MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/related; boundary="----=_NextPart_01D088D7.888247D0" This document is a Single File Web Page, also known as a Web Archive file. If you are seeing this message, your browser or editor doesn't support Web Archive files. Please download a browser that supports Web Archive, such as Windows® Internet Explorer®. ------=_NextPart_01D088D7.888247D0 Content-Location: file:///C:/CF022983/Magic.htm Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable Content-Type: text/html; charset="us-ascii"
Magic
By
G. K. Chesterton
Contents
THE
DUKE DOCTOR GRIMTHORPE THE REV. CYRIL SMITH MORRIS CARLEON HASTINGS, the Du=
ke's
Secretary THE STRANGER PATRICIA CARLEON
The
action takes place in the Duke's Drawing-room.
NOTE
THIS
play was presented under the management of Kenelm Foss at The Little Theatr=
e,
London, on November 7, 1913, with the following cast:
THE
STRANGER =
FRANKLIN DYALL PATRICIA CARLEON
MISS GRACE CROFT THE REV. CYRIL SMITH O.P. HEGGIE DR.
GRIMTHORPE =
WILLIAM FARREN THE DUKE =
FRED LEWIS HASTINGS =
FRANK RANDELL MORRIS CARLEON =
LYONEL WATTS
SCENE: A plantat=
ion of
thin young trees, in a misty and rainy twilight; s=
ome
woodland blossom showing the patches on the earth between the
stems.
THE STRANGER is
discovered, a cloaked figure with a pointed hood. His costume=
might
belong to modern or any other time, and the conical hoo=
d is
so drawn over the head that little can be seen of the face.
A distant voice,=
a
woman's, is heard, half-singing, half-chanting, unintelligi=
ble
words. The cloaked figure raises its head and listens with
interest. The song draws nearer and PATRICIA CARLEON enters. She=
is
dark and slight, and has a dreamy expression. Though she =
is
artistically dressed, her hair is a little wild. She has a broken
branch of some flowering tree in her hand. She does not notice =
the
stranger, and though he has watched her with interest, m=
akes
no sign. Suddenly she perceives him and starts back.
PATRICIA.
Oh! Who are you?
STRANGER.
Ah! Who am I? [Commences to mutter to himself, and maps out the ground with=
his
staff.]
I have a hat, bu=
t not
to wear; I
wear a sword, but not to slay, And ever in=
my
bag I bear A pack of c=
ards,
but not to play.
PATRICIA.
What are you? What are you saying?
STRANGER.
It is the language of the fairies, O daughter of Eve.
PATRICIA.
But I never thought fairies were like you. Why, you are taller than I am.
STRANGER.
We are of such stature as we will. But the elves grow small, not large, when
they would mix with mortals.
PATRICIA.
You mean they are beings greater than we are.
STRANGER.
Daughter of men, if you would see a fairy as he truly is, look for his head
above all the stars and his feet amid the floors of the sea. Old women have
taught you that the fairies are too small to be seen. But I tell you the
fairies are too mighty to be seen. For they are the elder gods before whom =
the
giants were like pigmies. They are the Elemental Spirits, and any one of th=
em
is larger than the world. And you look for them in acorns and on toadstools=
and
wonder that you never see them.
PATRICIA.
But you come in the shape and size of a man?
STRANGER.
Because I would speak with a woman.
PATRICIA.
[Drawing back in awe.] I think you are growing taller as you speak.
[The scene appea=
rs to
fade away, and give place to the milieu of
The
Duke's drawing-room, an apartment with open French windows or =
any
opening large enough to show a garden and one house fairly near=
. It
is evening, and there is a red lamp lighted in the house beyon=
d. The
REV. CYRIL SMITH is sitting with hat and umbrella be=
side
him, evidently a visitor. He is a young man with the highest=
of
High Church dog-collars and all the qualities of a restrained
fanatic. He is one of the Christian Socialist sort and takes his
priesthood seriously. He is an honest man, and not an ass.
[To
him enters MR. HASTINGS with papers in his hand.
HASTINGS.
Oh, good evening. You are Mr. Smith. [Pause.] I mean you are the Rector, I
think.
SMITH.
I am the Rector.
HASTINGS.
I am the Duke's secretary. His Grace asks me to say that he hopes to see you
very soon; but he is engaged just now with the Doctor.
SMITH.
Is the Duke ill?
HASTINGS.
[Laughing.] Oh, no; the Doctor has come to ask him to help some cause or ot=
her.
The Duke is never ill.
SMITH.
Is the Doctor with him now?
HASTINGS.
Why, strictly speaking, he is not. The Doctor has gone over the road to fet=
ch a
paper connected with his proposal. But he hasn't far to go, as you can see.
That's his red lamp at the end of his grounds.
SMITH.
Yes, I know. I am much obliged to you. I will wait as long as is necessary.=
HASTINGS.
[Cheerfully.] Oh, it won't be very long.
[Exit.
[Enter by the ga=
rden
doors DR. GRIMTHORPE reading an open paper. He is an
old-fashioned practitioner, very much of a gentleman and very carefu=
lly
dressed in a slightly antiquated style. He is about sixty years=
old
and might have been a friend of Huxley's.
DOCTOR.
[Folding up the paper.] I beg your pardon, sir, I did not notice there was
anyone here.
SMITH.
[Amicably.] I beg yours. A new clergyman cannot expect to be expected. I on=
ly
came to see the Duke about some local affairs.
DOCTOR.
[Smiling.] And so, oddly enough, did I. But I suppose we should both like to
get hold of him by a separate ear.
SMITH.
Oh, there's no disguise as far as I'm concerned. I've joined this league for
starting a model public-house in the parish; and in plain words, I've come =
to
ask his Grace for a subscription to it.
DOCTOR.
[Grimly.] And, as it happens, I have joined in the petition against the
erection of a model public-house in this parish. The similarity of our posi=
tion
grows with every instant.
SMITH.
Yes, I think we must have been twins.
DOCTOR.
[More good-humouredly.] Well, what is a model public-house? Do you mean a t=
oy?
SMITH.
I mean a place where Englishmen can get decent drink and drink it decently.=
Do
you call that a toy?
DOCTOR.
No; I should call that a conjuring trick. Or, in apology to your cloth, I w=
ill
say a miracle.
SMITH.
I accept the apology to my cloth. I am doing my duty as a priest. How can t=
he
Church have a right to make men fast if she does not allow them to feast?
DOCTOR.
[Bitterly.] And when you have done feasting them, you will send them to me =
to
be cured.
SMITH. Yes; and when you've done curing them you'll send them to me to be buried.<= o:p>
DOCTOR.
[After a pause, laughing.] Well, you have all the old doctrines. It is only
fair you should have all the old jokes too.
SMITH.
[Laughing also.] By the way, you call it a conjuring trick that poor people
should drink moderately.
DOCTOR.
I call it a chemical discovery that alcohol is not a food.
SMITH.
You don't drink wine yourself?
DOCTOR.
[Mildly startled.] Drink wine! Well--what else is there to drink?
SMITH.
So drinking decently is a conjuring trick that you can do, anyhow?
DOCTOR.
[Still good-humouredly.] Well, well, let us hope so. Talking about conjuring
tricks, there is to be conjuring and all kinds of things here this afternoo=
n.
SMITH.
Conjuring? Indeed? Why is that?
Enter HASTINGS w=
ith a
letter in each hand.
HASTINGS.
His Grace will be with you presently. He asked me to deal with the business
matter first of all.
[He gives a note=
to
each of them.
SMITH.
[Turning eagerly to the DOCTOR.] But this is rather splendid. The Duke's gi=
ven
£50 to the new public-house.
HASTINGS.
The Duke is very liberal.
[Collects papers.
DOCTOR.
[Examining his cheque.] Very. But this is rather curious. He has also given
£50 to the league for opposing the new public-house.
HASTINGS.
The Duke is very liberal-minded.
[Exit.
SMITH.
[Staring at his cheque.] Liberal-minded!... Absent-minded, I should call it=
.
DOCTOR.
[Sitting down and lighting a cigar.] Well, yes. The Duke does suffer a litt=
le
from absence [puts his cigar in his mouth and pulls during the pause] of mi=
nd.
He is all for compromise. Don't you know the kind of man who, when you talk=
to
him about the five best breeds of dog, always ends up by buying a mongrel? =
The
Duke is the kindest of men, and always trying to please everybody. He gener=
ally
finishes by pleasing nobody.
SMITH.
Yes; I think I know the sort of thing.
DOCTOR.
Take this conjuring, for instance. You know the Duke has two wards who are =
to
live with him now?
SMITH.
Yes. I heard something about a nephew and niece from Ireland.
DOCTOR.
The niece came from Ireland some months ago, but the nephew comes back from
America to-night. [He gets up abruptly and walks about the room.] I think I
will tell you all about it. In spite of your precious public-house you seem=
to
me to be a sane man. And I fancy I shall want all the sane men I can get
to-night.
SMITH.
[Rising also.] I am at your service. Do you know, I rather guessed you did =
not
come here only to protest against my precious public-house.
DOCTOR. [Striding about in subdued excitement.] Well, you guessed right. I was fami= ly physician to the Duke's brother in Ireland. I knew the family pretty well.<= o:p>
SMITH.
[Quietly.] I suppose you mean you knew something odd about the family?
DOCTOR.
Well, they saw fairies and things of that sort.
SMITH.
And I suppose, to the medical mind, seeing fairies means much the same as
seeing snakes?
DOCTOR.
[With a sour smile.] Well, they saw them in Ireland. I suppose it's quite
correct to see fairies in Ireland. It's like gambling at Monte Carlo. It's
quite respectable. But I do draw the line at their seeing fairies in Englan=
d. I
do object to their bringing their ghosts and goblins and witches into the p=
oor
Duke's own back garden and within a yard of my own red lamp. It shows a lac=
k of
tact.
