. The BISHOP looks to MANSON to begin. MANSON, failing him, the spirit begins to work within himself.]
Well—er—-speaking of that, of course, my dearly-beloved brother, I feel very seriously on the matter, very seriously—as I am sure you do. The restoration of a church is a tremendous, an overwhelming responsibility. ”

“ The peace, the security of a human soul depends upon it! Come, sir! Where shall we go?
MANSON. Have I your permission, ma'am
AUNTIE. Certainly; but it is most extraordinary!
MANSON [crossing] . Then I think this way, my lord, in the drawing-room . . . [He leads the way.]
BISHOP [following] . And you may be sure, my good fellow, I will give anything—I say, anything—to remedy your misapprehensions! Hm!
[They go into the drawing-room, right, MANSON holding the door for the other to pass.]
VICAR. Martha! It's no use! I can't do it!
AUNTIE [preoccupied] . Can't do what, William? ”

“ Now, from all accounts, you have had some experience of church-building out in India—not that I think the extravagance for which you are credited would be either possible or desirable in this country—oh, no! Thank God, we know how to worship in spirit and in truth, without the aid of expensive buildings! ”

“ Those of us who, like yourself, my dear brother—and I say it in all modesty, perhaps _my_self—are in possession of the endowments of learning, of influence, of authority—we can lend our names to the good work. ”

“ Leave him to me, William! I'll soon settle the matter! [Entering.] The man must be possessed of some evil spirit! . . .
Why—it's my brother James! . . .
[MANSON has risen, and is now the butler once more. He speaks into the ear-trumpet.]
MANSON. Your sister and the vicar, my lord.
BISHOP [behind table, rising] . Ah! Well, Martha!—No, no, no, if you please! [He restrains her approach.] Observe the retribution of an unchastened will. You have never seen my face for sixteen years! However, like a cloud, I blot out your transgressions from this hour!
And so this is your husband ?—Not a word, sir ”

“ You tek all the taste out o' my sossingers.
MANSON. I should like to hear about her, comrade.
ROBERT. You cawn't bring 'er back. She's dead.
MANSON. What was her name?
ROBERT. Mary—same as the little gel's.
MANSON. I wonder whether they are anything alike.
ROBERT. That's wot I come to see! . . .
She 'ad 'er mother's nose when she was a biby—and 'er eyes!
Gorstrike, she was the very spit—far as a biby could be! . . .
Swelp me Moses, if I find 'er anything like Bill's ole geezer, I'll cut 'er throat!
MANSON. And if she's like her mother? What then?
ROBERT. Why, then . . . there's allus my own. ”

“ MANSON [quietly] . Yes: here I am.
[He goes to the sideboard and busies himself with serviettes, mats, etc.]
ROGERS. Perhaps it's this reincarnytion the Daily Mail been writing about. Ever see the Daily Mail out there, Mr. Manson?
MANSON. No: we had few advantages.
ROGERS. Rum idea, reincarnytion! Think, Mr. Manson, perhaps we wos lords once in ancient Babylon, you an' me! ”

“ I can't think how uncle stands it!
That's why the people won't come to church— They say so: they stand in the market-place listening to old Bletchley, instead of listening to uncle and trying to be good. ”

“ I tell you, candidly, I agree with you, that there is no necessity for sinking anything of our own in the concern: nothing ever comes of that sort of reckless generosity! If people want a church, let them make some sacrifice for it! Why should we do anything? ”

“ MARY. Why, it's my friend—the man I was telling you about! The man who looks after the drains!
ROBERT. That's about it: I'm the drain-man, see? Thought you might be mistakin' me for—summat else, if you wasn't told. Now you know. ”

“ Moment I stuck my 'ead in this 'ouse, I knowed as summat was wrong in my line, and I ses to myself: Wot oh, 'e ain't such an awl-mighty liar, arter all—that's drains! An' drains it was, strike me dead—arskin' your pawdon!
MARY, Now, didn't I always say . . .
ROBERT. Yus, miss, you're one o' the nosey uns, I can see! Well, soon as ole Togs got done with 'is talk, I got my smeller dahn, follered up the scent, an' afore I knowed where I was, I was in it, up to my eyes!—Out there in the room with the blood-red 'eap o' books! Blimey, you never did see! Muck, ma'am!—Just look at my 'ands! ”

“ I've been trying to look the worst in the face. Supposing my father is the wicked man you say—the very, very wickedest man that ever lived, don't you think if we tried to love him very much it might make a difference? ”