Act I

It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in

Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and

comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in

dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present]

would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with

the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him

on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a

window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window

is an armchair.

Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed

and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of

her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and

indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet

peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable

degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper

class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding

mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical

ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with

domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly

as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling

her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being

quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the

pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the

articles in the papers.

Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man

under 25, taking himself very seriously, but still in some awe of

his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than

from any weakness of character.

STEPHEN. What's the matter?

LADY BRITOMART. Presently, Stephen.

Stephen submissively walks to the settee and sits down. He takes

up The Speaker.

LADY BRITOMART. Don't begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all

your attention.

STEPHEN. It was only while I was waiting—

LADY BRITOMART. Don't make excuses, Stephen. [He puts down The

Speaker]. Now! [She finishes her writing; rises; and comes to the

settee]. I have not kept you waiting very long, I think.

STEPHEN. Not at all, mother.

LADY BRITOMART. Bring me my cushion. [He takes the cushion from

the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on

the settee]. Sit down. [He sits down and fingers his tie

nervously]. Don't fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing

the matter with it.

STEPHEN. I beg your pardon. [He fiddles with his watch chain

instead].

LADY BRITOMART. Now are you attending to me, Stephen?

STEPHEN. Of course, mother.

LADY BRITOMART. No: it's not of course. I want something much

more than your everyday matter-of-course attention. I am going to

speak to you very seriously, Stephen. I wish you would let that

chain alone.

STEPHEN [hastily relinquishing the chain] Have I done anything to

annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional.

LADY BRITOMART [astonished] Nonsense! [With some remorse] My poor

boy, did you think I was angry with you?

STEPHEN. What is it, then, mother? You are making me very uneasy.

LADY BRITOMART [squaring herself at him rather aggressively]

Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a

grown-up man, and that I am only a woman?

STEPHEN [amazed] Only a—

LADY BRITOMART. Don't repeat my words, please: It is a most

aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously,

Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family

affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the

responsibility.

STEPHEN. I!

LADY BRITOMART. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June.

You've been at Harrow and Cambridge. You've been to India and

Japan. You must know a lot of things now; unless you have wasted

your time most scandalously. Well, advise me.

STEPHEN [much perplexed] You know I have never interfered in the

household—

LADY BRITOMART. No: I should think not. I don't want you to order

the dinner.

STEPHEN. I mean in our family affairs.

LADY BRITOMART. Well, you must interfere now; for they are

getting quite beyond me.

STEPHEN [troubled] I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought;

but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do

know is so painful—it is so impossible to mention some things to

you—[he stops, ashamed].

LADY BRITOMART. I suppose you mean your father.

STEPHEN [almost inaudibly] Yes.

LADY BRITOMART. My dear: we can't go on all our lives not

mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the

subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be

taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about

the girls.

STEPHEN. But the girls are all right. They are engaged.

LADY BRITOMART [complacently] Yes: I have made a very good match

for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is

ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under

the terms of his father's will allow him more than 800 pounds a

year.

STEPHEN. But the will says also that if he increases his income

by his own exertions, they may double the increase.

LADY BRITOMART. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to

decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah will have to find

at least another 800 pounds a year for the next ten years; and

even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about

Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant

career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation

Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in

one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in

the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually

plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head

over ears in love with her.

STEPHEN. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they

were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fellow, certainly: nobody

would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but—

LADY BRITOMART. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good

husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it

stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family,

thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and

believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please:

Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like.

STEPHEN. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he

is not likely to be extravagant.

LADY BRITOMART. Don't be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your

quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus—quite

content with the best of everything! They cost more than your

extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second

rate. No: Barbara will need at least 2000 pounds a year. You see

it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must

marry soon. I don't approve of the present fashion of

philandering bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to

arrange something for you.

STEPHEN. It's very good of you, mother; but perhaps I had better

arrange that for myself.

LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you are much too young to begin

matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody.

Of course I don't mean that you are not to be consulted: you know

that as well as I do. [Stephen closes his lips and is silent].

Now don't sulk, Stephen.

STEPHEN. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do

with—with—with my father?

LADY BRITOMART. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from?

It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my

income as long as we are in the same house; but I can't keep four

families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is:

he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were

not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He

can do nothing for us: he says, naturally enough, that it is

absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a

man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must

be fabulously wealthy, because there is always a war going on

somewhere.

STEPHEN. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly

ever opened a newspaper in my life without seeing our name in it.