SMITH.
But I do understand that the Duke's nephew and niece see witches and fairies
between here and your lamp.
[He walks to the
garden window and looks out.
DOCTOR.
Well, the nephew has been in America. It stands to reason you can't see fai=
ries
in America. But there is this sort of superstition in the family, and I am =
not
easy in my mind about the girl.
SMITH.
Why, what does she do?
DOCTOR.
Oh, she wanders about the park and the woods in the evenings. Damp evenings=
for
choice. She calls it the Celtic twilight. I've no use for the Celtic twilig=
ht
myself. It has a tendency to get on the chest. But what is worse, she is al=
ways
talking about meeting somebody, some elf or wizard or something. I don't li=
ke
it at all.
SMITH.
Have you told the Duke?
DOCTOR.
[With a grim smile.] Oh, yes, I told the Duke. The result was the conjurer.=
SMITH.
[With amazement.] The conjurer?
DOCTOR.
[Puts down his cigar in the ash-tray.] The Duke is indescribable. He will be
here presently, and you shall judge for yourself. Put two or three facts or
ideas before him, and the thing he makes out of them is always something th=
at
seems to have nothing to do with it. Tell any other human being about a girl
dreaming of the fairies and her practical brother from America, and he would
settle it in some obvious way and satisfy some one: send her to America or =
let
her have her fairies in Ireland. Now the Duke thinks a conjurer would just =
meet
the case. I suppose he vaguely thinks it would brighten things up, and some=
how
satisfy the believers' interest in supernatural things and the unbelievers'
interest in smart things. As a matter of fact the unbeliever thinks the
conjurer's a fraud, and the believer thinks he's a fraud, too. The conjurer
satisfies nobody. That is why he satisfies the Duke.
[Enter the DUKE,=
with
HASTINGS, carrying papers. The DUKE is a healthy, =
hearty
man in tweeds, with a rather wandering eye. In the present=
state
of the peerage it is necessary to explain that the DUKE, t=
hough
an ass, is a gentleman.
DUKE.
Good-morning, Mr. Smith. So sorry to have kept you waiting, but we're rathe=
r in
a rush to-day. [Turns to HASTINGS, who has gone over to a table with the
papers.] You know Mr. Carleon is coming this afternoon?
HASTINGS.
Yes, your Grace. His train will be in by now. I have sent the trap.
DUKE.
Thank you. [Turning to the other two.] My nephew, Dr. Grimthorpe, Morris, y=
ou
know, Miss Carleon's brother from America. I hear he's been doing great thi=
ngs
out there. Petrol, or something. Must move with the times, eh?
DOCTOR.
I'm afraid Mr. Smith doesn't always agree with moving with the times.
DUKE.
Oh, come, come! Progress, you know, progress! Of course I know how busy you
are; you mustn't overwork yourself, you know. Hastings was telling me you
laughed over those subscriptions of mine. Well, well, I believe in looking =
at
both sides of a question, you know. Aspects, as old Buffle called them.
Aspects. [With an all-embracing gesture of the arm.] You represent the tend=
ency
to drink in moderation, and you do good in your way. The Doctor represents =
the
tendency not to drink at all; and he does good in his way. We can't be Anci=
ent
Britons, you know.
[A prolonged and
puzzled silence, such as always follows the more abrupt of t=
he
DUKE'S associations or disassociations of thought.
SMITH.
[At last, faintly.] Ancient Britons....
DOCTOR.
[To SMITH in a low voice.] Don't bother. It's only his broad-mindedness.
DUKE.
[With unabated cheerfulness.] I saw the place you're putting up for it, Mr.
Smith. Very good work. Very good work, indeed. Art for the people, eh? I
particularly liked that woodwork over the west door--I'm glad to see you're
using the new sort of graining ... why, it all reminds one of the French
Revolution.
[Another silence=
. As
the DUKE lounges alertly about the room, SMITH speak=
s to
the DOCTOR in an undertone.
SMITH.
Does it remind you of the French Revolution?
DOCTOR.
As much as of anything else. His Grace never reminds me of anything.
[A young and ver=
y high
American voice is heard calling in the garden.
"Say, could somebody see to one of these trunks?"
[MR. HASTINGS go=
es out
into the garden. He returns with MORRIS CARLEON, a =
very
young man: hardly more than a boy, but with very grown-up Am=
erican
dress and manners. He is dark, smallish, and active; and=
the
racial type under his Americanism is Irish.
MORRIS.
[Humorously, as he puts in his head at the window.] See here, does a Duke l=
ive
here?
DOCTOR.
[Who is nearest to him, with great gravity.] Yes, only one.
MORRIS.
I reckon he's the one I want, anyhow. I'm his nephew.
[The DUKE, who is
ruminating in the foreground, with one eye rather off,=
turns
at the voice and shakes MORRIS warmly by the hand.
DUKE.
Delighted to see you, my dear boy. I hear you've been doing very well for
yourself.
MORRIS.
[Laughing.] Well, pretty well, Duke; and better still for Paul T. Vandam, I
guess. I manage the old man's mines out in Arizona, you know.
DUKE.
[Shaking his head sagaciously.] Ah, very go-ahead man! Very go-ahead method=
s,
I'm told. Well, I dare say he does a great deal of good with his money. And=
we
can't go back to the Spanish Inquisition.
[Silence, during=
which
the three men look at each other.
MORRIS.
[Abruptly.] And how's Patricia?
DUKE.
[A little hazily.] Oh, she's very well, I think. She....
[He hesitates
slightly.
MORRIS.
[Smiling.] Well, then, where's Patricia?
[There is a slig=
htly
embarrassed pause, and the DOCTOR speaks.
DOCTOR.
Miss Carleon is walking about the grounds, I think.
[MORRIS goes to =
the
garden doors and looks out.
MORRIS.
It's a mighty chilly night to choose. Does my sister commonly select such
evenings to take the air--and the damp?
DOCTOR.
[After a pause.] If I may say so, I quite agree with you. I have often taken
the liberty of warning your sister against going out in all weathers like t=
his.
DUKE.
[Expansively waving his hands about.] The artist temperament! What I always
call the artistic temperament! Wordsworth, you know, and all that.
[Silence.
MORRIS.
[Staring.] All what?
DUKE.
[Continuing to lecture with enthusiasm.] Why, everything's temperament, you
know! It's her temperament to see the fairies. It's my temperament not to s=
ee
the fairies. Why, I've walked all round the grounds twenty times and never =
saw
a fairy. Well, it's like that about this wizard or whatever she calls it. F=
or
her there is somebody there. For us there would not be somebody there. Don't
you see?
MORRIS.
[Advancing excitedly.] Somebody there! What do you mean?
DUKE.
[Airily.] Well, you can't quite call it a man.
MORRIS.
[Violently.] A man!
DUKE.
Well, as old Buffle used to say, what is a man?
MORRIS.
[With a strong rise of the American accent.] With your permission, Duke, I
eliminate old Buffle. Do you mean that anybody has had the tarnation coolne=
ss
to suggest that some man....
DUKE.
Oh, not a man, you know. A magician, something mythical, you know.
SMITH.
Not a man, but a medicine man.
DOCTOR.
[Grimly.] I am a medicine man.
MORRIS.
And you don't look mythical, Doc.
[He bites his fi=
nger
and begins to pace restlessly up and down the room.
DUKE.
Well, you know, the artistic temperament....
MORRIS.
[Turning suddenly.] See here, Duke! In most commercial ways we're a pretty
forward country. In these moral ways we're content to be a pretty backward
country. And if you ask me whether I like my sister walking about the woods=
on
a night like this! Well, I don't.
DUKE.
I am afraid you Americans aren't so advanced as I'd hoped. Why! as old Buff=
le
used to say....
[As he speaks a
distant voice is heard singing in the garden; it comes neare=
r and
nearer, and SMITH turns suddenly to the DOCTOR.
SMITH.
Whose voice is that?
DOCTOR.
It is no business of mine to decide!
MORRIS.
[Walking to the window.] You need not trouble. I know who it is.
Enter PATRICIA C=
ARLEON
[Still
agitated.] Patricia, where have you been?
PATRICIA.
[Rather wearily.] Oh! in Fairyland.
DOCTOR.
[Genially.] And whereabouts is that?
PATRICIA.
It's rather different from other places. It's either nowhere or it's wherev=
er
you are.
MORRIS.
[Sharply.] Has it any inhabitants?
PATRICIA.
Generally only two. Oneself and one's shadow. But whether he is my shadow o=
r I
am his shadow is never found out.
MORRIS.
He? Who?
PATRICIA.
[Seeming to understand his annoyance for the first time, and smiling.] Oh, =
you
needn't get conventional about it, Morris. He is not a mortal.
MORRIS.
What's his name?
PATRICIA.
We have no names there. You never really know anybody if you know his name.=
MORRIS.
What does he look like?
PATRICIA.
I have only met him in the twilight. He seems robed in a long cloak, with a
peaked cap or hood like the elves in my nursery stories. Sometimes when I l=
ook
out of the window here, I see him passing round this house like a shadow; a=
nd
see his pointed hood, dark against the sunset or the rising of the moon.
SMITH.
What does he talk about?
PATRICIA.
He tells me the truth. Very many true things. He is a wizard.
MORRIS.
How do you know he's a wizard? I suppose he plays some tricks on you.
PATRICIA.
I should know he was a wizard if he played no tricks. But once he stooped a=
nd
picked up a stone and cast it into the air, and it flew up into God's heaven
like a bird.
MORRIS.
Was that what first made you think he was a wizard?
PATRICIA.
Oh, no. When I first saw him he was tracing circles and pentacles in the gr=
ass
and talking the language of the elves.
