Source Text: CANDIDA2.1Proserpine: Bother! Youve been meddling with my typewriter, Mr Marchbanks; and theres not the least use in your trying to look as if you hadnt.
Marchbanks: IUm very sorry, Miss Garnett. I only tried to make it write. But it wouldnt.
Proserpine: Well, youve altered the spacing.
Marchbanks: I assure you I didnt. I didnt indeed. I only turned a little wheel. It gave a sort of click.
Proserpine: Oh, now I understand. I suppose you thought it was a sort of barrel-organ. Nothing to do but turn the handle, and it would write a beautiful love letter for you straight off, eh?
Marchbanks: I suppose a machine could be made to write love letters. Theyre all the same, arnt they?
Proserpine: How do I know? Why do you ask me?
Marchbanks: I beg your pardon. I thought clever people -- people who can do business and write letter and that sort of thing -- always had to have love affairs to keep them from going mad.
Proserpine: Mr Marchbanks!
Marchbanks: I hope I havent offended you. Perhaps I shouldnt have alluded to your love affairs.
Proserpine: I havnt any love affairs. How dare you say such a thing? The idea!
Marchbanks: Really! Oh, then you are shy, like me.
Proserpine: Certainly I am not shy. What do you mean?
Marchbanks: You must be: that is the reason there are so few love affairs in the world. We all go about longing for love: it is the first need of our natures, the first prayer of our hearts; but we dare not utter our longing: we are too shy. Oh, Miss Garnett, what would you not give to be without fear, without shame --
Proserpine: Well, upon my word!
Marchbanks: Ah, dont say those stupid things to me: they dont deceive me: what use are they? Why are you afraid to be you real self with me? I am just like you.
Proserpine: Like me. Pray are you flattering me or flattering yourself? I dont feel quite sure which.
Marchbanks: Hush! I go about in search of love; and I find it in unmeasured stores in the bosoms of others. But when I try to ask for it, this horrible shyness strangles me; and I stand dumb, or worse than dumb, saying meaningless things: foolish lies. And I see the affection I am longing for given to dogs and cats and pet birds because they come and ask for it. It must be asked for: it is like a ghost: it cannot speak unless it is first spoken to. All the love in the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is shy! shy! shy! That is the world's tragedy.
Proserpine: Wicked people get over that shyness occasionally, dont they?
Marchbanks: Wicked people means people who have no love: therefore they have no shame. They have the power to ask love because they dont need it: they have the power to offer it because they have none to give. But we, who have love, and long to mingle it with the love of others: we cannot utter a word. You find that, dont you?
Proserpine: Look here: if you dont stop talking like this, I'll leave the room, Mr Marchbanks: I really will. It's not proper.
Marchbanks: Nothing thats worth saying is proper. I cant understand you, Miss Garnett. What am I to talk about?
Proserpine: Talk about indifferent things. Talk about the weather.
Marchbanks: Would you take about indifferent things if a child were by, crying bitterly with hunger?
Proserpine: I suppose not.
Marchbanks: Well: I cant talk about indifferent things with my heart crying out bitterly with its hunger.
Proserpine: Then hold your tongue.
Marchbanks: Yes: that is what it always comes to. We hold our tongues. Does that stop the cry of your heart? for it does cry: doesnt it? It must, if you have a heart.
Proserpine: Oh, it's no use trying to work while you talk like that. It's no business of yours whether my heart cries or not; but I have a mind to tell you, for all that.
Marchbanks: You neednt. I know already that it must.
Proserpine: But mind! if you ever say I said so, I'll deny it.
Marchbanks: Yes, I know. And so you havnt the courage to tell him?
Proserpine: Him! Who?
Marchbanks: Whoever he is. The man you love. It might be anybody. The curate, Mr Mill, perhaps.
Proserpine: Mr Mill ! ! ! A fine man to break my heart about, indeed! I'd rather have you than Mr Mill.
Marchbanks: No, really: I'm very sorry; but you musnt think of that. IQ
Proserpine: Oh, dont be frightened: it's not you. It's not any one particular person.
Marchbanks: I know. You feel that you could love anybody that offered --
Proserpine: Anybody that offered! No, I do not. What do you take me for?
Marchbanks: No use. You wont make me real answers: only those things that everybody says.
