Part 27 (1/2)

Beata.

(_Taking his hand and holding it fast_.) I have settled the future of our children. No matter what happens to us-- Why, Richard, aren't you the least bit pleased?--Oh, how ill you look!

Richard.

What sort of a night did you have, Beata?

Beata.

Not so bad.--And how goes the speech? Are you in sight of land?

Richard.

Beata--I don't know if I shall be able to speak to-morrow.

Beata (_alarmed_).

But you must. You must. They all count on you. Dear, you _must_. Is it because of that wretched business last night?

Richard.

Partly, I suppose. This new danger has stirred up the whole past.

Beata.

And your conscience is bothering you again?

Richard.

You call it conscience, Beata; I call it consistency. How dare I speak on this bill, how dare I take such a stand before G.o.d and man, when my whole life gives me the lie?--Good G.o.d!--To stand up and talk about the sanct.i.ty of marriage--about the family life as the main support of society--to parade such an argument before the cynics of the Opposition, when with my own hands I have helped to tear down that very support--no, no, I can't justify myself without adopting their own cynical and materialistic creed. And not even then; for what I call G.o.d they call social expediency; and this new idol of theirs is more exacting than the Jehovah of the old dispensation. As to acknowledging that words are one thing and actions another--that the man in me is not accountable to the statesman--well, I haven't sunk as low as that--what I give I must give without an afterthought.--And so all my ideas crumble into dust, all my reasoning ends in contradiction--and I find myself powerless to plead the very cause I have at heart!

Beata.

But why, dearest, why?

Richard.

Forgive me. I am so tired; my mind is a blank. First that dreadful scene last night, when a moment's hesitation would have ruined us both.

Then my long night at my desk--the superhuman effort of collecting my thoughts after all I'd been through. But as I worked, my subject took such hold of me that I've only just waked up to the question--how on earth is it all to end? (Beata _is silent_.) Oh, Beata, the truth, the truth! Oh, to be at one with one's self! To have the right to stand up openly for one's convictions! I would give everything for it--happiness, life itself, everything!

Beata.

And yet you love life.

Richard.

I? No--not now. Now that our falsehood is closing in on us, death would be--but don't be frightened; I shall do nothing foolish. There are two of us, and we must hold together. I am so used to sharing every thought with you.--What has happened since yesterday? I suppose Michael has given up the absurd idea of prosecuting the man.

Beata.