MORRIS.
[Sceptically.] Do you know the language of the elves?
PATRICIA.
Not until I heard it.
MORRIS.
[Lowering his voice as if for his sister, but losing patience so completely
that he talks much louder than he imagines.] See here, Patricia, I reckon t=
his
kind of thing is going to be the limit. I'm just not going to have you let =
in
by some blamed tramp or fortune-teller because you choose to read minor poe=
try
about the fairies. If this gipsy or whatever he is troubles you again....
DOCTOR.
[Putting his hand on MORRIS'S shoulder.] Come, you must allow a little more=
for
poetry. We can't all feed on nothing but petrol.
DUKE.
Quite right, quite right. And being Irish, don't you know, Celtic, as old B=
uffle
used to say, charming songs, you know, about the Irish girl who has a plaid
shawl--and a Banshee. [Sighs profoundly.] Poor old Gladstone!
[Silence as usua=
l.
SMITH.
[Speaking to DOCTOR.] I thought you yourself considered the family supersti=
tion
bad for the health?
DOCTOR.
I consider a family superstition is better for the health than a family
quarrel. [He walks casually across to PATRICIA.] Well, it must be nice to be
young and still see all those stars and sunsets. We old buffers won't be to=
o strict
with you if your view of things sometimes gets a bit--mixed up, shall we sa=
y?
If the stars get loose about the grass by mistake; or if, once or twice, the
sunset gets into the east. We should only say, "Dream as much as you l=
ike.
Dream for all mankind. Dream for us who can dream no longer. But do not qui=
te
forget the difference."
PATRICIA.
What difference?
DOCTOR.
The difference between the things that are beautiful and the things that are
there. That red lamp over my door isn't beautiful; but it's there. You might
even come to be glad it is there, when the stars of gold and silver have fa=
ded.
I am an old man now, but some men are still glad to find my red star. I do =
not
say they are the wise men.
PATRICIA.
[Somewhat affected.] Yes, I know you are good to everybody. But don't you t=
hink
there may be floating and spiritual stars which will last longer than the r=
ed
lamps?
SMITH.
[With decision.] Yes. But they are fixed stars.
DOCTOR.
The red lamp will last my time.
DUKE.
Capital! Capital! Why, it's like Tennyson. [Silence.] I remember when I was=
an
undergrad....
[The red light
disappears; no one sees it at first except PATRICIA, w=
ho
points excitedly.
MORRIS.
What's the matter?
PATRICIA.
The red star is gone.
MORRIS.
Nonsense! [Rushes to the garden doors.] It's only somebody standing in fron=
t of
it. Say, Duke, there's somebody standing in the garden.
PATRICIA.
[Calmly.] I told you he walked about the garden.
MORRIS.
If it's that fortune-teller of yours....
[Disappears into=
the
garden, followed by the DOCTOR.
DUKE.
[Staring.] Somebody in the garden! Really, this Land Campaign....
[Silence.
[MORRIS reappears
rather breathless.
MORRIS.
A spry fellow, your friend. He slipped through my hands like a shadow.
PATRICIA.
I told you he was a shadow.
MORRIS.
Well, I guess there's going to be a shadow hunt. Got a lantern, Duke?
PATRICIA.
Oh, you need not trouble. He will come if I call him.
[She goes out in=
to the
garden and calls out some half-chanted and unintelligi=
ble
words, somewhat like the song preceding her entrance. T=
he red
light reappears; and there is a slight sound as of fallen l=
eaves
shuffled by approaching feet. The cloaked STRANGER wi=
th the
pointed hood is seen standing outside the garden doors.
PATRICIA.
You may enter all doors.
[The figure come=
s into
the room
MORRIS.
[Shutting the garden doors behind him.] Now, see here, wizard, we've got yo=
u.
And we know you're a fraud.
SMITH.
[Quietly.] Pardon me, I do not fancy that we know that. For myself I must
confess to something of the Doctor's agnosticism.
MORRIS.
[Excited, and turning almost with a snarl.] I didn't know you parsons stuck=
up
for any fables but your own.
SMITH.
I stick up for the thing every man has a right to. Perhaps the only thing t=
hat
every man has a right to.
MORRIS.
And what is that?
SMITH.
The benefit of the doubt. Even your master, the petroleum millionaire, has a
right to that. And I think he needs it more.
MORRIS.
I don't think there's much doubt about the question, Minister. I've met this
sort of fellow often enough--the sort of fellow who wheedles money out of g=
irls
by telling them he can make stones disappear.
DOCTOR.
[To the STRANGER.] Do you say you can make stones disappear?
STRANGER.
Yes. I can make stones disappear.
MORRIS.
[Roughly.] I reckon you're the kind of tough who knows how to make a watch =
and
chain disappear.
STRANGER.
Yes; I know how to make a watch and chain disappear.
MORRIS.
And I should think you were pretty good at disappearing yourself.
STRANGER.
I have done such a thing.
MORRIS.
[With a sneer.] Will you disappear now?
STRANGER.
[After reflection.] No, I think I'll appear instead. [He throws back his ho=
od,
showing the head of an intellectual-looking man, young but rather worn. The=
n he
unfastens his cloak and throws it off, emerging in complete modern evening
dress. He advances down the room towards the DUKE, taking out his watch as =
he
does so.] Good-evening, your Grace. I'm afraid I'm rather too early for the
performance. But this gentleman [with a gesture towards MORRIS] seemed rath=
er
impatient for it to begin.
DUKE.
[Rather at a loss.] Oh, good-evening. Why, really--are you the...?
STRANGER.
[Bowing.] Yes. I am the Conjurer.
[There is general
laughter, except from PATRICIA. As the others mingle in t=
alk,
the STRANGER goes up to her.
STRANGER.
[Very sadly.] I am very sorry I am not a wizard.
PATRICIA.
I wish you were a thief instead.
STRANGER.
Have I committed a worse crime than thieving?
PATRICIA.
You have committed the cruellest crime, I think, that there is.
STRANGER.
And what is the cruellest crime?
PATRICIA.
Stealing a child's toy.
STRANGER.
And what have I stolen?
PATRICIA.
A fairy tale.
CURTAIN
The same room li=
ghted
more brilliantly an hour later in the evening. On=
one
side a table covered with packs of cards, pyramids, etc., at wh=
ich
the CONJURER in evening dress is standing quietly setting out=
his
tricks. A little more in the foreground the DUKE; and HASTING=
S with
a number of papers.
HASTINGS. There are only a few small matters. Here are the programmes of the entertainment your Grace wanted. Mr. Carleon wishes to see them very much.<= o:p>
DUKE.
Thanks, thanks. [Takes the programmes.]
HASTINGS.
Shall I carry them for your Grace?
DUKE.
No, no; I shan't forget, I shan't forget. Why, you've no idea how businessl=
ike
I am. We have to be, you know. [Vaguely.] I know you're a bit of a Socialis=
t;
but I assure you there's a good deal to do--stake in the country, and all t=
hat.
Look at remembering faces now! The King never forgets faces. [Waves the
programmes about.] I never forget faces. [Catches sight of the CONJURER and
genially draws him into the discussion.] Why, the Professor here who perfor=
ms
before the King [puts down the programmes]--you see it on the caravans, you=
know--performs
before the King almost every night, I suppose....
CONJURER.
[Smiling.] I sometimes let his Majesty have an evening off. And turn my
attention, of course, to the very highest nobility. But naturally I have
performed before every sovereign potentate, white and black. There never wa=
s a
conjurer who hadn't.
DUKE.
That's right, that's right! And you'll say with me that the great business =
for
a King is remembering people?
CONJURER.
I should say it was remembering which people to remember.
DUKE.
Well, well, now.... [Looks round rather wildly for something.] Being really
businesslike....
HASTINGS.
Shall I take the programmes for your Grace?
DUKE.
[Picking them up.] No, no, I shan't forget. Is there anything else?
HASTINGS.
I have to go down the village about the wire to Stratford. The only other t=
hing
at all urgent is the Militant Vegetarians.
DUKE.
Ah! The Militant Vegetarians! You've heard of them, I'm sure. Won't obey the
law [to the CONJURER] so long as the Government serves out meat.
CONJURER.
Let them be comforted. There are a good many people who don't get much meat=
.
DUKE.
Well, well, I'm bound to say they're very enthusiastic. Advanced, too--oh,
certainly advanced. Like Joan of Arc.
[Short silence, in whic=
h the
CONJURER stares at him.]
CONJURER.
Was Joan of Arc a Vegetarian?
DUKE.
Oh, well, it's a very high ideal, after all. The Sacredness of Life, you
know--the Sacredness of Life. [Shakes his head.] But they carry it too far.=
They
killed a policeman down in Kent.
CONJURER.
Killed a policeman? How Vegetarian! Well, I suppose it was, so long as they
didn't eat him.
HASTINGS.
They are asking only for small subscriptions. Indeed, they prefer to collec=
t a
large number of half-crowns, to prove the popularity of their movement. But=
I
should advise....
DUKE.
Oh, give them three shillings, then.
HASTINGS.
If I might suggest....
DUKE.
Hang it all! We gave the Anti-Vegetarians three shillings. It seems only fa=
ir.
HASTINGS.
If I might suggest anything, I think your Grace will be wise not to subscri=
be
in this case. The Anti-Vegetarians have already used their funds to form ga=
ngs
ostensibly to protect their own meetings. And if the Vegetarians use theirs=
to
break up the meetings--well, it will look rather funny that we have paid ro=
ughs
on both sides. It will be rather difficult to explain when it comes before =
the
magistrate.
DUKE.
But I shall be the magistrate. [CONJURER stares at him again.] That's the
system, my dear Hastings, that's the advantage of the system. Not a logical
system--no Rousseau in it--but see how well it works! I shall be the very b=
est
magistrate that could be on the Bench. The others would be biassed, you kno=
w.
