Part 31 (2/2)

TREBELL. He'd be glad to get that.

WEDGECROFT. He has been most kind about the whole thing.

TREBELL. Oh, he means well.

WEDGECROFT. [_Following up his fancied advantage._] But, my friend ...

suicide whilst of unsound mind would never have done.... The hackneyed verdict hits the truth, you know.

TREBELL. You think so?

WEDGECROFT. I don't say there aren't excuses enough in this miserable world, but fundamentally ... no sane person will destroy life.

TREBELL. [_His thoughts s.h.i.+fting their plane._] Was she so very mad? I'm not thinking of her own death.

WEDGECROFT. Don't brood, Trebell. Your mind isn't healthy yet about her and--

TREBELL. And my child.

_Even_ WEDGECROFT'S _kindness is at fault before the solemnity of this._

WEDGECROFT. Is that how you're thinking of it?

TREBELL. How else? It's very inexplicable ... this sense of fatherhood.

[_The eyes of his mind travel down--what vista of possibilities. Then he shakes himself free._] Let's drop the subject. To finish the list of shortcomings, you're a bit of an artist too ... therefore I don't think you'll understand.

WEDGECROFT. [_Successfully decoyed into argument._] Surely an artist is a man who understands.

TREBELL. Everything about life, but not life itself. That's where art fails a man.

WEDGECROFT. That's where everything but living fails a man. [_Drifting into introspection himself._] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and I've written a book ... but I'm barren. [_Then the healthy mind re-a.s.serts itself._] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children ... and marry and intermarry. And we're peopling the world ... not badly.

TREBELL. Well ... either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so big that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two points of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes the last use made of life.

_There is a tone of menace in this which recalls_ WEDGECROFT _to the present trouble._

WEDGECROFT. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice ... or the use of it.

TREBELL. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he think so now?... not he.

WEDGECROFT. You mean if they'd had to throw you over?

_Once again_ TREBELL _looks up with that secretive smile._

TREBELL. Yes ... if they'd had to.

WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow, Horsham would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot yourself after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you so-called strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to come out to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you pistols by post, requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham would grieve over ten dinner-tables in succession and then return to his philosophy. One really mustn't waste a life trying to shock polite politicians. There'd even be a suspicion of swagger in it.

TREBELL. Quite so ... the bomb that's thrown at their feet must be something otherwise worthless.

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