The Red House Mystery and Other Novels. A. A. Milne
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(trying not to show his eagerness). Well?
GERALD. Well--isn't that enough?
BOB. What do you mean?
GERALD (bitterly). Do you want me to fall on, your neck, and say take her and be happy?
BOB. You never loved her.
GERALD. That's a lie, and anyhow we won't discuss it. She's going to marry you, and that's an end of it.
BOB (very eagerly). She _is_ going to?
GERALD (sharply). Don't you know it?
BOB (mumbling). Yes, but she might--Ah, you couldn't charm her away from me this time.
GERALD (with an effort). I don't know what you mean by "_this_ time." I think we'd better leave Pamela out of it altogether. She's waiting for you outside. Last time I offered to shake hands with you, you had some fancied grievance against me, and you wouldn't; now if there's any grievance between us, it's on _my_ side. (Holding out his hand) Good-bye, Bob, and--quite honestly--good luck.
BOB (ignoring the hand). Magnanimous Gerald!
(GERALD looks at him in surprise for a moment. Then he shrugs his shoulders, turns round, and goes back to the mantelpiece, and takes a cigarette from the box there.)
GERALD. I'm tired of you, Bob. If you don't want me, I don't want you. (He sits down in a chair and lights his cigarette.)
BOB. And now I suppose you're thoroughly pleased with yourself, and quite happy.
GERALD (looking at him in absolute wonder). Happy? You fool! (Something in BOB'S face surprises him, and he gets up and says) Why do you suddenly hate me like this?
BOB (with a bitter laugh). Suddenly!
GERALD (almost frightened). Bob!
BOB (letting the jealousy that has been pent up for years come out at last). You're surprised! Surprised! You would be. You've never stopped to think what other people are thinking; you take it for granted that they all love you, and that's all you care about. Do you think I liked playing second fiddle to you all my life? Do you think I've never had any ambitions of my own? I suppose you thought I was quite happy being one of the crowd of admirers round you, all saying, "Oh, look at Gerald, isn't he wonderful?"
GERALD (astounded). Bob, I had no idea--I never dreamt--
BOB. They thought something of me when I was young. When I first went to school they thought something of me. I daresay even _you_ thought something of me then; I could come back in the holidays and tell you what school was like, and what a lot they thought of me. They didn't think much of me when _you_ came; you soon put a stop to that. I was just young Farringdon's brother then, and when we came home together, all the talk was of the wonderful things _Gerald_ had done. It was like that at Eton; it was like that at Oxford. It's always been like that. I managed to get away from you a bit after Oxford, but it went on just the same. "How do you do, Mr. Farringdon? Are you any relation to Gerald Farringdon?" (With the utmost contempt) And you actually thought I liked that; you thought I enjoyed it. You thought I smiled modestly and said, "Oh yes, he's my brother, my young brother; isn't he wonderful?"
GERALD (hardly able to realise it). And you've felt like this for years? (To himself) For years!
BOB (not noticing him). And that wasn't enough for you. They got you into the Foreign Office--they could have got me there. They could have put me into the Army (Almost shouting) Aren't I the eldest son? But no, it didn't matter about the eldest son--never mind about him; put him in the City, anywhere as long as he's out of the way. If we have any influence, we must use it for Gerald--the wonderful Gerald.
GERALD. If this is an indictment, it's drawn against the wrong person.
BOB (more quietly). Then at last I found a friend; somebody who took me for my own sake. (Bitterly) And like a damned fool I brought her down here, and she saw _you_. I might have known what would happen.
GERALD. Pamela!
BOB. Yes, and you took her. After taking everything you could all your life, you took _her_. She was Bob's friend--that was quite enough. She must be one more in the crowd of admirers round you. So you took her. (Triumphantly) Ah, but I got her back in the end. I've got her now--and I think I'm square, Gerald.
GERALD. Yes, I think you're square now.
BOB (rather jauntily, as he leans back against the end of the sofa and feels for his cigarette-case). I seem to have surprised you rather.
GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've never said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've never said anything?
BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months-- in prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison. Oh, I know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in the air--something like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I had a better idea--I _thought_.
GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must have had!
BOB (furiously). Damn you! I _won't_ be pitied by you.
GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm going to talk about _my_self.
BOB. And it won't be the first time either.
GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to _you_. You say I've never tried to understand your feelings--have you ever tried to understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about you than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you? When a boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever bore _you_ with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I knew how _I'd_ feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for you.
BOB. Very noble of you.
GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good of talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact, whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking?
BOB. Go on; I like to hear it.
GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart from the general charge of being successful--whatever that amounts to--you accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now, but it was more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was that I neglected to help you when you were in trouble, and that through me you went to prison.
BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I didn't forget it in prison.
GERALD. You had a sense of humour once, Bob. I don't know what's happened to it lately. Don't you think it's rather funny to hate a person steadily for fifteen years, judge all his acts as you'd hardly judge those of your bitterest enemy, and yet, the first time you are in trouble, to expect him to throw everything on one side and rush to your help--and then to feel bitterly ill-used if he doesn't?
BOB (rather taken aback). I--you didn't--I didn't--
GERALD (quietly). That's been rather like you all through, Bob. You were always the one who had to be helped; you were always the one who was allowed to have the grievance. Still, that doesn't make it any better for me if I could have helped you and didn't.