Old Sir Lawrence is a Vegetarian himself; and might be hard on the
Anti-Vegetarian roughs. Colonel Crashaw would be sure to be hard on the
Vegetarian roughs. But if I've paid both of 'em, of course I shan't be hard=
on
either of 'em--and there you have it. Just perfect impartiality.
HASTINGS.
[Restrainedly.] Shall I take the programmes, your Grace?
DUKE.
[Heartily.] No, no; I won't forget 'em. [Exit HASTINGS.] Well, Professor,
what's the news in the conjuring world?
CONJURER.
I fear there is never any news in the conjuring world.
DUKE.
Don't you have a newspaper or something? Everybody has a newspaper now, you
know. The--er--Daily Sword-Swallower or that sort of thing?
CONJURER.
No, I have been a journalist myself; but I think journalism and conjuring w=
ill
always be incompatible.
DUKE.
Incompatible--Oh, but that's where I differ--that's where I take larger vie=
ws!
Larger laws, as old Buffle said. Nothing's incompatible, you know--except
husband and wife and so on; you must talk to Morris about that. It's wonder=
ful
the way incompatibility has gone forward in the States.
CONJURER.
I only mean that the two trades rest on opposite principles. The whole poin=
t of
being a conjurer is that you won't explain a thing that has happened.
DUKE.
Well, and the journalist?
CONJURER.
Well, the whole point of being a journalist is that you do explain a thing =
that
hasn't happened.
DUKE.
But you'll want somewhere to discuss the new tricks.
CONJURER.
There are no new tricks. And if there were we shouldn't want 'em discussed.=
DUKE.
I'm afraid you're not really advanced. Are you interested in modern progres=
s?
CONJURER.
Yes. We are interested in all tricks done by illusion.
DUKE. Well, well, I must go and see how Morris is. Pleasure of seeing you later.<= o:p>
[Exit DUKE, leav=
ing
the programmes.
CONJURER.
Why are nice men such asses? [Turns to arrange the table.] That seems all
right. The pack of cards that is a pack of cards. And the pack of cards that
isn't a pack of cards. The hat that looks like a gentleman's hat. But which=
, in
reality, is no gentleman's hat. Only my hat; and I am not a gentleman. I am
only a conjurer, and this is only a conjurer's hat. I could not take off th=
is
hat to a lady. I can take rabbits out of it, goldfish out of it, snakes out=
of
it. Only I mustn't take my own head out of it. I suppose I'm a lower animal
than a rabbit or a snake. Anyhow they can get out of the conjurer's hat; an=
d I
can't. I am a conjurer and nothing else but a conjurer. Unless I could show=
I was
something else, and that would be worse.
[He begins to da=
sh the
cards rather irregularly about the table. Enter PATRI=
CIA.
PATRICIA.
[Coldly] I beg your pardon. I came to get some programmes. My uncle wants t=
hem.
[She walks swift=
ly
across and takes up the programmes.
CONJURER.
[Still dashing cards about the table.] Miss Carleon, might I speak to you a
moment? [He puts his hands in his pockets, stares at the table; and his face
assumes a sardonic expression.] The question is purely practical.
PATRICIA.
[Pausing at the door.] I can hardly imagine what the question can be.
CONJURER.
I am the question.
PATRICIA.
And what have I to do with that?
CONJURER.
You have everything to do with it. I am the question: you....
PATRICIA.
[Angrily.] Well, what am I?
CONJURER.
You are the answer.
PATRICIA.
The answer to what?
CONJURER.
[Coming round to the front of the table and sitting against it.] The answer=
to
me. You think I'm a liar because I walked about the fields with you and sai=
d I
could make stones disappear. Well, so I can. I'm a conjurer. In mere point =
of
fact, it wasn't a lie. But if it had been a lie I should have told it just =
the
same. I would have told twenty such lies. You may or may not know why.
PATRICIA.
I know nothing about such lies.
[She puts her ha=
nd on
the handle of the door, but the CONJURER, who is sitt=
ing on
the table and staring at his boots, does not notice the
action, and goes on as in a sincere soliloquy.
CONJURER.
I don't know whether you have any notion of what it means to a man like me =
to
talk to a lady like you, even on false pretences. I am an adventurer. I am a
blackguard, if one can earn the title by being in all the blackguard societ=
ies
of the world. I have thought everything out by myself, when I was a gutters=
nipe
in Fleet Street, or, lower still, a journalist in Fleet Street. Before I met
you I never guessed that rich people ever thought at all. Well, that is all=
I
have to say. We had some good conversations, didn't we? I am a liar. But I =
told
you a great deal of the truth.
[He turns and re=
sumes
the arrangement of the table.
PATRICIA.
[Thinking.] Yes, you did tell me a great deal of the truth. You told me
hundreds and thousands of truths. But you never told me the truth that one
wants to know.
CONJURER.
And what is that?
PATRICIA.
[Turning back into the room.] You never told me the truth about yourself. Y=
ou
never told me you were only the Conjurer.
CONJURER.
I did not tell you that because I do not even know it. I do not know whethe=
r I
am only the Conjurer....
PATRICIA.
What do you mean?
CONJURER.
Sometimes I am afraid I am something worse than the Conjurer.
PATRICIA.
[Seriously.] I cannot think of anything worse than a conjurer who does not =
call
himself a conjurer.
CONJURER.
[Gloomily.] There is something worse. [Rallying himself.] But that is not w=
hat
I want to say. Do you really find that very unpardonable? Come, let me put =
you
a case. Never mind about whether it is our case. A man spends his time
incessantly in going about in third-class carriages to fifth-rate lodgings.=
He
has to make up new tricks, new patter, new nonsense, sometimes every night =
of
his life. Mostly he has to do it in the beastly black cities of the Midlands
and the North, where he can't get out into the country. Now and again he do=
es
it at some gentleman's country-house, where he can get out into the country.
Well, you know that actors and orators and all sorts of people like to rehe=
arse
their effects in the open air if they can. [Smiles.] You know that story of=
the
great statesman who was heard by his own gardener saying, as he paced the
garden, "Had I, Mr. Speaker, received the smallest intimation that I c=
ould
be called upon to speak this evening...." [PATRICIA controls a smile, =
and
he goes on with overwhelming enthusiasm.] Well, conjurers are just the same=
. It
takes some time to prepare an impromptu. A man like that walks about the wo=
ods
and fields doing all his tricks beforehand, and talking all sorts of gibber=
ish
because he thinks he is alone. One evening this man found he was not alone.=
He
found a very beautiful child was watching him.
PATRICIA.
A child?
CONJURER.
Yes. That was his first impression. He is an intimate friend of mine. I have
known him all my life. He tells me he has since discovered she is not a chi=
ld.
She does not fulfil the definition.
PATRICIA.
What is the definition of a child?
CONJURER.
Somebody you can play with.
PATRICIA.
[Abruptly.] Why did you wear that cloak with the hood up?
CONJURER.
[Smiling.] I think it escaped your notice that it was raining.
PATRICIA.
[Smiling faintly.] And what did this friend of yours do?
CONJURER.
You have already told me what he did. He destroyed a fairy tale, for he cre=
ated
a fairy tale that he was bound to destroy. [Swinging round suddenly on the
table.] But do you blame a man very much, Miss Carleon, if he enjoyed the o=
nly
fairy tale he had had in his life? Suppose he said the silly circles he was
drawing for practice were really magic circles? Suppose he said the bosh he=
was
talking was the language of the elves? Remember, he has read fairy tales as
much as you have. Fairy tales are the only democratic institutions. All the=
classes
have heard all the fairy tales. Do you blame him very much if he, too, trie=
d to
have a holiday in fairyland?
PATRICIA.
[Simply.] I blame him less than I did. But I still say there can be nothing
worse than false magic. And, after all, it was he who brought the false mag=
ic.
CONJURER.
[Rising from his seat.] Yes. It was she who brought the real magic.
[Enter MORRIS, in
evening-dress. He walks straight up to the conjuring-t=
able;
and picks up one article after another, putting each down w=
ith a
comment.
MORRIS.
I know that one. I know that. I know that. Let's see, that's the false bott=
om,
I think. That works with a wire. I know that; it goes up the sleeve. That's=
the
false bottom again. That's the substituted pack of cards--that....
PATRICIA.
Really, Morris, you mustn't talk as if you knew everything.
CONJURER.
Oh, I don't mind anyone knowing everything, Miss Carleon. There is something
that is much more important than knowing how a thing is done.
MORRIS.
And what's that?
CONJURER.
Knowing how to do it.
MORRIS.
[Becoming nasal again in anger.] That's so, eh? Being the high-toned conjur=
er
because you can't any longer take all the sidewalk as a fairy.
PATRICIA. [Crossing the room and speaking seriously to her brother.] Really, Morris, = you are very rude. And it's quite ridiculous to be rude. This gentleman was only practising some tricks by himself in the garden. [With a certain dignity.] = If there was any mistake, it was mine. Come, shake hands, or whatever men do w= hen they apologize. Don't be silly. He won't turn you into a bowl of goldfish.<= o:p>
MORRIS.
[Reluctantly.] Well, I guess that's so. [Offering his hand.] Shake. [They s=
hake
hands.] And you won't turn me into a bowl of goldfish anyhow, Professor. I =
understand
that when you do produce a bowl of goldfish, they are generally slips of
carrot. That is so, Professor?
CONJURER.
[Sharply.] Yes. [Produces a bowl of goldfish from his tail pockets and hold=
s it
under the other's nose.] Judge for yourself.
MORRIS. [In monstrous excitement.] Very good! Very good! But I know how that's done= --I know how that's done. You have an india-rubber cap, you know, or cover....<= o:p>
CONJURER.