The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The

Undershaft ten inch! the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the

Undershaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battleship!

At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was

the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get

up revivals, spoilt my Bible—your first birthday present to me—

by writing under my name, "Son and heir to Undershaft and

Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and

Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to

everywhere because my father was making millions by selling

cannons.

LADY BRITOMART. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans

that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the

cannons. You know, Stephen, it's perfectly scandalous. Those two

men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under

their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he

does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Gladstone or

Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral

obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply

wouldn't have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The

Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up.

But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan.

They WOULDN'T. They said they couldn't touch him. I believe they

were afraid.

STEPHEN. What could they do? He does not actually break the law.

LADY BRITOMART. Not break the law! He is always breaking the law.

He broke the law when he was born: his parents were not married.

STEPHEN. Mother! Is that true?

LADY BRITOMART. Of course it's true: that was why we separated.

STEPHEN. He married without letting you know this!

LADY BRITOMART [rather taken aback by this inference] Oh no. To

do Andrew justice, that was not the sort of thing he did.

Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody

knew.

STEPHEN. But you said that was why you separated.

LADY BRITOMART. Yes, because he was not content with being a

foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another

foundling. That was what I couldn't stand.

STEPHEN [ashamed] Do you mean for—for—for—

LADY BRITOMART. Don't stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly.

STEPHEN. But this is so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak

to you about such things!

LADY BRITOMART. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if

you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a

display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes,

Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror

when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our

class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people;

and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your

question properly.

STEPHEN. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's

sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me

nothing at all; or tell me everything and let me take it as best

I can.

LADY BRITOMART. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is

most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I

have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you

my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do

and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could

approve of.

STEPHEN [desperately] I daresay we have been the very imperfect

children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me

alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my

father wanting to set me aside for another son.

LADY BRITOMART [amazed] Another son! I never said anything of the

kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of

interrupting me.

STEPHEN. But you said—

LADY BRITOMART [cutting him short] Now be a good boy, Stephen,

and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a

foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city.

That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this

foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course

of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some

notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another

foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did

the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been

left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Undershaft.

STEPHEN. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons?

LADY BRITOMART. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and

they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and

leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained

some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course

they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your

father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider

himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to

leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that.

There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could

only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to

govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing

over my son.

STEPHEN [dubiously] I am afraid I should make a poor hand of

managing a cannon foundry.

LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay

him a salary.

STEPHEN. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity.

LADY BRITOMART. Stuff, child! you were only a baby: it had

nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle,

just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When

my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that

history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the

Undershaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the

Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted

their successors. Such rubbish! The Stevenages are as good as the

Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew

all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable

when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: always awkward and

sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently!

STEPHEN. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken

up, mother. I am sorry.

LADY BRITOMART. Well, dear, there were other differences. I

really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope;

and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things: we

are none of us perfect. But your father didn't exactly do wrong

things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so

dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of wrongness just as

one doesn't mind men practising immorality so long as they own

that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldn't

forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practised

morality. You would all have grown up without principles, without

any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house.

You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some

ways. Children did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it

to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite

unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: very far from it; but

nothing can bridge over moral disagreement.

STEPHEN. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ

about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can

they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is

wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is

either a fool or a rascal: that's all.

LADY BRITOMART [touched] That's my own boy [she pats his cheek]!

Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out

of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you

understand the situation, what do you advise me to do?

STEPHEN. Well, what can you do?

LADY BRITOMART. I must get the money somehow.

STEPHEN. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live

in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than

take a farthing of his money.

LADY BRITOMART. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes

from Andrew.

STEPHEN [shocked] I never knew that.

LADY BRITOMART. Well, you surely didn't suppose your grandfather

had anything to give me. The Stevenages could not do everything

for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute

something. He had a very good bargain, I think.

STEPHEN [bitterly] We are utterly dependent on him and his

cannons, then!

LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not: the money is settled. But he

provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from

him or not: it is simply a question of how much. I don't want any

more for myself.

STEPHEN. Nor do I.

LADY BRITOMART. But Sarah does; and Barbara does. That is,

Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must

put my pride in my pocket and ask for it, I suppose. That is your

advice, Stephen, is it not?

STEPHEN. No.

LADY BRITOMART [sharply] Stephen!

STEPHEN. Of course if you are determined—

LADY BRITOMART. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am

waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on

my shoulders.

STEPHEN [obstinately] I would die sooner than ask him for another

penny.

