GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“What is your name?”

“Edward, or, familiarly, Ned. Commonly Ted. In America, Ed. With, of course, the diminutives Neddy, Teddy, and Eddy.”

“I think I should prefer Ned.”

“I prefer Ned myself.”

“Have you any other name?”

“Yes; but it is a secret. Why people should be plagued with two Christian names, I do not know. No one would have believed in the motor if they had known that my name was Sebastian.”

“Sebastian!”

“Hush. I was actually christened Edoardo Sebastiano Conolly. My father used to spell his name Conollj whilst he was out of Italy. I have frustrated the bounty of my godfathers by suppressing all but the sensible Edward Conolly.”

There was a pause. Then Marian spoke.

“Do you intend to make our — our engagement known at once?”

“I have considered the point; and as you are the person likely to be inconvenienced by its publication, I am bound to let you conceal it for the present, if you wish to. It must transpire sometime: the sooner the better. You will feel uncomfortably deceitful with such a secret; and as for me, every time your father greets me cordially in the City I shall feel mean. However, you can watch for your opportunity. Let me know at once when the cat comes out of the bag.”

“I will. I think, as you say, the right course is to tell at once.”

“Undoubtedly. But from the moment you do so until we are married you will be worried by remonstrances, entreaties, threats, and what not; so that we cannot possibly make that interval too short.”

“We must take Nelly into our confidence. You will not object to that?”

“Certainly not. I like Miss McQuinch.”

“You really do! Oh, I am so glad. Well, we are accustomed to go about together, especially to picture galleries. We can come to the Academy as often as we like; and you can come as often as you like, can you not?”

“Opening day, for instance.”

“Yes, if you wish.”

“Let us say between half-past four and five, then. I would willingly be here when the doors open in the morning; but my business will not do itself while I am philandering and making you tired of me before your time. The consciousness of having done a day’s work is necessary to my complete happiness.”

“I, too, have my day’s work to do, silly as it is. I have to housekeep, to receive visitors, to write notes about nothing, and to think of the future. We can say half-past four or any later hour that may suit you.”

“Agreed. And now, Marian — —”

“Dont let me disturb you,” said Miss McQuinch, at his elbow, to Marian; “but Mrs. Leith Fairfax will be here with Sholto Douglas presently; and I thought you might like to have an opportunity of avoiding him. How do you do, Mr. Conolly?”

“I must see him sooner or later,” said Marian, rising. “Better face him at once and get it over. I will go back by myself and meet them.” Then, with a smile at Conolly, she went out through the door leading to the watercolor gallery.

“Marian does not stand on much ceremony with you, Mr. Conolly,” said

Miss McQuinch, glancing at him.

“No,” said Conolly. “Do you think you could face the Academy again on

Monday at half-past four?”

“Why?”

“Miss Lind is coming to meet me here at that hour.”

“Marian!”

“Precisely. Marian. She has promised to marry me. At present it is a secret. But it was to be mentioned to you.”

“It will not be a secret very long if you allow people to overhear you calling her by her Christian name in the middle of the Academy, as you did me just now,” said Elinor, privately much taken aback, but resolute not to appear so.

“Did you overhear us? I should have been more careful. You do not seem surprised.”

“Just a little, at your audacity. Not in the least at Marian’s consenting.”

“Thank you.”

“I did not mean it in that way at all,” said Elinor resentfully. “I think you have been very fortunate, as I suppose you would have married somebody in any case. I believe you are able to appreciate her. That’s a compliment.”

“Yes. I hope I deserve it. Do you think you will ever forgive me for supplanting the hero Marian deserves?”

“If you had let your chance of her slip, I should have despised you, I think: at least, I should if you had missed it with your eyes open. I am so far prejudiced in your favor that I think Marian would not like you unless you were good. I have known her to pity people who deserved to be strangled; but I never knew her to be attracted by any unworthy person except myself; and even I have my good points. You need not trouble yourself to agree with me: you could not do less, in common politeness. As I am rather tired, I shall go and sit in the vestibule until the others are ready to go home. In the meantime you can tell me all the particulars you care to trust me with. Marian will tell me the rest when we go home.”

“That is an undeserved stab,” said Conolly.

“Never mind: I am always stabbing people. I suppose I like it,” she added, as they went together to the vestibule.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Leith Fairfax had not been wasting her time. She had come upon Douglas in the large room, and had recognized him by his stature and proud bearing, in spite of the handsome Assyrian beard he had allowed to grow during his stay abroad.

“I have been very anxious to see you,” said she, forcing a conversation upon him, though he had saluted her formally, and had evidently intended to pass on without speaking. “If your time were not too valuable to be devoted to a poor hardworking woman, I should have asked you to call on me. Dont deprecate my forbearance. You are Somebody in the literary world now.”

“Indeed? I was not aware that I had done anything to raise me from obscurity.”

“I assure you you are very much mistaken, or else very modest. Has no one told you about the effect your book produced here?”

“I know nothing of it, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I never enquire after the effect of my work. I have lived in comparative seclusion; and I scarcely know what collection of fugitive notes of mine you honor by describing as a book.”

“I mean your ‘Note on three pictures in last year’s Salon,’ with the sonnets, and the fragment from your unfinished drama. Is it finished, may I ask?”

“It is not finished. I shall never finish it now.”

“I will tell you — between ourselves — that I heard one of the foremost critics of the age say, in the presence of a great poet (whom we both know), that it was such another fragment as the Venus of Milo, ‘whose lost arms,’ said he, ‘we should fear to see, lest they should be unworthy of her.’ ‘You are right,’ said the poet: ‘I, for one, should shudder to see the fragment completed.’ That is a positive fact. But look at some of the sonnets! Burgraves says that his collection of English sonnets is incomplete because it does not contain your ‘Clytemnestra,’ which he had not seen when his book went to press. You stand in the very forefront of literature — far higher than I, who am — dont tell anybody — five years older than you.”

“You are very good. I do not value any distinction of the sort. I write sometimes because, I suppose, the things that are in me must come out, whether I will or not. Let us talk of something else. You are quite well I hope?”

“Very far from it. I am never well; but since I never have a moment’s rest from work, I must bear with it. People expect me to think, when I have hardly time to eat.”

“If you have no time to think, I envy you. But I am truly sorry that your health remains so bad.”

“Thank you. But what is the cause of all this gloomy cynicism, Mr. Douglas? Why should you, who are young, distinguished, gifted, and already famous, envy me for having no leisure to think?”