Yes.
[Goes back gloom=
ily to
his table and sits on it, picking up a pack of cards and
balancing it in his hand.
MORRIS.
Ah, most mysteries are tolerably plain if you know the apparatus. [Enter DO=
CTOR
and SMITH, talking with grave faces, but growing silent as they reach the
group.] I guess I wish we had all the old apparatus of all the old Priests =
and
Prophets since the beginning of the world. I guess most of the old miracles=
and
that were a matter of just panel and wires.
CONJURER.
I don't quite understand you. What old apparatus do you want so much?
MORRIS.
[Breaking out with all the frenzy of the young free-thinker.] Well, sir, I =
just
want that old apparatus that turned rods into snakes. I want those smart
appliances, sir, that brought water out of a rock when old man Moses chose =
to
hit it. I guess it's a pity we've lost the machinery. I would like to have
those old conjurers here that called themselves Patriarchs and Prophets in =
your
precious Bible....
PATRICIA.
Morris, you mustn't talk like that.
MORRIS.
Well, I don't believe in religion....
DOCTOR.
[Aside.] Hush, hush. Nobody but women believe in religion.
PATRICIA.
[Humorously.] I think this is a fitting opportunity to show you another anc=
ient
conjuring trick.
DOCTOR.
Which one is that?
PATRICIA.
The Vanishing Lady!
[Exit PATRICIA.<= o:p>
SMITH.
There is one part of their old apparatus I regret especially being lost.
MORRIS.
[Still excited.] Yes!
SMITH.
The apparatus for writing the Book of Job.
MORRIS.
Well, well, they didn't know everything in those old times.
SMITH.
No, and in those old times they knew they didn't. [Dreamily.] Where shall
wisdom be found, and what is the place of understanding?
CONJURER.
Somewhere in America, I believe.
SMITH.
[Still dreamily.] Man knoweth not the price thereof; neither is it found in=
the
land of the living. The deep sayeth it is not in me, the sea sayeth it is n=
ot
with me. Death and destruction say we have heard tell of it. God understand=
eth
the way thereof and He knoweth the place thereof. For He looketh to the end=
s of
the earth and seeth under the whole Heaven. But to man He hath said: Behold=
the
fear of the Lord that is wisdom, and to depart from evil is understanding.
[Turns suddenly to the DOCTOR.] How's that for Agnosticism, Dr. Grimthorpe?
What a pity that apparatus is lost.
MORRIS.
Well, you may just smile how you choose, I reckon. But I say the Conjurer h=
ere
could be the biggest man in the big blessed centuries if he could just show=
us
how the Holy old tricks were done. We must say this for old man Moses, that=
he
was in advance of his time. When he did the old tricks they were new tricks=
. He
got the pull on the public. He could do his tricks before grown men, great
bearded fighting men who could win battles and sing Psalms. But this modern
conjuring is all behind the times. That's why they only do it with schoolbo=
ys.
There isn't a trick on that table I don't know. The whole trade's as dead a=
s mutton;
and not half so satisfying. Why he [pointing to the CONJURER] brought out a
bowl of goldfish just now--an old trick that anybody could do.
CONJURER.
Oh, I quite agree. The apparatus is perfectly simple. By the way, let me ha=
ve a
look at those goldfish of yours, will you?
MORRIS. [Angrily.] I'm not a paid play-actor come here to conjure. I'm not here to = do stale tricks; I'm here to see through 'em. I say it's an old trick and....<= o:p>
CONJURER.
True. But as you said, we never show it except to schoolboys.
MORRIS.
And may I ask you, Professor Hocus Pocus, or whatever your name is, whom you
are calling a schoolboy?
CONJURER.
I beg your pardon. Your sister will tell you I am sometimes mistaken about
children.
MORRIS.
I forbid you to appeal to my sister.
CONJURER.
That is exactly what a schoolboy would do.
MORRIS.
[With abrupt and dangerous calm.] I am not a schoolboy, Professor. I am a q=
uiet
business man. But I tell you in the country I come from, the hand of a quiet
business man goes to his hip pocket at an insult like that.
CONJURER.
[Fiercely.] Let it go to his pocket! I thought the hand of a quiet business=
man
more often went to someone else's pocket.
MORRIS.
You....
[Puts his hand t=
o his
hip. The DOCTOR puts his hand on his shoulder.
DOCTOR.
Gentlemen, I think you are both forgetting yourselves.
CONJURER.
Perhaps. [His tone sinks suddenly to weariness.] I ask pardon for what I sa=
id.
It was certainly in excess of the young gentleman's deserts. [Sighs.] I
sometimes rather wish I could forget myself.
MORRIS. [Sullenly, after a pause.] Well, the entertainment's coming on; and you Eng= lish don't like a scene. I reckon I'll have to bury the blamed old hatchet too.<= o:p>
DOCTOR.
[With a certain dignity, his social type shining through his profession.] M=
r.
Carleon, you will forgive an old man, who knew your father well, if he doub=
ts
whether you are doing yourself justice in treating yourself as an American
Indian, merely because you have lived in America. In my old friend Huxley's
time we of the middle classes disbelieved in reason and all sorts of things.
But we did believe in good manners. It is a pity if the aristocracy can't. I
don't like to hear you say you are a savage and have buried a tomahawk. I w=
ould
rather hear you say, as your Irish ancestors would have said, that you have=
sheathed
your sword with the dignity proper to a gentleman.
MORRIS.
Very well. I've sheathed my sword with the dignity proper to a gentleman.
CONJURER.
And I have sheathed my sword with the dignity proper to a conjurer.
MORRIS.
How does the Conjurer sheath a sword?
CONJURER.
Swallows it.
DOCTOR.
Then we all agree there shall be no quarrel.
SMITH.
May I say a word? I have a great dislike of a quarrel, for a reason quite
beyond my duty to my cloth.
MORRIS.
And what is that?
SMITH.
I object to a quarrel because it always interrupts an argument. May I bring=
you
back for a moment to the argument? You were saying that these modern conjur=
ing
tricks are simply the old miracles when they have once been found out. But
surely another view is possible. When we speak of things being sham, we
generally mean that they are imitations of things that are genuine. Take th=
at
Reynolds over there of the Duke's great-grandfather. [Points to a picture on
the wall.] If I were to say it was a copy....
MORRIS.
Wal, the Duke's real amiable; but I reckon you'd find what you call the
interruption of an argument.
SMITH.
Well, suppose I did say so, you wouldn't take it as meaning that Sir Joshua
Reynolds never lived. Why should sham miracles prove to us that real Saints=
and
Prophets never lived. There may be sham magic and real magic also.
[The CONJURER ra=
ises
his head and listens with a strange air of intentness.=
SMITH.
There may be turnip ghosts precisely because there are real ghosts. There m=
ay
be theatrical fairies precisely because there are real fairies. You do not
abolish the Bank of England by pointing to a forged bank-note.
MORRIS.
I hope the Professor enjoys being called a forged bank-note.
CONJURER.
Almost as much as being called the Prospectus of some American Companies.
DOCTOR.
Gentlemen! Gentlemen!
CONJURER.
I am sorry.
MORRIS.
Wal, let's have the argument first, then I guess we can have the quarrel af=
terwards.
I'll clean this house of some encumbrances. See here, Mr. Smith, I'm not
putting anything on your real miracle notion. I say, and Science says, that
there's a cause for everything. Science will find out that cause, and soone=
r or
later your old miracle will look mighty mean. Sooner or later Science will
botanise a bit on your turnip ghosts; and make you look turnips yourselves =
for
having taken any. I say....
DOCTOR.
[In a low voice to SMITH.] I don't like this peaceful argument of yours. The
boy is getting much too excited.
MORRIS.
You say old man Reynolds lived; and Science don't say no. [He turns excited=
ly
to the picture.] But I guess he's dead now; and you'll no more raise your
Saints and Prophets from the dead than you'll raise the Duke's great-grandf=
ather
to dance on that wall.
[The picture beg=
ins to
sway slightly to and fro on the wall.
DOCTOR.
Why, the picture is moving!
MORRIS.
[Turning furiously on the CONJURER.] You were in the room before us. Do you
reckon that will take us in? You can do all that with wires.
CONJURER.
[Motionless and without looking up from the table.] Yes, I could do all that
with wires.
MORRIS.
And you reckoned I shouldn't know. [Laughs with a high crowing laugh.] That=
's
how the derned dirty Spiritualists do all their tricks. They say they can m=
ake
the furniture move of itself. If it does move they move it; and we mean to =
know
how.
[A chair falls o=
ver
with a slight crash.
[MORRIS almost
staggers and momentarily fights for breath and words.
MORRIS.
You ... why ... that ... every one knows that ... a sliding plank. It can be
done with a sliding plank.
CONJURER.
[Without looking up.] Yes. It can be done with a sliding plank.
[The DOCTOR draws
nearer to MORRIS, who faces about, addressing =
him
passionately.
MORRIS.
You were right on the spot, Doc, when you talked about that red lamp of you=
rs.
That red lamp is the light of science that will put out all the lanterns of
your turnip ghosts. It's a consuming fire, Doctor, but it is the red light =
of
the morning. [Points at it in exalted enthusiasm.] Your priests can no more
stop that light from shining or change its colour and its radiance than Jos=
hua
could stop the sun and moon. [Laughs savagely.] Why, a real fairy in an elf=
in
cloak strayed too near the lamp an hour or two ago; and it turned him into a
common society clown with a white tie.
[The lamp at the=
end
of the garden turns blue. They all look at it in silence.=
MORRIS.
[Splitting the silence on a high unnatural note.] Wait a bit! Wait a bit! I=
've
got you! I'll have you!... [He strides wildly up and down the room, biting =
his
finger.] You put a wire ... no, that can't be it....
