Major Barbara | Page 4

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