GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“Do you mean that she can never feel sure of the justice of her title to her riches? That used to trouble me; but it no longer does so.”

“Nonsense!” said Lucian. “I alluded to the disinterestedness of your friends.”

“That does not trouble me either. Absolutely disinterested friends I do not seek, as I should only find them among idiots or somnambulists. As to those whose interests are base, they do not know how to conceal their motives from me. For the rest, I am not so unreasonable as to object to a fair account being taken of my wealth in estimating the value of my friendship.”

“Do you not believe in the existence of persons who would like you just as well if you were poor?”

“Such persons would, merely to bring me nearer to themselves, wish me to become poor; for which I should not thank them. I set great store by the esteem my riches command, Lucian. It is the only set-off I have against the envy they inspire.”

“Then you would refuse to believe in the disinterestedness of any man who — who—”

“Who wanted to marry me? On the contrary: I should be the last person to believe that a man could prefer my money to myself. If he wore independent, and in a fair way to keep his place in the world without my help, I should despise him if he hesitated to approach me for fear of misconstruction. I do not think a man is ever thoroughly honest until he is superior to that fear. But if he had no profession, no money, and no aim except to live at my expense, then I should regard him as an adventurer, and treat him as one — unless I fell in love with him.”

“Unless you fell in love with him!”

“That — assuming that such things really happen — would make a difference in my feeling, but none in my conduct. I would not marry an adventurer under any circumstances. I could cure myself of a misdirected passion, but not of a bad husband.”

Lucian said nothing; he walked on with long, irregular steps, lowering at the pavement as if it were a difficult problem, and occasionally thrusting at it with his stick. At last he looked up, and said,

“Would you mind prolonging your walk a little by going round Bedford Square with me? I have something particular to say.”

She turned and complied without a word; and they had traversed one side of the square before he spoke again, in these terms:

“On second thoughts, Lydia, this is neither the proper time nor place for an important communication. Excuse me for having taken you out of your way for nothing.”

“I do not like this, Lucian. Important communications — in this case — corrupt good manners. If your intended speech is a sensible one, the present is as good a time, and Bedford Square as good a place, as you are likely to find for it. If it is otherwise, confess that you have decided to leave it unsaid. But do not postpone it. Reticence is always an error — even on the treasury bench. It is doubly erroneous in dealing with me; for I have a constitutional antipathy to it.”

“Yes,” he said, hurriedly; “but give me one moment — until the policeman has passed.”

The policeman went leisurely by, striking the flags with his heels, and slapping his palm with a white glove.

“The fact is, Lydia, that — I feel great difficulty—”

“What is the matter?” said Lydia, after waiting in vain for further particulars. “You have broken down twice in a speech.” There was a pause. Then she looked at him quickly, and added, incredulously, “Are you going to get married? Is that the secret that ties your practised tongue?”

“Not unless you take part in the ceremony.”

“Very gallant; and in a vein of humor that is new in my experience of you. But what have you to tell me, Lucian? Frankly, your hesitation is becoming ridiculous.”

“You have certainly not made matters easier for me, Lydia. Perhaps you have a womanly intuition of my purpose, and are intentionally discouraging me.”

“Not the least. I am not good at speculations of that sort. On my word, if you do not confess quickly, I will hurry away to the museum.”

“I cannot find a suitable form of expression,” said Lucian, in painful perplexity. “I am sure you will not attribute any sordid motive to my — well, to my addresses, though the term seems absurd. I am too well aware that there is little, from the usual point of view, to tempt you to unite yourself to me. Still—”

A rapid change in Lydia’s face showed him that he had said enough. “I had not thought of this,” she said, after a silence that seemed long to him. “Our observations are so meaningless until we are given the thread to string them on! You must think better of this, Lucian. The relation that at present exists between us is the very best that our different characters will admit of. Why do you desire to alter it?”

“Because I would make it closer and more permanent. I do not wish to alter it otherwise.”

“You would run some risk of simply destroying it by the method you propose,” said Lydia, with composure. “We could not co-operate. There are differences of opinion between us amounting to differences of principle.”

“Surely you are not serious. Your political opinions, or notions, are not represented by any party in England; and therefore they are practically ineffective, and could not clash with mine. And such differences are not personal matters.”

“Such a party might be formed a week after our marriage — will, I think, be formed a long time before our deaths. In that case I fear that our difference of opinion would become a very personal matter.”

He began to walk more quickly as he replied, “It is too absurd to set up what you call your opinions as a serious barrier between us. You have no opinions, Lydia. The impracticable crotchets you are fond of airing are not recognized in England as sane political convictions.”

Lydia did not retort. She waited a minute in pensive silence, and then said,

“Why do you not marry Alice Goff?”

“Oh, hang Alice Goff!”

“It is so easy to come at the man beneath the veneer by expertly chipping at his feelings,” said Lydia, laughing. “But I was serious, Lucian. Alice is energetic, ambitious, and stubbornly upright in questions of principle. I believe she would assist you steadily at every step of your career. Besides, she has physical robustness. Our student-stock needs an infusion of that.”

“Many thanks for the suggestion; but I do not happen to want to marry Miss Goff.”

“I invite you to consider it. You have not had time yet to form any new plans.”

“New plans! Then you absolutely refuse me — without a moment’s consideration?”

“Absolutely, Lucian. Does not your instinct warn you that it would be a mistake for you to marry me?”

“No; I cannot say that it does.”

“Then trust to mine, which gives forth no uncertain note on this question, as your favorite newspapers are fond of saying.”

“It is a question of feeling,” he said, in a constrained voice.

“Is it?” she replied, with interest. “You have surprised me somewhat, Lucian. I have never observed any of the extravagances of a lover in your conduct.”

“And you have surprised me very unpleasantly, Lydia. I do not think now that I ever had much hope of success; but I thought, at least, that my disillusion would be gently accomplished.”

“What! Have I been harsh?”

“I do not complain.”

“I was unlucky, Lucian; not malicious. Besides, the artifices by which friends endeavor to spare one another’s feelings are pretty disloyalties. I am frank with you. Would you have me otherwise?”

“Of course not. I have no right to be offended.”

“Not the least. Now add to that formal admission a sincere assurance that you ARE not offended.”