DOCTOR.
[Speaking to him soothingly.] Well, well, just at this moment we need not
inquire....
MORRIS.
[Turning on him furiously.] You call yourself a man of science, and you dar=
e to
tell me not to inquire!
SMITH.
We only mean that for the moment you might let it alone.
MORRIS.
[Violently.] No, Priest, I will not let it alone. [Pacing the room again.] =
Could
it be done with mirrors? [He clasps his brow.] You have a mirror.... [Sudde=
nly,
with a shout.] I've got it! I've got it! Mixture of lights! Why not? If you
throw a green light on a red light....
[Sudden silence.=
SMITH.
[Quietly to the DOCTOR.] You don't get blue.
DOCTOR.
[Stepping across to the CONJURER.] If you have done this trick, for God's s=
ake
undo it.
[After a silence=
, the
light turns red again.
MORRIS.
[Dashing suddenly to the glass doors and examining them.] It's the glass! Y=
ou've
been doing something to the glass!
[He stops sudden=
ly and
there is a long silence.
CONJURER.
[Still without moving.] I don't think you will find anything wrong with the
glass.
MORRIS.
[Bursting open the glass doors with a crash.] Then I'll find out what's wro=
ng
with the lamp.
[Disappears into=
the
garden.
DOCTOR.
It is still a wet night, I am afraid.
SMITH.
Yes. And somebody else will be wandering about the garden now.
[Through the bro=
ken
glass doors MORRIS can be seen marching backwards a=
nd
forwards with swifter and swifter steps.
SMITH.
I suppose in this case the Celtic twilight will not get on the chest.
DOCTOR.
Oh, if it were only the chest!
Enter PATRICIA.<= o:p>
PATRICIA.
Where is my brother?
[There is an
embarrassed silence, in which the CONJURER answers.
CONJURER.
I am afraid he is walking about in Fairyland.
PATRICIA.
But he mustn't go out on a night like this; it's very dangerous!
CONJURER.
Yes, it is very dangerous. He might meet a fairy.
PATRICIA.
What do you mean?
CONJURER.
You went out in this sort of weather and you met this sort of fairy, and so=
far
it has only brought you sorrow.
PATRICIA.
I am going out to find my brother.
[She goes out in=
to the
garden through the open doors.
SMITH.
[After a silence, very suddenly.] What is that noise? She is not singing th=
ose
songs to him, is she?
CONJURER.
No. He does not understand the language of the elves.
SMITH.
But what are all those cries and gasps I hear?
CONJURER.
The normal noises, I believe, of a quiet business man.
DOCTOR.
Sir, I can understand your being bitter, for I admit you have been uncivilly
received; but to speak like that just now....
[PATRICIA reappe=
ars at
the garden doors, very pale.
PATRICIA.
Can I speak to the Doctor?
DOCTOR.
My dear lady, certainly. Shall I fetch the Duke?
PATRICIA.
I would prefer the Doctor.
SMITH.
Can I be of any use?
PATRICIA.
I only want the Doctor.
[She goes out ag=
ain,
followed by DR. GRIMTHORPE. The others look at each oth=
er.
SMITH.
[Quietly.] That last was a wonderful trick of yours.
CONJURER.
Thank you. I suppose you mean it was the only one you didn't see through.
SMITH.
Something of the kind, I confess. Your last trick was the best trick I have
ever seen. It is so good that I wish you had not done it.
CONJURER.
And so do I.
SMITH.
How do you mean? Do you wish you had never been a conjurer?
CONJURER.
I wish I had never been born.
[Exit CONJURER.<= o:p>
[A silence. The =
DOCTOR
enters, very grave.
DOCTOR.
It is all right so far. We have brought him back.
SMITH. [Drawing near to him.] You told me there was mental trouble with the girl.<= o:p>
DOCTOR.
[Looking at him steadily.] No. I told you there was mental trouble in the
family.
SMITH.
[After a silence.] Where is Mr. Morris Carleon?
DOCTOR. I have got him into bed in the next room. His sister is looking after him.<= o:p>
SMITH.
His sister! Oh, then do you believe in fairies?
DOCTOR.
Believe in fairies? What do you mean?
SMITH.
At least you put the person who does believe in them in charge of the person
who doesn't.
DOCTOR.
Well, I suppose I do.
SMITH.
You don't think she'll keep him awake all night with fairy tales?
DOCTOR.
Certainly not.
SMITH.
You don't think she'll throw the medicine-bottle out of window and
administer--er--a dewdrop, or anything of that sort? Or a four-leaved clove=
r,
say?
DOCTOR.
No; of course not.
SMITH.
I only ask because you scientific men are a little hard on us clergymen. You
don't believe in a priesthood; but you'll admit I'm more really a priest th=
an this
Conjurer is really a magician. You've been talking a lot about the Bible and
the Higher Criticism. But even by the Higher Criticism the Bible is older t=
han
the language of the elves--which was, as far as I can make out, invented th=
is
afternoon. But Miss Carleon believed in the wizard. Miss Carleon believed in
the language of the elves. And you put her in charge of an invalid without a
flicker of doubt: because you trust women.
DOCTOR.
[Very seriously.] Yes, I trust women.
SMITH.
You trust a woman with the practical issues of life and death, through
sleepless hours when a shaking hand or an extra grain would kill.
DOCTOR.
Yes.
SMITH.
But if the woman gets up to go to early service at my church, you call her
weak-minded and say that nobody but women can believe in religion.
DOCTOR.
I should never call this woman weak-minded--no, by God, not even if she wen=
t to
church.
SMITH.
Yet there are many as strong-minded who believe passionately in going to
church.
DOCTOR.
Weren't there as many who believed passionately in Apollo?
SMITH.
And what harm came of believing in Apollo? And what a mass of harm may have
come of not believing in Apollo? Does it never strike you that doubt can be=
a
madness, as well be faith? That asking questions may be a disease, as well =
as
proclaiming doctrines? You talk of religious mania! Is there no such thing =
as
irreligious mania? Is there no such thing in the house at this moment?
DOCTOR.
Then you think no one should question at all.
SMITH.
[With passion, pointing to the next room.] I think that is what comes of
questioning! Why can't you leave the universe alone and let it mean what it
likes? Why shouldn't the thunder be Jupiter? More men have made themselves
silly by wondering what the devil it was if it wasn't Jupiter.
DOCTOR.
[Looking at him.] Do you believe in your own religion?
SMITH.
[Returning the look equally steadily.] Suppose I don't: I should still be a
fool to question it. The child who doubts about Santa Claus has insomnia. T=
he
child who believes has a good night's rest.
DOCTOR.
You are a Pragmatist.
Enter DUKE,
absent-mindedly.
SMITH.
That is what the lawyers call vulgar abuse. But I do appeal to practise. He=
re
is a family over which you tell me a mental calamity hovers. Here is the boy
who questions everything and a girl who can believe anything. Upon which has
the curse fallen?
DUKE.
Talking about the Pragmatists. I'm glad to hear.... Ah, very forward moveme=
nt!
I suppose Roosevelt now.... [Silence.] Well, we move you know, we move! Fir=
st
there was the Missing Link. [Silence.] No! First there was Protoplasm--and =
then
there was the Missing Link; and Magna Carta and so on. [Silence.] Why, look=
at
the Insurance Act!
DOCTOR.
I would rather not.
DUKE.
[Wagging a playful finger at him.] Ah, prejudice, prejudice! You doctors, y=
ou
know! Well, I never had any myself.
[Silence.
DOCTOR.
[Breaking the silence in unusual exasperation.] Any what?
DUKE.
[Firmly.] Never had any Marconis myself. Wouldn't touch 'em. [Silence.] Wel=
l, I
must speak to Hastings.
[Exit DUKE, aiml=
essly.
DOCTOR.
[Exploding.] Well, of all the.... [Turns to SMITH.] You asked me just now w=
hich
member of the family had inherited the family madness.
SMITH.
Yes; I did.
DOCTOR.
[In a low, emphatic voice.] On my living soul, I believe it must be the Duk=
e.
CURTAIN
Room partly dark=
ened,
a table with a lamp on it, and an empty chair. From=
room
next door faint and occasional sounds of the tossing or
talking of the invalid.
Enter DOCTOR
GRIMTHORPE with a rather careworn air, and a medicine bo=
ttle
in his hand. He puts it on the table, and sits down in the chai=
r as
if keeping a vigil.
Enter CONJURER,
carrying his bag, and cloaked for departure. As he crosses the=
room
the DOCTOR rises and calls after him.
DOCTOR.
Forgive me, but may I detain you for one moment? I suppose you are aware
that--[he hesitates] that there have been rather grave developments in the =
case
of illness which happened after your performance. I would not say, of cours=
e,
because of your performance.
CONJURER.
Thank you.
DOCTOR.
[Slightly encouraged, but speaking very carefully.] Nevertheless, mental
excitement is necessarily an element of importance in physiological trouble=
s,
and your triumphs this evening were really so extraordinary that I cannot
pretend to dismiss them from my patient's case. He is at present in a state
somewhat analogous to delirium, but in which he can still partially ask and
answer questions. The question he continually asks is how you managed to do
your last trick.
CONJURER.
Ah! My last trick!
DOCTOR.
Now I was wondering whether we could make any arrangement which would be fa=
ir
to you in the matter. Would it be possible for you to give me in confidence=
the
means of satisfying this--this fixed idea he seems to have got. [He hesitat=
es
again, and picks his words more slowly.] This special condition of
semi-delirious disputation is a rare one, and connected in my experience wi=
th
rather unfortunate cases.
CONJURER.
[Looking at him steadily.] Do you mean he is going mad?
DOCTOR.
[Rather taken aback for the first time.] Really, you ask me an unfair quest=
ion.
