Magic

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 reappears 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.

    [Quietly.] That last was a wonderful trick of yours.

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.
    [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.

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.

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 clover, 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 than 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 than the language of the elves – which was, as far as I can make out, invented this 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 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.