LADY BRITOMART [resignedly] You mean that I must ask him. Very

well, Stephen: It shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know

that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask

Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have

some natural affection for them.

STEPHEN. Ask him here!!!

LADY BRITOMART. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I

ask him?

STEPHEN. I never expected you to ask him at all.

LADY BRITOMART. Now don't tease, Stephen. Come! you see that it

is necessary that he should pay us a visit, don't you?

STEPHEN [reluctantly] I suppose so, if the girls cannot do

without his money.

LADY BRITOMART. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the

right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked

your father to come this evening. [Stephen bounds from his seat]

Don't jump, Stephen: it fidgets me.

STEPHEN [in utter consternation] Do you mean to say that my

father is coming here to-night—that he may be here at any

moment?

LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] I said nine. [He gasps. She

rises]. Ring the bell, please. [Stephen goes to the smaller

writing table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his

elbows on the table and his head in his hands, outwitted and

overwhelmed]. It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to

prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner

on purpose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in

case he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of

supporting their wives. [The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes

behind the settee to speak to him]. Morrison: go up to the

drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once.

[Morrison withdraws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen]. Now

remember, Stephen, I shall need all your countenance and

authority. [He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these

attributes]. Give me a chair, dear. [He pushes a chair forward

from the wall to where she stands, near the smaller writing

table. She sits down; and he goes to the armchair, into which he

throws himself]. I don't know how Barbara will take it. Ever

since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has

developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about

which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I

don't know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Barbara shan't bully

me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here

before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Don't

look nervous, Stephen, it will only encourage Barbara to make

difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I don't

show it.

Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men,

Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and

mundane. Barbara is robuster, jollier, much more energetic. Sarah

is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform.

Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about

town. He is affected with a frivolous sense of humor which

plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of

imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student,

slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form

of Lomax's complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and

subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The lifelong

struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience

against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience bas

set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his

constitution. He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious,

intolerant person who by mere force of character presents himself

as—and indeed actually is—considerate, gentle, explanatory,

even mild and apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of

cruelty or coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is

not merciful enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he

is obstinately bent on marrying Barbara. Lomax likes Sarah and

thinks it will be rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has

not attempted to resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that

end.

All four look as if they bad been having a good deal of fun in

the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leaving the swains

outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Barbara comes in after her

and stops at the door.

BARBARA. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in?

LADY BRITOMART [forcibly] Barbara: I will not have Charles called

Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill.

BARBARA. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite correct

nowadays. Are they to come in?

LADY BRITOMART. Yes, if they will behave themselves.

BARBARA [through the door] Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself.

Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins enters

smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart.

SARAH [calling] Come in, Cholly. [Lomax enters, controlling his

features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between

Sarah and Barbara].

LADY BRITOMART [peremptorily] Sit down, all of you. [They sit.

Cusins crosses to the window and seats himself there. Lomax takes

a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the

settee]. I don't in the least know what you are laughing at,

Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better

from Charles Lomax.

CUSINS [in a remarkably gentle voice] Barbara has been trying to

teach me the West Ham Salvation March.

LADY BRITOMART. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you

if you are really converted.

CUSINS [sweetly] You were not present. It was really funny, I

believe.

LOMAX. Ripping.

LADY BRITOMART. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children.

Your father is coming here this evening. [General stupefaction].

LOMAX [remonstrating] Oh I say!

LADY BRITOMART. You are not called on to say anything, Charles.

SARAH. Are you serious, mother?

LADY BRITOMART. Of course I am serious. It is on your account,

Sarah, and also on Charles's. [Silence. Charles looks painfully

unworthy]. I hope you are not going to object, Barbara.

BARBARA. I! why should I? My father has a soul to be saved like

anybody else. He's quite welcome as far as I am concerned.

LOMAX [still remonstrant] But really, don't you know! Oh I say!

LADY BRITOMART [frigidly] What do you wish to convey, Charles?

LOMAX. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick.

LADY BRITOMART [turning with ominous suavity to Cusins] Adolphus:

you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's

remarks into reputable English for us?

CUSINS [cautiously] If I may say so, Lady Brit, I think Charles

has rather happily expressed what we all feel. Homer, speaking of

Autolycus, uses the same phrase.

LOMAX [handsomely] Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah don't.

LADY BRITOMART [crushingly] Thank you. Have I your permission,

Adolphus, to invite my own husband to my own house?