I could not explain the fine shades of these things to a layman. And even
if--if what you suggest were so, I should have to regard it as a profession=
al
secret.
CONJURER.
[Still looking at him.] And don't you think you ask me a rather unfair
question, Dr. Grimthorpe? If yours is a professional secret, is not mine a
professional secret too? If you may hide truth from the world, why may not =
I?
You don't tell your tricks. I don't tell my tricks.
DOCTOR.
[With some heat.] Ours are not tricks.
CONJURER.
[Reflectively.] Ah, no one can be sure of that till the tricks are told.
DOCTOR.
But the public can see a doctor's cures as plain as....
CONJURER.
Yes. As plain as they saw the red lamp over his door this evening.
DOCTOR.
[After a pause.] Your secret, of course, would be strictly kept by every one
involved.
CONJURER.
Oh, of course. People in delirium always keep secrets strictly.
DOCTOR.
No one sees the patient but his sister and myself.
CONJURER.
[Starts slightly.] Yes, his sister. Is she very anxious?
DOCTOR.
[In a lower voice.] What would you suppose?
[CONJURER throws
himself into the chair, his cloak slipping back from his ev=
ening
dress. He ruminates for a short space and then speaks.
CONJURER.
Doctor, there are about a thousand reasons why I should not tell you how I
really did that trick. But one will suffice, because it is the most practic=
al
of all.
DOCTOR.
Well? And why shouldn't you tell me?
CONJURER.
Because you wouldn't believe me if I did.
[A silence, the =
DOCTOR
looking at him curiously.
[Enter the DUKE =
with
papers in his hand. His usual gaiety of manner has a
rather forced air, owing to the fact that by some vague sick-=
room
associations he walks as if on tip-toe and begins to speak in=
a
sort of loud or shrill whisper. This he fortunately forgets and=
falls
into his more natural voice.
DUKE.
[To CONJURER.] So very kind of you to have waited, Professor. I expect Dr.
Grimthorpe has explained the little difficulty we are in much better than I
could. Nothing like the medical mind for a scientific statement. [Hazily.] =
Look
at Ibsen.
[Silence.
DOCTOR.
Of course the Professor feels considerable reluctance in the matter. He poi=
nts
out that his secrets are an essential part of his profession.
DUKE.
Of course, of course. Tricks of the trade, eh? Very proper, of course. Quit=
e a
case of noblesse oblige [Silence.] But I dare say we shall be able to find a
way out of the matter. [He turns to the CONJURER.] Now, my dear sir, I hope=
you
will not be offended if I say that this ought to be a business matter. We a=
re
asking you for a piece of your professional work and knowledge, and if I may
have the pleasure of writing you a cheque....
CONJURER.
I thank your Grace, I have already received my cheque from your secretary. =
You
will find it on the counterfoil just after the cheque you so kindly gave to=
the
Society for the Suppression of Conjuring.
DUKE.
Now I don't want you to take it in that way. I want you to take it in a bro=
ader
way. Free, you know. [With an expansive gesture.] Modern and all that!
Wonderful man, Bernard Shaw!
[Silence.
DOCTOR.
[With a slight cough, resuming.] If you feel any delicacy the payment need =
not
be made merely to you. I quite respect your feelings in the matter.
DUKE.
[Approvingly.] Quite so, quite so. Haven't you got a Cause or something?
Everybody has a cause now, you know. Conjurers' widows or something of that
kind.
CONJURER.
[With restraint.] No; I have no widows.
DUKE.
Then something like a pension or annuity for any widows you may--er--procur=
e.
[Gaily opening his cheque-book and talking slang to show there is no
ill-feeling.] Come, let me call it a couple of thou.
[The CONJURER ta=
kes
the cheque and looks at it in a grave and doubtful wa=
y. As
he does so the RECTOR comes slowly into the room.
CONJURER.
You would really be willing to pay a sum like this to know the way I did th=
at
trick?
DUKE.
I would willingly pay much more.
DOCTOR.
I think I explained to you that the case is serious.
CONJURER.
[More and more thoughtful.] You would pay much more.... [Suddenly.] But sup=
pose
I tell you the secret and you find there's nothing in it?
DOCTOR.
You mean that it's really quite simple? Why, I should say that that would be
the best thing that could possibly happen. A little healthy laughter is the
best possible thing for convalescence.
CONJURER.
[Still looking gloomily at the cheque.] I do not think you will laugh.
DUKE.
[Reasoning genially.] But as you say it is something quite simple.
CONJURER.
It is the simplest thing there is in the world. That is why you will not la=
ugh.
DOCTOR.
[Almost nervously.] Why, what do you mean? What shall we do?
CONJURER.
[Gravely.] You will disbelieve it.
DOCTOR.
And why?
CONJURER.
Because it is so simple. [He springs suddenly to his feet, the cheque still=
in
his hand.] You ask me how I really did the last trick. I will tell you how I
did the last trick. I did it by magic.
[The DUKE and DO=
CTOR
stare at him motionless; but the REV. SMITH start=
s and
takes a step nearer the table. The CONJURER pulls his c=
loak
round his shoulders. This gesture, as of departure, =
brings
the DOCTOR to his feet.
DOCTOR.
[Astonished and angry.] Do you really mean that you take the cheque and then
tell us it was only magic?
CONJURER.
[Pulling the cheque to pieces.] I tear the cheque, and I tell you it was on=
ly
magic.
DOCTOR.
[With violent sincerity.] But hang it all, there's no such thing.
CONJURER.
Yes there is. I wish to God I did not know that there is.
DUKE.
[Rising also.] Why, really, magic....
CONJURER.
[Contemptuously.] Yes, your Grace, one of those larger laws you were tellin=
g us
about.
[He buttons his =
cloak
up at his throat and takes up his bag. As he does so the=
REV.
SMITH steps between him and the door and stops him for a m=
oment.
SMITH.
[In a low voice.] One moment, sir.
CONJURER.
What do you want?
SMITH.
I want to apologize to you. I mean on behalf of the company. I think it was
wrong to offer you money. I think it was more wrong to mystify you with med=
ical
language and call the thing delirium. I have more respect for conjurer's pa=
tter
than for doctor's patter. They are both meant to stupify; but yours only to
stupify for a moment. Now I put it to you in plain words and on plain human
Christian grounds. Here is a poor boy who may be going mad. Suppose you had=
a
son in such a position, would you not expect people to tell you the whole t=
ruth
if it could help you?
CONJURER. Yes. And I have told you the whole truth. Go and find out if it helps you.<= o:p>
[Turns again to =
go,
but more irresolutely.
SMITH.
You know quite well it will not help us.
CONJURER.
Why not?
SMITH.
You know quite well why not. You are an honest man; and you have said it
yourself. Because he would not believe it.
CONJURER.
[With a sort of fury.] Well, does anybody believe it? Do you believe it?
SMITH.
[With great restraint.] Your question is quite fair. Come, let us sit down =
and talk
about it. Let me take your cloak.
CONJURER.
I will take off my cloak when you take off your coat.
SMITH.
[Smiling.] Why? Do you want me to fight?
CONJURER.
[Violently.] I want you to be martyred. I want you to bear witness to your =
own
creed. I say these things are supernatural. I say this was done by a spirit.
The Doctor does not believe me. He is an agnostic; and he knows everything.=
The
Duke does not believe me; he cannot believe anything so plain as a miracle.=
But
what the devil are you for, if you don't believe in a miracle? What does yo=
ur
coat mean, if it doesn't mean that there is such a thing as the supernatura=
l?
What does your cursed collar mean if it doesn't mean that there is such a t=
hing
as a spirit? [Exasperated.] Why the devil do you dress up like that if you
don't believe in it? [With violence.] Or perhaps you don't believe in devil=
s?
SMITH.
I believe.... [After a pause.] I wish I could believe.
CONJURER.
Yes. I wish I could disbelieve.
[Enter PATRICIA =
pale
and in the slight négligée of the amateur nurse.
PATRICIA.
May I speak to the Conjurer?
SMITH.
[Hastening forward.] You want the Doctor?
PATRICIA.
No, the Conjurer.
DOCTOR.
Are there any developments?
PATRICIA.
I only want to speak to the Conjurer.
[They all withdr=
aw,
either at the garden or the other doors. PATRICIA wa=
lks up
to CONJURER.
PATRICIA.
You must tell me how you did the trick. You will. I know you will. O, I kno=
w my
poor brother was rude to you. He's rude to everybody! [Breaks down.] But he=
's
such a little, little boy!
CONJURER.
I suppose you know there are things men never tell to women. They are too
horrible.
PATRICIA.
Yes. And there are things women never tell to men. They also are too horrib=
le.
I am here to hear them all.
CONJURER.
Do you really mean I may say anything I like? However dark it is? However
dreadful it is? However damnable it is?
PATRICIA.
I have gone through too much to be terrified now. Tell me the very worst.
CONJURER.
I will tell you the very worst. I fell in love with you when I first saw yo=
u.
[Sits down and c=
rosses
his legs.
PATRICIA.
[Drawing back.] You told me I looked like a child and....
CONJURER.
I told a lie.
PATRICIA.
O; this is terrible.
CONJURER.
I was in love, I took an opportunity. You believed quite simply that I was a
magician? but I....
PATRICIA.
It is terrible. It is terrible. I never believed you were a magician.
CONJURER.
[Astounded.] Never believed I was a magician...!
PATRICIA.
I always knew you were a man.
CONJURER.
[Doing whatever passionate things people do on the stage.] I am a man. And =
you
are a woman. And all the elves have gone to elfland, and all the devils to
hell. And you and I will walk out of this great vulgar house and be married=
....
Every one is crazy in this house to-night, I think. What am I saying? As if=
you
could marry me! O my God!
PATRICIA.
This is the first time you have failed in courage.