Proserpine: Oh well, if you want original conversation, youd better go and talk to yourself.
Marchbanks: That is what all poets do: they talk to themselves out loud; and the world overhears them. But it's horribly lonely not to hear someone else talk sometimes.
Proserpine: Wait until Mr Morell comes. He'll talk to you. Oh, you neednt make wry faces over him: he can talk better than you. He'd talk your little head off.
Marchbanks: Ah! I understand now.
Proserpine: What do you understand?
Marchbanks: Your secret. Tell me: is it really and truly possible for a woman to love him?
Proserpine: Well!!
Marchbanks: No: answer me. I want to know: I must know. I cant understand it. I can see nothing in him but words, pious resolutions, what people call goodness. You cant love that.
Proserpine: I simply dont know what youre talking about. I dont understand you.
Marchbanks: You do. You lie.
Proserpine: Oh!
Marchbanks: You do understand; and you know. Is it possible for a woman to love him?
Proserpine: Yes. Whatever is the matter with you! Praise heaven! here's somebody.
Burgess: Well: so this is the way they leave you to yourself, Mr Morchbanks. Ive come to keep you company. James is receivin a deppitation in the dinin room; and Candy is hupstairs heducating of a young stitcher gurl she's hinterested in. You must find it lonesome here with no one but the typist to talk to.
Proserpine: He'll be all right now that he has the advantage of your polished conversation: thats one comfort, anyhow.
Burgess: Hi was not addressin myself to you, young woman, that I'm awerr of.
Proserpine: Did you ever see worse manners, Mr Marchbanks?
Burgess: Mr Morchbanks is a gentleman, and knows his place, which is more than some people do.
Proserpine: It's well you and I are not ladies and gentleman: I'd talk to you pretty straight if Mr Marchbanks wasnt here. There! now I've spoiled this letter! have to be done all over again. Oh, I cant contain myself: silly old fathead.
Burgess: Ho! I'm a silly ole fatUead, am I? Ho, indeed! Hall right, my gurl! Hall right. You just wait till I tell that to your hemployer. Youll see. I'll teach you: see if I dont.
Proserpine: I --
Burgess: No: youve done it now. No huse a-talkin to me. I'll let you know who I am. Dont you take no notice of her, Mr Morchbanks. She's beneath it.
Marchbanks: Hadnt we better change the subject? I -- I dont think Miss Garnett meant anything.
Proserpine: Oh, didnt I though, just!
Burgess: I wouldnt demean myself to take notice on her.
Proserpine: Thats for me.
Burgess: Oh, we can spare you. Now we're alone, Mr Morchbanks, let me give you a friendly int that I wouldnt give to heverybody. Ow long ave you known my son-in-law James ere?
Marchbanks: I dont know. I never can remember dates. A few months, perhaps.
Burgess: Ever notice hennythink queer about him?
: Burgess: No more you wouldnt. Thats the danger on it. Well, he's mad.
Marchbanks: Mad! RESP Burgess. Mad as a Morch 'are. You take notice on him and youll see.
Marchbanks: But surely that is only because his opinions Q
Burgess: Thats the same what I hused to think, Mr Morchbanks. Hi thought long enough that it was ony his opinions; though, mind you, hopinions becomes vurry serious things when people takes to hactin one em as e does. But thats not what I go on. What do you think he sez to me this mornin in this very room?
Marchbanks: What?
Burgess: He sez to me -- this is as sure as we're settin here now --Jhe sez "I'm a fool," he sez; "and yore a scounderl." Me a scounderl, mind you! And then sook ands with me on it, as if it was to my credit! Do you mean to tell me as that man's sane?
Morell: Get all their names and addresses, Miss Garnett.
Proserpine: Yes, Mr Morell.
Burgess: Yorr he is. Just you keep your heye on im and see. I'm sorry, James, to ave to make a complaint to you. I dont want to do it; but I feel I oughter, as a matter o right and dooty.
Morell: Whats the matter?
Burgess: Mr Morchbanks will bear me hout: he was a witness. Yore young woman so far forgot herself as to call me a silly ole fatUead.
Morell: Oh, now, isnt that exactly like Prossy? She's so frank: she cant contain herself! Poor Prossy! Ha! ha!
Burgess: And do you hexpec me to put up with it from the like of er?