CUSINS [gallantly] You have my unhesitating support in everything

you do.

LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: have you nothing to say?

SARAH. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here?

LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if

he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you;

but there are limits.

SARAH. Well, he can't eat us, I suppose. I don't mind.

LOMAX [chuckling] I wonder how the old man will take it.

LADY BRITOMART. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles.

LOMAX [abashed] I didn't mean—at least—

LADY BRITOMART. You didn't think, Charles. You never do; and the

result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me,

children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us.

LOMAX. I suppose he hasn't seen Sarah since she was a little kid.

LADY BRITOMART. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you

express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of

thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly—er—

[impatiently] Now I have forgotten what I was going to say. That

comes of your provoking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus:

will you kindly tell me where I was.

CUSINS [sweetly] You were saying that as Mr Undershaft has not

seen his children since they were babies, he will form his

opinion of the way you have brought them up from their behavior

to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly

careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles.

LOMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didn't say that.

LADY BRITOMART [vehemently] I did, Charles. Adolphus's

recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you

should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair off into

opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to

your father.

BARBARA. All right, mother. We'll do you credit.

LADY BRITOMART. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel

proud of you instead of ashamed of you.

LOMAX. Oh I say! There's nothing to be exactly proud of, don't

you know.

LADY BRITOMART. Well, try and look as if there was.

Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed

disorder.

MORRISON. Might I speak a word to you, my lady?

LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! Show him up.

MORRISON. Yes, my lady. [He goes].

LOMAX. Does Morrison know who he is?

LADY BRITOMART. Of course. Morrison has always been with us.

LOMAX. It must be a regular corker for him, don't you know.

LADY BRITOMART. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles,

with your outrageous expressions?

LOMAX. But this is something out of the ordinary, really—

MORRISON [at the door] The—er—Mr Undershaft. [He retreats in

confusion].

Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Britomart meets him in

the middle of the room behind the settee.

Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man,

with kindly patient manners, and an engaging simplicity of

character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening

face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental,

in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly

that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his

natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very

carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He is

also a little shy in his present very delicate situation.

LADY BRITOMART. Good evening, Andrew.

UNDERSHAFT. How d'ye do, my dear.

LADY BRITOMART. You look a good deal older.

UNDERSHAFT [apologetically] I AM somewhat older. [With a touch of

courtship] Time has stood still with you.

LADY BRITOMART [promptly] Rubbish! This is your family.

UNDERSHAFT [surprised] Is it so large? I am sorry to say my

memory is failing very badly in some things. [He offers his hand

with paternal kindness to Lomax].

LOMAX [jerkily shaking his hand] Ahdedoo.

UNDERSHAFT. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet

you again, my boy.

LOMAX [remonstrating] No but look here don't you know—[Overcome]

Oh I say!

LADY BRITOMART [recovering from momentary speechlessness] Andrew:

do you mean to say that you don't remember how many children you

have?

UNDERSHAFT. Well, I am afraid I—. They have grown so much—er.

Am I making any ridiculous mistake? I may as well confess: I

recollect only one son. But so many things have happened since,

of course—er—

LADY BRITOMART [decisively] Andrew: you are talking nonsense. Of

course you have only one son.

UNDERSHAFT. Perhaps you will be good enough to introduce me, my

dear.

LADY BRITOMART. That is Charles Lomax, who is engaged to Sarah.

UNDERSHAFT. My dear sir, I beg your pardon.

LOMAX. Notatall. Delighted, I assure you.

LADY BRITOMART. This is Stephen.

UNDERSHAFT [bowing] Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Stephen.

Then [going to Cusins] you must be my son. [Taking Cusins' hands

in his] How are you, my young friend? [To Lady Britomart] He is

very like you, my love.

CUSINS. You flatter me, Mr Undershaft. My name is Cusins: engaged

to Barbara. [Very explicitly] That is Major Barbara Undershaft,

of the Salvation Army. That is Sarah, your second daughter. This

is Stephen Undershaft, your son.

UNDERSHAFT. My dear Stephen, I beg your pardon.

STEPHEN. Not at all.

UNDERSHAFT. Mr Cusins: I am much indebted to you for explaining

so precisely. [Turning to Sarah] Barbara, my dear—

SARAH [prompting him] Sarah.

UNDERSHAFT. Sarah, of course. [They shake hands. He goes over to

Barbara] Barbara—I am right this time, I hope.

BARBARA. Quite right. [They shake hands].

