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Candida

ACT I
A fine October morning in the north east suburbs of London, a vast district many
miles away from the London of Mayfair and St. James's, much less known there
than the Paris of the Rue de Rivoli and the Champs Elysees, and much less
narrow, squalid, fetid and airless in its slums; strong in comfortable, prosperous
middle class life; wide-streeted, myriad-populated; well-served with ugly iron
urinals, Radical clubs, tram lines, and a perpetual stream of yellow cars; enjoying
in its main thoroughfares the luxury of grass-grown "front gardens," untrodden by
the foot of man save as to the path from the gate to the hall door; but blighted by
an intolerable monotony of miles and miles of graceless, characterless brick
houses, black iron railings, stony pavements, slaty roofs, and respectably ill
dressed or disreputably poorly dressed people, quite accustomed to the place,
and mostly plodding about somebody else's work, which they would not do if they
themselves could help it. The little energy and eagerness that crop up show
themselves in cockney cupidity and business "push." Even the policemen and
the chapels are not infrequent enough to break the monotony. The sun is shining
cheerfully; there is no fog; and though the smoke effectually prevents anything,
whether faces and hands or bricks and mortar, from looking fresh and clean, it is
not hanging heavily enough to trouble a Londoner.
This desert of unattractiveness has its oasis. Near the outer end of the Hackney
Road is a park of 217 acres, fenced in, not by railings, but by a wooden paling,
and containing plenty of greensward, trees, a lake for bathers, flower beds with
the flowers arranged carefully in patterns by the admired cockney art of carpet
gardening and a sandpit, imported from the seaside for the delight of the
children, but speedily deserted on its becoming a natural vermin preserve for all
the petty fauna of Kingsland, Hackney and Hoxton. A bandstand, an unfinished
forum for religious, anti-religious and political orators, cricket pitches, a
gymnasium, and an old fashioned stone kiosk are among its attractions.
Wherever the prospect is bounded by trees or rising green grounds, it is a
pleasant place. Where the ground stretches far to the grey palings, with bricks
and mortar, sky signs, crowded chimneys and smoke beyond, the prospect
makes it desolate and sordid.
The best view of Victoria Park is from the front window of St. Dominic's
Parsonage, from which not a single chimney is visible. The parsonage is a semi-
detached villa with a front garden and a porch. Visitors go up the flight of steps to
the porch: tradespeople and members of the family go down by a door under the
steps to the basement, with a breakfast room, used for all meals, in front, and the
kitchen at the back. Upstairs, on the level of the hall door, is the drawing-room,
with its large plate glass window looking on the park. In this room, the only
sitting-room that can be spared from the children and the family meals, the
parson, the Reverend James Mavor Morell does his work. He is sitting in a strong
round backed revolving chair at the right hand end of a long table, which stands
 
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