CONJURER.
What do you mean?
PATRICIA.
I mean to draw your attention to the fact that you have recently made an of=
fer,
I accept it.
CONJURER.
Oh, it's nonsense, it's nonsense. How can a man marry an archangel, let alo=
ne a
lady. My mother was a lady and she married a dying fiddler who tramped the
roads; and the mixture plays the cat and banjo with my body and soul. I can=
see
my mother now cooking food in dirtier and dirtier lodgings, darning socks w=
ith
weaker and weaker eyes when she might have worn pearls by consenting to be a
rational person.
PATRICIA.
And she might have grown pearls, by consenting to be an oyster.
CONJURER.
[Seriously.] There was little pleasure in her life.
PATRICIA.
There is little, a very little, in everybody's. The question is, what kind?=
We
can't turn life into a pleasure. But we can choose such pleasures as are wo=
rthy
of us and our immortal souls. Your mother chose and I have chosen.
CONJURER.
[Staring.] Immortal souls!... And I suppose if I knelt down to worship you,=
you
and every one else would laugh.
PATRICIA.
[With a smile of perversity.] Well, I think this is a more comfortable way.
[She sits down suddenly beside him in a sort of domestic way and goes on
talking.] Yes. I'll do everything your mother did, not so well, of course; =
I'll
darn that conjurer's hat--does one darn hats?--and cook the Conjurer's dinn=
er.
By the way, what is a Conjurer's dinner? There's always the goldfish, of
course....
CONJURER.
[With a groan.] Carrots.
PATRICIA.
And, of course, now I come to think of it, you can always take rabbits out =
of
the hat. Why, what a cheap life it must be! How do you cook rabbits? The Du=
ke
is always talking about poached rabbits. Really, we shall be as happy as is
good for us. We'll have confidence in each other at least, and no secrets. I
insist on knowing all the tricks.
CONJURER.
I don't think I know whether I'm on my head or my heels.
PATRICIA.
And now, as we're going to be so confidential and comfortable, you'll just =
tell
me the real, practical, tricky little way you did that last trick.
CONJURER.
[Rising, rigid with horror.] How I did that trick? I did it by devils. [Tur=
ning
furiously on PATRICIA.] You could believe in fairies. Can't you believe in
devils?
PATRICIA.
[Seriously.] No, I can't believe in devils.
CONJURER.
Well, this room is full of them.
PATRICIA.
What does it all mean?
CONJURER.
It only means that I have done what many men have done; but few, I think, h=
ave
thriven by. [He sits down and talks thoughtfully.] I told you I had mixed w=
ith
many queer sets of people. Among others, I mixed with those who pretend, tr=
uly
and falsely, to do our tricks by the aid of spirits. I dabbled a little in
table-rapping and table-turning. But I soon had reason to give it up.
PATRICIA.
Why did you give it up?
CONJURER.
It began by giving me headaches. And I found that every morning after a
Spiritualist séance I had a queer feeling of lowness and degradation=
, of
having been soiled; much like the feeling, I suppose, that people have the
morning after they have been drunk. But I happen to have what people call a
strong head; and I have never been really drunk.
PATRICIA.
I am glad of that.
CONJURER.
It hasn't been for want of trying. But it wasn't long before the spirits wi=
th
whom I had been playing at table-turning, did what I think they generally d=
o at
the end of all such table-turning.
PATRICIA.
What did they do?
CONJURER.
They turned the tables. They turned the tables upon me. I don't wonder at y=
our
believing in fairies. As long as these things were my servants they seemed =
to
me like fairies. When they tried to be my masters.... I found they were not
fairies. I found the spirits with whom I at least had come in contact were =
evil
... awfully, unnaturally evil.
PATRICIA.
Did they say so?
CONJURER.
Don't talk of what they said. I was a loose fellow, but I had not fallen so=
low
as such things. I resisted them; and after a pretty bad time, psychological=
ly
speaking, I cut the connexion. But they were always tempting me to use the
supernatural power I had got from them. It was not very great, but it was
enough to move things about, to alter lights, and so on. I don't know wheth=
er
you realize that it's rather a strain on a man to drink bad coffee at a
coffee-stall when he knows he has just enough magic in him to make a bottle=
of
champagne walk out of an empty shop.
PATRICIA.
I think you behaved very well.
CONJURER.
[Bitterly.] And when I fell at last it was for nothing half so clean and
Christian as champagne. In black blind pride and anger and all kinds of
heathenry, because of the impudence of a schoolboy, I called on the fiends =
and
they obeyed.
PATRICIA.
[Touches his arm.] Poor fellow!
CONJURER.
Your goodness is the only goodness that never goes wrong.
PATRICIA.
And what are we to do with Morris? I--I believe you now, my dear. But he--he
will never believe.
CONJURER.
There is no bigot like the atheist. I must think.
[Walks towards t=
he
garden windows. The other men reappear to arrest his
movement.
DOCTOR.
Where are you going?
CONJURER.
I am going to ask the God whose enemies I have served if I am still worthy =
to
save a child.
[Exit into garde=
n. He
paces up and down exactly as MORRIS has done. As he=
does
so, PATRICIA slowly goes out; and a long silence follows, du=
ring
which the remaining men stir and stamp very restlessly.=
The
darkness increases. It is long before anyone speaks.
DOCTOR.
[Abruptly.] Remarkable man that Conjurer. Clever man. Curious man. Very cur=
ious
man. A kind of man, you know.... Lord bless us! What's that?
DUKE.
What's what, eh? What's what?
DOCTOR.
I swear I heard a footstep.
Enter HASTINGS w=
ith
papers.
DUKE.
Why, Hastings--Hastings--we thought you were a ghost. You must be--er--look=
ing
white or something.
HASTINGS.
I have brought back the answer of the Anti-Vegetarians ... I mean the
Vegetarians.
[Drops one or two
papers.
DUKE.
Why, Hastings, you are looking white.
HASTINGS.
I ask your Grace's pardon. I had a slight shock on entering the room.
DOCTOR.
A shock? What shock?
HASTINGS.
It is the first time, I think, that your Grace's work has been disturbed by=
any
private feelings of mine. I shall not trouble your Grace with them. It will=
not
occur again.
[Exit HASTINGS.<= o:p>
DUKE.
What an extraordinary fellow. I wonder if....
[Suddenly stops
speaking.
DOCTOR.
[After a long silence, in a low voice to SMITH.] How do you feel?
SMITH.
I feel I must have a window shut or I must have it open, and I don't know w=
hich
it is.
[Another long si=
lence.
SMITH.
[Crying out suddenly in the dark.] In God's name, go!
DOCTOR.
[Jumping up rather in a tremble.] Really, sir, I am not used to being spoken
to....
SMITH.
It was not you whom I told to go.
DOCTOR.
No. [Pause.] But I think I will go. This room is simply horrible.
[He marches towa=
rds
the door.
DUKE.
[Jumping up and bustling about, altering cards, papers, etc., on tables.] R=
oom
horrible? Room horrible? No, no, no. [Begins to run quicker round the room,
flapping his hands like fins.] Only a little crowded. A little crowded. And=
I
don't seem to know all the people. We can't like everybody. These large
at-homes....
[Tumbles on to a
chair.
CONJURER.
[Reappearing at the garden doors.] Go back to hell from which I called you.=
It
is the last order I shall give.
DOCTOR.
[Rising rather shakily.] And what are you going to do?
CONJURER.
I am going to tell that poor little lad a lie. I have found in the garden w=
hat
he did not find in the garden. I have managed to think of a natural explana=
tion
of that trick.
DOCTOR.
[Warmly moved.] I think you are something like a great man. Can I take your
explanation to him now?
CONJURER.
[Grimly.] No thank you. I will take it myself.
[Exit into the other room.
DUKE.
[Uneasily.] We all felt devilish queer just now. Wonderful things there are=
in
the world. [After a pause.] I suppose it's all electricity.
[Silence as usua=
l.
SMITH.
I think there has been more than electricity in all this.
Enter PATRICIA, =
still
pale, but radiant.
PATRICIA.
Oh, Morris is ever so much better! The Conjurer has told him such a good st=
ory
of how the trick was done.
Enter CONJURER.<= o:p>
DUKE.
Professor, we owe you a thousand thanks!
DOCTOR.
Really, you have doubled your claim to originality!
SMITH.
It is much more marvellous to explain a miracle than to work a miracle. What
was your explanation, by the way?
CONJURER.
I shall not tell you.
SMITH.
[Starting.] Indeed? Why not?
CONJURER.
Because God and the demons and that Immortal Mystery that you deny has been=
in
this room to-night. Because you know it has been here. Because you have fel=
t it
here. Because you know the spirits as well as I do and fear them as much as=
I
do.
SMITH.
Well?
CONJURER.
Because all this would not avail. If I told you the lie I told Morris Carle=
on
about how I did that trick....
SMITH.
Well?
CONJURER.
YOU would believe it as he believed it. You cannot think [pointing to the l=
amp]
how that trick could be done naturally. I alone found out how it could be
done--after I had done it by magic. But if I tell you a natural way of doing
it....
SMITH.
Well?...
CONJURER.
Half an hour after I have left this house you will be all saying how it was
done.
[CONJURER button=
s up his
cloak and advances to PATRICIA.
CONJURER.
Good-bye.
PATRICIA. I shall not say good-bye.=
PATRICIA.
Yes. That fairy tale has really and truly come to an end. [Looks at him a
little in the old mystical manner.] It is very hard for a fairy tale to com=
e to
an end. If you leave it alone it lingers everlastingly. Our fairy tale has =
come
to an end in the only way a fairy tale can come to an end. The only way a f=
airy
tale can leave off being a fairy tale.
CONJURER.
I don't understand you.
PATRICIA.
It has come true.
CURTAIN