LADY BRITOMART [resuming command] Sit down, all of you. Sit down,

Andrew. [She comes forward and sits on the settle. Cusins also

brings his chair forward on her left. Barbara and Stephen resume

their seats. Lomax gives his chair to Sarah and goes for

another].

UNDERSHAFT. Thank you, my love.

LOMAX [conversationally, as he brings a chair forward between the

writing table and the settee, and offers it to Undershaft] Takes

you some time to find out exactly where you are, don't it?

UNDERSHAFT [accepting the chair] That is not what embarrasses me,

Mr Lomax. My difficulty is that if I play the part of a father, I

shall produce the effect of an intrusive stranger; and if I play

the part of a discreet stranger, I may appear a callous father.

LADY BRITOMART. There is no need for you to play any part at all,

Andrew. You had much better be sincere and natural.

UNDERSHAFT [submissively] Yes, my dear: I daresay that will be

best. [Making himself comfortable] Well, here I am. Now what can

I do for you all?

LADY BRITOMART. You need not do anything, Andrew. You are one of

the family. You can sit with us and enjoy yourself.

Lomax's too long suppressed mirth explodes in agonized neighings.

LADY BRITOMART [outraged] Charles Lomax: if you can behave

yourself, behave yourself. If not, leave the room.

LOMAX. I'm awfully sorry, Lady Brit; but really, you know, upon

my soul! [He sits on the settee between Lady Britomart and

Undershaft, quite overcome].

BARBARA. Why don't you laugh if you want to, Cholly? It's good

for your inside.

LADY BRITOMART. Barbara: you have had the education of a lady.

Please let your father see that; and don't talk like a street

girl.

UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. As you know, I am not a

gentleman; and I was never educated.

LOMAX [encouragingly] Nobody'd know it, I assure you. You look

all right, you know.

CUSINS. Let me advise you to study Greek, Mr Undershaft. Greek

scholars are privileged men. Few of them know Greek; and none of

them know anything else; but their position is unchallengeable.

Other languages are the qualifications of waiters and commercial

travellers: Greek is to a man of position what the hallmark is to

silver.

BARBARA. Dolly: don't be insincere. Cholly: fetch your concertina

and play something for us.

LOMAX [doubtfully to Undershaft] Perhaps that sort of thing isn't

in your line, eh?

UNDERSHAFT. I am particularly fond of music.

LOMAX [delighted] Are you? Then I'll get it. [He goes upstairs

for the instrument].

UNDERSHAFT. Do you play, Barbara?

BARBARA. Only the tambourine. But Cholly's teaching me the

concertina.

UNDERSHAFT. Is Cholly also a member of the Salvation Army?

BARBARA. No: he says it's bad form to be a dissenter. But I don't

despair of Cholly. I made him come yesterday to a meeting at the

dock gates, and take the collection in his hat.

LADY BRITOMART. It is not my doing, Andrew. Barbara is old enough

to take her own way. She has no father to advise her.

BARBARA. Oh yes she has. There are no orphans in the Salvation

Army.

UNDERSHAFT. Your father there has a great many children and

plenty of experience, eh?

BARBARA [looking at him with quick interest and nodding] Just so.

How did you come to understand that? [Lomax is heard at the door

trying the concertina].

LADY BRITOMART. Come in, Charles. Play us something at once.

LOMAX. Righto! [He sits down in his former place, and preludes].

UNDERSHAFT. One moment, Mr Lomax. I am rather interested in the

Salvation Army. Its motto might be my own: Blood and Fire.

LOMAX [shocked] But not your sort of blood and fire, you know.

UNDERSHAFT. My sort of blood cleanses: my sort of fire purifies.

BARBARA. So do ours. Come down to-morrow to my shelter—the West

Ham shelter—and see what we're doing. We're going to march to a

great meeting in the Assembly Hall at Mile End. Come and see the

shelter and then march with us: it will do you a lot of good. Can

you play anything?

UNDERSHAFT. In my youth I earned pennies, and even shillings

occasionally, in the streets and in public house parlors by my

natural talent for stepdancing. Later on, I became a member of

the Undershaft orchestral society, and performed passably on the

tenor trombone.

LOMAX [scandalized] Oh I say!

BARBARA. Many a sinner has played himself into heaven on the

trombone, thanks to the Army.

LOMAX [to Barbara, still rather shocked] Yes; but what about the

cannon business, don't you know? [To Undershaft] Getting into

heaven is not exactly in your line, is it?

