Гилберт Кит Честертон
Magic
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 went 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. The 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. Here 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 movement! I suppose Roosevelt now… [Silence.] Well, we move you know, we move! First 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, you 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.] Well, I must speak to Hastings.
[Exit Duke, aimlessly.
Doctor. [Exploding.] Well, of all the… [Turns to Smith.] You asked me just now which 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 Duke.
CURTAIN
ACT III
Room partly darkened, 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 bottle in his hand. He puts it on the table, and sits down in the chair 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 course, 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 troubles, 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 fair 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 hesitates again, and picks his words more slowly.] This special condition of semi-delirious disputation is a rare one, and connected in my experience with 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 question. 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 professional 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 evening 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 practical 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 points 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. Quite 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 are 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 broader 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 – procure. [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 takes the cheque and looks at it in a grave and doubtful way. 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 that 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 suppose 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 laugh.
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 Doctor stare at him motionless; but the Rev. Smith starts and takes a step nearer the table. The Conjurer pulls his cloak 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 only 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 telling 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 moment.
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 medical language and call the thing delirium. I have more respect for conjurer's patter 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 truth if it could help you?
Conjurer. Yes. And I have told you the whole truth. Go and find out if it helps you.
[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 your coat mean, if it doesn't mean that there is such a thing as the supernatural? What does your cursed collar mean if it doesn't mean that there is such a thing 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 devils?
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 withdraw, either at the garden or the other doors. Patricia walks up to Conjurer.
Patricia. You must tell me how you did the trick. You will. I know you will. O, I know 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 horrible. 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 you.
[Sits down and crosses 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…!
