But I was not self-seeking: it seemed to me that I had put
justice above self. I tell you life meant something to me then. Do
you see that dirty little bundle of scraps of paper?
LADY CICELY. What are they?
BRASSBOUND. Accounts cut out of newspapers. Speeches made by my
uncle at charitable dinners, or sentencing men to death--pious,
highminded speeches by a man who was to me a thief and a murderer!
To my mind they were more weighty, more momentous, better
revelations of the wickedness of law and respectability than the
book of the prophet Amos. What are they now? (He quietly tears the
newspaper cuttings into little fragments and throws them away,
looking fixedly at her meanwhile.)
LADY CICELY. Well, that's a comfort, at all events.
BRASSBOUND. Yes; but it's a part of my life gone: YOUR doing,
remember. What have I left? See here! (He take up the letters) the
letters my uncle wrote to my mother, with her comments on their
cold drawn insolence, their treachery and cruelty. And the piteous
letters she wrote to him later on, returned unopened. Must they go
too?
LADY CICELY (uneasily). I can't ask you to destroy your mother's
letters.
BRASSBOUND. Why not, now that you have taken the meaning out of
them? (He tears them.) Is that a comfort too?
LADY CICELY. It's a little sad; but perhaps it is best so.
BRASSBOOND. That leaves one relic: her portrait. (He plucks the
photograph out of its cheap case.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117