LADY BRITOMART. Charles!!!

LOMAX. Well; but it stands to reason, don't it? The cannon

business may be necessary and all that: we can't get on without

cannons; but it isn't right, you know. On the other hand, there

may be a certain amount of tosh about the Salvation Army—I

belong to the Established Church myself—but still you can't deny

that it's religion; and you can't go against religion, can you?

At least unless you're downright immoral, don't you know.

UNDERSHAFT. You hardly appreciate my position, Mr Lomax—

LOMAX [hastily] I'm not saying anything against you personally,

you know.

UNDERSHAFT. Quite so, quite so. But consider for a moment. Here I

am, a manufacturer of mutilation and murder. I find myself in a

specially amiable humor just now because, this morning, down at

the foundry, we blew twenty-seven dummy soldiers into fragments

with a gun which formerly destroyed only thirteen.

LOMAX [leniently] Well, the more destructive war becomes, the

sooner it will be abolished, eh?

UNDERSHAFT. Not at all. The more destructive war becomes the more

fascinating we find it. No, Mr Lomax, I am obliged to you for

making the usual excuse for my trade; but I am not ashamed of it.

I am not one of those men who keep their morals and their

business in watertight compartments. All the spare money my trade

rivals spend on hospitals, cathedrals and other receptacles for

conscience money, I devote to experiments and researches in

improved methods of destroying life and property. I have always

done so; and I always shall. Therefore your Christmas card

moralities of peace on earth and goodwill among men are of no use

to me. Your Christianity, which enjoins you to resist not evil,

and to turn the other cheek, would make me a bankrupt. My

morality—my religion—must have a place for cannons and

torpedoes in it.

STEPHEN [coldly—almost sullenly] You speak as if there were half

a dozen moralities and religions to choose from, instead of one

true morality and one true religion.

UNDERSHAFT. For me there is only one true morality; but it might

not fit you, as you do not manufacture aerial battleships. There

is only one true morality for every man; but every man has not

the same true morality.

LOMAX [overtaxed] Would you mind saying that again? I didn't

quite follow it.

CUSINS. It's quite simple. As Euripides says, one man's meat is

another man's poison morally as well as physically.

UNDERSHAFT. Precisely.

LOMAX. Oh, that. Yes, yes, yes. True. True.

STEPHEN. In other words, some men are honest and some are

scoundrels.

BARBARA. Bosh. There are no scoundrels.

UNDERSHAFT. Indeed? Are there any good men?

BARBARA. No. Not one. There are neither good men nor scoundrels:

there are just children of one Father; and the sooner they stop

calling one another names the better. You needn't talk to me: I

know them. I've had scores of them through my hands: scoundrels,

criminals, infidels, philanthropists, missionaries, county

councillors, all sorts. They're all just the same sort of sinner;

and there's the same salvation ready for them all.

UNDERSHAFT. May I ask have you ever saved a maker of cannons?

BARBARA. No. Will you let me try?

UNDERSHAFT. Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I go to see

you to-morrow in your Salvation Shelter, will you come the day

after to see me in my cannon works?

BARBARA. Take care. It may end in your giving up the cannons for

the sake of the Salvation Army.

UNDERSHAFT. Are you sure it will not end in your giving up the

Salvation Army for the sake of the cannons?

BARBARA. I will take my chance of that.

UNDERSHAFT. And I will take my chance of the other. [They shake

hands on it]. Where is your shelter?

BARBARA. In West Ham. At the sign of the cross. Ask anybody in

Canning Town. Where are your works?

UNDERSHAFT. In Perivale St Andrews. At the sign of the sword. Ask

anybody in Europe.

LOMAX. Hadn't I better play something?

BARBARA. Yes. Give us Onward, Christian Soldiers.

LOMAX. Well, that's rather a strong order to begin with, don't

you know. Suppose I sing Thou'rt passing hence, my brother. It's

much the same tune.

BARBARA. It's too melancholy. You get saved, Cholly; and you'll

pass hence, my brother, without making such a fuss about it.

LADY BRITOMART. Really, Barbara, you go on as if religion were a

pleasant subject. Do have some sense of propriety.

UNDERSHAFT. I do not find it an unpleasant subject, my dear. It

is the only one that capable people really care for.

LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] Well, if you are determined

to have it, I insist on having it in a proper and respectable

way. Charles: ring for prayers. [General amazement. Stephen rises

in dismay].

LOMAX [rising] Oh I say!